Lann would never forget that night for the rest of his life. Banished from the bedroom, he had stood looking out of the kitchen window at the fields outside, doing his best not to get too upset by the sounds of his mother’s cries. Tiny fists of rain beat on the roof overhead, a persistent cacophony that did nothing to ease the tension inside the house, and he prayed to the gods, both the old and the new, that they might ease her suffering. His father, who had been pacing about the house, came into the kitchen demanding Lann close the shutters against the foul weather. It was as he reached through the opening to do so that a dazzling knife of light struck the big elm tree in the yard, forcing Lann to snap his eyes shut against the glare. When he opened them again he could see how a great fissure had opened up down the length of the trunk, as if the thing had been struck with the giant axe wielded by the first god, Og, himself.

It was a portent, he had little doubt about that, but what it symbolised was a mystery. Unlike the witch across the hall in his parents’ room, he had no skill in interpreting such things.

The boy was still standing like that, wet from the rain being blown in at him and staring out at the tree, when a loud sobbing noise behind made him turn around. His father was standing in the bedroom doorway, his face streaked with tears. It was only then that he realised that his mother’s cries had stopped. And just as the elm had been split by the lightning bolt, Lann knew his own world had also been torn in two.

*    *    *

Amidst all the grief and confusion of that night, one other memory was etched into Lann’s memory. As the witch, Fleya, was leaving their farmhouse, she stopped in front of him. She was a tall woman with piercing blue eyes that shone with intelligence. Were she not a witch, Lann guessed that men would find her beautiful. She cast those eyes over him, taking in his face before giving a little smile.

‘You’ve grown,’ she said, her voice not unkind. ‘How long until your sixteenth year?’

He hesitated before answering; he knew the Volken people around these parts were scared of the woman, even though her midwifery and healing skills had helped so many of them. Rumours about her were rife, and it was difficult to know which were fact and which were fiction. Despite this, Lann lifted his chin and met her blue eyes with his own. She was younger than his mother had been, he realised.

‘A little under three years,’ he answered, struggling to get the words out under her intense scrutiny.