“...No! Don’t you touch me! A-a-a!...”

“Calm down, my dear. It’s all right. You’re here, with us! It’s not real. Everything’s all right...”

“Oh yes, all right to the last degree...”

“Dirty, sweaty... Beasts!”

“Hush...”

“How dared he! Scoundrel!”

“Hush! They’ll hear...”

Lukerda shrivelled by the chest, shuddering with soundless sobbing. Giacomo, sitting near her, was gently stroking the maiden’s dishevelled hair, trying to soothe her.

“Martzin, was it you that stopped the game? This time everything ended much faster...”

“Yes, it was me.”

“Thank you, young man. Lukerda wouldn’t have survived this.”

“I’ve guessed,” the youth’s cheeks were ashen-grey, and the vein in the corner of his eye was throbbing as a fish thrown at the shore. It was seen he was hardly standing on his feet, but a strange force, astonishing even Martzin Oblaz himself, was emerging from the depths of his soul, preventing him from falling into a swoon. “Well, it’s my turn. My teacher has hesitated too long. Excuse me, meister Byarn, for disturbing your ashes...”

The sand flew up faster than usual.

The disciple, in trepidation, reached for the massive rook.

...Byarn the Pensive put aside the pen and sanded what he had written. The ink is quite fresh. Let it dry out. The choice is always left behind us. Always... The old mage was wondering at himself. Having known an hour ago that any direct intervention would only complicate the situation – Byarn even knew why, – he changed his mind in a sudden. Decisively and irrevocably. There’s need to act. Tomorrow Holne will fall. Most likely, there’ll be no siege. The burgomaster Claas van Dayk, a prudent man, will bring to the margrave the keys of the free city – dooming the citizens to economical ruin, but saving them from slaughter. Last evening the burgomaster had visited the mage. He asked: if the stubborn home guard lead by Richard Broose, the syndic of the butcher guild, takes the risk of defending the walls, could the most honourable meister Byarn help with defense. Eem... rain of fire, for instance. Or, that is, lightnings with five jags each. Exclusively on the enemies’ heads.

Then, eem, the burgomaster would be ready to support the idea of defense.

You are a clever man, herre Claas, said Byarn the Pensive. You will understand. Yes, I think I would be able to render assistance. But let me explain why I will not do so. Tell me, if you take a loan from some almost unlawful resources, in addition doubting your future paying capabilities – you do understand that you still have to return it nevertheless, don’t you? Only not the way you’ve intended to.

Eem, I do, nodded the burgomaster. He was quite not so timid and stupid as he wanted to seem.

Herre Claas, said the mage. Even if an aged man like me has enough power for the five-jagged lightnings – you would agree I’ll have to kill. While every member of the Aaltricht lodge knows: a true mage refrains from killing. Because he strikes a deal with fate: to aspire for knowledge while not aspiring for life. Everyone delineates the borders of the allotted territories himself. But you can kill, asked the burgomaster. Yes, herre Claas, answered the old man. I can. Only that then I take a loan from fate, giving it the right for the next move. It has the right to kill as many as I do. The choice is its. It may do this or not, today or tomorrow, hitting or missing, good or bad, laughing or crying... But it will be its move.

Do you want to play with fate for a thousand lives, herre Claas?

For two, three thousands?

I’ll surrender the city, said the burgomaster, taking his hat from a clothes-peg. I won’t force you to take a loan from fate. Not even because you’re my friend, meister Byarn.

He knew how to make decisions, Claas van Dayk.

Tomorrow Holne will fall. Within five days Siegfried von Maintz will move to Opolie. Most likely Opolie will also fall soon: under the existing circumstances the prince Razimir won’t be able to stop the Maintz army. After that there’ll be the turn of Moravian principalities. Mercenaries will pour into the army of the lucky commander. A bloody deluge will begin. And one day powerful Henning will find itself facing destruction, when it stops containing the constant challenge of the Maintz Mark.

Maybe fate is making its move stealthily?

Reshaping and sewing together anew?!

The craving for action, not characteristic for Byarn before, overwhelmed his soul suddenly. As if a secret guest had settled there, moving furniture and sweeping dust out of the corners. The mage felt himself young. Naïve – naïvety is strong, it allows not pondering of the consequences. After it’s all over he should write “The Praise for Naïvety.”

But this is afterwards.

Byarn went out into the night. The moon was chewing on the edges of dark clouds, spitting from time to time yellow saliva on the cobbles of a pavement. The mage stood into the lunar spittle; looked at the shadow prostrate at his feet.

“Get up!” ordered he, feeling how the power was filling him entirely.

The shadow fidgeted, trying not to get hurt over the cobble edges. Darted to the wall of a house, gathered into a tight lump.

Hissed angrily.

“Haven’t I told you?” asked Byarn quietly, without any threat.

The shadow got down on all fours. The hump on its back split with a crackle, showing coriaceous wings. An Ulvvind, the long distance messenger that only the few were permitted to summon.

“Fly to Wrozlav. Carry this,” the mage lifted the chest with the “Triple Nornscoll”, the fruit of long years’ labour. “Give it to the prince Razimir...”

The old man stopped. The secret guest had settled down in his soul wholly, feeling himself at home.

I’m young. I’m resolute.

I know what to do. Here and now.

“No,” said Byarn the Pensive. “You’ll carry me to Opolie. I’ll tell everything to the prince myself.”

At the dawn of the next day Razimir of Opolie learned the secret of the “Triple Nornscoll”. Eight men, eight empowered men, eight courtiers, commanders and politicians gathered at the board. Eight pieces were moving, weaving invisible web, ordering the past to change for the better.

A week later, when the troops of the margrave Siegfried put to rout the Opolie frontier guard, moving relentlessly to the capital, the prince Razimir ordered to execute all the eight of them. Because one had his incurably ill grandson recovered, the other suddenly received inheritance, the third gained the love of a proud beauty...

But the first who was executed at Wrozlav square was Byarn the Pensive, the old mage from Holne.

He didn’t resist.

“Your teacher, Martzin, was a wise man. He foresaw the failure beforehand.”

“I understand now...”

It was pitiful to look at Martzin. He was shrivelled all over, looked haggard, more than ever resembling a hopeless sparrow.

“Hell! Is there no way?!” Jendrich stroke his fist on the floor in a fit of temper. “Damn it, I would sell my soul...”

“We should seek a turning point. A point of influence, as my teacher would say. Nothing is impossible. Everything is liable to changes, but we... We either find the wrong points or make mistakes. Were there more of us, we could try a lot of variants, and eventually... For the game works! You’ve seen it yourselves!”

Martzin wasn’t noticing he was kneeling, looking in everyone’s eyes hopefully.

“Mommy, I want play! In the winda is evil fella. I want to bump on his head!”

“What, are you satisfied? Give the little one to play.”

“Well, why not, as a matter of fact?”

“I know, I know how playing! Must clap hands! Mommy, I want!”

“We aren’t losing anything. Even if she doesn’t manage...”

“All right. Come here, little girl. Stand here, near the board. Do you know how to... eem... bump an evil fellow on his head?”