“Don’t threaten me, Coodcoodak.” Calanthe grimaced. “Midnight is close, the time for ghosts. Can you remember any more legends from your undoubtedly difficult childhood? If not, then sit down.”

“I ask your Grace”—the baron turned up his long whiskers—“to allow me to remain standing. I’d like to remind everybody of another legend. It’s an old, forgotten legend—we’ve all probably heard it in our difficult childhoods. In this legend, the kings kept their promises. And we, poor vassals, are only bound to kings by the royal word: treaties, alliances, our privileges and fiefs all rely on it. And now? Are we to doubt all this? Doubt the inviolability of the king’s word? Wait until it is worth as much as yesteryear’s snow? If this is how things are to be, then a difficult old age awaits us after our difficult childhoods!”

“Whose side are you on, Coodcoodak?” hollered Rainfarn of Attre.

“Silence! Let him speak!”

“This cackler, full of hot air, insults her Majesty!”

“The Baron of Tigg is right!”

“Silence,” Calanthe said suddenly, getting up. “Let him finish.”

“I thank you graciously.” Coodcoodak bowed. “But I have just finished.”

Silence fell, strange after the commotion his words had caused. Calanthe was still standing. Geralt didn’t think anyone else had noticed her hand shake as she wiped her brow.

“My lords,” she said finally, “you deserve an explanation. Yes, this… Urcheon… speaks the truth. Roegner did swear to give him that which he did not expect. It looks as if our lamented king was an oaf as far as a woman’s affairs are concerned, and couldn’t be trusted to count to nine. He confessed the truth on his deathbed, because he knew what I’d do to him if he’d admitted it earlier. He knew what a mother, whose child is disposed of so recklessly, is capable of.”

The knights and magnates remained silent. Urcheon stood motionless, like a spiked, iron statue.

“And Coodcoodak,” continued Calanthe, “well, Coodcoodak has reminded me that I am not a mother but a queen. Very well, then. As queen, I shall convene a council tomorrow. Cintra is not a tyranny. The council will decide whether a dead king’s oath is to decide the fate of the successor to the throne. It will decide whether Pavetta and the throne of Cintra are to be given to a stranger, or to act according to the kingdom’s interest.” Calanthe was silent for a moment, looking askance at Geralt. “And as for the noble knights who have come to Cintra in the hope of the princess’s hand… It only remains for me to express my deep regret at the cruel disrespect and dishonor they have experienced here, at the ridicule poured on them. I am not to blame.”

Amid the hum of voices which rumbled through the guests, the witcher managed to pick out Eist Tuirseach’s whisper.

“On all the gods of the sea,” sighed the islander. “This isn’t befitting. This is open incitement to bloodshed. Calanthe, you’re simply setting them against each other—”