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however warm.”
    â€œI was there this morning, at St. Cadfan’s,” Will said. “That was what put the name back into my head, somehow, to come and look for the Way. But now I have the verse, I must begin at the beginning.”
    â€œThe hardest part,” Bran said. He tugged off his school tie, rolled it up and stuffed it into his trouser pocket. “It says, the youngest must open the oldest hills, through the door of the birds. Right? And you are the youngest of the Old Ones, and these are the oldest hills in Britain for sure, these and the Scottish hills. But the door of the birds, that’s hard. . . . The birds have their holes and nests everywhere, the mountains are full of birds. Crows, kestrels, ravens, buzzards, plovers, wrens, wheatears, pipits, curlews—lovely it is, listening to the curlews down on the marshes in spring. And look, there is a peregrine.” He pointed upwards, to a dark speck in the clear blue sky drifting lazily round in a great sweeping curve, far above their heads.
    â€œHow can you tell?”
    â€œA kestrel would be smaller, so would a merlin. It isn’t a crow. It could be a buzzard. But I think it’s a peregrine—you get to know them, they are so scarce now that you look more carefully . . . and I have a reason of my own too, because peregrines like to bother ravens, and as you pointed out, I am the raven boy.”
    Will studied him: the eyes were hidden again behind the sunglasses, and the pale face, almost as pale as the hair, was expressionless. It must always be difficult to read this boy Bran; to know properly what he was thinkingor feeling. Yet here he was, part of the pattern: found by Merriman, Will’s master, and now by Will—and described in a prophetic verse that had been made more than a thousand years ago. . . .
    He said, experimentally, “Bran.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œNothing. I was just practising. It’s a funny name, I never heard it before.”
    â€œThe only way it is funny is in that English voice of yours. It is not bran like a breakfast cereal, it is longer-sounding, braaan, braaan.”
    â€œBraaaaaaan,” said Will.
    â€œBetter.” He squinted at Will over the top of the sunglasses. “Is that a map sticking out of your pocket? Let’s have it here a minute.”
    Will handed it over. Squatting on the hillside, Bran spread it on the rustling bracken. “Now,” he said. “Read out the names that I point to.”
    Will peered obediently at the moving finger. He saw: Tal y Llyn, Mynydd Ceiswyn, Cemmaes, Llanwrin, Machynlleth, Afon Dyfi, Llangelynin. He read aloud, laboriously, “Tally-lin, Minid Seeswin, Sem-eyes, Lan-rin, Machine-leth, Affon Diffy, Lang-elly-nin.”
    Bran moaned softly. “I was afraid of that.”
    â€œWell,” said Will defensively, “that’s exactly what they look like. Oh, wait a minute, I remember Uncle David said you pronounce f like v. So that makes this one ‘Avon Divvy.’”
    â€œDuvvy,” said Bran. “Written in English, Dovey. The Afon Dyfi is the River Dovey, and that place over there is called Aberdyfi, which means the mouth of the Dovey, Aberdovey. The Welsh y is mostly like the English u in ‘run’ or ‘hunt.’”
    â€œMostly?” said Will suspiciously.
    â€œWell, sometimes it isn’t. But you’d better stick to that for now. Look here—” He fumbled inside his leather satchel and brought out a school notebook and pencil. He wrote: Mynydd Ceiswyn. “Now that,” he said, “is pronounced Munuth Kice-ooin. Kice like rice. Go on, say it.”
    Will said it, peering incredulously at the spelling.
    â€œThree things there,” said Bran, writing. He appeared to be enjoying himself. “Double d is always a ‘th’ sound, but a soft sound, like in ‘leather,’ not in ‘smith.’ Then, c is