“Iola!” Nenneke shouted. “Iola! Speak! Speak, child! Speak!”

The girl stiffened even more, clenched her jaws, and a thin trickle of blood ran down her cheek. Nenneke, growing red with the effort, shouted something which the witcher didn’t understand, but his medallion tugged at his neck so hard that he was forced to bend under the pressure of its invisible weight.

Iola stilled.

Dandilion, pale as a sheet, sighed deeply. Nenneke raised herself to her knees and stood with an effort.

“Take her away,” she said to the pupils. There were more of them now; they’d gathered, grave and silent.

“Take her,” repeated the priestess, “carefully. And don’t leave her alone. I’ll be there in a minute.”

She turned to Geralt. The witcher was standing motionless, fiddling with the reins in his sweaty hands.

“Geralt… Iola—”

“Don’t say anything, Nenneke.”

“I saw it, too… for a moment. Geralt, don’t go.”

“I’ve got to.”

“Did you see… did you see that?”

“Yes. And not for the first time.”

“And?”

“There’s no point in looking over your shoulder.”

“Don’t go, please.”

“I’ve got to. See to Iola. So long, Nenneke.”

The priestess slowly shook her head, sniffed and, in an abrupt move, wiped a tear away with her wrist.

“Farewell,” she whispered, not looking him in the eye.