“Tend to him,” said Horn. “At the double, you can see he’s bleeding. And unhand the other, let him stand up unaided. Take away that knife. And in future, guard your weapons better. The knife belongs to one of you. He didn’t have his own.”

“Unhand him?” yelled Reynevan. “What do you mean by that? Horn! Have him bound, dammit! He is a killer!”

“Shut up. Let them bandage your ear, then join us over there, for a word in private. I see we need to have a serious talk.”

The sick man was leaning against a tree trunk, glancing to one side. He was wiping away the blood that was still dripping from his nose. And suppressing a cough. He was sweating, and looked a sorry sight.

“He tried to kill me,” said Reynevan, pointing a finger at the man. “He’s a murderer. He pretended to be sicker than he was and was actually seeking out a chance to kill me. He’s been planning it ever since he found out who I am.”

Urban Horn crossed his arms and didn’t comment.

“But now I know who he is,” Reynevan went on in a calmer voice. “I had my suspicions and now I know. When we were travelling to the exchange, he was indeed ill. I treated him with magic and he was delirious. Adsumus, Domine Sancte Spiritus, adsumus peccati quidem immanitate detenti, sed in nomine tuo specialiter congregati. Adsumus! Does that invocation ring any bells for you?”

“Indeed,” said Horn, his face unmoving. “It’s a common prayer. The invocation to the Holy Spirit. Written by Saint Isidore of Seville.”

“We both know whose summons it is,” said Reynevan without raising his voice. “We both know who that character is. Doubtless you’ve known it for a long time. I just found out. Pity it wasn’t from you, Horn. Your secret almost cost me my life. The bastard nearly cut my throat—”

“What?” said the sick man, overcoming his cough. “What? Was I to wait for him to cut my throat? I had to protect myself! Defend myself! He had begun to suspect me… And would finally have found out the truth. He would have killed me as sure as anything if he found out that—”

“—that you killed his brother,” Urban Horn ended the sentence dryly. “Yes, Reinmar, your suspicions were correct. Let me introduce you. Bruno Schilling. A member of the Company of Death, the Black Riders of Birkart Grellenort. One of the men who killed your brother Peterlin.”

Reynevan didn’t sleep a wink until dawn. At first, the excitement and adrenaline, anger and the pain of his injured ear prevented him from falling asleep. Then came memories. And apparitions. The Cistercian Forest, the breakneck cavalcade, the Black Horsemen screaming Adsumus! The knight from Grochowa Mountain: wild-eyed, deathly-blue-faced, wailing like a demon… The chase through the forest at Trosky at night…