'Master!' shouted a sizeable woman sitting on a cart, the sides of which were painted with a sign for 'Vera Loewenhaupt and Sons', and which was full of wickerwork. Her sons, nowhere to be seen, were no doubt busy wasting away their mother's hard-earned fortune. 'Master Dandilion, what is this? Are you going to leave us in suspense? That can't be the end of your ballad? Sing to us of what happened next!'

'Songs and ballads' the musician bowed – 'never end, dear lady, because poetry is eternal and immortal, it knows no beginning, it knows no end-'

'But what happened next?' The tradeswoman didn't give up, generously rattling coins into the bucket Dandilion's apprentice held out to her. 'At least tell us about it, even if you have no wish to sing of it. Your songs mention no names, but we know the witcher you sing of is no other than the famous Geralt of Rivia, and the enchantress for whom he burns with love is the equally famous Yennefer. And the Child Surprise, destined for the witcher and sworn to him from birth, is Cirilla, the unfortunate Princess of Cintra, the town destroyed by the Invaders. Am I right?'

Dandilion smiled, remaining enigmatic and aloof. 'I sing of universal matters, my dear, generous lady,' he stated. 'Of emotions which anyone can experience. Not about specific people.'

'Oh, come on!' yelled a voice from the crowd. 'Everyone knows those songs are about Geralt the Witcher!'

'Yes, yes!' squealed Baron Vilibert's daughters in chorus, drying their sodden scarves. 'Sing on, Master Dandilion! What happened next? Did the witcher and Yennefer the Enchantress find each other in the end? And did they love each other? Were they happy? We want to know!'

'Enough!' roared the dwarf leader with a growl in his throat, shaking his mighty waist-length, red beard. 'It's crap – all these princesses, sorceresses, destiny, love and women's fanciful tales. If you'll pardon the expression, great poet, it's all lies, just a poetic invention to make the story prettier and more touching. But of the deeds of war the massacre and plunder of Cintra, the battles of Marnadal and Sodden – you did sing that mightily, Dandilion! There's no regrets in parting with silver for such a song, a joy to a warrior's heart! And I, Sheldon Skaggs, declare there's not an ounce of lies in what you say – and I can tell the lies from the truth because I was there at Sodden. I stood against the Nilfgaard invaders with an axe in my hand…"

'I, Donimir of Troy,' shouted the thin knight with three lions passant blazoned across his tunic, 'was at both battles of Sodden! But I did not see you there, sir dwarf!'

'No doubt because you were looking after the supply train!' Sheldon Skaggs retorted. 'While I was in the front line where thivings got hot!'

'Mind your tongue, beardy!' said Donimir of Troy flushing, hitching up his sword belt. 'And who you're speaking to!'

'Have a care yourself!' The dwarf whacked his palm against the axe wedged in his belt, turned to his companions and grinned. 'Did you see him there? Frigging knight! See his coat of arms? Ha! Three lions on a shield? Two shitting and the third snarling!'

'Peace, peace!' A grey-haired druid in a white cloak averted trouble with a sharp, authoritative voice. 'This is not fitting, gentlemen! Not here, under Bleobheris' crown, an oak older than all the disputes and quarrels of the world! And not in Poet Dandilion's presence, from whose ballads we ought to learn of love, not contention.'

'Quite so!' a short, fat priest with a face glistening with sweat seconded the druid. 'You look but have no eyes, you listen but have deaf ears. Because divine love is not in you, you are like empty barrels-'

'Speaking of barrels,' squeaked a long-nosed gnome from his cart, painted with a sign for 'Iron hardware, manufacture and sale', 'roll another out, guildsmen! Poet Dandilion's throat is surely dry -and ours too, from all these emotions!'

'-Verily, like empty barrels, I tell ye!' The priest, determined not to be put off, drowned out the ironware gnome. 'You have understood nothing of Master Dandilion's ballad, you have learned nothing! You did not see that these ballads speak of man's fate, that we are no more than toys in the hands of the gods, our lands no more than their playground. The ballads about destiny portrayed the destinies of us all, and the legend of Geralt the Witcher and Princess Cirilla – although it is set against the true background of that war – is, after all, a mere metaphor, the creation of a poet's imagination designed to help us-'

'You're talking rubbish, holy man!' hollered Vera Loewenhaupt from the heights of her cart. 'What legend? What imaginative creation? You may not know him, but I know Geralt of Rivia. I saw him with my own eyes in Wyzima, when he broke the spell on King Foltest's daughter. And I met him again later on the Merchants' Trail, where, at Gildia's request, he slew a ferocious griffin which was preying on the caravans and thus saved the lives of many good people. No. This is no legend or fairy-tale. It is the truth, the sincere truth, which Master Dandilion sang for us.'

'I second that,' said a slender female warrior with her black hair smoothly brushed back and plaited into a thick braid. 'I, Rayla of Lyria, also know Geralt the White Wolf, the famous slayer of monsters. And I've met the enchantress, Lady Yennefer, on several occasions -I used to visit Aedirn and her home town of Vengerberg. I don't know anything about their being in love, though.'

'But it has to be true,' the attractive elf in the ermine toque

suddenly said in a melodious voice. 'Such a beautiful ballad of love could not but be true.'

'It could not!' Baron Vilibert's daughters supported the elf and, as if on command, wiped their eyes on their scarves. 'Not by any measure!'

'Honourable wizard!' Vera Loewenhaupt turned to Radcliffe. 'Were they in love or not? Surely you know what truly happened to them, Yennefer and the witcher. Disclose the secret!'

'If the song says they were in love,' replied the wizard, 'then that's what happened, and their love will endure down the ages. Such is the power of poetry.'

'It is said,' interrupted Baron Vilibert all of a sudden, 'that Yennefer of Vengerberg was killed on Sodden Hill. Several enchantresses were killed there-'

'That's not true,' said Donimir of Troy. 'Her name is not on the monument. I am from those parts and have often climbed Sodden Hill and read the names engraved on the monument. Three enchantresses died there: Triss Merigold, Lytta Neyd, known as Coral… hmm… and the name of the third has slipped my mind…'

The knight glanced at Wizard Radcliffe, who smiled wordlessly.

'And this witcher,' Sheldon Skaggs suddenly called out, 'this Geralt who loved Yennefer, has also bitten the dust, apparently. I heard he was killed somewhere in Transriver. He slew and slew monsters until he met his match. That's how it goes: he who fights with the sword dies by the sword. Everyone comes across someone who will better them eventually, and is made to taste cold hard iron.'

'I don't believe it.' The slender warrior contorted her pale lips, spat vehemently on the ground and crossed her chainmail-clad arms with a crunch. 'I don't believe there is anyone to best Geralt of Rivia. I have seen this witcher handle a sword. His speed is simply inhuman-'

'Well said,' threw in Wizard Radcliffe. 'Inhuman. Witchers are mutated, so their reactions-'

'I don't understand you, magician.' The warrior twisted her lips even more nastily. 'Your words are too learned. I know one thing: no swordsman I have ever seen can match Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf. And so I will not accept that he was defeated in battle as the dwarf claims.'

'Every swordsman's an arse when the enemy's not sparse,' remarked Sheldon Skaggs sententiously. 'As the elves say.'