Of the Raubritters, only Buko appeared unharmed, or hadn’t been beaten up as severely as the others, or withstood pain better. Finally, growing bored of having to stop and wait for his comrades lagging behind, Buko decided to abandon the road and ride through the woods instead. Hidden among the trees they could ride slowly, with no risk that a search party would catch them up.

Katarzyna of Biberstein—formerly Nicolette—did not make the slightest sound during the ride. Although her bound hands and position on Hubert’s saddle must have tormented and distressed her, the girl wasn’t moaning or uttering a word of complaint. She looked ahead apathetically, clearly resigned to her fate. Reynevan made several secretive attempts to communicate, but to no avail—she avoided eye contact and pretended not to notice his gestures. At least up until the crossing.

They crossed the Nysa in the afternoon at a place that appeared shallow, but where the current was much more powerful than expected. Among the confusion, splashing, swearing and neighing of horses, Nicolette slid from the saddle and would have gone in were it not for Reynevan riding vigilantly beside her.

“Be brave,” he whispered into her ear, lifting her up and hugging her to himself. “Be brave, Nicolette. I’ll get you out of this…”

He found her small, slender hand and squeezed it. She reciprocated strongly. She smelled of mint and sweet flag.

“Hey!” yelled Buko. “You! Hagenau! Leave her alone. Hubert!”

Samson rode over to Reynevan, took Nicolette from him, picked her up like a feather and placed her in front of Hubert.

“I’m not carrying her again, m’lord!” Hubert informed Buko. “The giant can take over.”

Buko swore, but waved a resigned hand. Reynevan watched him with growing hatred. He didn’t particularly believe in the man-eating aquatic monsters meant to live in the depths of the Nysa in the region of Bardo, but he would have given much for one of those monsters to emerge from the turbid river and devour the Raubritter and his blood-bay stallion.

“I have to honour you in one respect,” said Scharley, splashing beside him, in hushed tones. “One could never grow bored in your company.”

“Scharley… I owe you…”

“You owe me a great deal, I don’t deny it,” said the penitent, tugging at his reins. “But if you mean to offer an explanation, drop it. I recognised her. You were gawping at her during the tournament in Ziębice, and later she warned us that they would be lying in wait for you at Stolz. I imagine you are indebted to her in other ways, too. Did anyone ever prophesy that women would be the end of you? Or am I the first?”

“Scharley—”