Night still had a tentative hold: the shadows thrown to the ground by the trees, the intricate design of the leaves, the patterns of the bark, glimpses of the starry sky through the overhead canopy, the movement of some creature scurrying into the bushes. He was overwhelmed at the sight of even the smallest and most insignificant thing after so much time in darkness, and it was as much as he could do not to cry out with the joy of it.

A thought occurred to him. He reluctantly unbuckled the sword belt and carefully laid it on the ground. Taking a step away from it, he was relieved to find he could still see. Perhaps he only had to be close to the sword for it to lend him its powers. He took another step away, then another. It was as he took his fourth step that suddenly he heard the voice of the sword again, low and urgent. He noted too how his hands had begun to shake and a thin film of sweat beaded his forehead, so great was his physical yearning to have the sword at his side again.

Hurrying over to the black scabbard, something at the edge of his vision caught his attention. Turning to look back in the direction of the cabin, he saw the figure of a girl standing at the window looking back at him. He blinked and the figure was gone. Lann was on the verge of returning inside to investigate when he heard the sound of the wagon coming down the path towards him.

Fleya was driving the wagon too fast and there was a sheen on the ponies’ flanks that suggested she’d sped all the way back through the woods. Pulling to a halt, she leaned forward on the seat, scanning him quickly as if to satisfy herself that her nephew was not injured in some way. When her eyes settled on the sword in his hand the colour drained from her face.

‘What have you done?’ she said, her voice barely audible.

‘I can see again,’ Lann said by way of an answer. ‘The blade, it …’ He stopped, confused and a little scared by what he saw before him. Sitting atop the wagon, the reins clutched in her hands, was the Fleya he knew, forever young and beautiful, but at the same time another vision of the witch presented itself, the two images superimposed on top of each other so he could also see the ancient woman his aunt would be if she were not a creature of majik. The vision reminded Lann of what his aunt had told him about his mother’s rapid deterioration when she’d relinquished her witchhood to give birth to him. He screwed his eyes shut and shook his head, willing himself not to see the unmasked version of the witch. To his relief, when he opened them again he was faced with the Fleya he knew.