“What’s to believe?” Jan Čapek pouted. “There’s no such thing. But if by some chance it did exist, it would be utterly baffling and out of reach of ordinary mortals. Magic would be of no benefit to an ordinary fellow like me. Which means if something were magical it might as well not be. Is that logical?”

“Stunningly.” Scharley smiled. “It’s hard to argue with logic like that. Would you thus advise us, Hejtman, to drop our plans and return home?”

“I would indeed. Return home. And wait patiently. Rumour has it that Bergow was in league with Hynek of Kolštejn in Prague on the sixth of September. Prokop the Shaven won’t forgive anyone who supported the plot. He’s now laying siege to Bořek of Miletínek, it’ll soon be the turn of others. Any moment now, Bergow will get his just desserts and Trosky will be ours. And everything that Trosky contains. Including your sorcerer.”

“Wise advice,” said the penitent, without taking his eyes off Reynevan. “Isn’t it, Reynevan?”

“You called Lord Bergow a ‘damned German,’” said Reynevan unexpectedly. “There aren’t any other German-born families in the area, are there? Aside from the Lords of Dohna in Falkenberg and Grabštejn?”

“Aye, there are only those two families. What of it?”

“Nothing. For now.”

“For now,” said Čapek, standing up, “I’m going to bed. Goodnight, Brethren.”

“And to you, Brother.”

The fire in the hearth wasn’t crackling any longer but just flickering, now flaring up, now dying down. The spinning wheel had stopped tapping, too. The old woman wasn’t spinning but sitting still.

“What has befallen this castle?” she suddenly said. “Dedicated to Archangel Michael, it’s stood for a hundred and fifty years, and for a hundred and fifty years the Markvartic family have been the Lords of Michalovice. But now… Such a rabble… Oh my days… I recall when kings stayed here… And today? It’s a shame!”

“Don’t lie, Grandmama.” Scharley’s reaction slightly surprised Reynevan, who was now a little sleepy. “It’s unseemly, in the winter of your life. You’ve never seen a king, old woman—unless it was Herod in a nativity play.”

“Who are you calling old? May your tongue shrivel up. And I’ve seen more kings than you’ve had hot dinners.”

“Where, may I ask?”

“In Vienna.”

“Where?”

“In Vienna, fool!” The old woman straightened up on her stool. “At Easter Anno Domini 1353, the monarchs of this world gathered in Vienna. Emperor Charles, whose wife Anne of Bavaria had just died, was arranging to marry the young Anne, niece of Bolko II of Świdnica-Jawor. Oh, the kings and lords that came to Vienna then—”

“And you were there, were you, Grandmama? An invited guest?”