“Events might take such a turn that it won’t be sufficient.”

“What can be stronger than your will?”

“Destiny.”

“Aha. So I, a poor witcher, am to face down a destiny which is stronger than the royal will. A witcher fighting destiny! What irony!”

“Yes, Geralt? What irony?”

“Never mind. Your Majesty, it seems the service you demand borders on the impossible.”

“If it bordered on the possible,” Calanthe drawled, “I would manage it myself. I wouldn’t need the famous Geralt of Rivia. Stop being so clever. Everything can be dealt with—it’s only a question of price. Bloody hell, there must be a figure on your witchers’ pricelist for work that borders on the impossible. I can guess one, and it isn’t low. You ensure me my outcome and I will give you what you ask.”

“What did you say?”

“I’ll give you whatever you ask for. And I don’t like being told to repeat myself. I wonder, witcher, do you always try to dissuade your employers as strongly as you are me? Time is slipping away. Answer, yes or no?”

“Yes.”

“That’s better. That’s better, Geralt. Your answers are much closer to the ideal. They’re becoming more like those I expect when I ask a question. So. Discreetly stretch your left hand out and feel behind my throne.”

Geralt slipped his hand under the yellow-blue drapery. Almost immediately he felt a sword secured to the leather-upholstered backrest. A sword well-known to him.

“Your Majesty,” he said quietly, “not to repeat what I said earlier about killing people, you do realize that a sword alone will not defeat destiny?”

“I do.” Calanthe turned her head away. “A witcher is also necessary. As you see, I took care of that.”

“Your Maje—”

“Not another word, Geralt. We’ve been conspiring for too long. They’re looking at us, and Eist is getting angry. Talk to the castellan. Have something to eat. Drink, but not too much. I want you to have a steady hand.”

He obeyed. The queen joined a conversation between Eist, Vissegerd and Mousesack, with Pavetta’s silent and dreamy participation. Drogodar had put away his lute and was making up for his lost eating time. Haxo wasn’t talkative. The voivode with the hard-to-remember name, who must have heard something about the affairs and problems of Fourhorn, politely asked whether the mares were foaling well. Geralt answered yes, much better than the stallions. He wasn’t sure if the joke had been well taken, but the voivode didn’t ask any more questions.

Mousesack’s eyes constantly sought the witcher’s, but the crumbs on the table didn’t move again.

Crach an Craite was becoming more and more friendly with the two brothers from Strept. The third, the youngest brother, was paralytic, having tried to match the drinking speed imposed by Draig Bon-Dhu. The skald had emerged from it unscathed.

The younger and less important lords gathered at the end of the table, tipsy, started singing a well-known song—out of tune—about a little goat with horns and a vengeful old woman with no sense of humor.