They left the town through a wicket gate close by the Brzeg Gate, in the south-eastern part of the town. They did it not out of choice, but necessity. Dorota had acquaintances among the guards on sentry duty there. This time, neither her charm nor her beguiling smile were sufficient—more concrete, clinking arguments were necessary. Reynevan’s debt with the harlot was growing quickly.

“You may get into trouble,” he said as they bade each other goodbye. “They took the money, but they wouldn’t hesitate to turn you in. Don’t you prefer to come with us?”

“I’ll cope.”

“Are you certain?”

“They’re only men. I know how to handle them. Godspeed. Farewell, Elencza.”

“Farewell, Mistress Dorota. Thank you for everything.”

They skirted the town from the south and reached the river along a track among some osiers. They found a ford and crossed onto the left bank. Soon the horses’ hooves thudded on harder ground. They were on the highway.

“Have the plans changed?” asked Elencza, coping quite tolerably in the saddle, as it turned out. “Are we heading where we were meant to?”

“Yes. It’s this way.”

“Will you cope?”

“We will.”

“Let’s ride, then. We’ll leave the Wrocław road and head westwards. Quickly! We need to get as far away as possible while it’s still light.”

“Elencza.”

“Yes.”

“I thank you.”

“Don’t thank me.”

The May night smelled of bird cherry blossom.

By saying they would cope, Reynevan had been lying to Elencza Stietencron. In actual fact, the only things keeping him and Samson in the saddle were the leather straps. And their fear of Grellenort.

The journey through the gathering darkness was sheer torment. Indeed, it was a blessing that Reynevan didn’t remember much of it, as he was trembling from the fever again and barely aware of the surrounding world. Samson wasn’t in a much better state; the giant was groaning, huddled and hunched over in the saddle, his head nodding onto the horse’s mane as though he were drunk. Elencza rode between their horses to hold them up.

“Elencza?”

“Yes.”

“Three years ago, in Ścibor’s Clearing… How did you save yourself?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“Dorota mentioned that later, in December, you survived the massacre in Bardo—”

“I’d rather not talk about that, either.”

“Forgive me.”

“I don’t have anything to forgive you for. Keep upright in the saddle, please. Sit upright… Don’t lean over like that… Oh, God, I wish this night could finally be over…”

“Elencza…”

“Your friend is awfully heavy.”

“I don’t know… how to repay you…”

“I know you don’t.”

“What’s the matter?”

“My hands are growing numb… Sit up straight, please. And ride on.”

They rode on.

It began to grow dusk.

“Reinmar?”

“Samson? I thought—”

“I’m lucid. Generally speaking. Where are we? Is it much further?”

“I don’t know.”