"I can't tell you from what," Geralt murmured. He watched Amalthea with eyes that were both hungry and sympathetic, cold and tender. One nature warring against another, though both had always been part of him. Geralt had never seen Amalthea so distressed, so -- he thought in a way that made him feel strange -- human.

"Magic. Magicians. They always want to know, even when they shouldn't. And they always want more, even when they shouldn't. The good ones. The bad ones. The ones just surviving."

You could not trust them. Even the ones that you loved. But Geralt did not say so out loud, not to Amalthea, not tonight. It would have been far, far too cruel and uncharitable toward Yennefer, and she was not there to defend herself.