Anarawd steps from the beached coracle, his steward Heilyn following behind him carrying their swords and lances.
“What is this place, I wonder?” Anarwd says. “The sea-fog was so thick it might be anywhere.”
“Is that not Castell Cricieth, Lord? Do not you recognize the tower?”
Anarawd wipes his face to clear his eyes. It is the tower of his castle, though what horrible fate has befallen it he cannot say.
“And look, Lord,” says Heilyn. He points to the far cliffs which both of them have known all their lives. The same cliffs, yes, but now with strange buildings colored like summer flowers, the edges glittering like shined bronze.
Though considered by many to be the bravest man in Wales, Anarawd feels his guts drop as if pierced with a smallsword.
“We do not belong here,” he says. “We must put back to sea, even if it kill us.”