“Meanwhile,” the wizard picked up after a moment’s break, “she and her gnomes had become the terror of the whole of Mahakam. Until, one day, they argued about something. I don’t know what—sharing out the loot, or whose turn it was to spend the night with her—anyway, they slaughtered each other with knives. Only Shrike survived. Only her. And I was in the neighborhood at the time. We met face-to-face: she recognized me in a flash and knew the part I’d played in Creyden. I tell you, Geralt, I had barely managed to utter a curse—and my hands were shaking like anything—when that wildcat flew at me with a sword. I turned her into a neat slab of mountain crystal, six ells by nine. When she fell into a lethargy, I threw the slab into the gnomes’ mine and brought the tunnels down on it.”

“Shabby work,” commented Geralt. “That spell could have been reversed. Couldn’t you have burnt her to cinders? You know so many nice spells, after all.”

“No. It’s not my speciality. But you’re right. I did make a hash of it. Some idiot prince found her, spent a fortune on a counter-curse, reversed the spell and triumphantly took her home to some out-of-the-way kingdom in the east. His father, an old brigand, proved to have more sense. He gave his son a hiding, and questioned Shrike about the treasures which she and the gnomes had seized and which she’d hidden. His mistake was to allow his elder son to assist him when he had her stretched out, naked, on the executioner’s bench. Somehow, the following day, that same eldest son—now an orphan bereft of siblings—was ruling the kingdom, and Shrike had taken over the office of first favorite.”

“Meaning she can’t be ugly.”

“That’s a matter of taste. She wasn’t a favorite for long. Up until the first coup d’état at the palace, to give it a grand name—it was more like a barn. It soon became clear that she hadn’t forgotten about me. She tried to assassinate me three times in Kovir. I decided not to risk a fourth attempt and to wait her out in Pontar. Again, she found me. This time I escaped to Angren, but she found me there too. I don’t know how she does it. I cover my traces well. It must be a feature of her mutation.”

“What stopped you from casting another spell to turn her into crystal? Scruples?”

“No. I don’t have any of those. She had become resistant to magic.”

“That’s impossible.”

“It’s not. It’s enough to have the right artifact or aura. Or this could also be associated with her mutation, which is progressing. I escaped from Angren and hid here, in Arcsea, in Blaviken. I’ve lived in peace for a year, but she’s tracked me down again.”

“How do you know? Is she already in town?”

“Yes. I saw her in the crystal ball.” The wizard raised his wand. “She’s not alone. She’s leading a gang, which shows that she’s brewing something serious. Geralt, I don’t have anywhere else to run. I don’t know where I could hide. The fact that you’ve arrived here exactly at this time can’t be a coincidence. It’s fate.”