“Enough.” Calanthe stood up and rested her clenched fist on her hip. “Let’s put an end to this. Pavetta! You see who, or rather what, is standing in front of you, claiming you for himself. In accordance with the Law of Surprise and eternal custom, the decision is yours. Answer. One word from you is enough. Yes, and you become the property, the conquest, of this monster. No, and you will never have to see him again.”

The Force pulsating in the hall was squeezing Geralt’s temples like an iron vice, buzzing in his ears, making the hair on his neck stand on end. The witcher looked at Mousesack’s whitening knuckles, clenched at the edge of the table. At the trickle of sweat running down the queen’s cheek. At the breadcrumbs on the table, moving like insects, forming runes, dispersing and again gathering into one word: CAREFUL!

“Pavetta!” Calanthe repeated. “Answer. Do you choose to leave with this creature?”

Pavetta raised her head. “Yes.”

The Force filling the hall echoed her, rumbling hollowly in the arches of the vault. No one, absolutely no one, made the slightest sound.

Calanthe very slowly collapsed into her throne. Her face was completely expressionless.

“Everyone heard,” Urcheon’s calm voice resounded in the silence. “You, too, Calanthe. As did you, witcher, cunning, hired thug. My rights have been established. Truth and destiny have triumphed over lies and deviousness. What do you have left, noble queen, disguised witcher? Cold steel?” No one answered. “I’d like to leave with Pavetta immediately,” continued Urcheon, his bristles stirring as he snapped his jaw shut, “but I won’t deny myself one small pleasure. It is you, Calanthe, who will lead your daughter here to me and place her white hand in mine.”

Calanthe slowly turned her head in the witcher’s direction. Her eyes expressed a command. Geralt didn’t move, sensing that the Force condensing in the air was concentrated on him. Only on him. Now he understood. The queen’s eyes narrowed, her lips quivered…

“What?! What’s this?” yelled Crach an Craite, jumping up. “Her white hand? In his? The princess with this bristly stinker? With this… pig’s snout?”

“And I wanted to fight him like a knight!” Rainfarn chimed in. “This horror, this beast! Loose the dogs on him! The dogs!”

“Guards!” cried Calanthe.

Everything happened at once. Crach an Craite seized a knife from the table and knocked his chair over with a crash. Obeying Eist’s command, Draig Bon-Dhu, without a thought, whacked the back of his head with his bagpipes, as hard as he could. Crach dropped onto the table between a sturgeon in gray sauce and the few remaining arched ribs of a roast boar. Rainfarn leapt toward Urcheon, flashing a dagger drawn from his sleeve. Coodcoodak, springing up, kicked a stool under his feet which Rainfarn jumped agilely, but a moment’s delay was enough—Urcheon deceived him with a short feint and forced him to his knees with a mighty blow from his armored fist. Coodcoodak fell to snatch the dagger from Rainfarn but was stopped by Prince Windhalm, who clung to his thigh like a bloodhound.