It was not unusual for practitioners of the Art to do this when they met, but it was usually done with a form of mutual psychic consent. Instead, Kelewulf had bullied his way into her in a way that was not just clumsy, but ill-mannered. Blocking any further attempts, she felt perfectly entitled to reciprocate the act, and reached into the youngster in the same way. That brief encounter had left her unsettled. There was something dark in the boy, something he kept well hidden from those around him. But it was there to see for anyone with the ability to do so. Kelewulf desired more power. This, in itself, was not unusual among those who studied the Art. What alarmed Fleya was the impression that he had begun to seek it in areas of majik that were best avoided. Going down that road – into the darker realms of the Art – was fraught with danger.

After her meeting with the king and his advisors, she’d had it in mind to talk to Kelewulf about his interest in majik and to warn him away from the darker forms of the Art. But he had left the city on an expedition from which nobody knew when he might return. Her encounter with the young sorcerer had left her with a bad taste in her mouth that she’d done her best to forget. Until now.

Now it appeared that her foreboding about the young man and the risks he was taking had been well founded. For the boy she could see was not alone. A dark spirit had invaded his body. An icy shiver of fear snaked through her and she almost lost her control. Kelewulf had somehow summoned a lich, the undead spirit of a powerful sorcerer – and not just any sorcerer. The boy had brought the necromancer Yirgan back! The young fool had willingly allowed the lich to possess his physical body, giving the thing a presence in this world again. How could he have been so stupid? To invoke the necromancer who had almost brought this world to its knees; a man who had made the gods themselves tremble and quake until they were forced to intervene and kill him. It was … lunacy.

Allowing the scroll to slip from her fingers, she hurriedly sought out Stromgard with her mind. The city was in a state of mourning. Anger and sorrow were powerful emotions, and it felt to Fleya as if the place were awash with both right now.

Visions flashed before her – appalling visions. The cold, dead body of the benevolent king, Mirvar Rivengeld, lying in state. His son, Erik, being dragged away by guards, accused of his murder. And a girl, Mirvar’s youngest child Astrid, fearful and sitting atop the throne in a reign that had already courted controversy. Stromgard was never short of people who would happily take power, and Fleya saw members of the royal court already plotting against the young queen.