It was by no mere chance she had chosen this forest to live in, and she allowed the power that resided in the place to enter her soul, revelling in the beauty of the woods, and the wider world. Other similar forests were revealed to her, and she understood that she was being given glimpses, not of other worlds exactly, but of alternatives to this one where other Fleyas existed. She might have stopped to marvel at this, but she could not allow herself to become distracted. She was at her most vulnerable now, in a place between this realm and the one she was trying to reach, her mind open to attack.

She allowed her psyche to fly out, up and up, beyond the physical, out beyond the stars and galaxies to a place of pure energy. In her mind’s eye she pictured it as some vast and swirling cloud of colours and sounds. All of majik was here. And danger – that was here in abundance, too.

Infinitesimally small. After all these years practising majik, that was still how she felt. Like nothing more than a fleck of desert sand before a wild and frenetic storm that threatened to pick her up and toss her away. She wondered at its might, its power, knowing, too, that it would engulf and destroy her if she did not proceed with the utmost caution. Because a part of her wanted to surrender, to throw herself into that beautiful storm and be one with it.

This was the Art. To avoid being devoured and destroyed by it was what set apart apprentices from the true masters. Not that Fleya considered herself a master; nobody should think they were ever in complete control of majik. That way lay madness and ruination.

Fleya blindly reached down for the article at her side. She unravelled the scroll, holding the blank parchment in front of her.

‘Show me,’ she whispered, concentrating her will on the thing in her hand. At first the scroll remained blank; then, slowly, an image formed on the surface. Fleya dipped her head, her milky white eyes taking in what was shown there.

The young sorcerer of Lann’s vision was before her. One look at his face was enough to identify him as a Rivengeld. She racked her brains until it came to her: Kelewulf. The son of the former king. They had met, a year or so ago, when the new king, Mirvar, had summoned her to discuss a disease that was sweeping through Stromgard. During her brief visit, she was aware that the boy had done his best to keep his distance from her. When they were finally introduced, she fancied she understood why: he was fascinated by the Art, but did his best to keep this interest concealed from those around him. She’d felt him reach out into her, probing her mind for what knowledge and abilities she possessed.