“Be gone.”

“As you wish.” The wizard turned away, his staff hitting the flagstones. “I’m returning to Kovir. I’m not staying in this hole another day. Come with me rather than rot here. These people don’t know anything, they’ve only seen you killing. And you kill nastily, Geralt. Well, are you coming?”

Geralt didn’t reply; he wasn’t looking at him. He put his sword away. Stregobor shrugged and walked away, his staff tapping rhythmically against the ground.

A stone came flying from the crowd and clattered against the flagstones. A second followed, whizzing past just above Geralt’s shoulder. The witcher, holding himself straight, raised both hands and made a swift gesture with them. The crowd heaved; the stones came flying more thickly but the Sign, protecting him behind an invisible oval shield, pushed them aside.

“Enough!” yelled Caldemeyn. “Bloody hell, enough of that!”

The crowd roared like a surge of breakers but the stones stopped flying. The witcher stood, motionless.

The alderman approached him.

“Is this,” he said, with a broad gesture indicating the motionless bodies strewn across the square, “how your lesser evil looks? Is this what you believed necessary?”

“Yes,” replied Geralt slowly, with an effort.

“Is your wound serious?”

“No.”

“In that case, get out of here.”

“Yes,” said the witcher. He stood a moment longer, avoiding the alderman’s eyes. Then he turned away slowly, very slowly.

“Geralt.”

The witcher looked round.

“Don’t come back,” said Caldemeyn. “Never come back.”

THE VOICE OF REASON

I

“Let’s talk, Iola.

“I need this conversation. They say silence is golden. Maybe it is, although I’m not sure it’s worth that much. It has its price certainly; you have to pay for it.

“It’s easier for you. Yes it is, don’t deny it. You’re silent through choice; you’ve made it a sacrifice to your goddess. I don’t believe in Melitele, don’t believe in the existence of other gods either, but I respect your choice, your sacrifice. Your belief. Because your faith and sacrifice, the price you’re paying for your silence, will make you a better, a greater being. Or, at least, it could. But my faithlessness can do nothing. It’s powerless.

“You ask what I believe in, in that case.

“I believe in the sword.

“As you can see, I carry two. Every witcher does. It’s said, spitefully, the silver one is for monsters and the iron for humans. But that’s wrong. As there are monsters which can be struck down only with a silver blade, so there are those for whom iron is lethal. And, Iola, not just any iron, it must come from a meteorite. What is a meteorite, you ask? It’s a falling star. You must have seen them—short, luminous streaks in the night. You’ve probably made a wish on one. Perhaps it was one more reason for you to believe in the gods. For me, a meteorite is nothing more than a bit of metal, primed by the sun and its fall, metal to make swords.

“Yes, of course you can take my sword. Feel how light it—No! Don’t touch the edge; you’ll cut yourself. It’s sharper than a razor. It has to be.