I could guess that Hafgan had told them about the dance of the stones. We walked together to the Shrine.

There is a peculiar joy of the flesh that is like no other, a joy that is as much longing as gladness. It is, I think, the yearning of bone and blood for the exultation that the spirit knows when approaching its true habitation. The body knows it is dust, and will return to dust in the end, and it grieves for itself. The spirit, however, knows itself to be eternal and glories in this knowledge. Both strain after the glory they rightfully possess, or will possess in time.

But unlike the spirit, the flesh's hope is tenuous. Therefore, in those rare times when it senses the truth – that it will be made incorruptible, that it will inherit all that the spirit owns, that the two shall become one – then, in those rarest of moments, it revels in a joy too sweet for words. This is the joy I felt upon entering the Shrine. Here, where good men had sanctified a heathen land with their prayers and, later, with the blood of their veins, that special joy could be found. Here in this holy place I could feel the peace breathed out upon this world from that other, higher world above.

The Shrine was clean-swept and smelling of oil, candles, and incense. The altar was a slab of stone on two stone pillars; it was very old. The silence of the Shrine was deep and serene, and as I stood in the centre of the single room, with the sunlight streaming in through the cross-shaped window onto the altar, I watched the dust motes descend slanting beams of yellow light, like tiny angels drifting earthward on errands of mercy.

Watching this, I apprehended minute and subtle shiftings in the light and shadow of the shrine. There was movement and flux, a discernable ebb and flow to these seemingly static properties. Could it be that the Powers Dafyd described, the Principalities, the Rulers of Darkness in the high places were even now encroaching on this most holy place?

As if in response to this encroachment, the single beam of light narrowed and gathered, growing finer.and more intense, burning into the altar stone. The stone blazed where the light struck it, and the shadows retreated. But, even as I looked, the circle of white-gold light thickened, taking on substance and shape: the substance of silvery metal, the shape of a wine cup of the sort used in a marriage feast. The object was plain and simply made, possessing no great value of itself.

Yet, the Shrine was suddenly filled with a fragrance at once so sweet and fresh that I thought of all the golden summer days I had known, and all the meadows of wildflowers ever ridden through, and every soft moonlit night-breeze that ever drifted through my window. To look upon the cup was to sense an unutterable peace, whole and unassailable, the abiding calm of endless, enduring authority, vigilant and present – if unseen – and supreme in its strength.

It came into my mind that to hold the cup would be to possess, in-part, this peace. I stepped nearer to the altar and put out my hand. The light of the cup flared, and the image faded as my hand closed around it.

There was nothing left but the sunlight streaming in through the window above the altar and my hand on the cold stone. The shadows deepened and drew closer, stealing the last of the fading radiance. And I felt my own strength flow away like water poured out onto dry ground.

Great Light, preserve your Shrine, and clothe its servants with wisdom and might; gird them for the struggle ahead!

Footsteps sounded behind me and Collen entered the cool, dark room. He peered carefully at my face – there must have been some lingering sign of my vision – but said nothing. Perhaps he knew what it was I had seen.

'Indeed, this is a holy place,' I told him. 'For that reason the Darkness will try all the harder to destroy it.'

So that my words would not alarm him, I said, 'But never fear, brother, it cannot succeed. The Lord of this place is stronger than any power on earth; the Darkness will not prevail.'

Then we prayed together. I shared the simple meal the brothers had prepared and talked of my travels, and their work at the Shrine, before heading back to the palace.

I spent the next days rediscovering Ynys Avallach. As I visited once more the places of my childhood, the thought came to me that this kingdom, this realm of the Faery could not endure. It was too fragile, too dependent on the strength and amity of the world of men. When that failed, the Fair Folk would vanish.

The thought did not cheer me.

One morning I found my mother in her room, kneeling at a wooden chest. I had seen the chest countless times before, but never open. It was, I knew, a relic of Atlantis made of gopher wood, inlaid with ivory, and carved with the figures of fanciful creatures with the heads and forequarters of bulls and the hindquarters of sea serpents.

'Come in, Merlin,' she said as I came to stand in the doorway. I went to her and sat down in the chair beside the chest. She had lifted out several small, neatly-wrapped bundles, a rather long, narrow bundle tied with strips of leather among them.

'I am looking for something,' she said, and continued to sift the contents of the chest.

One of the items on the floor beside her was a book. I lifted it gently and opened its brittle pages. The first bore a painting of a great island all in green and gold on a sea of stunning blue. 'Is this Atlantis?' I asked.

'It is,' she said, taking the book in her hands. She stroked the page with her fingertips, lightly, as if touching the face of a loved one. 'My mother's greatest possession was her library. She had many books – some you have seen. But this one stands above them all because it was her treasure; it was the last she received.' Charis turned the pages and peered at the foreign script and sighed. Looking at me, she smiled. 'I do not even know what it is about. I never learned. I saved it because of the painting.'

'It is indeed a treasure,' I told her. My eye fell on the narrow bundle beside her. I picked it up and untied the lacing. A moment later the gleaming hilt of a sword was revealed to me. Carefully, but with some haste, I stripped away the oiled leather and soon held a long, shimmering blade, light and quick as thought itself, the weapon of a dream made for the hand of a god, beautiful, cold, and deadly.

'Was this my father's?' I asked, watching the light slide like water over the exquisite thing.

She sat back on her heels, shaking her head lightly. 'No, it is Avallach's, or was meant to be. I had it made for him by the High King's armourers in Poseidonis, the finest craftsmen in the world. The Atlantean artisans, I was told, perfected a method of strengthening the steel – a secret they guarded zealously.

'I bought the sword for Avallach, it was to be a peace offering between us.'

'What happened?'

My mother lifted a hand to the sword. 'It was a difficult time. He was ill… his injury… he did not want it; he said it mocked him.' She touched her fingertips to the shining blade. 'But I kept it anyway. I suppose I thought I would find a use for it. It is very valuable, after all.'

Lofting high the wonderful weapon, stabbing the air with short thrusts, I said, 'Perhaps its time has not yet come.'

It was just something that came to my head and I said it. But Charis nodded seriously. 'No doubt that is why I saved it.'

The grip was formed by the intertwined bodies of two crested serpents whose emerald and ruby encrusted heads became the pommel. Just below the red-gold hilt, I traced the script engraved there. 'What do these figures mean?'

Charis held the sword across her palms. 'It says, "Take Me Up",' she replied, turning the blade, 'and here: "Cast Me Aside".'

A curious legend for a king's weapon. By what power had she chosen those words? Did she sense in some way, however obscurely, the role that her gift would play in the dire and glorious events that birthed our nation?