“You aren’t a monster, Nivellen,” the witcher said dryly.

“Pox, that’s something new. So what am I? Cranberry pudding? A flock of wild geese flying south on a sad November morning? No? Maybe I’m the virtue that a miller’s buxom daughter lost in spring? Well, Geralt, tell me what I am. Can’t you see I’m shaking with curiosity?”

“You’re not a monster. Otherwise you wouldn’t be able to touch this silver tray. And in no way could you hold my medallion.”

“Ha!” Nivellen roared so powerfully the candle flames fell horizontal for a moment. “Today, very clearly, is a day for revealing great and terrible secrets! Now I’m going to be told that I grew these ears because I didn’t like milky porridge as a child!”

“No, Nivellen,” said Geralt calmly. “It happened because of a spell I’m sure you know who cast that spell.”

“And what if I do?”

“In many cases a spell can be uncast.”

“You, as a witcher, can uncast spells in many cases?”

“I can. Do you want me to try?”

“No. I don’t.” The monster opened his jaws and poked out his tongue, two span long, and very red. “Surprised you, hasn’t it?”

“That it has,” admitted Geralt.

The monster giggled and lounged in his armchair. “I knew that would,” he said. “Pour yourself some more, get comfortable and I’ll tell you the whole story. Witcher or not, you’ve got an honest face and I feel like talking. Pour yourself more.”

“There’s none left.”

“Pox on it!” The monster cleared his throat, then thumped the table with his paw again. A large earthenware demijohn in a wicker basket appeared next to the two empty carafes, from nowhere. Nivellen tore the sealing wax off with his teeth.

“As no doubt you’ve noticed,” he began, pouring the wine, “this is quite a remote area. It’s a long way to the nearest human settlement. It’s because, you see, my father, and my grandfather too, in his time, didn’t make themselves particularly loved by our neighbors or the merchants using the highway. If anyone went astray here and my father spotted them from the tower, they lost—at best—their fortune. And a couple of the nearer settlements were burnt because Father decided the levies were being paid tardily. Not many people liked my father. Except for me, naturally. I cried awfully when what was left of my father after a blow from a two-handed sword was brought home on a cart one day. Grandpa didn’t take part in robbery anymore because, ever since he was hit on the head with a morningstar, he had a terrible stutter. He dribbled and rarely made it to the privy on time. As their heir, I had to lead the gang.

“I was young at the time,” Nivellen continued, “a real milksop, so the lads in the crew wound me around their little fingers in a flash. I was as much in command of them as a fat piglet is of a pack of wolves. We soon began doing things which Father would never have allowed, had he been alive. I’ll spare you the details and get straight to the point. One day we took ourselves as far as Gelibol, near Mirt, and robbed a temple. A young priestess was there too.”