‘Are they in your village too?’

The peasant’s face darkened and he ground his teeth.

‘Not in our village. We was lucky. But in Dun Dare, half a day from us, there’s four. They’re quartered in the inn. Scoundrels, good sir hermit, damned scoundrels, rogues. They took their pleasure with the village wenches, and when the menfolk stood up to them, they killed them, good sir, without mercy. Killed them dead…’

‘They killed people?’

‘Two. The headman and one other. And is there a punishment for such ne’er-do-wells, good sir? And is there a law? There’s no punishment or law! A carter who came to Dun Dare with his wife and daughter, he said that years ago there used to be witchers in the world, so they say… They dealt with every kind of villainy. We ought to send a witcher to Dun Dare, he’d give those rascals short shrift…’

‘Witchers killed monsters, not people.’

‘They’re knaves, good sir hermit, not people, naught but knaves from hell. A witcher’s what needed for them, no more, no less… Well, time I were going, good sir hermit… Ooo, winter’s coming! Soon it’ll be away with the dugout and out with the sleigh… And what them knaves from Dun Dare need, good sir, is a witcher…’

‘Oh, that’s right,’ Ciri repeated through clenched teeth. ‘Oh, absolutely right. A witcher what’s they need… Or a witcher girl. Four, is it? In Dun Dare, are they? And where is bloody Dun Dare? Upstream? Would I get there across the tussocks?’

‘By the Gods, Ciri,’ Vysogota said in terror. ‘You can’t seriously be thinking—’

‘Don’t swear by the gods, if you don’t believe in them. And I know you don’t.’

‘Let’s leave my views out of this! Ciri, what infernal ideas are you hatching? How can you even—’

‘Now you leave my convictions alone, Vysogota. I know what I have to do! I’m a witcher!’

‘You’re an unstable young person!’ he exploded. ‘You’re a child who’s been through traumatic experiences; a damaged child on the verge of a nervous breakdown. And more than that, you’re sick with a craving for revenge! Blinded by a lust for retribution! Don’t you understand that?’

‘I understand it better than you!’ she yelled. ‘Because you have no idea what it means to be hurt! You have no idea about revenge, for no one has ever truly wronged you!’

She rushed out of the cottage. A bitterly cold draught briefly blew through the hallway and the main room before she slammed the door shut. Soon after he heard neighing and the pounding of hooves.

Agitated, he banged the plate down onto the table. Let her go, he thought angrily, let her shake off the anger. It wasn’t as if he was afraid for her, she’d ridden often enough among the bogs, by day and night; she knew the paths, causeways, tussocks and meadows. If, though, she did get lost, she’d only have to let go of the reins–her black Kelpie knew the way home to the goat’s barn.