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stone he holds trembles. A slight vibration at first, then a deep rumble. A growing thunder beneath Myrddin’s feet. Then the energy. Different this time: not slow and building. A sudden jolt. Electrifying. His mind fills with white. Snow white. Virgin white. Angelic white.
    The vision comes.
    A baby who becomes a man who becomes immortal. A child who grows faster and stronger than any human ever has. A young man who faces the world with the wisdom of a centenarian.
    Myrddin knows this man.
    He sees him surrounded by people but alone. He is caught in a moment of doubt. Trapped between the holiest and unholiest of men. He is troubled by two women. One very much known to him and one a complete stranger. Both are in danger; both will see death.
    Death. This time the old foe comes with a long list. He seeks out brothers and sisters, men and women. Seeks them out randomly and specifically. Some for good reason, others just for the joy of seeing their blood in the snow.
    The pure white snow.
    It’s falling now. At first, just flakes on the seer’s flushed cheeks. Cool, like the kiss of a maiden. Now heavier. Splashes of icy rain, chilly enough to start the shivers.
    An avalanche.
    A deadly whiteout erupts inside the seer’s mind. Knocks him to the ground. Covers him. Buries him. Suffocates him. His hands slip from the font and he stumbles backward. This time he doesn’t fall. The vision is complete. He understands and knows what he must do.
    A new phase of the Arthurian Cycle has begun.

14
     
KENSINGTON, MARYLAND
     
    Twenty-three-year-old Dwaine Velez wishes he’d taken a leak before he got in his Ford Wagon.
    If that little bitch’s pops hadn’t turned up shouting the odds ’bout
the sanctity of his daughter
he’d have been able to use their goddamned bathroom. Instead, he ended up hopping down the drive with one leg in his pants and the rest of his clothes thrown all over the shrubs.
    Un-fucking-dignified. That’s what it was.
    Still, it had been worth it. She was a peach. These girls out in the sticks don’t get much action and when they do – man, they make the most of it.
    He heads south down Connecticut Avenue, back towards the Capital Beltway, dark eyes scanning for a place to pull over. Jay-Z is rapping on the radio – ‘Bring it On’ from
Reasonable Doubt
, the album that propelled him from being a punk who’d put a cap in his brother, to one of the world’s most bankable music stars.
    Dwaine drums fingersticks on the steering wheel and gets thinking. ‘Hey fella, I sure as hell would like to teach your lady some tricks. That Beyoncé has one fine booty.’
    The song hits the chorus and the voice from the radio answers.
    The young contractor laughs. ‘I can hang. Man, can I hang. And bro’, let me tell you, no way would she ever come back to you after she’s spent a night with me.’
    Up on the left he spots some trees, and maybe the last chance to relieve himself before rolling out west to help fix some drains in McLean then on to a backed-up septic tank just north of Washington.
    What a life. Eat your heart out, Jay-Z.
    He parks on Beach Drive, crosses the near-deserted carriage to a clump of trees and a long track called Rock Creek Trail.
    Dwaine is desperate. The burly six-footer is spraying overgrown grass within a split-second of getting his fly down. Every time he thinks he’s going to stop, another round of tequila shots and bottled water comes from somewhere.
    Must be the sex. Sex always makes him pee like he’s a fire hose.
    A thought hits him. A bad one. He hopes to hell that bitch hasn’t given him something
nasty
. Dwaine looks down at the boiling soil.
    ‘Fuck, man!’
    The shock is so much he wets his legs. He stumbles backwards. Staring up, through a thin layer of puddled earth, is a man’s face.
    He’s been pissing on a dead guy.

15
     
ENGLAND
     
    A windy six-hour flight from Washington brings Owain Gwyn back to British soil, or, to be more precise, the blacktop runway at