“Which temple, Nivellen?”

“Pox only knows, but it must have been a bad one. There were skulls and bones on the altar, I remember, and a green fire was burning. It stank like nobody’s business. But to the point. The lads overpowered the priestess and stripped her, then said I had to become a man. Well, I became a man, stupid little snot that I was, and while I was achieving manhood, the priestess spat into my face and screamed something.”

“What?”

“That I was a monster in human skin, that I’d be a monster in a monster’s skin, something about love, blood… I can’t remember. She must have had the dagger, a little one, hidden in her hair. She killed herself and then—

“We fled from there, Geralt, I’m telling you—we nearly wore our horses out. It was a bad temple.”

“Go on.”

“Then it was as the priestess had said. A few days later, I woke up and as the servants saw me, they screamed and took to their heels. I went to the mirror… You see, Geralt, I panicked, had some sort of an attack, I remember it almost through a haze. To put it briefly, corpses fell. Several. I used whatever came to hand—and I’d suddenly become very strong. And the house helped as best it could: doors slammed, furniture flew in the air, fires broke out. Whoever could get out ran away in a panic: my aunt and cousin, the lads from the crew. What am I saying? Even the dogs howled and cowered. My cat, Glutton, ran away. Even my aunt’s parrot kicked the bucket out of fear. I was alone, roaring, howling, going mad, smashing whatever came to hand, mainly mirrors.”

Nivellen paused, sighed and sniffed.

“When the attack was over,” he resumed after a while, “it was already too late. I was alone. I couldn’t explain to anyone that only my appearance had changed, that although in this horrible shape, I was just a stupid youngster, sobbing over the servants’ bodies in an empty manor. I was afraid they’d come back and kill me before I could explain. But nobody returned.”

The monster grew silent for a moment and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “I don’t want to go back to those first months, Geralt. It still leaves me shaking when I recall them. I’ll get to the point. For a long time, a very long time, I sat in the manor, quiet as a mouse, not stirring from the place. If anyone appeared, which rarely happened, I wouldn’t go out. I’d tell the house to slam the shutters a couple of times, or I’d roar through the gargoyle, and that was usually enough for the would-be guest to leave in a hurry. So that’s how it was, until one day I looked out of the window one pale dawn and—what did I see? Some trespasser stealing a rose from my aunt’s bush. And it isn’t just any old rosebush: these are blue roses from Nazair. It was Grandfather who brought the seedlings. I flew into a fury and jumped outside.