In the stillness the rain lashed into the bubbling puddles on the ground outside. Someone cleared his throat. I caught the fierce blue glance of the old warrior. I had been right; there was pity there. But even those who pitied me were not going to raise a hand against this stupidity.

It had all come clear at last, like lightning breaking. This had been nothing to do with Ambrosius, or with my mother. She was safe enough, having merely confirmed what they wanted confirmed. She would even be honoured, since she had provided what they desired. And Ambrosius had never even entered their thoughts. I was not here as his son, his spy, his messenger; all they wanted was the ‘devil’s child’ to kill for their crude and dirty magic.

And, ironically enough, what they had got was no devil’s child, not even the boy who once had thought to have power in his hands. All they had got was a human youth with no power beyond his human wits. But by the god, I thought, those might yet be enough . . . I had learned enough, power or no power, to fight them with their own weapons.

I managed to smile, looking beyond Maugan at the other priests. They were still making the sign against me, and even Maugan hugged his staff against his breast as if it had the power to protect him. “And what makes you so sure that my father the devil will not come to my aid?”

“Those are only words, King. There’s no time to listen.” Maugan spoke quickly and loudly, and the other priests pressed forward with him round the King’s chair. They all spoke at once. “Yes, kill him now. There’s no time to waste. Take him up to the crag and kill him now. You shall see that the gods will be appeased and the walls stand steady. His mother will not know, and even if she does, what can she do?”

There was a general movement, like hounds closing in. I tried to think, but I was empty even of coherent thought. The air stank and darkened. I could smell blood already, and the sword blades, held openly now against me, flashed in the torchlight. I fixed my eyes on the fireshot metal, and tried to empty my mind, but all I could see was the picked skeleton of Galapas, high on the hill in the sunlight, with the wings of the birds over him . . .

I said, to the swords: “Tell me one thing. Who killed Galapas?”

“What did he say? What did the devil’s son say?” The question buzzed through the hall. A harsh voice said, loudly: “Let him speak.” It was the old grey-bearded warrior.

“Who killed Galapas, the magician who lived on Bryn Myrddin above Maridunum?”