“Pone me ut signaculum super cor tuum ut signaculum super brachium tuum quia fortis est ut mors. Ismai! Ismai! Sun Mother whose body is white from the milk of the stars! Elementorum omnium domina, Lady of Creation, Feeder of the World! Regina delle streghe! ”

Una cosa voglio vedere,

Una cosa di amore

O vento, o acqua, o fiore!

Serpe strisciare, rana cantare

Ti prego di non mi abbandonare!

“Look,” whispered Malevolt. “Look, Reynevan.”

In the haze that had floated above the pentagram, something moved, quivered, danced in a mosaic of flickering reflections. Reynevan leaned forwards and strained to see. For a fleeting moment, he thought he saw a woman: tall, black-haired, with eyes like stars, the sign of a crescent moon on her forehead, dressed in a many-hued gown shimmering with myriad shades, now white, now copper, now crimson. Before he finally comprehended what he was watching, the apparition vanished, but the presence of Mother Universe was still palpable. The haze above the pentagram grew denser. Then it became clearer again and he saw who he desired to see.

“Nicolette!”

She appeared to hear him; she suddenly moved her head. She was wearing a calpac with a fur trim, an embroidered tunic and a cotton shawl wrapped around her neck. He saw a hundred white-trunked, leafless birch trees behind her. And behind the birches a wall. A building. A castle? A watchtower? A temple?

And then everything vanished. Utterly, completely and definitely.

“I know where that is,” said the beguiler, before Reynevan began to complain. “I recognise the place.”

“Then speak!”

The beguiler did. Before he had finished, Reynevan was already dashing to the stable to saddle his horse.

The vision hadn’t lied. He saw an old black oak woodland set against white-trunked birches, all the whiter against the dark trees. Her grey mare trod slowly, gingerly on the deep snow. He struck his horse with his spurs and rode closer. The mare whinnied and his bay stallion answered.

“Nicolette.”

“Reinmar.”

She was dressed in male attire: a padded jerkin with an embroidered pattern and a beaver-fur collar, riding gloves, thick, coloured woollen braccae or leggings and high boots. She wore her fur-trimmed calpac over a silk wimple covering the back of her neck and cheeks, and a woollen shawl had been wound several times around her neck, with the end freely tossed over her shoulder in the manner of a male liripipe.

“You cast a spell on me, sorcerer,” she said coolly. “I felt it. I was compelled to come here by some force. I couldn’t resist it. You enchanted me—confess.”

“I did, Nicolette.”

“My name is Jutta. Jutta of Apolda.”