“Well, come on, Geralt,” said the voice. “I’m in front of the house.”

He entered the orchard, walking through the trees. He noticed a movement to his left and looked round. A fair-haired girl, entirely naked, was walking along a row of shrubs carrying a basket full of apples. The witcher solemnly promised himself that nothing would surprise him anymore.

“At last. Greetings, witcher.”

“Stregobor!” Geralt was surprised.

During his life, the witcher had met thieves who looked like town councilors, councilors who looked like beggars, harlots who looked like princesses, princesses who looked like calving cows and kings who looked like thieves. But Stregobor always looked as, according to every rule and notion, a wizard should look. He was tall, thin and stooping, with enormous bushy gray eyebrows and a long, crooked nose. To top it off, he wore a black, trailing robe with improbably wide sleeves, and wielded a long staff capped with a crystal knob. None of the wizards Geralt knew looked like Stregobor. Most surprising of all was that Stregobor was, indeed, a wizard.

They sat in wicker chairs at a white marble-topped table on a porch surrounded by hollyhocks. The naked blonde with the apple basket approached, smiled, turned and, swaying her hips, returned to the orchard.

“Is that an illusion, too?” asked Geralt, watching the sway.

“It is. Like everything here. But it is, my friend, a first-class illusion. The flowers smell, you can eat the apples, the bee can sting you, and she”—the wizard indicated the blonde—“you can—”

“Maybe later.”

“Quite right. What are you doing here, Geralt? Are you still toiling away, killing the last representatives of dying species for money? How much did you get for the kikimora? Nothing, I guess, or you wouldn’t have come here. And to think that there are people who don’t believe in destiny. Unless you knew about me. Did you?”

“No, I didn’t. It’s the last place I could have expected you. If my memory serves me correctly, you used to live in a similar tower in Kovir.”

“A great deal has changed since then.”

“Such as your name. Apparently, you’re Master Irion now.”

“That’s the name of the man who created this tower. He died about two hundred years ago, and I thought it right to honor him in some way since I occupied his abode. I’m living here. Most of the inhabitants live off the sea and, as you know, my speciality, apart from illusions, is weather. Sometimes I’ll calm a storm, sometimes conjure one up, sometimes drive schools of whiting and cod closer to the shores with the westerly wind. I can survive. That is,” he added, miserably, “I could.”

“How come ‘I could’? Why the change of name?”

“Destiny has many faces. Mine is beautiful on the outside and hideous on the inside. She has stretched her bloody talons toward me—”

“You’ve not changed a bit, Stregobor.” Geralt grimaced. “You’re talking nonsense while making wise and meaningful faces. Can’t you speak normally?”