Milva, it seems to me, had been greatly affected by her tragic accident–and loss. I write ‘it seems to me’ for I am aware that being a man I cannot imagine what such a loss means for a woman. Though I am a poet and a man of the quill, even my educated and trained imagination betrays me here and I can do nothing.

The archer swiftly regained her physical fitness, which could not be said for her mental state. It often happened that she would not utter a word throughout the whole day, from dawn to dusk. She would disappear and remain isolated, which worried everyone somewhat. Until finally a crisis occurred. Milva released the tension like a dryad or a she-elf; violently, impulsively and not very comprehensibly. One morning, in front of our eyes, she drew a knife and without a word cut off her plait just above her shoulders. ‘It doesn’t befit me, for I’m not a maiden,’ she said, seeing our jaws hanging open. ‘But nor am I a widow,’ she added, ‘so that’s the end of my mourning.’ From that moment on she was her old self; brusque, biting, mouthy and inclined to use unparliamentary language. From which we happily concluded that she had come through the crisis.

The third–and no less curious–member of the company was the Nilfgaardian, who kept trying to prove he was not one. He was called, so he claimed, Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach…

‘Cahir Mawr Dyffryn, son of Ceallach,’ Dandelion declared, pointing his pencil at the Nilfgaardian, ‘I have reconciled myself with many things which I don’t like, and actually can’t stand, in this honourable company. But not with everything! I can’t bear it when people look over my shoulder when I’m writing! And I don’t intend to put up with it!’

The Nilfgaardian moved away from the poet, and after a moment’s thought seized his saddle, sheepskin and blanket and dragged them over to Milva, who was dozing.

‘I apologise,’ he said. ‘Forgive my obtrusiveness, Dandelion. I glanced involuntarily, out of pure curiosity. I thought you were creating a map or drawing up some tallies—’

‘I’m not a bookkeeper!’ the poet said, losing his temper and standing up. ‘Nor am I a cartographer! But even if I were, it doesn’t justify taking a sly look at my notes!’

‘I have apologised,’ Cahir repeated dryly, making his bed in the new place. ‘I have reconciled myself with and become accustomed to many things in this honourable company. But I’m still accustomed to apologising only once.’

‘Indeed,’ the Witcher joined in, totally unexpectedly–for everyone, himself included–taking the side of the young Nilfgaardian. ‘You’ve become devilishly touchy, Dandelion. One cannot fail to notice that it is somehow connected to the paper, which you have recently begun to deface with a bit of lead while we camp.’