Geralt gave the Bull a look of deep sympathy, as much at any rate as his eyes -- viper-like, thin slits in the close firelight -- could convey. He'd been having the dreams too, though not so bad as it seemed it was occurring in others. Maybe that, too, was an attribute of the mutations.

But he was tired, of dreaming about Ciri, dead. Of the Naglfar overhead and the White Frost and destruction.

Something occurred to Geralt.

He leaned closer to Bull, nose nearly in the pit of the man's arm, and inhaled deeply.

"But you're not having any physical manifestations?"