“Isaiah says: gathered, imprisoned in a pit, shut up in prison. An amulet… And a rat… An amulet and a rat. Yin and yang, Keter and Malkuth. The sun, the serpent and the fish. They will open, open the gates of Hell, then the tower will tumble, turris fulgurata will fall, the tower struck by a thunderbolt. The Narrenturm will crumble into dust, and bury the fool under the rubble.”

Narrenturm, Reynevan repeated in his head. The Tower of Fools! By God!

“Adsumus! Adsumus! Adsumus!” screamed the wench suddenly, tensing up powerfully. “We are here! From the arrow that flieth in the day, a sagitta volante in die, beware it, beware it! Beware the terror by night, beware the pestilence that walketh in darkness; beware the demon that wasteth at noonday! And that which calls: Adsumus! Beware the Wallcreeper! Fear night birds, fear silent bats!”

Taking advantage of the inattention of the red-haired witch, Jagna noiselessly snatched the demijohn and took several deep gulps. She coughed and hiccoughed.

“And beware,” she cackled, “of Birnam Wood…”

The red-haired witch silenced her with a poke in the ribs.

“And people will burn,” the prophetess sighed piercingly, “running all in flames. Erroneously. Owing to a semblance of names.”

Reynevan leaned over towards her.

“Who killed…?” he asked quietly. “Who will shoulder the blame for my brother’s death?”

The red-haired witch hissed angrily in warning, shaking a large wooden ladle at him. Reynevan was aware that what he was doing was forbidden, that he was risking the irreversible rupture of the prophetic trance. But he repeated the question. And received the answer immediately.

“The blatant liar is guilty.” The girl’s voice dropped a tone and became hoarser. “The liar or the one that tells the truth. Tells the truth. Lies or tells the truth. And that depends on what beliefs are held in this regard. Scorched, charred, burned. Not burned, because dead. Buried when dead. Disinterred anon. Before three years pass. Ejected from the grave. Buried at Lutterworth, remains taken up and cast out… The ash from burned bones flows down the river… The Swift to the Avon, the Avon to the seas, from the seas to the oceans… Flee, flee, save your lives. So few of us remain.”

“A horse,” Scharley suddenly rudely interjected. “To flee I need a horse. I’d like to—”

Reynevan quietened him with a gesture. The girl looked on with unseeing eyes. He doubted whether she would answer. He was mistaken.

“Chestnut…” she mumbled. “It will be a chestnut.”

“And on top of that I’d like—” Reynevan began, but broke off, seeing that she had finished. The girl’s eyes closed; her head drooped limply. The red-haired witch held her up and then gently laid her down.