He struck decisively, like hundreds of times before, with the center of the blade, and immediately, following the rhythm of the movement, took a fourth step and half a turn. The blade, freed by the half-turn, floated after him, shining, drawing a fan of red droplets in its wake. The streaming raven-black hair floated in the air, floated, floated, floated…

The head fell onto the gravel.

There are fewer and fewer monsters?

And I? What am I?

Who’s shouting? The birds?

The woman in a sheepskin jacket and blue dress?

The roses from Nazair?

How quiet!

How empty. What emptiness.

Within me.

Nivellen, curled up in a bundle, sheltering his head in his arms and shaking with twitches and shivers, was lying in the nettles by the manor wall.

“Get up,” said the witcher.

The young, handsome, well-built man with a pale complexion lying by the wall raised his head and looked around. His eyes were vague. He rubbed them with his knuckles. He looked at his hands, felt his face. He moaned quietly and, putting his finger in his mouth, ran it along his gums for a long time. He grasped his face again and moaned as he touched the four bloody, swollen streaks on his cheek. He burst out sobbing, then laughed.

“Geralt! How come? How did this—Geralt!”

“Get up, Nivellen. Get up and come along. I’ve got some medicine in my saddlebags. We both need it.”

“I’ve no longer got… I haven’t, have I? Geralt? Why?”

The witcher helped him get up, trying not to look at the tiny hands—so pale as to be transparent—clenched around the pole stuck between the small breasts which were now plastered with a wet red fabric.

Nivellen moaned again. “Vereena—”

“Don’t look. Let’s go.”

They crossed the courtyard, holding each other up, and passed the blue rosebush.

Nivellen kept touching his face with his free hand. “Incredible, Geralt. After so many years? How’s it possible?”

“There’s a grain of truth in every fairy tale,” said the witcher quietly. “Love and blood. They both possess a mighty power. Wizards and learned men have been racking their brains over this for years, but they haven’t arrived at anything except that—”

“That what, Geralt?”

“It has to be true love.”

THE VOICE OF REASON

I

“I’m Falwick, Count of Moën. And this knight is Tailles, from Dorndal.”

Geralt bowed cursorily, looking at the knights. Both wore armor and crimson cloaks with the emblem of the White Rose on their left shoulder. He was somewhat surprised as, so far as he knew, there was no Commandery of that Order in the neighborhood.

Nenneke, to all appearances smiling lightheartedly and at ease, noticed his surprise.

“These nobly born gentlemen,” she said casually, settling herself more comfortably in her throne-like armchair, “are in the service of Duke Hereward, who governs these lands most mercifully.”

“Prince.” Tailles, the younger of the knights, corrected her emphatically, fixing his hostile pale blue eyes on the priestess. “Prince Hereward.”

“Let’s not waste time with details and titles.” Nenneke smiled mockingly. “In my day, only those with royal blood were addressed as princes, but now, it seems, titles don’t mean so much. Let’s get back to our introductions, and why the Knights of the White Rose are visiting my humble temple. You know, Geralt, that the Chapter is requesting investitures for the Order from Hereward, which is why so many Knights of the Rose have entered his service. And a number of locals, like Tailles here, have taken vows and assumed the red cloak which becomes him so well.”