Prologue

She had begged to learn how to see the future. It was the hardest of lessons and yet it seemed to come naturally as she held the clear glass bowl on her lap and watched the water swirl and settle in the flickering lamplight. For a while nothing happened, then she realised slowly that she was no longer in her bedchamber in the palace; she could feel the sun on her back and hear the gentle breeze rustling in the trees and she could see in the water the reflection of clouds, white and gentle, soft as swansdown. Nervously she cradled the bowl between her palms as she had been shown. For what seemed an age she could see nothing but the clouds but then, between one heartbeat and the next, she saw a sword. She caught her breath. It hung, suspended in the water, glowing in the darkness of a cave. The hilt was studded with gems, the blade shone like silver. Staring at it unblinking, she felt for one precious moment its inestimable power, its timeless magic. But almost as soon as she had seen it, it was gone, snatched away to some other time and some other place. The water rippled and cleared and now she could see instead a woman, writing. She was sitting on the grass in a peaceful meadow and she looked up and smiled. Her eyes met Elen's for a brief second and then she too was gone, fading into the mist. ‘Where are you? Come back!' Had Elen called out loud? She didn't know, but for that brief instant she had felt a link with this unknown figure that was almost visceral.

The water in the bowl grew slowly murky. Now, Elen heard the tramp of armies in step, the rhythmic crunch of hobnails on the road and she smelled smoke. She gasped, stifled, sick with sudden fear. The cohorts were coming, but they were too late; somehow she knew they always would be too late. Too late to the fire. Too late to the battlefield.

As she watched she felt her hands shaking and her whole body started to tremble. She could see faces now, shouting, screaming with fear, as the water swirled, thick and scarlet with blood, and she felt herself overwhelmed with a sense of utter, irredeemable loss.

Clutching the bowl, she heard herself gasp. She scrambled to her feet. If this was the future she did not want to see it. She looked desperately for the woman sitting quietly on the grass, writing. She had been at peace. She was not afraid. But there was no sign of her. She had no part in this. She had gone. The water held nothing but anguish and horror.

Raising the bowl above her head, Elen smashed it down onto the mosaic stones of the floor at her feet in a shower of splintered shards. By the time her teacher reached her and put her arms around Elen's shoulders, comforting and reassuring, all memory of what she had seen was gone, fading and drifting from her consciousness like a bad dream.

Sitting on the grass in the summer meadow the woman sighed and looked down at her notebook. Her pencil had fallen from her fingers as she dozed, without a word being written. It was strange. She had a distinct memory of scribbling something down, but it must have been a part of a dream.

Climbing to her feet she turned towards the gate and, -conscious of a dark cloud drifting across the sun, she felt an apprehensive shiver. It was time to go home.