“He will,” Bedřich assured him. “According to rumours, the town apothecary is also an alchemist and a sorcerer. He’ll have all the magical ingredients, you’ll see. Unless they’ve already executed him for witchcraft.”

Prokop the Shaven had ordered Reynevan to begin treating him almost immediately after they met, in the first tar maker’s hut they happened upon in an ash woodland.

The cause of the Hejtman’s torment was rheumatism, myalgia to be precise, rheumatoid arthritis, in this case causing acute and chronic pain in the lumbar region, from which the name “lumbago”—popular among university physicians and sorcerers—derived. The causes of the ailment were only partly understood and traditional treatments usually only brought temporary respite. Magic achieved greater success; magical balsams, even if they weren’t capable of curing it completely, soothed the pain much more quickly and were longer lasting. The most effective at treating lumbago were certain village healers, but those women were afraid to, because they would be burned at the stake for doing so.

Not possessing the magical components for balsams and poultices, Reynevan was limited to laying on hands and spells, aided by the Algos, one of the miniature amulets from the casket rescued by Scharley. It wasn’t much, but it ought to have brought relief. And it did. Feeling the pain weakening and fading away, Prokop groaned in joy.

“You’re a miracle worker, Reinmar. Oooh. It would be good to have you permanently to hand—”

“Hejtman, I cannot stay. I must—”

“I don’t give a damn what you must. I’ve already told you: I need you. And not just for medical reasons. I don’t wish to know anything; I haven’t asked you to explain why you happened to be at Sovinec and what you were doing there. I haven’t asked you about the rumpus with the Náchod Orphans or about Smil Půlpán’s mysterious demise. I haven’t, though perhaps I should. So be quiet. You’ll stay with me and we’re going to Odry. Is that clear?”

“It is.”

“So say nothing more about having to do something else.”

Groaning, he began to put on his shirt. Reynevan looked at his broad back, at his hairless skin, as pink as a child’s.

“Brother Prokop?”

“What?”

“My question may surprise you, but… have you lately received a… wound? From an iron blade? Have you cut yourself with an iron object?”

“Why do you ask? Ah, it must be to do with some sort of witchcraft… Well, I haven’t. I’ve never been wounded in my life, not even scratched. Almost everybody in the Tábor has been wounded or died of their wounds… Mikuláš of Husa, Žižka, Hvězda, Švamberk, Kuneš of Bělovice, Jaroslav of Bukovina… But I—although I’ve fought many a battle—have never been scratched… It’s simply luck.”

“Indeed. Good luck, nothing else.”