Lydia van Bredevoort turned with a whisper of silk and froze in anticipation. Geralt saw she was holding a wrapped-up painting under one arm. He had no idea where the picture had come from, since Lydia had been empty-handed a moment before. The amulet around his neck vibrated faintly.

Vilgefortz smiled.

‘I enquired,’ he repeated, ‘as to your views concerning the relationship between men and women.’

‘Regarding what respect of that relationship?’

‘Can obedience, in your opinion, be forced upon women? I’m talking about real women, of course, not just the female of the species. Can a real woman be controlled? Overcome? Made to surrender to your will? And if so, how? Answer me.’

The ragdoll didn’t take her eyes off them. Yennefer looked away.

‘Did you answer?’

‘Yes, I did.’

With her left hand, the enchantress squeezed his elbow, and with her right squeezed his fingers, which were touching her breasts.

‘How?’

‘You surely know.’

‘You’ve understood,’ said Vilgefortz a moment later. ‘And you’ve probably always understood. And thus you will also understand that if the concept of will and submission, of commands and obedience, and of male ruler and servant woman will perish and disappear, then unity will be achieved. A community merging into a single entity will be achieved. All will be as one. And if something like that were to occur, death would lose its meaning. Jan Bekker, who was water gushing from the rock, is present there in the banqueting hall. To say that Bekker died is like saying that water has died. Look at that painting.’

Geralt looked.

‘It’s unusually beautiful,’ he said after a moment. At once he felt a slight vibration of his witcher’s medallion.

‘Lydia,’ smiled Vilgefortz, ‘thanks for your acknowledgement. And I congratulate you on your taste. The landscape depicts the meeting between Cregennan of Lod and Lara Dorren aep Shiadhal, the legendary lovers, torn apart and destroyed by the time of contempt. He was a sorcerer and she was an elf, one of the elite of Aen Saevherne, or the Knowing Ones. What might have been the beginning of reconciliation was transformed into tragedy.’

‘I know that story. I always treated it as a fairytale. What really happened?’

‘That,’ said the sorcerer, becoming serious, ‘nobody knows. I mean almost nobody. Lydia, hang up your picture over here. Geralt, have a look at another of Lydia’s impressive works. It’s a portrait of Lara Dorren aep Shiadhal taken from an ancient miniature.’

‘Congratulations,’ said the Witcher, bowing to Lydia van Bredevoort, finding it hard to keep his voice from quavering. ‘It’s a true masterpiece.’

His tone didn’t quaver, even though Lara Dorren aep Shiadhal looked at him from the portrait with Ciri’s eyes.

‘What happened after that?’

‘Lydia remained in the gallery. The two of us went out onto the terrace. And he enjoyed himself at my expense.’

‘This way, Geralt, if you would. Step only on the dark slabs, please.’