‘So then,’ Crach resumed the conversation, sucking the flesh from the legs of the lobster after cracking open the joints, ‘I’ve decided to put my faith in you, Yennefer. I’m not doing it for you, though, be aware of that. Bloedgeas, the blood oath I gave Calanthe, does indeed tie my hands. So if your intention to go to Ciri’s aid is genuine and heartfelt, and I presume it is, I have no choice: I must help you with your scheme…’

‘Thank you. But rid yourself of that pompous tone, please. I repeat: I didn’t take part in the plot on Thanedd. Believe me.’

‘Is it really so important what I believe?’ he flared up. ‘You ought rather to begin with the kings, with Dijkstra, whose agents are tracking you the length and breadth of the world. With Philippa Eilhart and the sorcerers loyal to the kings. From whom, as you yourself admitted, you fled here, to Skellige. You ought to present them with proof—’

‘I have no proof,’ she interrupted, angrily stabbing her fork into a Brussels sprout the offended cook had boiled to go with the mutton chop. ‘But if I had, they wouldn’t let me present it. I can’t explain it to you; I’m forbidden from speaking. Take my word for it, Crach. Please.’

‘I said—’

‘I know,’ she interrupted. ‘You pledged your help. Thank you. But you still don’t believe in my innocence. Believe me.’

Crach threw aside the sucked-out lobster’s shell and drew a bowl of mussels closer. He rummaged around, rattling them, taking out the bigger ones.

‘Very well,’ he finally said, wiping his hands on the tablecloth. ‘I believe you. Because I want to believe. But I shall not give you refuge or protection. I cannot. You may, though, leave Skellige whenever you wish and make for wherever you wish. I’d advise haste. You came here, so to speak, on the wings of magic. Others may follow you. They can also work magic.’

‘I’m not looking for a refuge or a safe hideaway, yarl. I must go and rescue Ciri.’

‘Ciri,’ he repeated, lost in thought. ‘The lion cub… She was a queer child.’

‘Was?’

‘Oh,’ he flared up again. ‘I expressed myself badly. Was–because she’s no longer a child. That’s all I meant. That’s all. Cirilla, the Lion Cub of Cintra… she spent her summers and winters on Skellige. She was often mischievous! She was a Young Devil, not a Lion Cub… Damn it, I said “was” a second time… Yennefer, rumours find their way here from the mainland… Some say Ciri’s in Nilfgaard—’

‘She’s not in Nilfgaard.’

‘Others that the girl is dead.’

Yennefer said nothing, biting her lip.

‘But I reject the second rumour,’ the yarl said firmly. ‘Ciri’s alive. I’m certain. There’ve been no signs… She’s alive!’

Yennefer raised her eyebrows, but didn’t ask any questions. They were silent for a long time, listening intently to the roar of the waves crashing against the rocks of Ard Skellig.