All of this, she was sure, could be laid at Kelewulf’s door. But she could not see where the necromancer was now.

Feeling her strength abandoning her, Fleya let out a sigh and withdrew back to her own body, struggling against the waves of nausea that swept over her as she did so. Exhausted from her efforts, and wanting nothing more than to return to her cabin to sleep and reflect on what she’d learned, she slowly and unsteadily got to her feet.

A crescent moon provided meagre light to the dark and foreboding woods around her, but she liked the way its silvery glow gilded the canopy of leaves above her head. She froze when she heard the unmistakeable sound of a snake in the branches of a nearby tree. When she turned to look in the direction of the noise, she saw an old woman standing beneath the creature, looking back at her. Dressed in dishevelled clothing, her face obscured by the tattered hood of a cloak she wore about her shoulders, the woman leaned heavily on the staff she grasped in her gnarled hand, as if she might fall to the ground if the thing were not there.

Anger ignited inside Fleya. ‘What? No golden-haired, golden-eyed idol for me? Or do you just use that particular manifestation to trick young boys into making terrible choices?’

The old woman chuckled and straightened up a little. Pushing the hood back, she revealed a wizened face. The snake stretched out towards her from the tree and she lifted a hand, lowering the thing down on to her shoulders, where it, too, stared back at Fleya, its tongue testing the air between them.

‘I thought this would be more to your liking, witch. After all, if you strip away the majik, you and I would look remarkably similar.’ The old woman’s cruel laugh turned into a nasty, wet, coughing noise, and she spat on the ground before her.

‘What do you want, Rakur?’

‘To help.’

Fleya gave a humourless snort. ‘Help? Like you helped Lann? No, thank you. I think he and I have had enough of your meddling to last us a lifetime.’

The haggard old woman seemed to consider this for a moment. When she spoke again her voice was low and Fleya had to strain to make out the words.

‘You seek a young necromancer. You know what he and the foul lich did before leaving the place you call Stromgard. The fate of the Rivengelds, the capital, the Volken people and maybe the world lies in the balance right now. So I suggest you be careful when refusing help that is offered.’

Fleya forced herself to forget her anger and pride. ‘I’m listening,’ she said.

‘The other Rivengeld boy, the prince who is now a king – albeit one in chains – is accused of murdering his father.’

‘He didn’t do it.’