“Geralt,” whispered Calanthe.

“Yes, you’re not wrong, queen. Duny! You will give me that which you already have but do not know. I’ll return to Cintra in six years to see if destiny has been kind to me.”

“Pavetta.” Duny opened his eyes wide. “Surely you’re not—”

“Pavetta!” exclaimed Calanthe. “Are you… are you—?”

The princess lowered her eyes and blushed. Then replied.

THE VOICE OF REASON

I

“Geralt! Hey! Are you there?”

He raised his head from the coarse, yellowed pages of The History of the World by Roderick de Novembre, an interesting if controversial work which he had been studying since the previous day.

“Yes, I am. What’s happened, Nenneke? Do you need me?”

“You’ve got a guest.”

“Again? Who’s it this time? Duke Hereward himself?”

“No. It’s Dandilion this time, your fellow. That idler, parasite and good-for-nothing, that priest of art, the bright-shining star of the ballad and love poem. As usual, he’s radiant with fame, puffed up like a pig’s bladder and stinking of beer. Do you want to see him?”

“Of course. He’s my friend, after all.”

Nenneke, peeved, shrugged her shoulders. “I can’t understand that friendship. He’s your absolute opposite.”

“Opposites attract.”

“Obviously. There, he’s coming.” She indicated with her head. “Your famous poet.”

“He really is a famous poet, Nenneke. Surely you’re not going to claim you’ve never heard his ballads.”

“I’ve heard them.” The priestess winced. “Yes, indeed. Well, I don’t know much about it, but maybe the ability to jump from touching lyricism to obscenities so easily is a talent. Never mind. Forgive me, but I won’t keep you company. I’m not in the mood for either his poetry or his vulgar jokes.”

A peal of laughter and the strumming of a lute resounded in the corridor and there, on the threshold of the library, stood Dandilion in a lilac jerkin with lace cuffs, his hat askew. The troubadour bowed exaggeratedly at the sight of Nenneke, the heron feather pinned to his hat sweeping the floor.

“My deepest respects, venerable mother,” he whined stupidly. “Praise be the Great Melitele and her priestesses, the springs of virtue and wisdom—”

“Stop talking bullshit,” snorted Nenneke. “And don’t call me mother. The very idea that you could be my son fills me with horror.”

She turned on her heel and left, her trailing robe rustling. Dandilion, aping her, sketched a parody bow.

“She hasn’t changed a bit,” he said cheerfully. “She still can’t take a joke. She’s furious because I chatted a bit to the gatekeeper when I got here, a pretty blonde with long lashes and a virgin’s plait reaching down to her cute little bottom, which it would be a sin not to pinch. So I did and Nenneke, who had just arrived… Ah, what the deuce. Greetings, Geralt.”

“Greetings, Dandilion. How did you know I was here?”

The poet straightened himself and yanked his trousers up. “I was in Wyzim,” he said. “I heard about the striga, and that you were wounded. I guessed where you would come to recuperate. I see you’re well now, are you?”