“They say some kinsmen have come to Wrocław. Relatives of the men that were killed. Of Lord Bart of Karczyn. Of Lord Czambor of Heissenstein… For people are saying that Lord Grellenort is… is guilty of those murders…”

The bishop said nothing and played with his pen.

“Your Eminence,” said the spy, breaking the silence, “I think—”

“What do you think?”

“That we ought to warn Lord Grellenort. But Your Eminence certainly knows best what to do…”

The bishop said nothing, playing with his pen and biting his lips.

“You’re right,” he finally replied. “I do.”

The bells of Saint James’s had finished tolling the Compline some time before and now the monks could be heard intoning in chorus Salve regina. At any moment, the later bell would sound the pulsus serotinus; at any moment one could also expect the tolling of the ignitegium.

The candles in the chamber had been put out, but a faint light came from the fireplace where the logs were burning down. The red glow gave an unearthly charm to the smooth skin and slender body of Douce of Pack, lying beside him among the ruffled bedclothes. The Wallcreeper was resting on one elbow, looking at the girl, at her widely open eyes fixed on him. He recalled other fires, other eyes, other naked bodies, other violent sex heightened by pain. At sabbaths and orgies in the mountains of Harz, in the forest clearings of Pomerania, in the caves of Alpujarras and in the wildernesses of the Estremadura. When the earth trembled from the thudding of drums and when bats and owls flitted in the night air punctuated by the trilling of pipes.

A skull-like moon shone through the window.

He had needlessly begun a liaison with her. He had lured her, drawn her to him. That was a mistake. A mistake that would have to be put right.

Douce of Pack sighed and raised herself up. The Wallcreeper instinctively looked at her neck and quickly envisioned how to seize and twist it.

Two movements would suffice, he thought, and that gleam in her eyes would die…

Son, he suddenly heard in his head. He sat up in bed.

Son, said Kundrie, come at once. I must show you something, something that is linked to the maiden you seek. I am waiting. Come.

Like hell, he thought. She’s simply run out of aurum potabile. Ah well, I’ll have to go. She’s my mother, like it or not.

“Is something the matter?” asked Douce, sitting up and brushing her hair from her forehead. The fire from the hearth flickered on her small breasts. It flashed on her wide-open eyes. “What’s the matter? Are you going?”

“Yes. I’ll be back late.”

“Are you leaving me alone?”

“Yes, but not right this moment.”