“What will it be?” “Beer,” said the stranger. The outsider, still in his coat, stood stiffly in front of the counter, motionless and silent. The innkeeper raised his head above a barrel of pickled cucumbers and measured the man with his gaze. Not enjoying the best of reputations, it was almost empty. He pulled his horse farther down the street to another tavern, a smaller one, called The Fox. The stranger did not enter the Old Narakort. As usual, at this hour, it was full of people. He stopped in front of the Old Narakort Inn, stood there for a moment, listened to the hubbub of voices. It was hot but the man had a black coat thrown over his shoulders. It was late afternoon and the ropers’, saddlers’ and tanners’ stalls were already closed, the street empty. He came on foot, leading his laden horse by the bridle. Later, it was said the man came from the north, from Ropers Gate. Browse and Read Unlimited Books Free for 30 Days on any device. Read this E-book on Amazon Kindle Unlimited. Rocked, he sank into a sea of chamomile as it grew agitated and seethed. Her eyes, glimpsed when her face came close to his, were huge and dark as the eyes of a water nymph.
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Her skin was cool and surprisingly smooth. She no longer backed away from his hands she threw her head back, shook her hair. He moved, but with pressure from both hands, she forbade him to change position and, with a light but decisive movement of her hips, demanded a response. She was radiant, luminous in the misty brilliance of dawn. He smiled, very slowly, delicately, grasping her by the shoulders, and she straightened, escaping his fingers. Determined, and as if impatient, she leaned over and touched his eyelids, cheeks, lips with the tips of her breasts. Leaning forward on straining arms, she brushed his face with hair which smelled of chamomile. The girl carefully climbed onto the bedclothes, and onto him, wrapping her thighs around him. He observed her through lowered lashes, still not betraying his wakefulness. The girl flitted closer, threw off her mantle and slowly, hesitantly, rested her knee on the edge of the large bed. Yet this faint sound was enough to wake the witcher-or maybe it only tore him from the half-slumber in which he rocked monotonously, as though traveling through fathomless depths, suspended between the seabed and its calm surface amid gently undulating strands of seaweed. She entered very carefully, moving silently, floating through the chamber like a phantom the only sound was that of her mantle brushing her naked skin.
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