Tall and well proportioned, her physique emanated authority, intuition and power. Her high forehead was decorated by a silver sickle, a blazing, horned crescent, and a gold ankh—crux ansata—hung around her neck. The line of her mouth spoke of determination, while her straight nose brought to mind Hera or Persephone from a Greek vase. Her serpentine cascades of jet-black hair tumbled down in splendid disarray, flowing over her shoulders to merge with the black of her cloak. Her gown, visible under her cloak, glistened in the light of the fire, shimmering in many shades: now white, now copper, now crimson.

There was wisdom, night and death in the Domina’s eyes.

She recognised them at once.

“Toledo,” she said, and her voice was like the wind coming down from the mountains. “Toledo and his noble-born joioza. Is it your first time among us? Welcome.”

“Our greetings,” said Reynevan, bowing.

Nicolette curtsied. “Our greetings, Domna.”

“Do you have a request for me? Do you seek an intercession?”

“They want only to pay their respects,” the red-haired witch said behind them. “To you, Domna, and the Great Triad.”

“I demur. Go in peace. Celebrate Mabon. Praise the name of the Mother of All.”

“Magna Mater! Praise her!” repeated the bearded man beside the Domina.

“Praise her!” chorused the three witches standing behind him, raising their brooms and gold crescents. “Eia!”

Fire shot upwards. The cauldron belched steam.

This time, as they descended to the hollow between the peaks, Jagna refused to be held back and immediately strode towards the noisiest place with the strongest aroma of distilled drinks. She had soon pushed her way to the keg and was drinking apple brandy in great gulps. The red-haired witch didn’t try to stop her, and willingly received the keg herself from a long-eared, shaggy creature almost identical to Hans Mein Igel, who had visited the camp of Reynevan and Zawisza the Black of Garbów a month before. Reynevan, taking a cup, considered how time had passed and what time had changed in his life. The drink was so strong it made his nose run.

The red-haired witch had many friends among the revellers, both humans and non-humans. Rusalkas, dryads and liskas greeted her effusively, and stout, ruddy-faced peasant women exchanged hugs and kisses. Women wearing dresses embroidered with gold and ornate capes, their faces partly concealed behind black satin masks, exchanged stiff, distinguished bows. Apple brandy, cider and slivovitz flowed profusely. They were being jostled around in the crush, so Reynevan put his arm around Nicolette. She ought to be wearing a mask here, he thought. Katarzyna, daughter of Jan of Biberstein, the Lord of Stolz, ought to be masked like the other noblewomen.

The revellers, now somewhat tipsy, began gossiping and backbiting.

“I saw her up there with the Domina.” The red-haired witch indicated with her eyes the cripple with the fair plait and face swollen from weeping, limping nearby. “What’s the matter with her?”