—Rise, Gwynbleidd.
—Greetings, Eithné, Lady of Brokilon.
—I have the pleasure of receiving you in my Forest once again. —The dryad's voice was heavy but sharp—. In any case, you are here unannounced and without my consent. Entering Brokilon without my knowledge and without my consent is dangerous, White Wolf. Even for you.
—I come with a message.
—Ah... —Eithné smiled slightly—. Hence your boldness. But Geralt, the intangibility of messengers is a human custom. I do not accept it. I recognize nothing that is human. This is Brokilon.
—Eithné...
—Silence —she cut him off without raising her voice, and the silence that followed was heavier than any shout—. I have ordered that you be respected. You will leave Brokilon alive. Not because you are a messenger. For other reasons.
Geralt pressed his lips together.
—Aren't you interested in knowing what the message is? Where I come from, in whose name?
—To be honest, no. This is Brokilon. You come from outside, from a world that does not concern me. Why would I waste time listening to a message? What can certain proposals mean to me, or some ultimatum conceived by someone who thinks and feels differently than I do? What do I care what King Venzlav thinks?
Geralt shook his head in amazement.
—How do you know I come on Venzlav's behalf?
—It's quite clear —the dryad smiled—. Ekkehard is too stupid. Ervyll and Viraxas hate me too much. And Brokilon shares no border with other domains.
—You know a lot about what happens outside Brokilon, Eithné.
—I know many things, White Wolf. It's the privilege of my age. —She paused and turned toward the branch bed—. Now, if you'll allow me, I would like to settle a certain matter. Is this bear-like man a friend of yours?
The dryad stopped smiling and fixed her silver eyes on Zywiecki, who seemed to shrink even further under her gaze.
—I know him —Geralt replied—. I once broke a spell on him.
—The problem is that I don't know what to do with him —Eithné said coldly—. I can't have him finished off now. I could allow him to recover, but he is a threat. He doesn't seem like a fanatic, so he must be a bounty hunter. I know Ervyll pays for every dryad scalp. I don't remember how much. After all, the price rises at the same rate as the value of money falls.
—You're wrong. He's not a bounty hunter.
—Then why did he enter Brokilon?
—He was looking for the girl who was entrusted to his care. He risked his life to find her.
—Very foolish —Eithné stated impassively—. He walked toward certain death. That he remains alive is due only to his health and endurance. And as for the girl, she was also saved by chance. My girls didn't shoot because they thought she was a puck or a leprechaun.
She looked at Zywiecki again.
—Very well, agreed. Let's get what we can out of all this.
She approached the branch bed. The two dryads escorting her also drew near. Zywiecki paled and shrank even more.
Eithné looked at him for a moment, slightly narrowing her eyes.
—Do you have children?
—What?
—I believe I spoke clearly enough.
—I'm not... —Zywiecki coughed—. I'm not married.
—I'm not interested in your family life. I'm interested in knowing if you're capable of getting anything out of those fat loins of yours. By the Great Tree! Have you never gotten a woman pregnant?
—Eeeh... Yes... Yes, my lady, but...
Eithné waved her hand carelessly and turned to Geralt.
—He will stay in Brokilon until he has fully recovered, and a while longer. After that... let him go wherever he wants.
—Thank you, Eithné. —The witcher bowed—. And... the girl? What about her?
—Why do you ask? —the dryad looked at him with her cold silver eyes that revealed nothing—. If you already know the answer.
—She's not an ordinary child, a village girl. She's a princess.
—That doesn't impress me. Nor does it change anything.
—Listen...
—Not another word, Gwynbleidd.
Geralt fell silent. He bit his lips and felt the metallic taste of blood slide down his tongue.
—And what about my message?
—I will hear it —the dryad sighed—. Not out of curiosity. I will do it for you, so that you can tell Venzlav and collect your pay. But not now. I am busy now. Come to my Tree at night.
When the dryads left, Zywiecki propped himself up on his elbows. He gasped, coughed, and spat into his hand with a grimace of disgust.
—What is all this about, Geralt? Why do I have to stay here? And what was that about children? What have you gotten me into, huh?
The witcher sat down on the mossy bed, leaning his back against the wall of woven branches.
—You're going to save your skin, Zywiecki —he said in a tired voice—. You'll become one of the few who have managed to get out of here alive, at least in recent times. And you'll become the father of a little dryad. Maybe more.
—That I...? —the baron's jaw dropped—. Are you telling me I have to be a stud?
—Call it what you like. You have no other choice.
—I understand —Zywiecki murmured, and a lecherous smile curved his lips—. Well, I've seen captives working in mines and digging canals. I prefer this, without a doubt... I hope my strength holds out. There are many here...
—Stop laughing like an idiot —Geralt snapped— and stop building castles in the air. No tributes await you, no music, no wine, no swarm of dryads fawning over you. There will be one, maybe two. And there will be no adoration whatsoever. They will treat the whole matter very practically. And you even more so.
—They don't like it? But surely they don't dislike it either.
—Don't be a child. In that sense, they are no different from women. At least physically.
—So...
—It depends on you whether they dislike it or not. But that doesn't change the fact that they only care about the result. Your person is secondary. Don't expect gratitude. Oh, and under no circumstances try anything on your own.
—On my own how?
—If you meet her in the morning, bow, but for all the devils' sake, no smirks or winks. For the dryads, this is a serious matter. If she smiles at you or approaches you, you may speak to her. Best to talk about trees. If you don't know anything about trees, talk about the weather. But if she ignores you, stay away. And stay away from other dryads and watch your hands. For a dryad who is not prepared, these things do not exist. If you touch her, she will stab you with a knife, because she will not understand your intentions.
—Wow, you know a lot about their customs —Zywiecki smiled—. Did you already have a chance to try this?
The witcher did not answer.
Before his eyes appeared the image of a beautiful, slender dryad.
Why did you bring us here, Braenn? What use are we to her? There's nothing to be done with a witcher...
—Geralt?
—What?
—And Princess Cirilla?
—Forget about her —the witcher said, his voice suddenly turning rough—. She will become a dryad. In two or three years, she'll be able to put an arrow through her own brother's eye if he tries to set foot in Brokilon.
—Her fucking mother —Zywiecki cursed, frowning—. Ervyll will be furious. Geralt, couldn't we...?
—No —the witcher cut him off—. Don't even try. You wouldn't leave Duén Canell alive.
Zywiecki dropped back onto the bed with a grunt.
—So the girl is lost.
—For you, yes.