A GRAIN OF TRUTH - II

He noticed the red tiles of the tower's conical roof from the summit of a hill as he cut across a bend in the faint trail. The slope, covered with hazel, dry branches and a thick carpet of yellow leaves, wasn't safe to descend on horseback. The witcher retreated, carefully rode down the incline and returned to the main path. He rode slowly, stopped the horse every now and again and, hanging from the saddle, looked out for tracks.

The mare tossed her head, neighed wildly, stamped and danced on the path, kicking up a storm of dried leaves. Geralt, wrapping his left arm around the horse's neck, swept his right hand—the fingers arranged in the Sign of Axia—over the mount's head as he whispered an incantation.

"Is it as bad as all that?" he murmured, looking around and not withdrawing the Sign. "Easy, Roach, easy."

The charm worked quickly but the mare, prodded with his heel, moved forward reluctantly, losing the natural springy rhythm of her gait. The witcher jumped nimbly to the ground and went on by foot, leading her by the bridle. He saw a wall.

There was no gap between the wall and the forest, no distinct break. The young trees and juniper bushes twined their leaves with the ivy and wild vines clinging to the stonework. Geralt looked up. At that same moment, he felt a prickle along his neck, as if an invisible, soft creature had latched on to his neck, lifting the hairs there.

He was being watched.

He turned around smoothly. Roach snorted; the muscles in her neck twitched, moved under her skin.

A girl was standing on the slope of the hill he had just climbed down, one arm resting on the trunk of an alder tree. Her trailing white dress contrasted with the glossy blackness of her disheveled hair, falling to her shoulders. She seemed to be smiling, but she was too far away to be sure.

"Greetings," he said, raising his hand in a friendly gesture. He took a step toward the girl. She turned her head a little, following his movements. Her face was pale, her eyes black and enormous. The smile—if it had been a smile—vanished from her face as though wiped away with a cloth. Geralt took another step, the leaves rustled underfoot, and the girl ran down the slope like a deer, flitting between the hazel bushes. She was no more than a white streak as she disappeared into the depths of the forest. The long dress didn't appear to restrict her ease of movement in the least.

Roach neighed anxiously, tossing her head. Geralt, still watching the forest, instinctively calmed her with the Sign again. Pulling the mare by the bridle, he walked slowly along the wall, wading through burdock up to the waist.

He came to a sturdy gate, with iron fittings and rusty hinges, furnished with a great brass knocker. After a moment's hesitation Geralt reached out and touched the tarnished ring. He immediately jumped back as, at that moment, the gate opened, squeaking, clattering, and raking aside clumps of grass, stones and branches. There was no one behind it—the witcher could only see a deserted courtyard, neglected and overgrown with nettles. He entered, leading Roach. The mare, still stunned by the Sign, didn't resist, but she moved stiffly and hesitantly after him.

The courtyard was surrounded on three sides by a wall and the remains of some wooden scaffolding. On the fourth side stood the mansion, its façade mottled by a pox of chipped plaster, dirty damp patches, and festooned with ivy. The shutters, with their peeling paint, were closed, as was the door.

Geralt threw Roach's reins over the pillar by the gate and slowly made his way toward the mansion, following the gravel path past a small fountain full of leaves and rubbish. In the center of the fountain, on a fanciful plinth, a white stone dolphin arched, turning its chipped tail upward.

Next to the fountain in what, a very long time ago, used to be a flowerbed, grew a rosebush. Nothing but the color of the flowers made this bush unique—but the flowers were exceptional: indigo, with a faint shade of purple on the tips of some of the petals. The witcher touched one, brought his face closer and inhaled. The flowers held the typical scent of roses, only a little more intense.

The door and all the shutters of the mansion flew open at the same instant with a bang. Geralt raised his head abruptly. Down the path, scrunching the gravel, a monster was rushing straight at him.

The witcher's right hand rose, as fast as lightning, above his right shoulder while his left jerked the belt across his chest, making the sword hilt jump into his palm. The blade, leaping from the scabbard with a hiss, traced a short, luminous semicircle and froze, the point aiming at the charging beast.

At the sight of the sword, the monster stopped short, spraying gravel in all directions. The witcher didn't even flinch.

The creature was humanoid, and dressed in clothes which, though tattered, were of good quality and not lacking in stylish and useless ornamentation. His human form, however, reached no higher than the soiled collar of his tunic, for above it loomed a gigantic, hairy, bear-like head with enormous ears, a pair of wild eyes and terrifying jaws full of crooked fangs in which a red tongue flickered like flame.

"Flee, mortal man!" the monster roared, flapping his paws but not moving from the spot. "I'll devour you! Tear you to pieces!" The witcher didn't move, didn't lower his sword. "Are you deaf? Away with you!" The creature screamed, then made a sound somewhere between a pig's squeal and a stag's bellowing roar, making the shutters rattle and clatter and shaking rubble and plaster from the sills. Neither witcher nor monster moved.

"Clear off while you're still in one piece!" roared the creature, less sure of himself. "Because if you don't, then—"

"Then what?" interrupted Geralt.

The monster suddenly gasped and tilted his monstrous head. "Look at him, isn't he brave?" He spoke calmly, baring his fangs and glowering at Geralt with bloodshot eyes. "Lower that iron, if you please. Perhaps you've not realized you're in my courtyard? Or maybe it's customary, wherever you come from, to threaten people with swords in their own courtyards?"

"It is customary," Geralt agreed, "when faced with people who greet their guests with a roar and the cry that they're going to tear you to pieces."

"Pox on it!" The monster got himself worked up. "And he'll insult me on top of it all, this straggler. A guest, is he? Pushes his way into the yard, ruins someone else's flowers, plays the lord and thinks that he'll be brought bread and salt. Bah!"

The creature spat, gasped and shut his jaws. The lower fangs protruded, making him look like a boar.

"So?" The witcher spoke after a moment, lowering his sword. "Are we going to carry on standing like this?"

"And what do you suggest instead? Lying down?" snorted the monster. "Put that iron away, I said."

The witcher nimbly slipped the weapon into its scabbard and, without lowering his arm, stroked the hilt which rose above his shoulder.

"I'd prefer you," he said, "not to make any sudden moves. This sword can always be drawn again, faster than you imagine."

"I noticed," rasped the monster. "If it wasn't for that, you'd have been out of this gate a long time ago, with my bootprint on your arse. What do you want here? How did you get here?"

"I got lost," lied the witcher. "You got lost," repeated the monster, twisting his jaws in a menacing grin. "Well, unlose your way. Out of the gate, turn your left ear to the sun and keep walking and you'll soon get back to the highway. Well? What are you waiting for?"

"Is there any water?" asked Geralt calmly. "The horse is thirsty. And so am I, if that doesn't inconvenience you."

The monster shifted from one foot to the other and scratched his ear. "Listen you," he said. "Are you really not frightened of me?"

"Should I be?"

The monster looked around, cleared his throat and yanked up his baggy trousers.

"Pox on it, what's the harm of a guest in the house? It's not every day I meet someone who doesn't run away or faint at the sight of me. All right, then. If you're a weary but honest wanderer, I invite you in. But if you're a brigand or a thief, then I warn you: this house does what I tell it to. Within these walls I rule!"

He lifted his hairy paw. All the shutters clattered against the wall once more and deep in the dolphin's stone gullet, something rumbled.

"I invite you in," he repeated.

Geralt didn't move, scrutinizing him.

"Do you live alone?"

"What's that to do with you?" said the monster angrily, opening his jaws, then croaked loudly, "Oh, I see. No doubt you'd like to know whether I've got forty servants all as beautiful as me. I don't. Well, pox, are you going to make use of my generous invitation? If not, the gate's over there."

Geralt bowed stiffly. "I accept your invitation," he said formally. "I won't slight the right of hospitality."

"My house is your house," the monster said in return, just as formally, although a little offhandedly. "This way please, dear guest. And leave the horse here, by the well."

The interior was in need of extensive repair, although it was reasonably clean and tidy. The furniture had been made by skilled craftsmen, if a very long time ago. A pungent smell of dust hung in the dark rooms.

"Light!" growled the monster, and the torch in its iron bracket burst into flames and sooty smoke.

"Not bad," remarked the witcher.

The monster cackled. "That's it? I see you won't be amazed by any old trick. I told you this house obeys my commands. This way, please. Careful, the stairs are steep. Light!"

On the stairs, the monster turned. "What's that around your neck, dear guest?"

"Have a look."

The creature took the medallion in his paw, lifted it up to his eyes, tightening the chain around Geralt's neck a little.

"The animal has an unpleasant expression. What is it?"

"My guild's badge." "Ah, you make muzzles, no doubt. This way, please. Light!"

The center of the large room, completely devoid of windows, was taken up by a huge oak table, empty apart from an enormous brass candlestick, slowly turning green and covered with trickles of hardened wax. At the monster's command, the candles lit and flickered, brightening the interior a little.

One wall was hung with weapons, compositions of round shields, crossed partisans, javelins and guisarmes, heavy sabers and axes. Half of the adjacent wall was taken up by an enormous fireplace, above which hung rows of flaking and peeling portraits. The wall facing the entrance was filled with hunting trophies—elks and stag antlers whose branching racks threw long shadows across the grinning mounted heads of wild boar, bear and lynx, over the ruffled and frayed wings of eagles and hawks. The place of honor was filled by a rock dragon's head, tainted brown, damaged and leaking stuffing. Geralt examined it more closely.

"My grandpa killed it," said the monster, throwing a huge log into the depths of the fireplace. "It was probably the last one in the vicinity when it got itself killed. Sit, my dear guest. You're hungry?"

"I won't deny it, dear host."

The monster sat at the table, lowered his head, clasped his hairy paws over his stomach, muttered something while twiddling his enormous thumbs, then suddenly roared, thumping the table with his paw. Dishes and platters rattled like pewter and silver, chalices jingled like crystal. There was a smell of roast meat, garlic, marjoram and nutmeg. Geralt did not show any surprise.

"Yes." The monster rubbed his hands. "This is better than servants, isn't it? Help yourself, dear guest. Here is some fowl, here some boar ham, here terrine of…I don't know what. Something. Here we have some hazel grouse. Pox, no, it's partridge. I got the spells muddled up. Eat up, eat up. This is proper, real food, don't worry."

"I'm not worried." Geralt tore the fowl in two.

"I forgot," snorted the monster, "that you're not timid. What shall I call you?"

"Geralt. And your name, dear host?"

"Nivellen. But they call me Degen or Fanger around here. And they use me to frighten children."

The monster poured the contents of an enormous chalice down his throat, after which he sank his fingers in the terrine, tearing half of it from the bowl in one go.

"Frighten children," repeated Geralt with his mouth full. "Without any reason, no doubt?"

"Of course not. Your health, Geralt!"

"And yours, Nivellen."

"How's the wine? Have you noticed that it's made from grapes and not apples? But if you don't like it, I'll conjure up a different one."

"Thank you, it's not bad. Are your magical powers innate?"

"No. I've had them since growing this. This trap, that is. I don't know how it happened myself, but the house does whatever I wish. Nothing very big; I can conjure up food, drink, clothes, clean linen, hot water, soap. Any woman can do that, and without using magic at that. I can open and close windows and doors. I can light a fire. Nothing very remarkable."

"It's something. And this…trap, as you call it, have you had it long?"

"Twelve years."

"How did it happen?"

"What's it got to do with you? Pour yourself some more wine."

"With pleasure. It's got nothing to do with me. I'm just asking out of curiosity."

"An acceptable reason," the monster said, and laughed loudly. "But I don't accept it. It's got nothing to do with you and that's that. But just to satisfy your curiosity a little, I'll show you what I used to look like. Look at those portraits. The first from the chimney is my father. The second, pox only knows. And the third is me. Can you see it?"

Beneath the dust and spiderwebs, a nondescript man with a bloated, sad, spotty face and watery eyes looked down from the painting. Geralt, who was no stranger to the way portrait painters tended to flatter their clients, nodded.

"Can you see it?" repeated Nivellen, baring his fangs.

"I can."

"Who are you?"

"I don't understand."

"You don't understand?" The monster raised his head; his eyes shone like a cat's. "My portrait is hung beyond the candlelight. I can see it, but I'm not human. At least, not at the moment. A human, looking at my portrait, would get up, go closer and, no doubt, have to take the candlestick with him. You didn't do that, so the conclusion is simple. But I'm asking you plainly: are you human?"

Geralt didn't lower his eyes. "If that's the way you put it," he answered after a moment's silence, "then, not quite."

"Ah. Surely it won't be tactless if I ask, in that case, what you are?"

"A witcher."

"Ah," Nivellen repeated after a moment. "If I remember rightly, witchers earn their living in an interesting way—they kill monsters for money."

"You remember correctly."

Silence fell again. Candle flames pulsated, flicked upward in thin wisps of fire, glimmering in the cut-crystal chalices. Cascades of wax trickled down the candlestick.

Nivellen sat still, lightly twitching his enormous ears. "Let's assume," he said finally, "that you draw your sword before I jump on you. Let's assume you even manage to cut me down. With my weight, that won't stop me; I'll take you down through sheer momentum. And then it's teeth that'll decide. What do you think, witcher, which one of us has a better chance if it comes to biting each other's throats?"

Geralt, steadying the carafe's pewter stopper with his thumb, poured himself some wine, took a sip and leaned back into his chair. He was watching the monster with a smile. An exceptionally ugly one.

"Yeeees," said Nivellen slowly, digging at the corner of his jaws with his claw. "One has to admit you can answer questions without using many words. It'll be interesting to see how you manage the next one. Who paid you to deal with me?"

"No one. I'm here by accident."

"You're not lying, by any chance?"

"I'm not in the habit of lying."

"And what are you in the habit of doing? I've heard about witchers—they abduct tiny children whom they feed with magic herbs. The ones who survive become witchers themselves, sorcerers with inhuman powers. They're taught to kill, and all human feelings and reactions are trained out of them. They're turned into monsters in order to kill other monsters. I've heard it said it's high time someone started hunting witchers, as there are fewer and fewer monsters and more and more witchers. Do have some partridge before it's completely cold."

Nivellen took the partridge from the dish, put it between his jaws and crunched it like a piece of toast, bones cracking as they were crushed between his teeth.

"Why don't you say anything?" he asked indistinctly, swallowing. "How much of the rumors about you witchers is true?"

"Practically nothing."

"And what's a lie?"

"That there are fewer and fewer monsters."

"True. There's a fair number of them." Nivellen bared his fangs. "One is sitting in front of you wondering if he did the right thing by inviting you in. I didn't like your guild badge right from the start, dear guest."

"You aren't a monster, Nivellen," the witcher said dryly.

"Pox, that's something new. So what am I? Cranberry pudding? A flock of wild geese flying south on a sad November morning? No? Maybe I'm the virtue that a miller's buxom daughter lost in spring? Well, Geralt, tell me what I am. Can't you see I'm shaking with curiosity?"

"You're not a monster. Otherwise you wouldn't be able to touch this silver tray. And in no way could you hold my medallion."

"Ha!" Nivellen roared so powerfully the candle flames fell horizontal for a moment. "Today, very clearly, is a day for revealing great and terrible secrets! Now I'm going to be told that I grew these ears because I didn't like milky porridge as a child!"

"No, Nivellen," said Geralt calmly. "It happened because of a spell I'm sure you know who cast that spell."

"And what if I do?"

"In many cases a spell can be uncast."

"You, as a witcher, can uncast spells in many cases?"

"I can. Do you want me to try?"

"No. I don't." The monster opened his jaws and poked out his tongue, two span long, and very red. "Surprised you, hasn't it?"

"That it has," admitted Geralt.

The monster giggled and lounged in his armchair. "I knew that would," he said. "Pour yourself some more, get comfortable and I'll tell you the whole story. Witcher or not, you've got an honest face and I feel like talking. Pour yourself more."

"There's none left."

"Pox on it!" The monster cleared his throat, then thumped the table with his paw again. A large earthenware demijohn in a wicker basket appeared next to the two empty carafes, from nowhere. Nivellen tore the sealing wax off with his teeth.

"As no doubt you've noticed," he began, pouring the wine, "this is quite a remote area. It's a long way to the nearest human settlement. It's because, you see, my father, and my grandfather too, in his time, didn't make themselves particularly loved by our neighbors or the merchants using the highway. If anyone went astray here and my father spotted them from the tower, they lost—at best—their fortune. And a couple of the nearer settlements were burnt because Father decided the levies were being paid tardily. Not many people liked my father. Except for me, naturally. I cried awfully when what was left of my father after a blow from a two-handed sword was brought home on a cart one day. Grandpa didn't take part in robbery anymore because, ever since he was hit on the head with a morningstar, he had a terrible stutter. He dribbled and rarely made it to the privy on time. As their heir, I had to lead the gang.

"I was young at the time," Nivellen continued, "a real milksop, so the lads in the crew wound me around their little fingers in a flash. I was as much in command of them as a fat piglet is of a pack of wolves. We soon began doing things which Father would never have allowed, had he been alive. I'll spare you the details and get straight to the point. One day we took ourselves as far as Gelibol, near Mirt, and robbed a temple. A young priestess was there too."

"Which temple, Nivellen?"

"Pox only knows, but it must have been a bad one. There were skulls and bones on the altar, I remember, and a green fire was burning. It stank like nobody's business. But to the point. The lads overpowered the priestess and stripped her, then said I had to become a man. Well, I became a man, stupid little snot that I was, and while I was achieving manhood, the priestess spat into my face and screamed something."

"What?"

"That I was a monster in human skin, that I'd be a monster in a monster's skin, something about love, blood…I can't remember. She must have had the dagger, a little one, hidden in her hair. She killed herself and then—

"We fled from there, Geralt, I'm telling you—we nearly wore our horses out. It was a bad temple."

"Go on."

"Then it was as the priestess had said. A few days later, I woke up and as the servants saw me, they screamed and took to their heels. I went to the mirror…You see, Geralt, I panicked, had some sort of an attack, I remember it almost through a haze. To put it briefly, corpses fell. Several. I used whatever came to hand—and I'd suddenly become very strong. And the house helped as best it could: doors slammed, furniture flew in the air, fires broke out. Whoever could get out ran away in a panic: my aunt and cousin, the lads from the crew. What am I saying? Even the dogs howled and cowered. My cat, Glutton, ran away. Even my aunt's parrot kicked the bucket out of fear. I was alone, roaring, howling, going mad, smashing whatever came to hand, mainly mirrors."

Nivellen paused, sighed and sniffed.

"When the attack was over," he resumed after a while, "it was already too late. I was alone. I couldn't explain to anyone that only my appearance had changed, that although in this horrible shape, I was just a stupid youngster, sobbing over the servants' bodies in an empty manor. I was afraid they'd come back and kill me before I could explain. But nobody returned."

The monster grew silent for a moment and wiped his nose on his sleeve. "I don't want to go back to those first months, Geralt. It still leaves me shaking when I recall them. I'll get to the point. For a long time, a very long time, I sat in the manor, quiet as a mouse, not stirring from the place. If anyone appeared, which rarely happened, I wouldn't go out. I'd tell the house to slam the shutters a couple of times, or I'd roar through the gargoyle, and that was usually enough for the would-be guest to leave in a hurry. So that's how it was, until one day I looked out of the window one pale dawn and—what did I see? Some trespasser stealing a rose from my aunt's bush. And it isn't just any old rosebush: these are blue roses from Nazair. It was Grandfather who brought the seedlings. I flew into a fury and jumped outside.

"The fat trespasser, when he got his voice back—he'd lost it when he saw me—squealed that he only wanted a few flowers for his daughter, that I should spare him, spare his life and his health. I was just ready to kick him out of the main gate when I remembered something. Stories Lenka, my nanny—the old bag—used to tell me. Pox on it, I thought, if pretty girls turn frogs into princes, or the other way round, then maybe… Maybe there's a grain of truth in these stories, a chance…I leapt four yards, roared so loud wild vine tumbled from the wall, and I yelled, 'Your daughter or your life!' Nothing better came to mind. The merchant, for he was a merchant, began to weep, then confessed that his daughter was only eight. Are you laughing?"

"No."

"I didn't know whether to laugh or cry over my shitty fate. I felt sorry for the old trader. I couldn't watch him shake like that. I invited him inside, made him welcome and, when he was leaving, I poured gold and precious stones into his bag. There was still a fair fortune in the cellar from Father's day. I hadn't quite known what to do with it, so I could allow myself this gesture. The merchant beamed and thanked me so profusely that he slobbered all over himself. He must have boasted about his adventure somewhere because not two weeks had gone by when another merchant appeared. He had a pretty large bag ready with him. And a daughter. Also pretty large."

Nivellen extended his legs under the table and stretched until the armchair creaked.

"I came to an understanding with the merchant in no time," he continued. "He'd leave her with me for a year. I had to help him load the sack onto his mule; he wouldn't have managed by himself."

"And the girl?"

"She had fits at the sight of me for a while. She really thought I'd eat her. But after a month we were eating at the same table, chatting and going for long walks. She was kind, and remarkably smart, and I'd get tongue-tied when I talked to her. You see, Geralt, I was always shy with girls, always made a laughing stock of myself, even with wenches from the cowshed with dung up to their knees, girls the lads from the crew turned over this way and that at will. Even they made fun of me. To say nothing of having a maw like this. I couldn't even make myself say anything about why I had paid so dearly for a year of her life. The year dragged like the stench following marauding troops until, at last, the merchant arrived and took her away.

"I locked myself in the house, resigned, and didn't react for several months to any of the guests who turned up with daughters. But after a year spent with company, I realized how hard it was to live without anyone to talk to." The monster made a noise which was supposed to be a sigh but came out more like a hiccup.

"The next one," he said after a while, "was called Fenne. She was small, bright and chirpy, a real gold-crest. She wasn't frightened of me at all. Once, on the anniversary of my first haircut, my coming of age, we'd both drunk too much mead and…ha, ha. Straight after, I jumped out of bed and ran to the mirror. I must admit I was disappointed, and despondent. The trap was the same as it ever was, if with a slightly more stupid expression. And they say the wisdom of ages is to be found in fairy tales. It's not worth a shit, wisdom like that, Geralt.

"Well, Fenne quickly tried to make me forget my worries. She was a jolly girl, I tell you. Do you know what she thought up? We'd both frighten unwanted guests. Imagine: a guest like that enters the courtyard, looks around, and then, with a roar, I charge at him on all fours with Fenne, completely naked, sitting on my back and blowing my grandfather's hunting horn!"

Nivellen shook with laughter, the white of his fangs flashing. "Fenne," he continued, "stayed with me for a year, then returned to her family with a huge dowry. She was preparing to marry a tavern owner, a widower."

"Carry on, Nivellen. This is interesting."

"You think so?" said the monster, scratching himself between the ears with a rasping sound. "All right. The next one, Primula, was the daughter of an impoverished knight. The knight, when he got here, had a skinny horse, a rusty cuirass and incredible debts. He was as hideous as cow dung, I tell you, Geralt, and spread a similar smell. Primula, I'd wager my right hand, was conceived while he was at war, as she was quite pretty. I didn't frighten her either, which isn't surprising, really, as compared to her parent I might have appeared quite comely. She had, as it turned out, quite a temperament and I, having gained some self-confidence, seized the moment by the horns. After two weeks Primula and I already had a very close relationship. She liked to pull me by the ears and shout, 'Bite me to death, you animal!' and 'Tear me apart, you beast!' and other equally idiotic things. I ran to the mirror in the breaks, but just imagine, Geralt, I looked at myself with growing anxiety. Less and less did I long to return to my former shape. You see, Geralt, I used to be a weakling and now I'd become a strapping fellow. I'd keep getting ill, I'd cough, my nose would run, but now I don't catch anything. And my teeth? You wouldn't believe how rotten my teeth had been! And now? I can bite through the leg of a chair. Do you want me to bite a chair leg?"

"No, I don't."

"Maybe that's good." The monster opened his mouth wide. "My showing-off used to amuse the girls and there aren't many whole chairs left in the house." Nivellen yawned, his enormous tongue rolling up into a tube.

"This talking has made me tired, Geralt. Briefly: there were two after Primula, Ilka and Venimira. Everything happened in the same way, to the point of boredom. First, a mixture of fear and reserve, then a thread of sympathy thy reinforced by small but precious gifts, then 'Bite me, eat me up,' Daddy's return, a tender farewell and an increasingly discernible depletion of the treasury. I decided to take longer breaks to be alone. Ofcourse, I'd long ago stopped believing that a virgin's kiss would transform the way I looked. And I'd come to terms with it. And, what's more, I'd come to the conclusion that things were fine as they were and that there wasn't any need for changes."

"Really? No changes, Nivellen?"

"It's true. I have a horse's health, which came with the way I look, for one. Secondly, my being different works on girls like an aphrodisiac. Don't laugh! I'm certain that as a human, I'd have to give a mighty good chase to get at a girl like, for example, Venimira, who was an extremely beautiful maid. I don't suppose she'd have glanced twice at the fellow in the portrait. And thirdly: safety. Father had enemies, and a couple of them had survived. People whom the crew, under my pitiful leadership, had sent to their graves, had relatives. There's gold in the cellar. If it wasn't for the fear inspired by me, somebody would come and get it, if only peasants with pitchforks."

"You seem quite sure," Geralt remarked, playing with an empty chalice, "that you haven't offended anyone in your present shape. No father, no daughter. No relative or daughter's betrothed—"

"Leave off, Geralt." Nivellen was indignant. "What are you talking about? The fathers couldn't contain themselves for joy. I told you, I was incredibly generous. And the daughters? You didn't see them when they got here in their dresses of sackcloth, their little hands raw from washing, their shoulders stooped from carrying buckets. Even after two weeks with me, Primula still had marks on her back and thighs from the strap her knightly father had beaten her with. They walked around like princesses here, carried nothing but a fan and didn't even know where the kitchen was. I dressed them up and covered them with trinkets. At the click of a finger, I'd conjure up hot water in the tin bath Father had plundered for my mother at Assengard. Can you imagine? A tin bath! There's hardly a regent, what am I saying, hardly a lord who's got a tin bath at home. This was a house from a fairy tale for them, Geralt. And as far as bed is concerned, well…Pox on it, virtue is rarer today than a rock dragon. I didn't force any of them, Geralt."

"But you suspected someone had paid me to kill you. Who would have?"

"A scoundrel who wanted the contents of my cellar but didn't have any more daughters," Nivellen said emphatically. "Human greed knows no limits."

"And nobody else?"

"And nobody else."

They both remained silent, gazing at the nervous flicker of the candle flames.

"Nivellen," said the witcher suddenly, "are you alone now?"

"Witcher," answered the monster after a moment's hesitation, "I think that, in principle, I ought to insult you, take you by the neck and throw you down the stairs. Do you know why? Because you treat me like a dimwit. I noticed how you've been cocking your ears and glancing at the door. You know perfectly well that I don't live alone. Am I right?"

"You are. I'm sorry."

"Pox on your apologies. Have you seen her?"

"Yes. In the forest, by the gate. Is she why merchants and daughters have been leaving here empty-handed for some time?"

"So you know about that too? Yes, she's the reason."

"Do you mind if I ask whether—"

"Yes, I do mind." Silence again.

"Oh well, it's up to you," the witcher finally said, getting up. "Thanks for your hospitality, dear host. Time I was on my way."

"Quite right." Nivellen also got up. "For certain reasons, I can't offer you a room in the manor for the night, and I don't encourage you to spend the night in these woods. Ever since the area's been deserted, it's been bad at night here. You ought to get back to the highway before dusk."

"I'll bear that in mind, Nivellen. Are you sure you don't need my help?"

The monster looked at him askance. "You think you could help me? You'd be able to lift this from me?"

"I wasn't only thinking about that sort of help."

"You didn't answer my question. Although…you probably did. You wouldn't be able to."

Geralt looked him straight in the eyes. "You had some bad luck," he said. "Of all the temples in Gelibol and the Nimnar Valley, you picked the Church of Coram Agh Tera, the Lionheaded Spider. In order to lift the curse thrown by the priestess of Coram Agh Tera, you need knowledge and powers which I don't possess."

"And who does?"

"So you are interested after all? You said things were fine as they are."

"As they are, yes. But not as they might be. I'm afraid that —"

"What are you afraid of?"

The monster stopped at the door to the room and turned. "I've had enough of your questions, witcher, which you keep asking instead of answering mine. Obviously, you've got to be asked in the right way. Listen. For some time now I've had hideous dreams. Maybe the word 'monstrous' would be more accurate. Am I right to be afraid? Briefly, please."

"Have you ever had muddy feet after waking from such a dream? Conifer needles in your sheets?"

"No."

"And have—"

"No. Briefly, please."

"You're rightly afraid."

"Can anything be done about it? Briefly, please."

"No."

"Finally. Let's go. I'll see you out."

In the courtyard, as Geralt was adjusting the saddlebags, Nivellen stroked the mare's nostrils and patted her neck. Roach, pleased with the caress, lowered her head.

"Animals like me," boasted the monster. "And I like them, too. My cat, Glutton, ran away at the beginning but she came back later. For a long time, she was the only living creature who kept me company in my misfortune. Vereena, too—" He broke off with a grimace.

Geralt smiled. "Does she like cats too?"

"Birds." Nivellen bared his teeth. "I gave myself away, pox on it. But what's the harm. She isn't another merchant's daughter, Geralt, or another attempt to find a grain of truth in old folk tales. It's serious. We love each other. If you laugh, I'll sock you one."

Geralt didn't laugh. "You know your Vereena," he said, "is probably a rusalka?"

"I suspected as much. Slim. Dark. She rarely speaks, and in a language I don't know. She doesn't eat human food. She disappears into the forest for days on end, then comes back. Is that typical?"

"More or less." The witcher tightened Roach's girth-strap. "No doubt you think she wouldn't return if you were to become human?"

"I'm sure of it. You know how frightened rusalkas are of people. Hardly anybody's seen a rusalka from up close. But Vereena and I…Pox on it! Take care, Geralt."

"Take care, Nivellen." The witcher prodded the mare in the side with his heel and made toward the gate. The monster shuffled along at his side.

"Geralt?"

"Yes."

"I'm not as stupid as you think. You came here following the tracks of one of the merchants who'd been here lately. Has something happened to one of them?"

"Yes."

"The last was here three days ago. With his daughter, not one of the prettiest, by the way. I commanded the house to close all its doors and shutters and give no sign of life. They wandered around the courtyard and left. The girl picked a rose from my aunt's rosebush and pinned it to her dress. Look for them somewhere else. But be careful; this is a horrible area. I told you that the forest isn't the safest of places at night. Ugly things are heard and seen."

"Thanks, Nivellen. I'll remember about you. Who knows, maybe I'll find someone who—" "Maybe yes. And maybe no. It's my problem, Geralt, my life and my punishment. I've learned to put up with it. I've got used to it. If it gets worse, I'll get used to that too. And if it gets far worse, don't look for anybody. Come here yourself and put an end to it. As a witcher. Take care, Geralt."

Nivellen turned and marched briskly toward the manor. He didn't look round again.