The youth brings the drop to the candle.

The wick kindles at once.

“He’s a wizad, he’s a wizad! Make more wizadly!”

“Hush, Karolinka! Bad fellas will hear – them come and take you. Hush, my daughter...”

Now Skwozhina bore little resemblance to the loudmouthed squabbler that would tell bawdy jokes and wouldn’t give a hoot about anybody. Having drawn Karolinka closer to herself, she was stroking the girl’s head tenderly with a coarse hand, trying to protect, close, hide in her bosom from the troubles awaiting the child in the evil and hostile world.

“Here...”

Jendrich Dry Storm thrust his fingers into his curly inky mane, scratched his head – and suddenly grinned merrily: “Alright, hold that I believe you. Well, mage boy! Teach us to replay fate!”

The pieces were old, part of them lacked a head or a top. Well matching the peeled and cracked casket-board. Martzin was placing them carefully, biting his lip. Giacomo Seingalt was watching the youth’s actions intently. He reached forward: “Three colours? I assume that black is for the Maintz Mark, yellow for Holne and red – our Opolie. Can we choose any side? Any camp?”

“Of course. But you must choose only a single piece. Then for a short time you’ll become the man whose image you’ve chosen. And you’ll move backwards, into the past. There you can try to change something, to give a new course to the events. You’ll have about two months. My teacher would have transferred you for some twenty years without an effort, but I...”

“This sounds alluring. I think I would risk playing for...”

“Two months? That will do! The tournament! The tournament in Maintz! Damn it, I know what to do! Lubina decided not to take part in the jousting! And he should... Oh, I’ll show this son of a bitch!”

“There’s another thing. Would the margrave Dietrich, Siegfried’s father, live at least five-six years more...”

“I know that the burgomaster of Holne has a daughter. Were I in her place...”

“Good heavens! How hadn’t it occurred to me before! Were my teacher a bit more resolute...”

“Mommy, I want play!”

“Wait, dolly. After grown men finish making fools of themselves, they’ll give you toys to play too. Damn you! Just like babies...”

“Hush! Well, lad, show how to play.”

“Have you already chosen a piece, mister Jendrich?”

“Sure!”

The chieftain reached out to the board.

“Wait! This is not how it must be done. Imagine thoroughly what you’re going to do in the chosen man’s place. Because during the game you cease being yourself. Just remember the main thing – what you are playing for. So?”

In the chieftain’s face there expressed the unusually hard labour of the mind. After some lingering Jendrich Dry Storm nodded with a visible effort.

“Then clap your hands over the board. And then, when I say, touch the piece.”

Jendrich’s arms, swelling with lumps of muscles, met in a mute clap. None of them understood where most of the pieces vanished to from the board. The chieftain’s burning eyes were fixed tightly on the image of an armoured knight with a shield and a spear in its hands. The spearhead was long ago broken, the red paint had peeled off the helm – but this didn’t matter now. Martzin took in his hands the hourglass with the massive bronze stand, shook it slightly and stared at the bulging glass. The youth’s glance became lifeless, dim – and they saw that in the lower part of the vessel there rose a thin sandstorm. One by one, faster and faster the sand grains rushed for the orifice of the vessel, to the upper part of it.

The sand was flowing the other way around!

Lukerda gasped and closed her mouth with her palm.

Together with the crazy sand Time itself was turning back, returning on its circuits, casting away generously once gathered stones, giving the possibility to step twice in the same river – to improve, to change, to play again... The last grain of sand dived into the narrow orifice. Time stopped, hanging like an axe over a victim’s neck – and Martzin raised his face, stiffened, pale as a wax mask. “Hurry on, chieftain!”

“Chieftain?!” grinned in response Jendrich Dry Storm. “Hell no! This time – a knight! Lubina Rava, the noble commander of the prince of Opolie! Hold on, Siegfried, you dog, I’m coming!”

The strong fingers, more used to the hilt of a sword, closed on the piece. The next moment the “Triple Nornscoll” disappeared. In its place a window was flung wide open, and one could see distinctly how...

...Clang, a thump on the ground. Enthusiastic cries of spectators. The spear of Siegfried, heir to the crown of Maintz, has unhorsed another rival. A good stroke. It seems that of the fighters that have dared to oppose the initiator remained two: Henric Labendz and himself, Lubina Rava. The rest are already beaten by the young bully. At first, though, Lubina wasn’t going to participate in the jousting. But to reject the invitation of the margrave Dietrich would have been an insult. And then again, the commander loved tournaments. Many were unhorsed by his strong hand, but rivals wouldn’t take offence at one another. Strong was the spirit of the knightly brotherhood, not as it is now...