Blažena Pospíchalová’s behaviour also stung—but this time it was his male pride that suffered. The widow devoted her complete and undivided attention to Scharley. Although she did it with restraint and without exaggerated coquetry, the erotism between her and the penitent crackled. Reynevan, meanwhile, although sparks had flown between him and the widow in times past, didn’t even earn any meaningful glances. He loved Jutta, naturally, and Mistress Blažena wasn’t on his mind at all. But it stung. As though a hedgehog were nesting in his bosom.

At night, when he tried to fall asleep on the rustling palliasse, profounder reflections visited him.

And after reflections—decisions.

It was still quite dark when he saddled his horse and led it out of the stable, so quietly and secretly that even the dogs didn’t bark. The dawn was barely breaking when he set off. It was only just light by the time his horseshoes were thudding on the hard road.

They’ve found what they wanted to find, he thought, looking back at the village of Rapotín. Both of them. Samson Honeypot has something serious. He has Marketa, his Calypso and his island of Ogygia, there in that little village. Scharley has Blažena Pospíchalová; and it doesn’t matter if he stays with her or travels on to his imagined Constantinople, to the Hippodrome, Hagia Sophia and fried octopus in the tavern by the Golden Horn. It doesn’t matter if he ever makes it there. It doesn’t matter what happens to Samson and Marketa in the future. But it would be pointless to make them give it up, drop everything, make them head off into the world, into the unknown, in order to risk their lives for someone else’s cause. On my behalf.

Farewell, my friends.

I also have something important; something I won’t give up on. I’m heading off.

Alone.

Reynevan’s plan was simple: to travel to the Mezilesí pass via the Morava valley and the foot of Sněžník, and the important trade route from Hungary that led straight into the Kłodzko valley. According to his calculations he was no more than five or six miles from the pass. True, there was another variant: along the Branná valley and through the pass to Lądek, and from there along the Salt Road to Krutvald, Nysa and Ziębice. Reynevan, however, feared the second variant, for even though it led him straight to his destination, the route ran through the mountains and the weather was still fickle.