The knight grew even paler.

“Don’t forget my promise, Count. Come on, Dandilion. It’s time for us to leave. Take care, Dennis.”

“Good luck, Geralt.” The dwarf gave a broad smile. “Take care. I’m very pleased to have met you, and hope we’ll meet again.”

“The feeling’s mutual, Dennis.”

They rode away with ostensible slowness, not looking back. They began to canter only once they were hidden by the forest.

“Geralt,” the poet said suddenly, “surely we won’t head straight south? We’ll have to make a detour to avoid Ellander and Hereward’s lands, won’t we? Or do you intend to continue with this show?”

“No, Dandilion, I don’t. We’ll go through the forests and then join the Traders’ Trail. Remember, not a word in Nenneke’s presence about this quarrel. Not a word.”

“We are riding out without any delay, I hope?”

“Immediately.”

II

Geralt leaned over, checked the repaired hoop of his stirrup and fitted the stirrup leather, still stiff, smelling of new skins and hard to buckle. He adjusted the saddle-girth, the travel bags, the horse blanket rolled up behind the saddle and the silver sword strapped to it. Nenneke was motionless next to him, her arms folded.

Dandilion approached, leading his bay gelding.

“Thank you for the hospitality, Venerable One,” he said seriously. “And don’t be angry with me anymore. I know that, deep down, you like me.”

“Indeed,” agreed Nenneke without smiling. “I do, you dolt, although I don’t know why myself. Take care.”

“So long, Nenneke.”

“So long, Geralt. Look after yourself.”

The witcher’s smile was surly.

“I prefer to look after others. It turns out better in the long run.”

From the temple, from between columns entwined with ivy, Iola emerged in the company of two younger pupils. She was carrying the witcher’s small chest. She avoided his eyes awkwardly and her troubled smile combined with the blush on her freckled, chubby face made a charming picture. The pupils accompanying her didn’t hide their meaningful glances and barely stopped themselves from giggling.

“For Great Melitele’s sake,” sighed Nenneke, “an entire parting procession. Take the chest, Geralt. I’ve replenished your elixirs. You’ve got everything that was in short supply. And that medicine, you know the one. Take it regularly for two weeks. Don’t forget. It’s important.”

“I won’t. Thanks, Iola.”

The girl lowered her head and handed him the chest. She so wanted to say something. She had no idea what ought to be said, what words ought to be used. She didn’t know what she’d say, even if she could. She didn’t know. And yet she so much wanted to.

Their hands touched.

Blood. Blood. Blood. Bones like broken white sticks. Tendons like whitish cords exploding from beneath cracking skin cut by enormous paws bristling with thorns, and sharp teeth. The hideous sound of torn flesh, and shouting—shameless and horrifying in its shamelessness. The shamelessness of the end. Of death. Blood and shouting. Shouting. Blood. Shouting—

“Iola!”

Nenneke, with extraordinary speed considering her girth, rushed to the girl lying on the ground, shaken by convulsions, and held her down by her shoulders and hair. One of the pupils stood as if paralyzed, the other, more clearheaded, knelt on Iola’s legs. Iola arched her back, opened her mouth in a soundless, mute cry.