On severing the bond, the perispirit frees the spirit and passes with it into the ethereal—astral—sphere, and remains there for eternity, being similar to the spirit itself: hostile to the material world and negatively predisposed towards it. It can happen, it was claimed, that the perispirit is able to separate itself not only from the body but also from the spirit. That occurs when, unlike the spirit, the perispirit is predisposed positively to the world of matter. This kind of perispirit then circulates in a peculiar “twilight zone” between the material and the astral worlds, looking for the chance to bond an unoccupied body to a temporarily unassigned spirit. In his present spiritual-corporeal form, Samson was a typical example of that kind of bond.
The problem was that no one knew whether the perispirit bonded at random, or whether it was guided during the bonding by some kind of logic. Who today is able to fathom out the logic of a perispirit of that kind? And until someone can, nothing will be achieved. What the perispirit has joined mortal man cannot rend asunder.
“It would seem,” Reynevan said with resignation in his voice, “that we are at the point of departure. We needlessly dragged ourselves a great distance and needlessly put ourselves at risk—”
“Another specialist who is my equal in the matters of interest to you lives in Grenada.” The sorcerer interrupted once more. “It’s a little further away than Trosky. And the emirs there aren’t too fond of Christians. They tend to impale them on stakes. Or flay them alive. Unlike Axleben, I don’t promote myself as a master among masters, but I know my job. I also know how to formulate a hypothesis, which differs somewhat from the one the master among masters proposed, mainly regarding what is possible, what is not, what is achievable and what is not. One can achieve anything, as long as one knows how to carry it out—”
“Without meaning to cause offence,” Reynevan interrupted this time, “I think we’ve heard enough hypotheses. What about Samson?”
Rupilius didn’t even look at him as he replied, “Samson knows my hypothesis, which differs somewhat from Axleben’s. It’s a radical and risky one, I admit, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t accept or attempt it. But if he does, he’ll have to wait. I shall penetrate the essence of the matter and find a more reliable way of carrying out a repeat transmogrification, but I need up to two years. Why do you think I asked you to return after that period of time? Out of a predilection for even numbers? Which brings us back to our agreement. So I ask: are we in agreement?”
“We are.”
“By the end of two years?”
“Agreed.”
“Then let’s go.”
Samson brightened up the wearying trek along the narrow corridors and cramped stairways for Reynevan with a tale. Reynevan had already worked out some of it, but he listened eagerly.
Samson had found out by sheer accident that Reynevan had fallen into the hands of the Catholics at Trosky. The Hussites had a spy at Tolštejn Castle which was occupied by the brothers Jan and Jindřich Berk of Dubá. Sir Lothar Gersdorf had visited the castle with seven prisoners in tow. While Lord Gersdorf was dining with the brothers, the spy questioned the prisoners. One in particular—allegedly a former martahuz—turned out to be particularly talkative and revealed something significant. As a result of that information, Hejtman Vojta Jelínek was seized and thrown into a dungeon, accused of treachery, espionage and criminal private interests. With the help of red-hot irons, Jelínek shed light on many matters in the dungeon. Including Reynevan’s case.
After learning that Reynevan was at Trosky, in the grip of Lord Bergow, Jan Čapek and the Hussite hejtmans wrote him off as missing and wouldn’t hear of a rescue mission. So Scharley, Samson, Tauler and Baťa took the matter into their own hands. After all, Tauler still had in reserve his erstwhile comrade, the head groom. It was thus decided that Samson, not Tauler, would go to the castle. It was observed that peasants often visited Trosky with supplies, not only on wagons, but also on foot. The guards never interfered on condition that the provisioner fitted the image of a peasant, meaning he was very shabby, smelled strongly and had the face of a country bumpkin or idiot. Samson Honeypot fitted. Perfectly. Equipped for the mission with a goose, a barrel of butter and a trug of mushrooms, he entered the lower castle, where, having lost himself in the crowd, he began to search for the head groom. Before Samson found him, he himself was found.
Rupilius the Silesian had quickly learned about the events of a few days before. About the visit of the Silesian and Lusatian lords and knights, about the sale of prisoners. And about some psychic or charmer who’d been put in the hladomorna. Certain that somebody would come looking for the prisoner, Rupilius kept watch on all visitors to the castle by magical means. The magic swiftly uncovered Samson.
“I was speechless,” Samson confessed, “when he surprised me in the stable…”
“I was speechless,” Rupilius was equally frank, “when he seized me by the throat. Fortunately, we quickly recognised each other…”
Neither of them was especially forthcoming regarding the details, and Reynevan didn’t insist. He decided to question Samson later on the details of that rapid mutual recognition. Now he listened to the next stage—about how, having seen through each other, Rupilius and Samson Honeypot decided to free Reynevan from the oubliette and do it without magic in order not to arouse suspicion—namely by destroying the padlock to the grating with a blacksmith’s hammer. Now, Samson finished in a whisper, they were nearing the secret passageway connecting Trosky Castle to the outside world.
Because such a passage did exist. And contrary to the legend, it wasn’t legendary.
“Quickly, quickly,” Rupilius urged them. “We must hurry. Something evil is circling above the castle, I can feel it.”
The spiral staircase was steep and the steps extremely uneven. They descended for a long time until their way was blocked by a rough, solid rock wall. There was no sign of a door or an entrance. For Rupilius, though, it didn’t represent a problem.
“Yashiel, Vehiel, Baxasoxa! Effetha! Ecce cecidit paries! ”
The rock wall, as the biblical text of the spell would suggest, didn’t crumble, but parted and drew aside like a curtain. Beyond it was a black gulf emitting a foul odour.
“From here you proceed alone,” pronounced Rupilius the Silesian, handing Samson a lantern. “An hour’s march—not more—and you ought to emerge before dawn. The lantern is magical and will give you sufficient light, but I suggest you hurry. It’s something of a labyrinth, but it’s easy; whenever it branches, you turn right. You’ll cope. Don’t ferret around in side passages, don’t stop for too long, try not to touch anything if there’s no need. Be on your guard. I’ve already said: something evil is hanging above the castle. Farewell.”
“Where will we come out?”
“Oh.” The sorcerer slapped his forehead. “I almost forgot. The exit is located to the north-east of the castle. Near the exit, there’ll be a stream, and by following it downstream you’ll reach a settlement called Ktová. It’s almost right by the Žitava road… And where are your comrades waiting?”