“How shall I achieve that? Using what means?”

“The same as usual.” The Inquisition’s envoy smiled. “After all, you are able to influence destiny and events. You are skilled at changing history, directing its course in quite new ways. You proved that not long ago, at the Battle of Stary Wielisław. You rid Silesia of a Piast and the Ziębice duchy of a Piast successor once and for all. Jan of Ziębice had no male heirs, and with his demise the duchy will fall under the direct rule of the Kingdom of Bohemia. Whether history will thank you for that remains to be seen. In a few hundred years. Ride to Strzegom.”

“I shall.”

“And will you ditch your insane searches?”

“Aye.”

“Your investigations?”

“Aye.”

“Do you know what? I don’t fully believe you.”

Before Reynevan could even blink an eye, Łukasz Bożyczko had seized him by the wrist and twisted his arm hard behind him. An open razor flashed in his hand. Reynevan struggled, but the oaken cover was still holding him fast and Bożyczko’s grip was as hard as iron.

“I don’t fully believe you,” he drawled, dragging a copper basin towards himself. “So I’ll let a little blood from you. In order to improve your health and character. Especially your character. I observe that you are governed by humours: by turns melancholy and cholera, and they derive from damp, from black and yellow secretions of bile. Those ill substances gather in the blood. So, I shall draw a little. Well, perhaps more than a little.”

His hand sliced with the razor so fast that Reynevan almost lost sight of the movement. And almost didn’t feel the pain. But he did feel the warmth of the blood dripping down his forearm, hand and fingers. And heard it dripping loudly into the basin.

“Yes, yes, I know,” said Bożyczko, nodding. “It’s an inauspicious time for bloodletting. It’s winter, there’s a new moon, the sun is in Aquarius and it’s Friday, the day of Venus. Bloodletting weakens the body on days like this. But that’s good, too. For I mean to weaken you a little, Reynevan. Remove a little of that energy which propels you in a thoroughly unsuitable direction. Do you feel it? You already grow weaker. And feel cold. The spirit is willing, but the flesh somewhat weak, isn’t it?

“Don’t struggle, don’t fight me. You’ll not be harmed, you’re too valuable to us for me to put your health at risk and cause you needless suffering. Don’t worry, I shall bind your arm when it’s done. And I bind, believe me, better than I shave.”

Reynevan’s teeth were chattering from the growing cold sensation. The bath chamber danced in front of his eyes. Bożyczko’s monotonous voice seemed to be coming from somewhere far away.