Lann looked levelly at his aunt, remembering the first words the god had said to him. ‘He told me I should ask you what my real name is. With everything else that happened, I’d almost forgotten that.’

‘Your name is Fetlanger,’ Fleya said. There was a challenging tone to her voice.

Lann shook his head. ‘No. That is the name of the people who raised me. As much as I loved Lae for the devotion she showed me through the years, she is not my blood. And Gord was nothing like a father to me. His name is not my name.’ He paused, and continued in a softer tone. ‘As you claim not to know who my father is, maybe I should take my mother’s name, as the northern tribes of the Ice People sometimes do.’ He saw a hint of a smile play on the edge of her lips; she had taught him that from one of her books. ‘What is your family name, Fleya?’

The witch paused for a moment before replying quietly. ‘Gudbrandr.’

Gudbrandr. God sword.

The pair sat across from each other, neither wishing to be the first to break the silence, but inside Lann felt a strong galvanising current flowing through every inch of his body as he took in what his aunt had said. It was as if another piece of the puzzle that was his life had dropped into place.

‘God Sword?’ Lann said, giving a snort and a shake of his head. ‘You, of all people, with your visions and portents, must see this is no mere coincidence.’ He frowned, his words stirring something in his memory. ‘Fleya … Before Rakur came to me last night, I had a dream.’

Her eyes met his. ‘What kind of dream?’

‘In it, I inhabited the body of a young man – a boy, really. He was a person of majik, but … not like you.’ He paused, gathering his thoughts. ‘The Art for him was fairly new, and he intended to use it for evil. I could sense that. On the back of one hand was a tattoo – a five-sided star with an eye at the centre of it.’ He stopped again, allowing more of the dream to come to him. ‘In the other was … something burning.’ He shook his head as the memory escaped him. ‘There was a wall of blackness before me, and at its heart was a terrifying force. Something terrible and ancient.’

He looked up to see the colour had drained from Fleya’s face for the second time that morning.

‘The tattoo. A pentagonal star with an eye at the centre? You’re sure?’

He nodded. ‘You know who he is, don’t you?’

‘No. But I know what he is. Or at least what he is becoming. A necromancer. That tattoo is worn by all practitioners of that form of dark majik.’

‘They raise the dead?’

‘Or the spirits of the dead.’