The Sword of Destiny

‘We’ve met, that’s too bad,’ she said softly. ‘But we shall not make a spectacle of ourselves for everybody. We shall save face. We’ll pretend to be good friends. But don’t be mistaken, Geralt. There is nothing between us now. Nothing, understood? And be glad of it, because it means I have now abandoned the plans which, until recently I still harboured regarding you. But that in no way means I’ve forgiven you. I shall never forgive you, Witcher. Never.’

‘Are you certain about that? Just remember there are limits to what is possible, Boholt.’

‘Perhaps there are, but I’ve never come across them. No, m’lady. I repeat, we’ll kill the dragon ourselves, without any spells.’

‘Particularly,’ Yarpen Zigrin added, ‘since spells surely have their own limits, which, unlike our own, we don’t know.’

For a very natural limit of possibilities prevents it.’

‘What limit is that?’

‘Mutants,’ the muscles in Geralt’s jaw twitched violently, ‘mutants are sterile, Borch. Only in fables survives what cannot survive in nature. Only myths and fables do not know the limits of possibility.’