Three oak trees stood at the center of Duén Canell, so close together that their trunks had fused into a single embrace of wood and moss.
The trunks were hollow inside, and the void they left had the proportions of a spacious room, with a high, conical ceiling. The interior was lit by an oil lamp that burned without smoke, hanging from an inner branch. The floor was covered with a mat woven from plant fibers, and the walls of living wood gave off a scent of sap and time. It was a modest place, but comfortable. Not primitive at all.
Eithné was kneeling at the center, upon the mat. Before her, Ciri remained motionless, sitting on her folded legs. She was clean, the cold she had been carrying since entering the forest had vanished, and her huge emerald-green eyes stared ahead, wide open.
Eithné combed her long ashen hair with slow, careful movements, running the wooden comb through it again and again.
—Enter, Gwynbleidd. Sit down.
Geralt entered and knelt, obeying the order.
—Have you rested? —the dryad asked without looking at him, still combing the girl's hair—. When can you set out on your return journey? What about early tomorrow morning?
—Whenever you command —Geralt replied in a neutral tone—, Lady of Brokilon. A single word from you will suffice for me to stop bothering you with my presence in Duén Canell.
—Geralt.
Eithné slowly turned her head. Her silver eyes settled on the witcher with an expression that was not hostile, but neither was it warm.
—Don't misunderstand me. I know you and I appreciate you. I know you have never harmed a dryad, nor a rusalka, nor a sylph, nor a nymph. On the contrary, there have been times when you came to their defense, when you saved lives. But that changes nothing. Too many things separate us. We belong to different worlds. I do not wish to and cannot make exceptions. For anyone. I won't ask if you understand, because I know you do. I ask if you accept it.
—And what difference does that make?
—None. But I want to know.
—I accept it —Geralt said, his voice firm—. But what about her? About Ciri. She also belongs to another world.
Ciri looked at him, frightened, and then raised her eyes to the dryad, seeking an answer.
Eithné smiled.
—Not for much longer —she said.
—Eithné, please. Think about it.
—Think about what?
—Let her go. Let her come with me. To the world she belongs to.
—No, White Wolf.
The dryad passed the comb through the girl's ashen hair again with a gentleness that contrasted with the firmness of her words.
—I will not give her back to you. You of all people should understand.
—Me?
—You. Even as far as Brokilon, news from the outside world reaches us. News about your traditions, witcher, that for services rendered, you occasionally make strange oaths. "Give me what you do not expect to find in your home." "Give me that which you already have and do not yet know." Does that ring a bell? That is why you have been trying to control fate for some time, seeking boys marked by fortune to become your successors, to defend yourselves from extinction and oblivion. From nothingness. So why are you surprised by what I do? I worry about the future of the dryads. I think it's only fair, isn't it? For every dryad killed by humans, one human girl.
—If you keep her, you awaken enmity and a desire for vengeance, Eithné. You awaken a hatred that will burn for years.
—The hatred of humans is nothing new to me. No, Geralt. I will not give her back to you. Besides, she is healthy. That hasn't been very common lately.
The dryad fixed her large silver eyes on him.
—They send me sick girls. Diphtheria, scarlet fever, typhus, lately even smallpox. They think we are not immune, that the epidemic will destroy us or at least decimate us. But they are too naive, Geralt. We have more than immunity. Brokilon takes care of its children.
Eithné leaned over Ciri and carefully combed a tangled lock, using her other hand to keep from pulling her scalp.
—Then there is nothing I can do to change your mind? —Geralt asked in a low voice.
—Nothing.
The witcher sighed in frustration.
—Can I at least deliver the message with which King Venzlav sent me here?
—Isn't it a waste of time? —Eithné raised her head—. Why would you bother? I already know perfectly well what King Venzlav wants. There's no need for the gift of prophecy for that. He wants me to cede Brokilon, surely as far as the Vda River, which he considers—or would like to consider—the natural border between Brugge and Verden. In exchange, I imagine he offers me an enclave, a small, wild corner of the forest. And he surely guarantees with royal word and royal protection that this small, wild corner, this patch of forest, will be mine forever and ever, and that no one will dare to disturb the dryads there. That the dryads will be able to live there in peace. Am I wrong, Geralt?
The witcher slowly shook his head.
—Venzlav wants to end a war over Brokilon that has already lasted two centuries. And to end it, we would have to give up precisely that for which we have been dying for two hundred years? Simply… cede it? Cede Brokilon?
Geralt fell silent. He had nothing to add.
The dryad smiled.
—Was that the king's proposal, Gwynbleidd? Or perhaps it was more sincere? Something like: "Don't be proud, ghost of the forest, beast of the wilderness, relic of the past, and listen to what I, King Venzlav, want. I want cedar, oak, and hickory. I want mahogany and golden birch. I want yew for bows and pine for masts. Because I have Brokilon right next door, you know, and yet I have to bring timber from beyond the mountains. I want the iron and copper that lie underground. I want the gold of Craag An. I want to fell and saw, and dig into the earth without having to hear the whistle of an arrow. And most importantly: I want to finally be a king to whom everything in his kingdom is subordinate. I do not want a Brokilon in my kingdom, a forest where I cannot enter. That forest bothers me, makes me nervous, and keeps me from sleeping soundly, because I am human, I rule the world. I can, if I wish, tolerate a few elves, dryads, or rusalkas. As long as they don't get too cheeky. Submit to my will, Sorceress of Brokilon. Or die."
—Eithné, you yourself have said that Venzlav is neither stupid nor a fanatic. You know full well that he is a just king and that he prefers peace. The blood that has been shed here pains and mortifies him...
—If he stays away from Brokilon, not a single drop of blood will be shed.
—You know perfectly well —Geralt raised his head— that is not the case. People were killed in the Desmontes, at the Eighth Mile, in the Owl Mountains. People were killed in Brugge, on the right bank of the Cintas River. Outside Brokilon.
—The places you mention —the dryad replied serenely— are part of Brokilon. I do not recognize human maps or their borders.
—But the forest was cut down there a hundred years ago!
—What are a hundred years to Brokilon? —the silver eyes looked at him without blinking—. And a hundred winters?
Geralt fell silent.
The dryad set the comb aside and stroked Ciri's ashen hair with a tenderness that contrasted with the coldness of her voice.
—Accept Venzlav's proposal, Eithné.
She looked at him coldly.
—What would that give us? To us, the daughters of Brokilon.
—The possibility of continuing to exist. No, Eithné, don't interrupt me. I know what you're going to say. I understand that you are proud of Brokilon's independence. But the world is changing. Something is coming to an end. Whether you like it or not, human dominion over the world is a fact. Those who adapt to them will survive. The rest will disappear. Eithné, there are forests where dryads, rusalkas, and elves live in peace, adapting to humans. We are very close. But humans can be the fathers of your children! What does the war you are waging give you? The potential fathers of your children fall to your arrows. And what is the result? How many dryads of Brokilon are of pure blood? How many are not abducted and transformed human girls? You even have to resort to Zywiecki, because you have no other choice. I see very few small dryads around here. I only see her, a human child, scared and drugged with narcotics, paralyzed by fear...
—I am not afraid! —Ciri suddenly shouted, recovering for an instant her usual impish demeanor—. And I am not drugged! What do you think! Nothing is going to happen to me here! I am not afraid! My grandmother says the dryads are not bad, and my grandmother is the cleverest in the world! My grandmother... My grandmother says there should be more forests like this...