To Geralt’s right, along the table, sat Haxo and a voivode whose name he’d forgotten. Beyond them were guests from the Duchy of Attre—the sullen and silent knight Rainfarn and his charge, the chubby twelve-year-old Prince Windhalm, one of the pretenders to the princess’s hand. Further down were the colorful and motley knights from Cintra, and local vassals.

“Baron Eylembert of Tigg!” announced the herald.

“Coodcoodak!” murmured Calanthe, nudging Drogodar. “This will be fun.”

A thin and whiskered, richly attired knight bowed low, but his lively, happy eyes and cheerful smirk belied his subservience.

“Greetings, Coodcoodak,” said the queen ceremoniously. Obviously the baron was better known by his nickname than by his family name. “We are happy to see you.”

“And I am happy to be invited,” declared Coodcoodak, and sighed. “Oh well, I’ll cast an eye on the princess, if you permit, my queen. It’s hard to live alone, ma’am.”

“Aye, Coodcoodak.” Calanthe smiled faintly, wrapping a lock of hair around her finger. “But you’re already married, as we well know.”

“Aaahh.” The baron was miffed. “You know yourself, ma’am, how weak and delicate my wife is, and smallpox is rife in the neighborhood. I bet my belt and sword against a pair of old slippers that in a year I’ll already be out of mourning.”

“Poor man, Coodcoodak. But lucky, too.” Calanthe’s smile grew wider. “Lucky your wife isn’t stronger. I hear that last harvest, when she caught you in the haystack with a strumpet, she chased you for almost a mile with a pitchfork but couldn’t catch you. You have to feed her better, cuddle her more and take care that her back doesn’t get cold during the night. Then, in a year, you’ll see how much better she is.”

Coodcoodak pretended to grow doleful. “I take your point. But can I stay for the feast?”

“We’d be delighted, Baron.”

“The legation from Skellige!” shouted the herald, becoming increasingly hoarse.

The islanders—four of them, in shiny leather doublets trimmed with seal fur and belted with checkered woolen sashes—strode in with a sprightly, hollow step. They were led by a sinewy warrior with a dark face and aquiline nose and, at his side, a broad-shouldered youth with a mop of red hair. They all bowed before the queen.

“It is a great honor,” said Calanthe, a little flushed, “to welcome such an excellent knight as Eist Tuirseach of Skellige to my castle again. If it weren’t for your well-known disdain for marriage, I’d be delighted to think you’re here to court my Pavetta. Has loneliness got the better of you after all, sir?”

“Often enough, beautiful Calanthe,” replied the dark-faced islander, raising his glistening eyes to the queen. “But my life is too dangerous for me to contemplate a lasting union. If it weren’t for that… Pavetta is still a young girl, an unopened bud, but I can see…”

“See what?”

“The apple does not fall far from the tree.” Eist Tuirseach smiled, flashing his white teeth. “Suffice it to look at you, my queen, to know how beautiful the princess will be when she reaches the age at which a woman can please a warrior. In the meantime, it is young men who ought to court her. Such as our King Bran’s nephew here, Crach an Craite, who traveled here for exactly that purpose.”