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Relta stood on her toes and peered through the bars of the cell, seeing bare feet, sandalled feet, scurrying by. The window wasn't much than a barred slit at ground level and she had no doubt that all the rainwater and its accumulated waste flowed down into the cell on wet days. She'd been kept in a small room off Prince Paris' chambers for a few hours and, just when she thought she'd die of thirst, Lysander opened the door and walked in, followed by two other guards. He pulled off his helmet, the long plume of horsehair making a gentle swish as he set it down on the table.

He'd looked at her silently.
"May I have something to drink?" she asked politely.
He said something in a low voice to one of the men and then sat on the edge of the table beside her chair.
"You're a seer?" he said.
The guard returned with a jug and goblet. Relta poured herself some watered wine and gulped it down.
"Yes," she gasped.
"From the Northern Isles? Just passing through?"
His voice was sceptical, his eyebrow raised in disbelief.
"Yes."
"Through the Achaean camp?"
"Not on purpose, but yes."
"You're not a slave, you say."
"I'm not a slave, no. I'm a free woman."
"Hmm," Lysander said.
He looked at her for a couple of minutes, and then said, "Come with me."

She followed him docilely at first, till she realised where they were going: down through the servants' quarters, down past the curious faces of the kitchen servants, out through the courtyard where palace clothes were washed and down towards the dungeons.
"No!" she'd cried but one of the men had grabbed her before she could make a dash and she was dragged, scratching and thumping, down the dark steps into the musty dungeon. Lysander called out something to the guards because she couldn't hear it over the yowls and whistles of the other prisoners, who stretched their arms out through the bars to pull her robe and pinch her as she was pulled past their cells. Lysander brought her to the last one, which contained no one else, and shoved her inside.
"I'll arrange food and wine for you," he said shortly.
"Please," she begged, grabbing the bars, "I don't know what you think I did, but this is a mistake."
"I don't think you did anything," Lysander said. "I just want to keep you somewhere safe till we're ready to find out more about you."
"But in a cell?"
"What?" he said, his face blank. "It even has a window. Why are you complaining, woman?"

And he turned on his heel and left.
Some time later, one of the guards unlocked the door and leering at her through his rotten teeth, he handed over a jug of wine and a bowl with a kind of gruel inside.
"My lady witch," he said with exaggerated politeness and spat in the bowl before he handed it over.
She almost cried.

The day had been long and it stretched slowly into night. She pushed the wooden bench that seemed to be the bed up against the wall, so she could stand on it and peer outside. Relta could see that the cell window looked out onto a street, but there weren't many people outside. She tried calling, but anyone who heard her only looked down and hurried off, startled.

Her brain rattled: tonight was the night Achilles and his men intended to scale the Trojan walls.
What if he succeeded?
Oh, Danu, mother goddess, what if he didn't?
She bit her knuckles, knees jittering nervously.

Finally, in total darkness, she lay on the bench and listened to something running around the cell – rats? mice? – enjoying the bowl of gruel she'd left on the floor.
At least if they were satisfied with the gruel, she thought, they might leave her in peace. Listening for the sound of approaching rats took her mind of the other sounds her ears were straining to hear. Sounds of attack, sounds of battle. Anything.

But all she heard was the nightwatchman, animals lowing in the darkness. The night was still, the sky cloudy and silently black without the light of the moon. Relta squeezed her eyes shut, even though she thought she wouldn't be able to sleep ... but she must have, because the patter of footsteps woke her.

She stood up on the bench, on her toes, and peered out the window. The street was far busier now: people were hurrying, running, she could hear excited voices urging others to come on and hurry up.
"Excuse me!" she called, stretching her hand out through the bars. "Excuse me!"
It was only wide enough to squeeze her hand through but she waved her fingers frantically.
Suddenly a child's face appeared at the slit and then another's. She almost jumped in fright.
"Are you a prisoner?" one of them said. "What did you do?"
"I – nothing – it's a mistake," she replied, smiling at them in her most friendly way, hoping they wouldn't run off. "What's going on?"
"Prince Paris has slain the mighty Achilles!" one of the children said.
Relta grabbed the bars.
"He was trying to climb the walls and Prince Paris shot him through the eye with an arrow!" the other said.
"Through the eye!" the first one chimed in. "He plunged to his death. His skull splattered open on the rocks – splat!"
"Is this true?" she said hoarsely.
"It is!"

At that moment the children were yanked away from the window and a woman's angry face peered down through the bars.
"Bitch," she snarled and Relta drew back in fright, watching her feet disappear.
She sank down on the bench.
Achilles was dead.
She tried not to picture the golden one with an arrow through his eye, his brains splattered all over the Trojan sand, but the image kept flashing through her mind. She pressed her hands against her eyes and rocked back and forwards, pressing the image away and the tears in.
"What do you care if he's dead?" she whispered to herself. "He was going to die eventually anyway. You just didn't think you'd be around to hear it. Forget it, forget him. You have to get out of here, you have to get out of here."

She drew her legs up and placed her forehead on her knees, her eyes shut tightly, her hands over her ears to block out the sound of cheering and celebrations. Somewhere outside the citizens of Troy were whooping at the Prince's victory over the Greek dog of war.
"Forget it, forget it," she whispered.

She whispered it over and over because when she was whispering, she could hear nothing else: not the cheers, not the happy laughter from the street ... not the sound of the cell door quietly opening.

Only when someone cleared his throat did she look up.
The man opposite her was in one of the royal blue robes, he had the same dark hair as his brother, but while his brother's face bore the traces of irrepressible mischief, this man's countenance was serious. He clicked his fingers and one of the guards at the door brought in a wooden stool. The Prince adjusted it so it stood steadily on the crooked flagstones on the floor, then he sat, his hands resting on his knees as though he were sitting on a throne.

She slid to her feet, but he gestured for her to sit, so she did.
Outside came the faint sound of a crowd cheering. The Prince seemed to wince, a tiny motion that was barely more than a little shudder.
"You say you are a seer," he said.
"Yes, my lord," she answered.
"You're not a very good one, then," Hector said. "Or you would've seen this coming."
He smiled at her, almost kindly. She found herself smiling back.
"I'm not really very good at all," she confessed.
"Yet the villagers who brought you here maintain you knew about the attack last night."
"They interpreted my words that way," Relta said carefully.
She did not want to lie to this man; not because she felt she owed him truth, but because he would know she was lying.

Hector looked at her, studying her hair, the skin on her arms, her robe.
He was quiet for a few minutes, stroking his beard.
"You must have come through the Greek camp," he said thoughtfully. "But from where? I thought you were a slave – "
She shook her head and opened her mouth to protest but he silenced her with a click of his fingers.
"... because no Greek woman has that colouring. But then I remembered that Agamemnon recently sent his men on a foray to Kalios; looking for tribute, I believe."
She said nothing.
"And I remember hearing that Nikephoras and Damaris had taken power without any resistance from the old Queen of Kalios, Kalion's white queen, because she'd disappeared. Without a trace. We even had Kalion traders outside the walls a week back, telling the story of how the she-wolf had slunk off into the darkness one night, gone as stealthily as she had ever arrived."

Hector leaned back, looking pleased with himself.
"It is a coincidence, you must admit." He counted it off on his fingers: "White Queen disappears. Greeks go to Kalios. Red-headed woman appears at the gates of Troy."
He nodded in satisfaction.
"My captain of the guard is a clever man. Lysander thought that seemed a little odd."
"Not that much of a coincidence," she said, dry-mouthed. "Plenty of foreigners pass through."
"Pass Troy?" Hector laughed. "I don't think it's anyone's idea of a desirable destination. Not any more. Do you?"
She had no answer to that.

"And," he said argumentatively, "the other thing that I seem to remember about the White Queen is that she was a seer, a witch, from the Northern Isles and she arrived in Kalion with her mother, who was also a seer . They say the King went to Crete and was bewitched by these two orange-haired women and he brought them back to Kalios."
Hector threw his hands up in mock surprise.
"Lo and behold! I have a flame-haired, white-skinned seer from the north in my cell."
He smiled at her and his smile was gentle.
Relta felt torn: his face was kind and he was looking at her with open curiosity. He looked like an honourable man.

Somewhere outside the crowd cheered again.
They both glanced up at the window.
Relta picked her words carefully.
"What are they celebrating?" she asked.
Hector shook his head ruefully.
"They think Paris has killed Achilles."
"Has he?"
The words barely came out, but she tried to say them firmly, factually, to belie nothing.
"Paris thinks so," Hector said, looking away.
She felt her breath stop.
He turned his head and studied her.
"Did he bring you here? Or was it the other one, the Ithacan?"

What was the point? Relta thought. What was the point in lying?
"They both did," she said, throwing her hands up in resignation. "Mostly Achilles," she added.
Golden limbs, skin bloodied, face shattered, bones broken.
"You were with him? In the camp?"
"Yes."
With him? Yes, I've been with him.
Honey skin, strong limbs, scar on his cheek, stubble on his jaw, rough to the touch.
Relta didn't take her eyes off Hector, tried to keep her face neutral, while her stomach turned.
Hector pulled his beard thoughtfully and said, "What about Agamemnon? I thought he – "
"He didn't know."
"Did you escape?"
"He let me go," she whispered.
"I am sorry," said Hector and he seemed to truly mean it, even if she was not sure whether he was sorry because she'd been taken or sorry because Achilles was dead.

He stood up and extended a hand.
"Well, my Queen, this is no place for you to stay. I am sure we can find you more comfortable quarters."
"I'm no longer a queen," she said, hesitating.
He stretched his hand out.
"Former Queen," he said. "Come along. You've enjoyed the Greek hospitality, now it's time to try the Trojan."
He smiled at her, his brown eyes warm.
Relta stood up, straightening herself to her full height.
"All I want to do is leave," she said calmly. "I don't want to harm anyone, I don't want to aid anyone, I just want to go back to where I came from. Please," she said. "Please believe me."
"I believe you," said Prince Hector. "And you are free to leave whenever you wish – whenever it's safe, that is. In the meantime, you can tell us a little bit about the Achaean camp and about the great warrior Achilles."
"But he's dead," she said, as he stood aside to let her pass in the doorway.
Arms bent, legs broken, skull smashed.

Hector bent his head to hers so he could whisper conspiratorially.
"Can I tell you a secret, majesty? I don't believe it. Do you?"
She looked at him enquiringly. "But your brother said – "
"I have seen that man wounded in ways that would kill a thousand others," Hector said. "I would wager that he lives." He looked at her with an assessing expression on his face and added, "Would that make you happy, White Queen?"
"Whether he lives or dies is not my concern," she said without emotion. "And it never was."

Hector smiled.
"My lady," he said, inclining his head and indicating that she should walk on ahead.