‘Yes, I do. Geralt, I— I haven’t told you everything. I’m… I feel guilty. I didn’t do anything; I didn’t know what to do. But now I know. I want to go with you. I want to be by your side. I never told you… about Ciri and the rumours that are circulating. I met some acquaintances from Kovir, and they in turn had heard the reports of some envoys who had returned from Nilfgaard… I imagine those rumours may even have reached the Squirrels’ ears. That you’ve already heard everything from those elves who crossed the Ribbon. But let… let me tell you…’

The Witcher stood thinking for a long time, his arms hanging limply at his sides.

‘Get on your horse,’ he finally said, his voice sounding different. ‘You can tell me on the way.’

That morning there was an unusual commotion in Loc Grim Palace, the imperator’s summer residence. All the more unusual since commotions, emotions or excitement were not at all customary for the Nilfgaardian nobility and demonstrating anxiety or excitement was regarded as a sign of immaturity. Behaviour of that kind was treated by the Nilfgaardian noblemen as highly reprehensible and contemptible, to such an extent that even callow youths, from whom few would have demanded greater maturity, were expected to refrain from any displays of animation.

That morning, though, there were no young men in Loc Grim. Young men wouldn’t have had any reason to be in Loc Grim. Stern, austere aristocrats, knights and courtiers were filling the palace’s enormous throne room, every one of them dressed in ceremonial courtly black, enlivened only by white ruffs and cuffs. The men were accompanied by a small number of equally stern, austere ladies, whom custom permitted to brighten the black of their costume with a little modest jewellery. They all pretended to be dignified, stern and austere. But they were all extremely excited.

‘They say she’s ugly. Skinny and ugly.’

‘But she allegedly has royal blood.’

‘Illegitimate?’

‘Not a bit of it. Legitimate.’

‘Will she ascend to the throne?’

‘Should the imperator so decide…’

‘By thunder, just look at Ardal aep Dahy and Count de Wett… Look at their faces; as though they’d drunk vinegar…’

‘Be quiet, Your Excellency… Do their expressions surprise you? If the rumours are true, Emhyr will be giving the ancient houses a slap in the face. He will humiliate them—’

‘The rumours won’t be true. The imperator won’t wed that foundling! He couldn’t possibly…’

‘Emhyr will do whatever he wants. Heed your words, Your Excellency. Be careful of what you say. There have been people who said Emhyr couldn’t do this or that. And they all ended up on the scaffold.’

‘They say he has already signed a decree concerning an endowment for her. Three hundred marks annually, can you imagine?’

‘And the title of princess. Have any of you seen her yet?’

‘She was placed under the care of Countess Liddertal on her arrival and her house was cordoned off by the guard.’