‘Don’t lie. I know you.’
‘If you know me so well,’ said the troubadour, beginning to bristle, ‘why the bloody hell are you making me speak? Since you know me through and through, you ought to know why I’m keeping my counsel, why I’m not repeating the gossip I’ve heard! You also ought to be able to guess what the gossip is and why I want to spare you it!’
‘Que suecc’s?’ said one of the dryads sleeping nearby, on being woken by his raised voice.
‘I beg your pardon,’ said the Witcher softly.
Almost all of the green lanterns of Brokilon were out; only a few of them still glimmered gently.
‘Geralt,’ said Dandelion, interrupting the silence. ‘You’ve always maintained that you don’t get involved, that nothing matters to you . . . She may have believed that. She believed that when she began this game with Vilgefortz—’
‘Enough,’ said Geralt. ‘Not another word. When I hear the word “game” I feel like killing someone. Oh, give me that razor. I want to have that shave at last.’
‘Now? It’s still dark . . .’
‘It’s never too dark for me. I’m a freak.’
After the Witcher had snatched the pouch of toiletries from him and headed off towards the stream, Dandelion realised he had shaken off all drowsiness. The sky was already lightening with the promise of dawn. He got up and walked into the forest, carefully stepping over the dryads, who were sleeping cuddled together.
‘Are you one of those who had a hand in this?’
He turned around suddenly. The dryad leaning against a pine tree had hair the colour of silver, visible even in the half-light of the dawn.
‘A most deplorable sight,’ she said, folding her arms across her chest. ‘Someone who has lost everything. You know, minstrel, it is interesting. Once, I thought it was impossible to lose everything, that something always remains. Always. Even in times of contempt, when naivety is capable of backfiring in the cruellest way, one cannot lose everything. But he . . . he lost several pints of blood, the ability to walk properly, the partial use of his left hand, his witcher’s sword, the woman he loves, the daughter he had gained by a miracle, his faith . . . Well, I thought, he must have been left with something. But I was wrong. He has nothing now. Not even a razor.’
Dandelion remained silent. The dryad did not move.
‘I asked if you had a hand in this,’ she began a moment later. ‘But I think there was no need. It’s obvious you had a hand in it. It’s obvious you are his friend. And if someone has friends, and he loses everything in spite of that, it’s obvious the friends are to blame. For what they did, or for what they didn’t do.’
‘What could I have done?’ he whispered. ‘What could I have done?’
‘I don’t know,’ answered the dryad.
‘I didn’t tell him everything . . .’
‘I know.’
‘I’m not guilty of anything.’
‘Yes, you are.’
‘No! I am not . . .’
He jumped to his feet, making the branches of his makeshift bed creak. Geralt sat beside him, rubbing his face. He smelled of soap.
‘Aren’t you?’ he asked coolly. ‘I wonder what else you dreamed about. That you’re a frog? Calm down. You aren’t. Did you dream that you’re a chump? Well, that dream might have been prophetic.’
Dandelion looked all around. They were completely alone in the clearing.
‘Where is she? Where are they?’
‘On the edge of the forest. Get ready, it’s time you left.’
‘Geralt, I spoke with a dryad a moment ago. She was talking in the Common Speech without an accent and told me . . .’
‘None of the dryads in that group spoke the Common Speech without an accent. You dreamed it, Dandelion. This is Brokilon. Many things can be dreamed here.’
A lone dryad was waiting for them at the edge of the forest. Dandelion recognised her at once – it was the one with the greenish hair who had brought them light during the night and encouraged him to continue singing. The dryad raised a hand, instructing them to stop. In her other hand she was holding a bow with an arrow nocked. The Witcher put his hand on the troubadour’s shoulder and squeezed it hard.
‘Is something going on?’ whispered Dandelion.
‘Indeed. Be quiet and don’t move.’
The dense fog hanging over the Ribbon valley stifled voices and sounds, but not so much that Dandelion was unable to hear the splash of water and the snorting of horses. Riders were crossing the river.
‘Elves,’ he guessed. ‘Scoia’tael? They’re fleeing to Brokilon, aren’t they? An entire commando unit . . .’