“It doesn’t bear thinking about,” said Rupilius the Silesian after a long pause. “It doesn’t bear thinking what bloody titans of intellect are wasting away in dungeons these days.”

Reynevan remained alone for a long time. Long enough to decide the rainy day had come and gnaw on the bread crust he had been saving for that day.

After vanishing into the wall, Rupilius the Silesian left him to a terrible loneliness, awful anxiety and the even more awful torture of hope. He’ll return, lingered the hope wailing in his head. He won’t return, he’ll leave me to my fate, the logic in his skull came to life, why should he return, what will he gain by helping me? He’ll forget the man left in the oubliette, erase me from his memory…

Light flashed above; the clanging metal reverberated. They’re getting me out of here, thought Reynevan. There’s hope… Unless Bergow has become impatient. Anxiety froze the hope. And has decided to drag a testimony out of me by other means. They’ll release me from here, but only to haul me off to the torture chamber…

Something boomed thunderously, a clanging from above; the grating opened with a grinding sound, followed by a clattering and a scratching. Somebody blocked out the light and suddenly the shape of a ladder being lowered emerged from the darkness.

“Out you come, Reynevan,” sounded the voice of Rupilius the Silesian from high up. “At the double, at the double!”

I didn’t reveal my identity to him, he realised, scrambling up the smoothly worn rungs. I didn’t tell him my given name, much less my familiar nickname. He’s either a telepath, a psychic or… At the top, it turned out to be the “or.” And Reynevan grunted as he was embraced in a powerful bear hug.

“Samson!”

“Aye, Samson,” Rupilius the Silesian, who was standing beside them, confirmed with a slight sneer. “I envy you your comrades, lad. Could be worse, could be worse. And now be off, time to go.”

“But how—”

“There’s no time!” The sorcerer cut him off. “Time to go! You’ve a long journey ahead of you.”

They climbed up some stairs, from where a metal-bound door led them to the torture chamber, full of spine-chilling instruments and tools. In a corner, barely visible, was a small door leading to a narrow corridor. They passed more doors and Rupilius only stopped at the fifth or sixth.

“El Ab! Elevamini ianuae! ”

The door yielded to his gesture and biblical spell and they entered. The room was full of chests and cases. Rupilius placed a lantern on one and sat down on another.

“Let’s get our breath back,” he ordered. “And talk.”

The chest that Reynevan sat down alongside was full of books. He wiped off the dust. Averroes’ Culliyyat. Ramon Llull’s Ars Magna. Bernard of Clairvaux’s De gradibus humilitatis et superbiae.