‘Greetings, Elspeth.’ The soft highland-accented voice of the Futuretell guildmistress broke the silence of the small room.

‘Greetings, Guildmistress Maryon,’ I said, turning to face her, and winced inwardly, hearing resentment in my tone.

Maryon’s wide mouth was grave but a faint glimmer of amusement lit her grey eyes as she glided across the room, telling me she was well aware of my discomfort. I had a sudden revelation that it was the futureteller’s ability to see too much of what was going on in my mind and heart that, more than her futuretold commands or her discomfiting knowledge of my quest, lay at the core of my unease around her. This was a paradox because, as a powerful empath, Dameon was often aware of my feelings, yet I did not mind being with him. Indeed, the opposite was true. I loved him and missed him keenly when he was absent.

Perhaps it was the remoteness of the futureteller’s regard that made the difference. Being privy to so much information made her far more perceptive than ordinary people, but in order to retain her selfhood within the welter of knowledge that daily assailed her, Maryon had to shield herself with detachment. The result was that I felt as if she saw into me and through me, saw all of my pretences and motivations and fears. Yet she was no more than a cool observer.

The futureteller made a graceful gesture that bade me sit and only then did I realise I had risen to my feet. We sat down together and she shook her head so that her long sleek hair spread like a shawl about the shoulders of the pale blue gown she wore. It struck me with a little start of surprise that she was beautiful. It was not the first, nor even the second thing one noticed about her. She spread a swatch of embroidered cloth efficiently over a small frame, unsnagged a needle from it and began sewing tiny stitches. No doubt it was a part of the tapestry her guild would present at the moon fair, and I wondered fleetingly what they had chosen to highlight of the year past.

‘Do ye wish to drink something?’ Maryon asked.

I had a churlish urge to remark that she must know the answer already, but I shook my head and said, ‘I have not thanked you for sending Rushton and the coercers to my aid in Saithwold last year.’

‘Ye blame me because I dinna send them sooner,’ Maryon said calmly. ‘But ye ken, too, that if I had done so, all that ye achieved following events there would nowt have come to pass. Those enslaved upon Herder Isle would be enslaved still and all on the west coast would have perished of plague.’

‘I meant it when I thanked you,’ I said tersely.

‘Ye mean your thanks, aye. But ye are also angry,’ Maryon said with a small bleak smile.