“My honor.” The witcher bowed once more, just as cursorily as before.

“I doubt it,” the priestess remarked coldly. “They haven’t come here to honor you. Quite the opposite. They’ve arrived demanding that you leave as soon as possible. In short, they’re here to chase you out. You consider that an honor? I don’t. I consider it an insult.”

“The noble knights have troubled themselves for no reason.” Geralt shrugged. “I don’t intend to settle here. I’m leaving of my own accord without any additional incentives, and soon at that.”

“Immediately,” growled Tailles. “With not a moment’s delay. The prince orders—”

“In this temple, I give the orders,” interrupted Nenneke in a cold, authoritative voice. “I usually try to ensure my orders don’t conflict too much with Hereward’s politics, as far as those politics are logical and understandable. In this case they are irrational, so I won’t treat them any more seriously than they deserve. Geralt, witcher of Rivia, is my guest. His stay is a pleasure to me. So he will stay in my temple for as long as he wishes.”

“You have the audacity to contradict the prince, woman?” Tailles shouted, then threw his cloak back over his shoulder to reveal his grooved, brass-edged breastplate in all its splendor. “You dare to question our ruler’s authority?”

“Quiet,” Nenneke snapped, and narrowed her eyes. “Lower your voice. Have a care who you speak to like that.”

“I know who I’m talking to!” The knight advanced a step. Falwick, the older knight, grabbed him firmly by the elbow and squeezed until the armor-plated gauntlet grated. Tailles yanked furiously. “And my words express the prince’s will, the lord of this estate! We have got soldiers in the yard, woman—”

Nenneke reached into the purse at her belt and took out a small porcelain jar. “I really don’t know,” she said calmly, “what will happen if I smash this container at your feet, Tailles. Maybe your lungs will burst. Maybe you’ll grow fur. Or maybe both, who knows? Only merciful Melitele.”

“Don’t dare threaten me with your spells, priestess! Our soldiers—”

“If any one of your soldiers touches one of Melitele’s priestesses, they will hang, before dusk, from the acacias along the road to town. And they know that very well. As do you, Tailles, so stop acting like a fool. I delivered you, you shitty brat, and I pity your mother, but don’t tempt fate. And don’t force me to teach you manners!”

“All right, all right,” the witcher butted in, growing bored. “It looks as though I’m becoming the cause of a serious conflict and I don’t see why I should. Sir Falwick, you look more levelheaded than your companion who, I see, is beside himself with youthful enthusiasm. Listen, Falwick, I assure you that I will leave in a few days. I also assure you that I have no intention to work here, to undertake any commissions or orders. I’m not here as a witcher, but on personal business.”