Back in the world of The Witcher, Geralt's group, guided by Braenn, arrived at the heart of the Brokilon forest.
Around them stretched a hollow enclosed by the crowns of ancient trees, whose branches intertwined at such a height that sunlight only filtered through in oblique, golden beams, strained through layers upon layers of green leaves. The mist crept lazily among the roots, mingling with the warm vapors emanating from hot springs hidden among the rocks. The entire place was steeped in a magic so dense that it could be felt on the skin as a constant tingling.
This place was Duén Canell. The heart of Brokilon.
The dryads' houses covered the trunks and branches of the trees at various heights. They were structures that resembled enormous balls of mistletoe, woven from living branches that continued to sprout and turn green, as if the trees themselves had given birth to them. Some hung low, almost at ground level, accessible with just a raised hand. Others perched halfway up, with rope ladders and vines hanging from their entrances. And a few, the highest ones, were lost near the crowns, tiny against the green canopy.
This was how the dryads lived. This was how they built their homes. No dryad, anywhere in the world, would harm a tree by cutting or sawing it. They loved trees. But they were able to make branches grow at will, shaping them with magic to take the form of suspended dwellings.
Geralt sat beside a mossy bed where Zywiecki lay. The baron's chest was wrapped in strands and strips of birch bark, and although his face was still pale, his eyes had regained some brightness. Ciri, curled up in a corner, watched them in silence with her huge green eyes.
—Where were we? —Zywiecki said, scratching his beard with a grimace of annoyance—. Ah, yes, how you removed the spell from me in Hamm. If it weren't for you, Geralt, I would have remained a cormorant for the rest of my life, flying over the lagoon and shitting on the branches. Consoling my sorrows with the hope that my little sister's nettle shirt would save me. The fool, when I remember that shirt...
—Don't talk like that —Geralt said, with a faint smile—. Her intentions were good. She was just given wrong information, that's all. There are plenty of nonsensical myths about how to remove spells.
Geralt leaned back against the wall of woven branches and continued.
—And you were still lucky, Zywiecki. They could have ordered you to be dipped in boiling milk. I've heard of such a case. However you look at it, wearing a nettle shirt does little harm to your health, even if it doesn't do much good either.
—Ha, maybe that's true. Maybe I expect too much from her. Elisa was stupid, she was stupid and beautiful from childhood. In fact, good material for a king's wife.
Zywiecki sighed with an ironic smile.
—I was lucky you showed up in Hamm back then. And that the king, my father-in-law, was willing to cough up the few coins you asked for to remove the spell.
—You know, Zywiecki? —Geralt said, his smile widening—. The story of what happened to you has spread far and wide.
—The true story?
—Not much. First, they added ten brothers to you.
—Well, well! —the baron propped himself up on his elbows and let out a cough still rough from the wound—. Counting Elisa, would we be twelve? What nonsense! My mother wasn't a rabbit!
—That's not all. They also decided that a cormorant was not romantic enough.
—Well, it's true! There's nothing romantic about it!
Zywiecki furrowed his brow and massaged his bandaged chest.
—What had they turned me into, according to the stories?
—A swan. Well, swans in plural. Don't forget there were eleven of you.
—And in what hell is a swan more romantic than a cormorant?
—I have no idea —Geralt admitted.
—Neither do I. But I bet that in the tale, it was Elisa who broke the spell with the help of her disgusting little nettle shirt.
—You guessed right. And how is Elisa doing?
—She has consumption, poor thing. She won't last long.
—That's a pity.
—A pity —Zywiecki confirmed, and looked away.
—Back to the enchantment —Geralt said, adjusting his posture against the branch wall—. Haven't you had any relapses? No feathers growing?
—Praise the gods, no —the baron sighed—. Everything is in place. The only thing I have left from that stage of my life is a taste for fish. There is no better food for me than fish.
—He was a cormorant! —Ciri exclaimed, her eyes wide, turning to Geralt—. And you broke the spell! You know magic!
—Of course he does —Zywiecki interjected, adjusting his bandages with a grimace—. All witchers do.
—Witcher?
—Didn't you know he's a witcher? The famous Geralt of Rivia?
Zywiecki snorted.
—Of course, how would a child know what a witcher is. These times are not like the old days. There are few left now, you hardly ever come across them. I'm sure you've never seen one in your entire life.
Ciri slowly shook her head, never taking her eyes off Geralt.
—A witcher, child, is something like...
Zywiecki stopped abruptly. His face, still pale from the wound, turned completely white as he saw Braenn enter the hut.
—No, I don't want to! —he shouted, half-rising—. I won't let anyone put anything down my throat again, ever! Geralt, tell her...!
—Calm down.
Braenn gave Zywiecki no more than a passing glance, indifferent, as if the baron were just another piece of furniture in the room. She walked straight over to Ciri, who was still crouching beside the witcher.
—Come —she said—. Come, little one.
—Where? —Ciri immediately grew angry, her brow furrowed and fists clenched—. I'm not going. I want to stay with Geralt!
—Go —the witcher's smile was forced, but he managed to keep it—. Go play with Braenn and the young dryads for a while. She'll show you Duén Canell.
—She didn't blindfold me —Ciri said very slowly, and her voice had lost all anger, becoming strangely calm—. When we came, she didn't blindfold me. She blindfolded you. So you wouldn't be able to find your way back when you left. That means...
Geralt looked at Braenn. The dryad shrugged and put an arm around the girl, pulling her against her side.
—That means... —Ciri's voice suddenly broke—. That means I'm not leaving here, am I?
—No one escapes their destiny.
Everyone turned their heads in unison.
Braenn bowed. Geralt also bent one knee.
—Lady Eithné...
The Lady of Brokilon wore a long, flowing cloak of light green, the color of young leaves in spring. Like most dryads, she was small and slender, but she held her head high with pride, her sharp, serious features and firm mouth making her seem taller and more imposing than anyone present. Her hair and eyes had the color of silver, and they gave off a metallic gleam that sparkled even in the dimness of the place.
She entered flanked by two young dryads armed with bows. Without a word, she made a gesture to Braenn, who immediately took Ciri's hand and pulled her toward the exit, her head bowed. Ciri walked with stiff, clumsy steps, pale and silenced. As they passed by Eithné, the silver-haired dryad grabbed her chin with a quick motion and lifted her head to look her in the eyes.
Geralt saw Ciri tremble.
—Go —Eithné said at last—. Go, child. Do not be afraid of anything. Nothing can change your destiny now. You are in Brokilon.
Ciri obediently walked off after Braenn. At the exit, she turned one last time. The witcher could see her mouth trembling and her huge green eyes filling with tears, but she said not a word.
Geralt remained kneeling, his head bowed.