The king rose, whistled to his dogs and made his way to the door, scattering the straw covering the chamber floor. At the door he paused.

“If you succeed, witcher, the reward is yours. Maybe I will add something if you do well. Of course, the nonsense spread by common folk about marrying the princess carries not a word of truth. I’m sure you don’t believe I would give my daughter’s hand to a stranger?”

“No, your Majesty. I don’t.”

“Good. That shows you have some wisdom.”

Foltest left, closing the door behind him. Velerad and the magnate, who had been standing all the while, immediately sat at the table. The castellan finished the king’s half-full cup, peered into the jug and cursed. Ostrit, who took Foltest’s chair, scowled at the witcher while he stroked the carved armrests. Segelin, the bearded man, nodded at Geralt.

“Do sit, witcher, do sit. Supper will soon be served. What would you like to know? Castellan Velerad has probably already told you everything. I know him, he has sooner told you too much than too little.”

“Only a few questions.”

“Ask.”

“The castellan said that, after the striga’s appearance, the king called up many Knowing Ones.”

“That’s right. But don’t say striga, say princess. It makes it easier to avoid making a mistake in the king’s presence—and any consequent unpleasantness.”

“Was there anyone well-known among the Knowing Ones? Anyone famous?”

“There were such, then and later. I don’t remember the names. Do you, Lord Ostrit?”

“I don’t recall,” said the magnate. “But I know some of them enjoyed fame and recognition. There was much talk of it.”

“Were they in agreement that the spell can be lifted?”

“They were far from any agreement”—Segelin smiled—“on any subject. But such an opinion was expressed. It was supposed to be simple, not even requiring magical abilities. As I understand it, it would suffice for someone to spend the night—from sunset to the third crowing of the cock—by the sarcophagus.”

“Simple indeed,” snorted Velerad.

“I would like to hear a description of the… the princess.”

Velerad leapt up from his chair. “The princess looks like a striga!” he yelled. “Like the most strigish striga I have heard of! Her Royal Highness, the cursed royal bastard, is four cubits high, shaped like a barrel of beer, has a maw which stretches from ear to ear and is full of dagger-like teeth, has red eyes and a red mop of hair! Her paws, with claws like a wild cat’s, hang down to the ground! I’m surprised we’ve yet to send her likeness to friendly courts! The princess, plague choke her, is already fourteen. Time to think of giving her hand to a prince in marriage!”

“Hold on, Velerad.” Ostrit frowned, glancing at the door. Segelin smiled faintly.

“The description, although vivid, is reasonably accurate, and that’s what you wanted, isn’t it, witcher? Velerad didn’t mention that the princess moves with incredible speed and is far stronger for her height and build than one would expect. And she is fourteen years old, if that is of any importance.”