The mare snorted restlessly, reacting to his tone of voice.

“The thing which killed them,” continued Geralt, watching the forest’s edge, “was neither a werewolf nor a leshy. Neither would have left so much for the scavengers. If there were swamps here I’d say it was a kikimora or a vypper… but there aren’t any swamps here.”

Leaning over, the witcher pulled back the blanket which covered the horse’s side and uncovered another sword strapped to the saddlebag—one with a shining, ornate guard and black corrugated hilt.

“Well, Roach. We’re taking a roundabout route; we’d better check why this armorer and woman were riding through the forest, not along the highway. If we pass by ignoring such incidents, we won’t ever earn enough for your oats, will we?”

The mare obediently moved forward, across the heath, carefully sidestepping hollows.

“Although it’s not a werewolf, we won’t take any risks,” the witcher continued, taking a bunch of dried monkshead from a saddlebag and hanging it by the bit. The mare snorted. Geralt unlaced his tunic a little and pulled out a medallion engraved with a wolf with bared jaws. The medallion, hanging on a silver chain, bobbed up and down in rhythm to the horse’s gait, sparkling in the sun’s rays like mercury.

II

He noticed the red tiles of the tower’s conical roof from the summit of a hill as he cut across a bend in the faint trail. The slope, covered with hazel, dry branches and a thick carpet of yellow leaves, wasn’t safe to descend on horseback. The witcher retreated, carefully rode down the incline and returned to the main path. He rode slowly, stopped the horse every now and again and, hanging from the saddle, looked out for tracks.

The mare tossed her head, neighed wildly, stamped and danced on the path, kicking up a storm of dried leaves. Geralt, wrapping his left arm around the horse’s neck, swept his right hand—the fingers arranged in the Sign of Axia—over the mount’s head as he whispered an incantation.

“Is it as bad as all that?” he murmured, looking around and not withdrawing the Sign. “Easy, Roach, easy.”

The charm worked quickly but the mare, prodded with his heel, moved forward reluctantly, losing the natural springy rhythm of her gait. The witcher jumped nimbly to the ground and went on by foot, leading her by the bridle. He saw a wall.

There was no gap between the wall and the forest, no distinct break. The young trees and juniper bushes twined their leaves with the ivy and wild vines clinging to the stonework. Geralt looked up. At that same moment, he felt a prickle along his neck, as if an invisible, soft creature had latched on to his neck, lifting the hairs there.

He was being watched.

He turned around smoothly. Roach snorted; the muscles in her neck twitched, moved under her skin.

A girl was standing on the slope of the hill he had just climbed down, one arm resting on the trunk of an alder tree. Her trailing white dress contrasted with the glossy blackness of her disheveled hair, falling to her shoulders. She seemed to be smiling, but she was too far away to be sure.