“So say you magicians, turning your noses up, so high and mighty with your auras of infallibility. While we’re on the subject, surely you’re not going to tell me that in your hunt for these so-called mutants you haven’t once made a mistake?”

“All right,” said Stregobor after a long silence. “I’ll be honest, although for my own sake I shouldn’t. We did make a mistake—more than one. Picking them out was extremely difficult. And that’s why we stopped…getting rid of them, and started isolating them instead.”

“Your famous towers,” snorted the witcher.

“Our towers. But that was another mistake. We underestimated them. Many escaped. Then some mad fashion to free imprisoned beauties took hold of princes, especaily the younger ones, who didn’t have much to do and still less to lose. Most of them, fortunately, twisted their necks—”

“As far as I know, those imprisoned in the towers died quickly. It’s been said you must have helped them somewhat.”

“That’s a lie. But it is true that they quickly fell into apathy, refused to eat…What is interesting is that shortly before they died, they showed signs of the gift of clairvoyance. Further proof of mutation.”

“Your proofs are becoming ever less convincing. Do you have any more?”

“I do. Silvena, the lady of Narok, whom we never managed to get close to because she gained power so quickly. Terrible things are happening in Narok now. Fialka, Evermir’s daughter, escaped her tower using a homemade rope and is now terrorizing North Velhad. Bernika of Talgar was freed by an idiot prince. Now he’s sitting in a dungeon, blinded, and the most common feature of the Talgar landscape is a set of gallows. There are other examples, too.”

“Of course there are,” said the witcher. “In Yamurlak, for instance, old man Abrad reigns. He’s got scrofula, not a single tooth in his head, was probably born some hundred years before this eclipse, and can’t fall asleep unless someone’s being tortured to death in his presence. He’s wiped out all his relatives and emptied half of the country in crazy—how did you put it?—attacks of anger. There are also traces of a rampant temperament. Apparently he was nicknamed Abrad Jack-up-the-Skirt in his youth. Oh, Stregobor, it would be great if the cruelty of rulers could be explained away by mutations or curses.”

“Listen, Geralt—”

“No. You won’t win me over with your reasons nor convince me that Eltibad wasn’t a murdering madman, so let’s get back to the monster threatening you. You’d better understand that, after the introduction you’ve given me, I don’t like the story. But I’ll hear you out.”

“Without interrupting with spiteful comments?”

“That I can’t promise.”

“Oh well”—Stregobor slipped his hands into the sleeves of his robe—“then it’ll only take longer. Well, the story begins in Creyden, a small principality in the north. The wife of Fredefalk, the Prince of Creyden, was Aridea, a wise, educated woman. She had many exceptional adepts of the magical arts in her family and—through inheritance, no doubt—she came into possession of a rare and powerful artifact. One of Nehalenia’s Mirrors. They’re chiefly used by prophets and oracles because they predict the future accurately, albeit intricately. Aridea quite often turned to the Mirror—”