“No, no, no. I never look back. I’ll never return to Cintra. I’ll avoid it like the plague. I’ll never go back there.

“Heh, if my calculations are correct, that child would have been born in May, sometime around the feast of Belleteyn. If that’s true, it’s an interesting coincidence. Because Yennefer was also born on Belleteyn’s…

“Enough of this, we should go. It’s already dusk.

“Thank you for talking to me. Thank you, Iola.

“No, nothing’s wrong. I’m fine.

“Quite fine.”

A QUESTION OF PRICE

I

The witcher had a knife at his throat.

He was wallowing in a wooden tub, brimful of soapsuds, his head thrown back against its slippery rim. The bitter taste of soap lingered in his mouth as the knife, blunt as a doorknob, scraped his Adam’s apple painfully and moved toward his chin with a grating sound.

The barber, with the expression of an artist who is conscious that he is creating a masterpiece, scraped once more for form’s sake, then wiped the witcher’s face with a piece of linen soaked in tincture of angelica.

Geralt stood up, allowed a servant to pour a bucket of water over him, shook himself and climbed from the tub, leaving wet footmarks on the brick floor.

“Your towel, sir.” The servant glanced curiously at his medallion.

“Thanks.”

“Clothes,” said Haxo. “Shirt, underpants, trousers and tunic. And boots.”

“You’ve thought of everything. But can’t I go in my own shoes?”

“No. Beer?”

“With pleasure.”

He dressed slowly. The touch of someone else’s coarse, unpleasant clothes against his swollen skin spoiled his relaxed mood.

“Castellan?”

“Yes, Geralt?”

“You don’t know what this is all about, do you? Why they need me here?”

“It’s not my business,” said Haxo, squinting at the servants. “My job is to get you dressed—”

“Dressed up, you mean.”

“—get you dressed and take you to the banquet, to the queen. Put the tunic on, sir. And hide the medallion beneath it.”

“My dagger was here.”

“It isn’t anymore. It’s in a safe place, like your swords and your possessions. Nobody carries arms where you’re going.”

The witcher shrugged, pulling on the tight purple tunic.

“And what’s this?” he asked, indicating the embroidery on the front of his outfit.

“Oh yes,” said Haxo. “I almost forgot. During the banquet, you will be the Honorable Ravix of Fourhorn. As guest of honor, you will sit at the queen’s right hand, such is her wish, and that, on the tunic, is your coat of arms. A bear passant sable, damsel vested azure riding him, her hair loose and arms raised. You should remember it—one of the guests might have a thing about heraldry. It often happens.”

“Of course I’ll remember it,” said Geralt seriously. “And Fourhorn, where’s that?”

“Far enough. Ready? Can we go?”

“We can. Just tell me, Haxo, what’s this banquet in aid of?”

“Princess Pavetta is turning fifteen and, as is the custom, contenders for her hand have turned up in their dozens. Queen Calanthe wants her to marry someone from Skellige; an alliance with the islanders would mean a lot to us.”