“They went ahead and cast spells—mainly over a bowl and tankard. Of course some were quickly exposed as frauds by Foltest or the council. A few were even hung on the palisades, but not enough of them. I would have hung them all. I don’t suppose I have to say that the striga, in the meantime, was getting her teeth into all sorts of people every now and again and paying no attention to the fraudsters and their spells. Or that Foltest was no longer living in the palace. No one lived there anymore.”

Velerad paused, drank some beer, and the witcher waited in silence.

“And so it’s been for seven years, Geralt, because she was born around fourteen years ago. We’ve had a few other worries, like war with Vizimir of Novigrad—fought for real, understandable reasons—over the border posts, not for some princess or marriage alliance. Foltest sporadically hints at marriage and looks over portraits from neighboring courts, which he then throws down the privy. And every now and then this mania seizes hold of him again, and he sends horsemen out to look for new sorcerers. His promised reward, the three thousand, has attracted any number of cranks, stray knights, even a shepherd known throughout the whole region as a cretin, may he rest in peace. But the striga is still doing well. Every now and again she gets her teeth into someone. You get used to it. And at least those heroes trying to reverse the spell have a use—the beast stuffs herself on the spot and doesn’t roam beyond her palace. Foltest has a new palace, of course, quite a fine one.”

“In seven years”—Geralt raised his head—“in seven years, no one has settled the matter?”

“Well, no.” Velerad’s gaze penetrated the witcher. “Because the matter can’t be settled. We have to come to terms with it, especially Foltest, our gracious and beloved ruler, who will keep nailing these proclamations up at crossroads. Although there are fewer volunteers now. There was one recently, but he insisted on the three thousand in advance. So we put him in a sack and threw him in the lake.”

“There is still no shortage of fraudsters, then.”

“No, far from it,” the castellan agreed without taking his eyes off the witcher. “That’s why you mustn’t demand gold in advance when you go to the palace. If you go.”

“I’ll go.”

“It’s up to you. But remember my advice. As we’re talking of the reward, there has been word recently about the second part of it. I mentioned it to you: the princess for a wife. I don’t know who made it up, but if the striga looks the way they say then it’s an exceptionally grim joke. Nevertheless there’s been no lack of fools racing to the palace for the chance of joining the royal family. Two apprentice shoemakers, to be precise. Why are shoemakers so foolish, Geralt?”

“I don’t know. And witchers, castellan? Have they tried?”

“There were a few. But when they heard the spell was to be lifted and the striga wasn’t to be killed, they mostly shrugged and left. That’s one of the reasons why my esteem for witchers has grown, Geralt. And one came along, younger than you—I forget his name, if he gave it at all. He tried.”