The snow came to the north country. Through cold, grey days of little light and long, black nights of howling wind, I sat at Gern-y-fhain's feet beside the peat fire and she taught me her craft – the ancient arts of earth and air, fire and water that men in their ignorance call magic. I learn quickly, but Gern-y-fhain was a good teacher, as adept in her own way as Dafyd or Blaise in theirs.

It was at this time that I began to See, and it started with the peat fire, which glows so beautifully, all cherry red and gold. Not all Gerns have this ability, but Gern-y-fhain could look into the fire and see the shapes of things there. And once she awakened the ability in me, we would sit there for hours together, fire-gazing. Afterwards, she would ask me what I had seen and I would tell her.

I soon learned that my vision was more clear than her own.

As my skill improved, I could almost summon the images I chose – almost. Nevertheless, one night I saw my mother. This occurrence was as pleasant as it was unexpected. I was staring into the flames, emptying my mind for the images that would come, while at the same time reaching out for them – an act more difficult to describe than to do. Gern-y-fhain likened it to drawing water from a stream, or coaxing shy, winter-born colts down from the hills.

As I stared into the fire that cold night, I saw the form of a woman flicker before me and I drew it in, held it – much as a man might cup his hand around a candle flame – coaxed it to take shape, willed it to remain. It was Charis and she was sitting in a chamber beside a brazier glowing with charcoal. At the moment I apprehended her, she raised her head and looked around as if someone had spoken her name. Perhaps I did; I cannot say.

The image was strong and I could see from her contented

expression that she was at peace – which could only be, I reasoned, if my message had been received and understood in the way I had intended. At least, she was not sick with worry over me.

As I watched, the door behind her opened and she half-turned in her chair. The visitor approached and she smiled. I could not see who it was, but as the other came near she reached out…

With one hand in hers, he put the other on her shoulder and settled himself on the arm of the chair. She turned her head to the hand at her shoulder and brushed it with her lips. I knew then who it was: Maelwys.

This so unnerved me that I lost the image. It dissolved back into the flames and was gone. I was left with a throbbing head and a question. What did it mean?

It was not the shock of seeing my mother with Maelwys – that was logical enough; indeed, it made perfect sense that she should return to winter in Maridunum while the search for me went on. Rather, it was seeing her affection for another, affection which heretofore had been reserved for me alone. This too was logical, after all; but that did not make it easier to accept.

It is always a humbling thing to discover your own insignificance in the grand design.

I puzzled on the meaning of what I had seen for several days before giving it up. The important thing was that my mother was cared for, and that she was not overwrought for me.

I saw other things, other places. More and more often now, I recognized what I saw: Blaise wrapped in his cloak and sitting on a hill, staring up at the night sky; priest Dafyd and my grandfather Avallach hunched head-to-head over a chessboard; Elphin stropping a new sword. Other times I did not know what I saw: a narrow, rocky glen with a spring bubbling out of a cleft in a hill; a girl with raven-dark hair lighting a rushlamp with a reed; a noisome smoke-dark hall filled with glowering, drunken men and snarling dogs…

Always it ended the same way: the image dissolving in the flames, fading into red heat and white ash. I had no idea whether what I saw was happening, had already happened, or was yet to happen. Ah, but that would come. In time, that too would come.

Gern-y-fhain taught me other things in those dark winter days. She was pleased to have someone to tell the things she had stored up over a lifetime, and I was happy to mine that rich store. She must have known that her work was impermanent, that I would leave one day, taking all with me. Still, she gave freely. Perhaps she also knew the value I would one day place on the knowledge I was given.

When spring came again to the Island of the Mighty, the fhain travelled back to the south. They chose a rath in a different place, hoping for better grazing than they had had the previous year.

Our summer place was not far from the Wall – where the mountains enfold hidden valleys and settlements are rare. Twice that summer, when I rode hunting with Teirn, we saw troops hurrying along the ancient ridge ways. Crouching beside our ponies we watched them pass, and I sensed the upheaval in those troubled spirits; like a disturbance in the air, I felt the rolling, churning chaos as they marched by.

That was not the only indication I had of the great and terrible events proceeding along their ordained courses in the world of men… I also heard the voices.

This began soon after the second sighting of the troops. We were returning to the rath with the day's kill and had stopped to allow the ponies to drink from a stream. The sun was standing low; the sky was aglow with yellow flame. I drooped my arms across my pony's neck – we were both sweating and tired. There was not a breath of wind in the glen and the blackflies were thick and bothersome. I was simply resting, watching the sunlight dance on the rippling water, when the buzz of the flies seemed to form itself into words.

'… make them understand… nearer now than ever… few years, perhaps… southeast… Lindum and Luguvallium are with us… bide, Constantius. It will not be for ever… '

The words were spoken softly. A mere whisper on the breeze – but there was no breeze. The air was dead.

I looked across at Teirn to see if he heard it, too. But he remained squatting at the water's edge, cupping water to his mouth. If he heard anything he gave no sign.

'… six hundred is all… orders, my friend, orders… Imperator.'… more in tribute… this year than last, Mithras help us!… bleed us dry?… here is the seal, take it… then it is agreed… cannot turn aside… Ave Imperator!'

The words came in gasps and snatches, many different voices, overlapping one another in a gabble of confusion. But they were voices and I had no doubt that somewhere, far or near, the words had been spoken. Although there was no sense to what I heard, I knew from the tone that a thing of momentous import was taking place.

I thought about this for a long time that night and after. What did it mean? What could it mean?

But that, I regret, I was not to discover until much later. Not that I could have done anything about it. I was very much a part of Hawk Fhain now. I had altogether stopped thinking about running away – having come, like Gern-y-fhain, to believe that my stay with the Hill Folk was meant to be. Perhaps I was not the Gift they thought I was; indeed, they were a gift to me for I was learning much that would stand me in good stead the rest of my life.

Thus, it is no simple matter to describe my sojourn among the People of the Hawk. Even for me, the words I speak show themselves hollow, broken things beside the brimming reality that lives in my heart: the colours! – autumn fern like copper shining from the fire; and in the spring, whole mountain-sides clothed in imperial purple; greens as tender and fresh as the dawn of creation, rich as God's own idea of green; the myriad shifting blues of sea and sky and running water; the matchless white of snow newfallen; the grey of lowering thundercloud, the excellent black of night's soft wing…