“When what?”

“When the princess herself agrees to leave with you. This is what the Law of Surprise states. It is the child’s, not the parent’s, consent which confirms the oath, which proves that the child was born under the shadow of destiny. That’s why you returned after fifteen years, Urcheon, and that’s the condition King Roegner stipulated in his oath.”

“Who are you?”

“I am Geralt of Rivia.”

“Who are you, Geralt of Rivia, to claim to be an oracle in matters of laws and customs?”

“He knows this law better than anyone else,” Mouse-sack said in a hoarse voice, “because it applied to him once. He was taken from his home because he was what his father hadn’t expected to find on his return. Because he was destined for other things. And by the power of destiny he became what he is.”

“And what is he?”

“A witcher.”

In the silence that reigned, the guardhouse bell struck, announcing midnight in a dull tone. Everyone shuddered and raised their heads. Mousesack watched Geralt with surprise. But it was Urcheon who flinched most noticeably and moved uneasily. His hands, clad in their armor gauntlets, fell to his sides lifelessly, and the spiked helmet swayed unsteadily.

The strange, unknown Force suddenly grew thicker, filling the hall like a gray mist.

“It’s true,” said Calanthe. “Geralt, present here, is a witcher. His trade is worthy of respect and esteem. He has sacrificed himself to protect us from monsters and nightmares born in the night, those sent by powers ominous and harmful to man. He kills the horrors and monsters that await us in the forests and ravines. And those which have the audacity to enter our dwellings.” Urcheon was silent. “And so,” continued the queen, raising her ringed hand, “let the law be fulfilled, let the oath which you, Urcheon of Erlenwald, insist should be satisfied, be satisfied. Midnight has struck. Your vow no longer binds you. Lift your visor. Before my daughter expresses her will, before she decides her destiny, let her see your face. We all wish to see your face.”

Urcheon of Erlenwald slowly raised his armored hand, pulled at the helmet’s fastenings, grabbed it by the iron horn and threw it against the floor with a crash. Someone shouted, someone swore, someone sucked in their breath with a whistle. On the queen’s face appeared a wicked, very wicked, smile. A cruel smile of triumph.

Above the wide, semi-circular breastplate, two bulbous, black, button eyes looked out. Eyes set to either side of a blunt, elongated muzzle covered in reddish bristles and full of sharp white fangs. Urcheon’s head and neck bristled with a brush of short, gray, twitching prickles.

“This is how I look,” spoke the creature, “which you well knew, Calanthe. Roegner, in telling you of his oath, wouldn’t have omitted describing me. Urcheon of Erlenwald to whom—despite my appearance—Roegner swore his oath. You prepared well for my arrival, queen. Your own vassals have pointed out your haughty and contemptuous refusal to keep Roegner’s word. When your attempt to set the other suitors on me didn’t succeed, you still had a killer witcher in reserve, ready at your right hand. And finally, common, low deceit. You wanted to humiliate me, Calanthe. Know that it is yourself you have humiliated!”