Oh, how Duke Bolko’s cold words had hurt, how they had stung his heart! There was nothing for him in Ziębice! God’s wounds! Those words, perhaps because they were so brutally frank, so true, had hurt more than Adèle’s cold and indifferent gaze, more than her cruel voice when she set the knights on him, more than the blows that fell on him because of her, more even than prison. There was nothing for him in Ziębice!

I have nothing anywhere, he thought, staring into the tangle of roots and branches. Instead of running away, wouldn’t it be better to return to Ziębice and find a way to meet my faithless lover face-to-face? To toss bitter reproach and cold contempt at her in person, and see the unworthy Adèle grow pale and confused, see her wring her hands, lower her gaze, see her mouth quiver. Yes, yes, let whatever will be, be, if only to see her shamed by the dishonour of her own betrayal…

Like hell, said his good sense. Reproach? Conscience? You ass! She would burst out laughing, order you beaten again and thrown into the tower. And then she would take Duke Jan to her bedchamber and fuck him so hard the very walls would shake. And there would be neither remorse nor regret. There would be laughter, because deriding that naive fool, Reinmar of Bielawa, would only spice up and inflame their erotic sport.

Good sense, Reynevan noted utterly without being surprised, was speaking with Scharley’s voice.

Heinrich Hackeborn’s horse neighed and shook its head. Scharley, thought Reynevan, patting its neck, Scharley and Samson remained in Ziębice. Or perhaps they set off for Hungary right after my arrest, pleased to have got rid of the problem at last? Scharley recently called friendship “a great and beautiful thing.” But his words had sounded more genuine and sincere and less mocking on previous occasions when he declared that the only things that mattered to him were his own comfort, his own good and happiness, and the rest could go to hell. He said that, and, all in all…

All in all, I’m less and less surprised at him.

Hackeborn’s castellan neighed again. And something neighed back.

Reynevan jerked his head up just in time to see a rider at the edge of the forest.

An Amazon.

Nicolette, he thought in amazement, Fair Nicolette! A grey mare, a fair plait, a grey mantle. It’s her, without a doubt!