‘Please break your fast, noble lords,’ said their friend the forest beekeeper, approaching the rick accompanied by a broad-shouldered man. ‘Breakfast is ready. Milky porridge. And honey… And if I may introduce Jan Cronin, headman of us forest beekeepers…’

‘Pleased to meet you,’ the Witcher lied, without returning the bow, partly because his knee was paining him intensely. ‘And this crowd, how did they get here?’

‘Type of thing…’ the beekeeper scratched the back of his head. ‘As you see, winter’s coming… The trees have bear fences, the hollows have been gouged out… Time we returned to the Slopes and Riedbrune… Store away the honey, for winter, you know… But it is perilous to be in the forests… alone…’

The headman cleared his throat. The beekeeper glanced at Geralt’s face and seemed to shrink a little.

‘You are mounted and armed,’ he grunted. ‘Valorous and bold, anyone can see it. Wouldn’t be no fear travelling with the likes of you… And it’d be commodious for you… We know every path, every track, every copse and holt… And we can feed you…’

‘And the druids,’ Cahir said coldly, ‘have left Caed Dhu. And headed for the Slopes. Where you want to go. What a remarkable coincidence.’

Geralt walked slowly over to the forest beekeeper and grabbed him by the front of his coat. But a moment later thought better of it, released him and smoothed down his garments. He said nothing. And asked nothing. But in any case the beekeeper hurried to explain.

‘I spoke the truth! I swear! May the earth swallow me up if I lie! The Mistletoers have gone from Caed Dhu! They ain’t there!’

‘And they’re in the Slopes, are they?’ Geralt growled. ‘Where you are headed, you and this rabble of yours? And you want to travel with an armed escort? Speak, fellow. But take heed, the earth is indeed liable to cleave open!’

The beekeeper lowered his eyes and looked down apprehensively at the ground beneath his feet. Geralt kept meaningfully silent. Milva, finally understanding what it was all about, cursed foully. Cahir snorted contemptuously.

‘Well?’ the Witcher urged. ‘Where were the druids making for?’

‘Who knows, m’lord?’ the beekeeper finally mumbled. ‘But they may be in the Slopes… Just as well as they might be anywhere else. There’s a plenitude of mighty oak groves in the Slopes, and druids are fond of oaks…’

Aside from headman Cronin, both hamadryads–mother and daughter–were now standing behind the beekeeper. It’s fortunate the daughter takes after her mother and not her father, the Witcher thought, for the beekeeper suits his wife as well as a wild boar suits a mare. He noticed that several more women were standing behind the hamadryads. They were much less comely, but were looking at him just as pleadingly.

He glanced at Regis, not knowing whether to laugh or curse. The vampire shrugged.