An uproar burst forth among the guests. Some shouted, someone swore, someone else thumped his fist on the table and knocked the dishes over. Wieldhill of Strept pulled a knife out of the roast lamb and waved it about. Crach an Craite, bent over, was clearly trying to break a plank from the table trestle.

“That’s unheard of!” yelled Vissegerd. “What proof do you have? Proof?”

“The queen’s face,” exclaimed Urcheon, extending his hand, “is the best proof!”

Pavetta sat motionless, not raising her head. The air was growing thick with something very strange. The witcher’s medallion was tearing at its chain under the tunic. He saw the queen summon a page and whisper a short command. Geralt couldn’t hear it, but he was puzzled by the surprise on the boy’s face and the fact that the command had to be repeated. The page ran toward the exit.

The uproar at the table continued as Eist Tuirseach turned to the queen.

“Calanthe,” he said calmly, “is what he says true?”

“And if it is,” the queen muttered through her teeth, biting her lips and picking at the green sash on her shoulder, “so what?”

“If what he says is true”—Eist frowned—“then the promise will have to be kept.”

“Is that so?”

“Or am I to understand,” the islander asked grimly, “that you treat all promises this lightly, including those which have etched themselves so deeply in my memory?”

Geralt, who had never expected to see Calanthe blush deeply, with tears in her eyes and trembling lips, was surprised.

“Eist,” whispered the queen, “this is different—”

“Is it, really?”

“Oh, you son of a bitch!” Crach an Craite yelled unexpectedly, jumping up. “The last fool who said I’d acted in vain was pinched apart by crabs at the bottom of Allenker bay! I didn’t sail here from Skellig to return empty-handed! A suitor has turned up, some son of a trollop! Someone bring me a sword and give that idiot some iron! We’ll soon see who—”

“Maybe you could just shut up, Crach?” Eist snapped scathingly, resting both fists on the table. “Draig Bon-Dhu! I render you responsible for his future behavior!”

“And are you going to silence me, too, Tuirseach?” shouted Rainfarn of Attre, standing up. “Who is going to stop me from washing the insult thrown at my prince away with blood? And his son, Windhalm, the only man worthy of Pavetta’s hand and bed! Bring the swords! I’ll show that Urcheon, or whatever he’s called, how we of Attre take revenge for such abuse! I wonder whether anybody or anything can hold me back?”

“Yes. Regard for good manners,” said Eist Tuirseach calmly. “It is not proper to start a fight here or challenge anyone without permission from the lady of the house. What is this? Is the throne room of Cintra an inn where you can punch each other’s heads and stab each other with knives as the fancy takes you?”

Everybody started to shout again, to curse and swear and wave their arms about. But the uproar suddenly stopped, as if cut by a knife, at the short, furious roar of an enraged bison.