“I went to Wrocław.” The harlot put down the bowl she was feeding him from. “I resided there and returned. Work, it turns out, is the same everywhere. And it’s just as hard everywhere. Then I returned to my old stamping ground, to Brzeg and the Crown whorehouse. I thought, when I die, they can bury me in the same boneyard as they’ll bury my mother. And then, when the fighting began, there were plenty of wounded and sick people. The monks in the hospitals needed help… so I helped. In Brzeg to begin with, at the Holy Spirit. Then I came here, to Oława.”

“You decided on a hospital… I know something about it, and it’s exacting and hard work… Harder and probably more thankless than—”

“No, Reinmar. Not more.”

Although it was verging on the miraculous, the apothecary in Oława possessed the necessary medicine. Although it was verging on the miraculous, he sold it to Elencza of Stietencron. Although it was verging on the miraculous, the effects were visible right from the first treatment. Yarrow, achillea millefolium, the herb which formed the main ingredient of unguentum achilleum, not without reason bore the name of the hero of Troy—it healed wounds suffered in battle quickly and effectively. Rubbed on several times a day, the ointment arrested the gangrene, lowered the fever and visibly reduced the swelling. After a day of treatment, Reynevan was able to sit up; after the next two—admittedly not without the help of Dorota and Elencza—to stand up. And to take care of Samson.

After barely one day of dodecatheon being applied, a mixture whose effectiveness was second only to the legendary moly, Samson opened his eyes. Despite the dose of the medicine obtained from the Oława apothecary’s shop being negligible, after two days the giant regained consciousness sufficiently to begin complaining about an unbearable headache. Medicine wasn’t needed for that; Reynevan treated his headache with a spell and his healing hands. Samson’s pain turned out, however, to be a quite a challenge, and he exhausted himself before alleviating it. Both of them, doctor and patient, lay almost lifeless the entire following day. Until the nineteenth of May.

When problems began.

“Black-haired,” repeated Dorota Faber. “Dressed in black. Shoulder-length, black hair. A kind of birdlike face. Nose like a beak. And the look of a devil. Know anyone like that?”

“I do, dammit,” Reynevan drawled, wiping away the cold sweat that was suddenly beading his forehead. “I’ll say.”