“I was imprisoned in a dungeon,” replied Reynevan, quietly and calmly, “losing hope that I would ever get out. Tormented by the thought that my life lacked purpose. I was locked up for a long time, in the darkness, going as blind as a bat. Dulce lumen, I repeated the words of Ecclesiastes to myself. And finally, it dawned on me, I finally understood. I realised it is a matter of choice. It’s either light, or darkness. I had no choice in prison; now I do. My choice is light, lux perpetua. I’m going to Bohemia. For I think that not everything has been lost there. And even if it has, it can’t just be surrendered without a fight. If I want to give my life purpose, I will, by going into battle. For ideals, for Regnum Dei, for hope. But if Regnum Dei must die, if hope must fail, then I may as well die and fail, too. If it is all going to stay only on frescos, then they may as well paint me on those frescos, too.”

Scharley took a step back.

“Perhaps you expected me to dissuade you from that idea; beg and plead. Not a bit of it. I won’t. To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under Heaven, as your favourite Ecclesiastes says. A time to receive, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away; a time to rend, and a time to sew. Destiny, Reinmar, sewed us together for a good few years, tossed us into the cauldron of history for a while and gave that cauldron a damn good stir. It’s time to unpick those stitches. Before Regnum Dei arises, I want to put things in order here and now, for patria mea totus hic mundus est. I won’t stand shoulder to shoulder with you in the last battle, because I don’t like last battles and can’t bear losing battles. I hate the idea of dying and fading away. I absolutely don’t wish to appear on a fresco. I absolutely don’t wish to appear on a list of the fallen in the decisive battle between the forces of Light against the powers of Darkness. So the time must come to say farewell.”

“It has. So let’s not drag it out. Farewell, Scharley.”

“Farewell, Reinmar. Let’s shake on it, comrade.”

“Let’s, old friend.”

From outside resounded the clank of weapons and the metallic rattle of horseshoes on the stone courtyard. The garrison of Niemcza was preparing for a foray or a raid. Bedřich of Strážnice closed the window and went back to the table.

“I’m pleased to see you,” he said. “Alive, at liberty and healthy. For word had it that—”