As I enter The Queen and Sceptre my senses are accosted with the loud raucous laughing, chatter and scraping of chairs from the customers before me. The smell of roast lamb wafts from the kitchens accompanied by the strong ale that permeates the very floorboards of this place. An inn that smells like a man’s domain.

I felt the curious eyes of the men pass me up and down but they lose interest quickly. I wear my heavy travelling robes over my gown so as not to draw any attention. It is never a good idea to reveal my kind so openly. We operate in the background, in the shadows.

My back aches, my head is pounding. I am exhausted. Hungry. My eyes are so heavy with the need for sleep I can barely keep them open. The loud din jarrs against my fragile mind and I feel myself inwardly flinch.

Still, it is good to be back here after my travels. After a long week at sea on special appointment to the King, this inn feels like home, a familiar place. A warm bath and a clean bed to rest is all I am truly desperate for but first, one final appointment of the night.

I make eye contact with the innkeeper, Jack, a stocky tall man not more than fifty winters old. He nods at me and then jerks his head to the left. I give a curt nod in response and make my way to the doorway he indicated; the one covered with a thick black velvet curtain.

As the curtain falls behind me, the noise from the inn muffles to the distant background and my shoulders instantly relax from the tension I had been holding.

The room is small, windowless. In the centre is a small circular table and two wooden chairs. It feels bare, except for a painting of the Inn in all its glory 200 years ago. A slim narrow table stands in the far corner and upon it a silver candelabra, its three candles gently illuminating the space with an orange glow.

I untie my grey travelling cloak, revealing my Ilarian made gown. It would have been a most breathtaking gown of layered emerald green fabric laced with silver were it not for the black steel corseted armour that both covered and intertwined it. The high thigh split skirt sits over the layers of the gown as though the skirt of the gown itself were that of an underskirt. Steel armlets complete my usual attire and if the outfit itself were not enough then the symbol on my breastplate bearing a coat of arms certainly gives me away. A snake, a moon and a flame. The uniform of a sorceress.

There was a cough behind me and I turn to see Jack clearing his throat. He stares at my uniform and then glances at the floor abashed. If the otherworldly materials and ornate fabric of my sorceress uniform didn’t capture attention then the fit and structure of it certainly always did along with the power that emanated from wearing it.

‘Customers,’ he croaks as I find a hook to hang my cloak upon. He hurries away after a quick glance up to my face, quickly averting his eyes. He probably thought I was going to turn him into an ant if I caught him staring. No sooner had he left then the black velvet curtain is swept aside and two people walk in.

A tall young man with sandy blond hair holds the arm of a thin frail old woman. Grey wisps of hair had fallen loose from her tight bun and she is hunched over, her left hand clutching a thin walking stick.

‘Please,’ I say, as warmly as I can, ‘sit down.’ I pull out the two wooden chairs and offer one to the old lady who, with the help of the young man, slowly sits down as though any sudden movements would cause her to fracture a bone. She seems to sag as soon as she sits, as though all the effort has drained from her along with the colour from her face, leaving a pale ghostly shadow.

The young man looks at me then, his eyes are a sharp cerulean blue. He remains standing, his broad shoulders tense.

‘How may I help you?’ I ask the both of them, looking from one to the other. I assume his grandmother needs my help.

When the man speaks, his voice is deep and low but I can hear every word despite his quiet tone. ‘Do you not remember her?’ He says. I sense some hostility from him. Although he remains calm it is his eyes that tells me all I need to know. I know this is not going to be an easy appointment.

I look at the old lady who looks at me blankly and with great effort, before dropping her head like a rag doll. She closes her eyes to rest. I frown. I remember all of my patients, every single one. Yet, I cannot recall ever treating her.

‘You don’t remember,’ he says flatly. ‘You healed her and now look at her.’ He gestures at the old woman. ‘My mother is ill and dying because of you.’ He points at me then with a jab which I find to be extremely rude.

My mind whirled. His mother? She looked far too old to be his mother.

‘I’m sorry your mother is ill but you must have me mistaken for someone else,’ I reply. ‘I remember all of my patients. However, if she would be willing, I can help heal her today.’

In what felt like an instant, the man crosses the space between us and points his finger at my face. I feel the rush of heat collect in my hands in response, the energy crackles through my fingers in an orange glow that resembles dancing flames. The man does not seem to care that I can roast his skin at will.

‘She doesn’t need your help,’ he spits. ‘Your help is killing her.’ He jabs at my face, not touching me, but the threat is there. He continues with his verbal assault. ‘When my mother came to you she was 40 winters old. Five years ago, you healed her after her accident with the horse and cart and she thrived for one year. She was happy, healthy and strong but after one year,’ he turns and with tight closed fingers jabs in the direction of the old lady, ‘she started to deteriorate.’ He pauses, his face hard, his lips a thin line as he looks at me.

I am speechless. I don’t know what to say. My mind continues to whirl, disoriented.

‘She aged rapidly,’ he jabs his hand in his mother’s direction again. ‘She grew weaker, suffering illness after illness and now she can barely walk. She can barely eat. She is dying. And it’s all because of you.’

He turns to me now and slowly advances towards me.

‘No,’ I say firmly, ‘this isn’t my work. You have me confused with someone else. My powers heal, they do not destroy.’ He moves closer. My magic grows hotter in my hands but he does not notice or does not care.

‘Sylvia Aloranda,’ he says, ‘does that ring a bell?’

I freeze. My magic dissipates from my hands as my memory flicks back like the pages in a book.

Sylvia. A young looking woman with long flowing sandy blonde hair who had been out at the local market here. I had healed her after she had been trapped under the horse and cart of a careless driver. Her wounds had been deep. Internal bleeding and fractures. I was there at the right time. A minute longer and she would have succumbed to death. I remember the effort of healing her took a lot of my energy.

Surely this couldn’t be her? I look at the old lady while her son watches me closely.

‘So you remember her now, then?’ He says darkly. ‘Do you remember a Mr Laric Aloranda whom you treated ten years ago?’ He does not pause for me to respond. ‘He died four years ago just as my mother’s health took a turn. Can you imagine,’ his voice cracks. His face barely masks his emotions. I can see his grief. I can feel his pain.

‘Can you imagine burying your father as your mother turns ill? Can you imagine what I went through?’ His blue eyes are dark with accusation. He stands no more than two inches away from me now and I feel my magic rush back down my arms to my hands. ‘And it’s all your fault. But I suppose-,’ he chuckles wryly, an agonised cry of torment. ‘I suppose you don’t have a heart do you? Being what you are?’ He is towering over me.

My mind is racing with the revelation. I remember his father Laric, a portly proud man who wore a checked cravat and who I had treated for the tinnitus he had suffered. It was a simple procedure and hadn’t taken much energy from me at all.

This was the first I had heard of it. Is my magic really killing people? It’s true I never treated the same patient twice. No patient ever returned to me, they didn’t need to - they were healed. But what if they weren’t? What if I had killed them without knowing?

I feel nauseous. Horrified. Confused. My legs feel weak as the realisation hit me. If my magic was killing people after I healed them then it begged the question - what kind of magic did I truly possess?

‘I am sorry,’ I say softly, looking up at him and then at the old woman who simply sat there in a light slumber. ‘Really, I am. What do you want from me?’

For a fleeting moment, his expression softens as he looks into my own vivid green eyes and I can see his eyes roam my face, my lips. He shakes himself out of his reverie.

‘Witch,’ he mutters to himself. Then directs his full focus on me. ‘You’ll be tried for your crimes just as you deserve.’ I open my mouth to respond, to state my case when he barks loudly. ‘Guards!’

I hear the sound of collective heavy boots. The black doorway curtain is flung aside and the room is filled with the King’s armoured guards, their swords all drawn and pointed in my direction. The old woman continues to slumber, unaware of the soldiers crowding around her. The room sudddenly feels very claustrophobic.

Then it strikes me.

The King. I healed the King.

I reel from this revelation. If it were true that my healing magic eventually led to people’s deaths then I had sealed the king’s fate. I had committed high treason, the crime of which is punishable by death.

The man has taken a couple of steps back now. His eyes convey his triumph. He has not once taken his eyes off me.

I feel sick. I realise the gravity of what I had done, of the trouble I was in. All the wrongs I had commited without knowing. Yet while I process the information still, for what I knew to be true, I cannot believe it. I cannot believe what I had done.

A commander enters the room. I know he is a commander from the differing seal and black steel armour he wears from his comrades.

‘Miss Wylen Ashland, sorceress of the ninth circle,’ the commander booms. ‘You are hereby sentenced with murder, fraud and treason and will stand trial tomorrow. Your punishment, should you be found guilty, will be death.’ He is holding heavy steel binds in his hands and I can see from the runes that glint on them that these are not just any binds. These binds would contain my magic and render me powerless.

I do not want to be bound. I can foresee my end if I was to go willingly and to stand trial. No good was going to come of this. But if I really had killed all the people I had healed… and the king. I was good as guilty. I deserve death for what I did. But I had not known. I needed to know what had happened. And why. Why did the people I thought I had healed start to die?

Yes, I should probably be tried for my crimes but my curiosity is greater than my remorse. I need answers of my own and I certainly was not going to find them either beheaded by the executioner, hanging from a noose or drowning at the bottom of a river.

‘I do apologise gentlemen…,’ I say to their wary faces, ‘…but not today.’

The heat in my hands fly down my fingers as I level my palms in front of me and carve a wall of fire.

The men exclaim and back away as the fire flares and intensifies. The only way they can come near me is by walking through the fire and burning themselves. The red flames lick at my face and my skin but all I feel is a cool light wind.

I catch the man’s eye through the fire. His blue eyes stare intensely. I don’t know his name. I sense mixed emotions from him; torn somewhere between awe and outrage. I can tell before this very moment that he had never witnessed a sorceress in any power beyond healing. I know how I look. Powerful and extraordinary. It feels good to do real magic.

‘I will not be sticking around, gentlemen,’ I say to the commotion in front of me. ‘I bid you goodnight.’ My hands draw the rune as I speak and from behind me I feel a portal appear and I know it is framed by my magical flame. I reach towards it through my psychological link, holding Iberia and the Sorceresses Guild in my minds eye. If I want answers the Guild was the best place to start. I smile when I feel the hot Iberian air behind my back.

The commander barks orders at his men who attempt to approach my wall of fire without much success. His face is red and he looks as though he is about to spontaneously combust.

My eyes lock with the sandy-haired man, the young Mr Aloranda. Neither of us look away. I step back into the portal and I see his eyes widen as it closes around me. He narrows his eyes. Just as the portal closes and I am rushed off to my next destination, I hear his voice.

‘I will find you.’

I smile. I would like to see him try. He would not survive the journey.

But there’s nothing quite like a game of cat and mouse.

My body is rushed through the portal and I feel like I am being swept away with the current.

Now. Time to find out who I really am.