“When they brought you here, you had nothing. Not even any boots. They treated you with mercy, but that mercy didn’t extend to your chattels. They picked you clean.”

Reynevan felt a wave of heat spread through him. Before he had time to swear or gnash his teeth, his memory returned. And with it, relief. The priceless casket had remained with Scharley. When he was suffering from diarrhoea, Reynevan had treated him with magic, using the sorcerer Telesma’s amulets. Setting off on the foray with Puchała, he had left the casket with Scharley.

But the relief was very short-lived. The amulets—though they had probably survived—were now heading to Bohemia with Scharley and the entire Tábor, temporarily out of reach. But he needed them within reach. The festering wound required magic. Left to traditional methods, he risked losing his arm at the shoulder. At best. At worst—losing his life.

“There’s an apothecary…” he grunted, seizing the harlot by the hand. “There’s an apothecary in Oława. He is certain to have a secret alchemic workshop… Only for a closed circle… For people from the magical confraternity… I need magical medicine. For Samson… For him, I must have a medicine called dodecatheon. For me, for my shoulder, I need unguentum achilleum—”

“The apothecary…” Dorota turned her head away. “The apothecary won’t sell us anything. He won’t even let us cross the threshold. All Oława knows who we’re treating here. The hospital is under the guard and protection of the duke, but the townspeople revile us. They won’t help. No use going… And it’s dangerous on the street—”

“I’ll go,” said Elencza Stietencron. “I’ll go to the apothecary’s shop. Please…”

“You’ll say the password: Visita Inferiora Terrae. The apothecary will understand… Visita Inferiora Terrae… Will you remember it?”

“I will.”

With great effort, Reynevan managed to focus his gaze on her, even though it kept blurring with the fever. Again, she appeared encircled by a glow. A halo. An aureole.

“The medicaments…” He felt himself losing consciousness. “By the name of… Dodecatheon… And unguentum achilleum… You won’t forget?”

“I won’t.” She turned her head away. “I cannot. God must have punished me with an inability to forget.”

He was too sick to notice how bitter it sounded.

“Dorota?”

“Yes, Reinmar?”

“When we met, three summers ago, right here, near Oława, on the Strzelin road… You meant to go out into the world. As you said, if only to Wrocław. To work… You didn’t get very far…”