It takes magical ability to move with such stealth that no one in a crowded house of villagers from Betws-y-Coed hears you. Arthyr, of course, had such ability. Having awoken from a nightmare in which he was playing the most beautiful music, while all his family lay dead on an unlit funeral pyre, Arthyr dressed in the dark and picked up the backpack that he had readied the night before.

‘Farewell brother.’ He leaned over Kai and gave his foster-brother the gentlest kiss.

Outside, it was cold. A mist lay over the village and the newly risen sun splayed blocks of pink and gold between the long shadows of pine trees. Now he was underway and there was no doubting his course of action, Arthyr felt a sense of purpose and even expectation. The journey promised this at least: that if he survived it, he would know a lot more about who he was, not necessarily in regard to his lineage, but in whether he was really as brave and powerful as the youth of the village believed him to be.

A scent of milk and heated wheat told him that the Romans were awake, as they had promised they would be. When he had left the last house some two hundred yards behind him, Arthyr could see them. The thin, unshaven, older man was crouched over a pan, warming a yellow liquid until it thickened. They were both wearing their full armour and Arthyr could taste the bitterness of iron at the back of his throat. It would take some getting used to, the proximity of so much iron.

‘Oh,’ all at once, the brown-skinned girl jumped back from him, startled. ‘You surprised me. Have you been here long?’

‘I have not, just long enough for your breakfast to cook.’ Arthyr wanted to say something to express his disdain for the Romans and his anger at being brought away from his family. Instead, the rich scent from the pan meant he found himself asking, ‘What is that?’

The older man looked up and gave a friendly smile. ‘Pancake, want some?’ When Arthyr hesitated the Roman raised his pan higher, ‘go on now. Always set out on a full stomach. You never know what’s in store on a journey or if you’ll get the opportunity to eat properly.’

Setting down his backpack, Arthyr took the pancake. It was hot — almost too hot to hold and Arthyr blew on it and rapidly moved it from hand to hand — but it was good. Like warm, soggy bread. There was egg in it too.

Both the Romans seemed pleased that Arthyr had eaten with them. Arthyr was not inclined to be friendly in return. Not only were they Romans (a serious point against them) but they had caused Arthyr to be forced into making this unwelcome journey, to perform some task that he might be utterly incapable of. Even so, he fought his inclination to sulk: these two soldiers would be his travelling companions for some time and the journey would surely be a more tolerable one if he could be civil to them and they to him.

Any sense of comradeship with the Romans, however, was utterly dissipated with the arrival of Ithel, grey hair wilder than ever, as if he had spent the night running from sprites whose only concern was to pull and tug at the druid’s locks.

‘Good morning druid,’ said the young woman. ‘We are nearly ready to depart. Please pass on to our hosts how much we appreciate their kindness to us and their care of our horses.

Ithel, however, ignored her: his eyes were firmly on Arthyr’s. ‘If it were up to me, I’d have you trussed over a cauldron while I slit your throat. All the same, this is a welcome second best. I’ve gotten rid of you Arthyr; may the gods ensure you never come back.’ Because Arthyr was squatting, the druid was able to lean over him and that gave an extra bite to his speech.

‘Why do you hate me so?’ Arthyr stood up.

‘You treat the gods as a frivolous source of amusement and you’ve turned the whole community away from them. The people of Betws-y-Coed are all becoming as irresponsible as you. They do not respect what was once geas and there will be a reckoning.’

Arthyr shrugged. ‘I doubt you know any more about the ways of the gods than I.’

‘I know this. They have listened to me and driven you out before you can ruin us.’ There was an offensive, gloating and triumphant tone to Ithel’s words and he rubbed his tattooed hands together as if in anticipation of a delicious meal.

Glancing across at the Romans, Arthyr saw that the girl was looking quite dismayed. Her cook, however, seemed to be amused by Ithel.

‘I’ll be back, Ithel, after I’ve helped our Roman allies.’

‘Not if the gods still listen to a druid faithful to the true ways.’

‘Come on,’ Arthyr picked up his backpack. ‘This bitter fool is just here to mock me. The sooner we are gone, the sooner his croaking will cease.’

The older Roman looked to the girl, who nodded. ‘By all means,’ she said. ‘Let’s make a start. It’s a long way to Deva.’

Her companion stood up. ‘Right. Just a minute, let me rinse the pan.’

‘How far is it to Rome?’ Ithel licked his lips. ‘And what dangers lie in your path?’

‘If we can reach Deva in safety, there are good roads all the way.’ The young Roman covered her curls in a leather cap, which she was fastening as she spoke. ‘The only risk then, really, is the sea.’

‘Ahh indeed.’ Ithel smirked at Arthyr. ‘The mighty seas. Against which humans — or Sí — are insignificant. Mere insects, to be swept away and drowned. Against the power of the sea you are no more able to save yourself than is a spider when a bucket of water is flung upon it.’

‘Do you harm spiders?’ asked Arthyr. ‘I do not. They are my friends.’

‘The point, my young changeling, is that the spirits of the oceans are mighty indeed. And I very much doubt your influence over the realm of Uffen will last much beyond a day’s journey from here. Here, you are powerful and that makes you a cockerel, walking among us with a loud, crowing voice. Soon, you will be nothing and the Romans will punish you for your failures.’

This last taunt hurt because it was Arthyr’s concern too. But he would not let Ithel know he was worried about a decline in his ability to work magic. ‘You’ll miss me, Ithel. You’ll have to find someone else to blame for your failings.’

‘I will miss you, Arthyr. Like a man misses the thorn when it has been pulled from his foot.’

‘This isn’t what I expected.’ The young Roman woman was holding the reins of her horse now, ready to leave. ‘This childishness. I thought of Betws-y-Coed as a dark and magical place where sorceresses are steeped in wisdom and knowledge lost to us Romans and where cursed creatures of the night roam the forests. In our stories, this is how Cambria and Hibernia are portrayed.

‘I find instead that although Arthyr looks somewhat more … beautiful … than most, you are all much the same as people anywhere in the world: rude; self-interested and petty.’

For the first time, Arthyr really looked at the Roman officer: she had given a sharp check to the druid’s ill manners and some of the tension in his chest created by the encounter began to ease.

‘If you crossed into Uffen — and it is easy to do so here – you’d see your sorceresses and fear the cursed creatures you talk about.’ His gleeful demeanour was gone; Ithel sounded serious now. ‘I have spent my life protecting this community from unwanted visitors from Uffen. I have reminded the local spirits of our ancient agreements and honoured all their wishes so as to retain their protection.

‘Arthyr, however, squanders centuries of good-will just so he can impress the other children, or win at a game. He is like a forest fire burning through the delicate webs that defend us and guide us. Depart Roman and if Arthyr should never come back to Betws-y-Coed, that will be best for us all.’

Such words, thought Arthyr, might give the Roman officer the wrong impression. He was formulating a reply when the older Roman returned from washing his pan and stuck out a damp right hand for him to grasp.

‘I’m Alerus, by the way, sergeant in the Roman army. And that’s Sapentia. Sapentia Avita Metrodora, she’s an imperial legate. You might spend your whole life in the army and never get to meet anyone of so high a rank.’

The girl, for she was still young despite her title, gave Arthyr a nod. He responded in kind, then took the cold hand in front of him.

‘Let’s be off then.’ Arthyr gave what he hoped was a careless, mocking smile and then waved towards Ithel. ‘Wish me luck.’

The druid spat on the path. ‘My all the ill luck of the world fall upon you like a never-ending thunderstorm.’

‘Jupiter save us,’ muttered Alerus as he gathered the reins of his horse. ‘What a strange way you people have of saying farewell.’