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Blood splashed on to her face. She howled, striking him in the eyes with her other hand. He fell on her, grabbing her by the wrists, nailing her to the floor. She gnashed her teeth — which were now too short - in front of his face. He butted her in the face with his forehead and pinned her down harder. She had lost her former strength; she could only writhe beneath him, howling, spitting out blood -
    his blood - which was pouring over her mouth. His blood was draining away quickly. There was no time. The witcher cursed and bit her hard on the neck, just below the ear. He dug his teeth in and clenched them until her inhuman howling became a thin, despairing scream and then a choking sob - the cry of a hurt fourteen-year-old girl.
    He let her go when she stopped moving, got to his knees, tore a piece of canvas from his sleeve pocket and pressed it to his neck. He felt for his sword, held the blade to the unconscious girl's throat, and leant over her hand. The nails were dirty, broken, bloodied but .
    . . normal. Completely normal.
    The witcher got up with difficulty. The sticky-wet greyness of early morning was flooding in through the crypt's entrance. He made a move towards the stairs but staggered and sat down heavily on the floor. Blood was pouring through the drenched canvas onto his hands, running down his sleeve. He unfastened his tunic, slit his shirt, tore and ripped rags from it and tied them around his neck, knowing that he didn't have much time, that he would soon faint . . .
    He succeeded. And fainted.
    In Wyzim, beyond the lake, a cock, ruffling his feathers in the cold damp, crowed hoarsely for the third time.
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 dull-witted. 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.
THE VOICE OF REASON 2
I
    'Geralt.'
    He raised his head, torn from sleep. The sun was already high and forced blinding golden rays through the shutters, penetrating the chamber with tentacles of light. The witcher shaded his eyes with his hand in an unnecessary, instinctive reflex which he had never managed to shake off - all he needed to do, after all, was narrow his pupils into vertical slits.
    'It's late,' said Nenneke, opening the shutters. 'You've slept in. Off with you, Iola.'
    The girl sat up suddenly and leant out of bed to take her mantle from the floor. Geralt felt a trickle of cool saliva on his shoulder, where her lips had been a moment ago.
    'Wait . ..' he said hesitantly. She looked at him, quickly turned away.
    She had changed. There was nothing of the water nymph in her any more, nothing of the luminous, chamomile-scented apparition she had been at dawn. Her eyes were blue, not black.
    And she had freckles - on her nose, her neckline, her shoulders. They