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  It was already well past ten p.m. but mid-summer evenings at the northerly latitudes of the British Isles seem to last almost forever. There was just enough soft, silvery light creeping across the rugged earth that, although objects were still distinguishable, everything looked like it was made from yellow-gray putty. Everything, that is, except the castle. The waning western light had reduced its mass to a craggy black thing lording its bulk over its surroundings be they on the land, in the sky or out at sea just to the west of the ancient fortress’ perimeter. This surreal trick of the light was enhanced by the dying rays of the sun, glinting off of the flint and granite blocks in the castle walls, washing them in an incandescent orange glow that made the ancient battlements look as though they dripped fresh blood.

  Five hundred yards to the east, the young man stretched his long legs toward the fire, painfully working a kink out of his back while pushing his feet, squishy inside their damp boots, a few inches closer to the fire. He was too tired, and too distracted, just now to bother taking them off. Later, when he went to bed, he would do something to make sure they weren’t soaked in the morning, but not now. Highlighted by the flickering light of the fire, his thin face appeared more pretty than handsome as he stared across the windswept plain. In the near distance he could hear the others laughing and talking outside their own tents, huddled near their fires to ward-off the chill sea air; but his mind was too far away to care. He was totally engrossed in studying the formless outline of the castle. Tintagel. The name alone, even without its massive bulk looming up directly in front of him, was enough to send tiny shivers across his back.

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