“Unhitch them,” agreed Ostrog, “and we’ll repack it all. I have something else to do in the meanwhile.”

He dismounted, took the icon from the wagon and unwrapped it. Pełka gasped. Jan Tłuczymost’s mouth dropped open. Jerzy Skirmunt crossed himself mechanically. Jan Kuropatwa of Łańcuchów shook his head.

“If that’s what I think it is,” he said, “let’s leave it here. Let’s leave it. I wouldn’t want to be caught with that.”

“With or without it, what’s the difference?” said Fedor, throwing the icon onto the grass. “It’s only a painting on a wooden board. It’s worth no more than those trinkets and baubles. Which we aren’t leaving. Herrgott! Help me, one of you!”

Jerzy Skirmunt ostentatiously crossed his arms over his chest. Jakub Nadobny of Rogów and Jan Kuropatwa of the Szreniawa coat of arms did not budge. Only Tłuczymost and the brothers Kondzioł hurried to Ostrog’s aid.

The Madonna of Częstochowa offered no resistance as they prised her out with daggers and stripped the gold leaf from her crown. She didn’t make a sound or shed a tear when the crown was torn from her Son. Her dark face didn’t twitch when the metal leaves were tugged from the sleeves of her gown. Her sad eyes didn’t change their expression and her small, narrow mouth didn’t move when they gouged out the pearls and precious stones.

The wood gave a crack when it was broken, and the canvas creaked as it was torn. The stolen icon snapped under their knives. Into two boards. A larger and a smaller.

Reynevan stood with his arms hanging limp and helpless. Blood was rushing into his face and his eyes were misting over.

In his head he heard the word “Hodegetria.” The one that points the way. The Great Mother, the Panthea-Pan Goddess. Regina-Queen, Genetrix-Parent, Creatrix-Creator, Victrix-Triumpher.

“Enough,” said Ostrog, standing up. “Forget those little trifles, they aren’t worth the trouble. We may go. But first, I just have to do what I was ordered to do.”

Mother Nature, ruler of the elements, Queen and Lady of radiant heights. She whose singular divinity in many manifestations is venerated by the entire world under manifold names and in various rituals.

Prince Fedor Ostrog drew from a scabbard a single-edged dussack with a straight cross guard. He walked over to the stolen icon.

Reynevan blocked his way.

“Find something else to smash,” he said calmly. “You may not touch this.”

Ostrog took a step back and narrowed his eyes.

“You never stop fucking things up, Teuton,” he drawled. “All you do is fuck things up. Your fuck-ups are getting me down; I cannot stand your fuck-ups. Get out of the way or I’ll kill you!”

“Move away from the icon.”