Dreams of spitting cats and hissing snakes kept me thrashing on my pallet all night. I heard strange laughter, and awoke to the sound of someone calling my name. The warriors' quarters were quiet, however, and, as the sun was rising on a new day, I thought to banish the night's malignant cast with a cold plunge in the lake.

I crept from the palace and made my way quickly down the twisting path. The mist rising off the lake as the dawnlight struck the surface of the water made it seem as if I descended from the pure heavenly heights to the cloud-bound earth below. At the lakeside, I stripped off my clothes and waded out from the shore – some little distance, for, owing to the drought, the level of the water was much lower now.

Gathering courage, I dove in and swam quickly to the centre of the lake before I lost my nerve. The water was clear and stinging cold, but not as cold as it should have been for the season. Here the Christ Mass was upon us, and winter winds should be howling from the frozen north; yet, save for a few chill evenings, the days, though short, remained warm as midsummer, and dry. The warmth nobody complained of, but the lack of rain scoured the land to dust.

Ever since I was old enough to walk from my father's caer down to the water's edge, I have loved swimming. Lot insisted that anyone bred and born on a rock in the sea should be able to swim to save his life, so my brother and I learned early and learned well. This thought was in my mind as I swam to the centre of the lake, took a deep breath, and sank down into the cold, spring-fed depths.

Down and down I went, the icy water tingling on my skin, pricking like ten thousand needles. When at last I could stay under no longer, I rose to dive again and again, trying to go deeper each time. The last time, I simply bobbed to the surface to float on my back, gazing up at the sun-streaked morning sky, letting my thoughts drift as idly as the clouds above.

While I lay floating, the sound of someone singing reached me – a lightly lilting, wordless melody. Silently, without so much as a ripple, I sank down into the water and turned my eyes to the bank, where I saw a hunched figure hurrying along the lakeside pathway leading to the Tor: a woman, dressed all in black. I did not recognize her, for a cloud had passed before the sun and her features were hidden by shadow. Curiously, this shadow moved with her, covering her, so that I could not see who it might be.

It was then I remembered having heard that same strange song before – it had led me a chase the day I found Morgaws in the wood. The thought had no more flitted through my mind when she stopped – halting in mid-step, much as someone might when hailed from behind by the shout of a friend. In the same instant, the shadow vanished and I saw that it was, indeed, Morgaws, and what I had taken for black was, in fact, her customary green, which I could see so clearly I wondered how I had mistaken it before. That aside, I thought it odd she should be astir so early in the morning, and naturally wondered where she had been.

She stood stock-still for a long moment, and then turned slowly towards the lake. Something in me urged secrecy, so I allowed myself to submerge once more. Strange to say, but as my head sank beneath the water, I felt a peculiar warmth where her gaze swept the water. It passed in an instant, like a wave washing over my head, and then all was as it had been before. When I surfaced again, Morgaws was gone. I watched for a time and thought I saw her on the Tor path just before she entered the palace gate, but owing to the brightness of the sunlight, I could easily have been mistaken.

I swam to the bank, dried myself, and dressed, then made haste to find Myrddin; I had it in mind to tell him what I had seen. But by the time I reached the Tor, I had convinced myself that my concern was mere foolishness. What had I seen, after all? Only someone taking an early-morning walk. She sang, yes, as any young woman might, delighting in her own company and the simple splendours of the new day. In any event, Myrddin was occupied with the ordering of the ceremony, and would not care to be bothered.

Along with the rest of the Dragon Flight, I spent the day in preparation for the consecration ceremony. Beginning with a fast, we assembled in the hall to learn our duties for the ceremony, and to hear how our ranks should be ordered. We then attended to our clothing and weapons: siarcs and breecs were washed and cloaks brushed, swords and spears were burnished, and shields were washed white with lime and painted with the cross of the Christ. That night, in place of a meal, we gathered in the hall and held vigil; led by one of the abbey priests, we prayed through the night for the Good Lord's blessing on the new realm.

Then, as dawn broke upon the eastern horizon, we dressed in our finest clothes, and arrayed ourselves as for battle. The participants assembled in the yard, each one taking his place as we had been instructed: Arthur and Gwenhwyvar first, Myrddin and Charis following, with various priests and monks and nobles from the region coming after, and behind them, the Dragon Flight and the rest of the Cymbrogi. Walking slowly, crosier held high, the procession was led out through the gate by Bishop Elfodd; beside him walked Lord Avallach, carrying a fine wooden casket in his hands.

Thus, we walked slowly down from the Fisher King's palace to the lakeside path, two by two. Upon reaching the lake, the monks commenced chanting a psalm, softly, quietly at first, but louder and with more spirit as we went. When we passed the monastery, its lone bell tolled, the plaintive voice ringing out over the countryside, calling the world to witness the changing of the age.

Much of that world seemed prepared to take notice, for there were many hundreds of people already gathered in the valley, awaiting the ceremony. The stoneworkers and their families were there, of course. Also, I suppose the monks had spread the word throughout the region, and many, despite the plague – or, indeed, perhaps because of it – had come to see the Lord of Summer begin his reign.

The Grail Shrine gleamed like white gold in the morning light, the cool stone shimmering and radiant against the fair blue of the sky. The procession reached the foot of the hill and stopped, whereupon Bishop Elfodd turned and spoke a prayer. We then continued up the hill – followed by the crowds, which pressed in all around us to see and hear what was taking place -and paused at the hilltop for another prayer; a third prayer was spoken as the Grail was carried around the perimeter, and a fourth at the entrance to the shrine. At each place, Avallach, accompanied by the bishop, presented the casket to the four quarters, while the good bishop offered up a prayer; together they sained the earth with the presence of the holy object.

In a loud voice Bishop Elfodd called for all present to bear witness. 'From this day the ground whereon you stand is holy ground. Let it here be known, and proclaimed throughout all Britain, that the Lord Christ has favoured this place and has claimed it for his own. Henceforth and for all time, this place shall be a refuge and sanctuary for any and all who come here, and no one shall be turned away, nor shall anyone be compelled to leave, nor carried away by force. Thus, no one shall prevent another from entering God's peace.'

Then Myrddin, his dignity and noble bearing never greater, ascended the steps of the shrine, turned to the mass of onlookers, and stretched forth his hands. If anyone had forgotten that Myrddin was once a king, the memory was reawakened now. I have lived my life in the presence of kings and noblemen, and I saw a king now, lordly in manner and mien. Tall and erect, his head high, his expression grave and proud, his golden eyes ablaze with the light of righteousness, Myrddin gazed out over the upturned faces of the throng, and silence descended over the hill as all upon it strained forward to hear what he would say.