it meant that Madron would refuse to tell her any more until she had been appeased. Angry with herself and the stubborn old besom in equal measure, Gytha returned to the basket and set about cleaning the fish without another word. Two could play that game.
Madron sniffed. 'Fish for dinner?'
'For my dinner.'
The old woman cocked her head on one side. You wouldn't let me starve.'
'Wouldn't I?'
'I could put a hex on you that you'd never undo,' the old woman raged. 'I could bring a cooked fish alive in your throat even as you swallow it to choke you to death. You still don't know the half of what I know, girl, and you never will. You don't have the skill or patience to master it. Haven't had to learn it to survive, not like me, and that's your trouble.'
'Do your worst!' Gytha stuck the tip of her knife into the trout's belly and sliced it open savagely. 'But just you think on this: if I'm dead, who's going to catch your next fish or rabbit, or even fetch you a bite of nettles?'
Neither spoke for a long time. Then Madron said grudgingly, 'It were the bone of a dog.'
It was on the tip of Gytha's tongue to ask if the old woman was sure, but she knew Madron would not make a mistake, not with her bones. She sighed in disappointment.
'Nothing to wail about, girl,' Madron said. You must give it time. The shadow of the fox is running, just like you said, hard on the heels of the bairn. She is doing well, our little Elena. She is calling them to her one by one, though she doesn't know it. Like flies to a corpse they will be drawn to her. Be patient. Can't rush the stretching of a new bow, else it will snap and all that work'll be wasted. Tonight you must pluck another thorn from the apple. Then we wait and watch.'
Gytha poured a little water into her wooden bowl, and dropped the bloody fish guts into it, watching as they wriggled like eels in the swirling water before settling.
Once, Gerard had sat cross-legged opposite her, staring into the bowl with such concentration that anyone watching might think he knew how to read the entrails. He didn't. He relied on her, trusted her. And she had never betrayed him. She had simply told him the truth. That's what he asked for, that's what she'd given.
'Your father is walking into mortal danger. He wants you to help him. He needs you.'
She had given her lover what all men wanted; she had revealed to him the future, knowing that he would not be able to resist acting upon that knowledge, and in doing so he would damn himself. Men always did. They couldn't help it. And no power in heaven or earth could punish him for the hurt he had done to her, as effectively as that single gift. Tell a man his future and he will destroy his own soul. It was the consummation, the pinnacle, the perfection of vengeance.
She pauses at the foot of the narrow stone spiral staircase. It is dark, so dark she cannot even see her own hand, let alone the hand of another who might be creeping towards her. The clash of swords, the clatter of metal on stone, the shouts and screams of dying men echo from the vaulted ceiling and down the long narrow passages, the sound is twisted, distorted. It might be above her; it might be below her; it might be in her head.
She cranes her neck trying to peer up the stairs. The flicker of a pale yellow light, fragile as a moth's wing, glows high above her, but she cannot see the source. A candle on the wall? A lantern in a man's hand? These staircases were built to be defended. A right-handed man could strike down on anyone trying to fight his way up the stairs, but his opponent's blows would be impeded by the wall. A man must learn to strike with both hands, if he wants to survive.
She waits, listening. Is someone also waiting out of sight on those stairs, listening for the sound of her footsteps? She hears breathing, but it is so cold here, entombed in these thick walls, that it might be the sound of her own breath rasping. Is this the place where she will die, struck down in this darkness, her blood pouring out on to these icy