To make matters worse, whistles, neighing and curses shouted by the now-familiar voice of Kunz Aulock suddenly resounded from the right-hand bank of the Stobrawa. Reynevan dragged his horse into some denser bushes and covered its nostrils to stop it neighing. The cries and curses faded away in the distance.

They’ve chased down the lass, he thought, and his heart sank, both out of fear and remorse. They’ve caught up with her.

They haven’t, his good sense reassured him. At most, they’ve found her entourage and realised their error. And “Nicolette” has ridiculed and mocked them, safe among her knights and servants.

So they’ve returned and are circling, tracking. Like hunters.

He spent the night in the undergrowth, shooing away mosquitoes, his teeth chattering. He must have fallen asleep at some point and dreamed, because how else could he have seen that wench from the inn, that plain girl, the one with the marsh marigold ring on her finger, unnoticed by anyone? How else, if not as an apparition in a dream, could she have come to him?

So few of us are left, so few, said the lass. Don’t let them catch you, don’t let them track you down. What doesn’t leave tracks? A bird in the air, a fish in the water.

A bird in the air, a fish in the water.

He wanted to ask her who she was, how she knew talismans and how she’d caused the fireplace to explode—because it wasn’t gunpowder. He wanted to ask her many things.

He didn’t manage to. He awoke.

He set off before dawn, following the river downstream. He had been walking for about an hour, sticking to the high beech forest, when all of a sudden, a broad river spread out below him. Only one river in the whole of Silesia was that broad.

The Odra.

A small launch was sailing against the current, bobbing gracefully like a grebe and nimbly gliding along the edge of a bright shoal. Reynevan watched keenly.

You’re so crafty, he thought, observing the wind filling the launch’s sail, the water foaming before the bow. Such great hunters, are you, Master Kyrie-eleison et consortes? You tracked me down after combing the forest, but just wait, I’ll outwit you. I’ll slip from your snare so skilfully, with such panache, that pigs will fly before you pick up my trail again. Because you’ll have to ride as far as Wrocław to search for it.

A bird in the air, a fish in the water…

He pulled the grey towards a rutted road leading to the Odra. To be safe, he stayed among the osiers until he confirmed that he had guessed right: the road ran towards a river jetty.