THE WITCHER - VIII

He saw the whitened walls and beamed ceiling of the small chamber above the guardroom. He moved his head, grimacing with pain, and moaned. His neck was bandaged, thickly, thoroughly, professionally.

"Lie still, witcher," said Velerad. "Lie, do not move."

"My…sword…"

"Yes, yes. Of course, what is most important is your witcher's silver sword. It's here, don't worry. Both the sword and your little trunk. And the three thousand orens. Yes, yes, don't utter a word. It is I who am an old fool and you the wise witcher. Foltest has been repeating it over and over for the last two days."

"Two—"

"Oh yes, two. She slit your neck open quite thoroughly. One could see everything you have inside there. You lost a great deal of blood. Fortunately we hurried to the palace straight after the third crowing of the cock. Nobody slept in Wyzim that night. It was impossible; you made a terrible noise. Does my talking tire you?"

"The prin…cess?"

"The princess is like a princess. Thin. And somewhat dullwitted. She weeps incessantly and wets her bed. But Foltest says this will change. I don't think it'll change for the worse, do you, Geralt?"

The witcher closed his eyes.

"Good. I take my leave now. Rest." Velerad got up. "Geralt? Before I go, tell me: why did you try to bite her to death? Eh? Geralt?"

The witcher was asleep.