She moved toward him with a light, swaying step, her sword glinting in her right hand, her skirt dragging along the ground from her left.

She leapt, the skirt fluttered in the air and, veiled in its tracks, the sword flashed in a short, sparing cut. Geralt jumped away; the cloth didn’t even brush him, and Renfri’s blade slid over his diagonal parry. He attacked instinctively, spinning their blades, trying to knock her weapon aside. It was a mistake. She deflected his blade and slashed, aiming for his face. He barely parried and pirouetted away, dodging her dancing blade and jumping aside again. She fell on him, threw the skirt into his eyes and slashed flatly from short range, spinning. Spinning with her, he avoided the blow. She knew the trick and turned with him, their bodies so close he could feel the touch of her breath as she ran the edge across his chest. He felt a twinge of pain, ignored it. He turned again, in the opposite direction, deflected the blade flying toward his temple, made a swift feint and attacked. Renfri sprang away as if to strike from above as Geralt lunged and swiftly slashed her exposed thigh and groin from below with the very tip of his sword.

She didn’t cry out. Falling to her side, she dropped her sword and clutched her thigh. Blood poured through her fingers in a bright stream over her decorated belt, elk-leather boots, and onto the dirty flagstones. The clamor of the swaying crowd, crammed in the streets, grew as they saw blood.

Geralt put up his sword.

“Don’t go…” she moaned, curling up in a ball.

He didn’t reply.

“I’m…cold…”

He said nothing. Renfri moaned again, curling up tighter as her blood flowed into the cracks between the stones.

“Geralt…Hold me…”

The witcher remained silent.

She turned her head, resting her cheek on the flagstones and was still. A fine dagger, hidden beneath her body until now, slipped from her numb fingers.

After a long moment, the witcher raised his head, hearing Stregobor’s staff tapping against the flagstones. The wizard was approaching quickly, avoiding the corpses.

“What slaughter,” he panted. “I saw it, Geralt. I saw it all in my crystal ball…”

He came closer, bent over. In his trailing black robe, supported by his staff, he looked old.

“It’s incredible.” He shook his head. “Shrike’s dead.”

Geralt didn’t reply.

“Well, Geralt.” The wizard straightened himself. “Fetch a cart and we’ll take her to the tower for an autopsy.”

He looked at the witcher and, not getting any answer, leaned over the body.

Someone the witcher didn’t know found the hilt of his sword and drew it. “Touch a single hair of her head,” said the person the witcher didn’t know, “touch her head and yours will go flying to the flagstones.”

“Have you gone mad? You’re wounded, in shock! An autopsy’s the only way we can confirm—”

“Don’t touch her!”

Stregobor, seeing the raised blade, jumped aside and waved his staff. “All right!” he shouted. “As you wish! But you’ll never know! You’ll never be sure! Never, do you hear, witcher?”