Mud splashed from the horses’ hooves, muddying the already muddied, cloaked figure huddled by the cross. None of the riders paid the figure any attention.

And nor did Reynevan raise his head.

Chapter Nine

In which Scharley makes an appearance.

The prior of Strzegom Carmelite priory was as thin as a skeleton; his complexion, dry skin, carelessly shaved stubble and long nose made him resemble a plucked heron. When he looked at Reynevan, he squinted, and when he resumed reading the letter from Otto Beess, he brought the letter close up to his nose. His bony blue hands trembled relentlessly and pain kept contorting his mouth. The prior was by no means an old man, but Reynevan had seen this illness before, which ate its victim away like leprosy—but invisibly, from the inside. An illness against which all medicines and herbs were powerless, against which only the most powerful magic was effective. Even if someone knew how to treat it using magic, they didn’t, because times were such that once the patient was cured, they were liable to denounce the physician.

Clearing his throat, the prior shook Reynevan out of his reverie.

“Only for this one thing did you await my return, young man?” he asked, picking up the Wrocław canon’s letter. “Four whole days? Aware that the subprior has full authority during my absence?”

Reynevan limited himself to a nod. Reference to the condition of handing the letter directly to the prior was so blatantly obvious, it didn’t bear mentioning. As regards the four days spent in the village near Strzegom, there was no point mentioning them, either—they had passed God knew when, like in a dream. For Reynevan, the time since the tragedy in Balbinów felt like a dream. He was numb, distracted and befuddled.

“You waited,” the prior stated a fact, “to hand me the letter in person. And do you know what, young fellow? It is very good that you did.”

Reynevan didn’t comment this time, either. The prior returned to the letter, bringing it up almost to his very nose.

“Oh, yes,” he finally said in a slow, drawling voice, raising his eyes and squinting. “I knew the day would come, when the reverend canon would remind me of my debt and demand repayment. With usurious interest—which, incidentally, the Church forbids the collection of. Young fellow, do you believe unreservedly in what the Church, our mother, demands?”

“Yes, Reverend Father.”

“A commendable virtue. Especially today. Especially in a place like this. Do you know where you are? Do you know what this place is? Apart from a priory?”

Reynevan did not reply.

“You either don’t know,” the prior guessed from the silence, “or are adroitly pretending not to. For this is a house of penance, with which you may also be unfamiliar or pretend to be so. Thus, shall I tell you: it is a prison.”