‘We voted it down, in a meeting!’ says Willow. ‘When a vote doesn’t go the way you want it to go, you can’t just ignore it. That’s not how votes work.’ Mariam squeezes her eyes closed. ‘Meetings aren’t going to save the planet.’ Willow holds up her hand. ‘Look at the bloody sky, Mariam. Is that going to save the planet?’

He’s not sure he entirely understands these women, the evils they’re fighting against, the dreams they’re fighting for. But he knows that they want to change things, and it’s foolish to try and stop the world from changing. No good digging your heels in, fighting for the old world when the old world’s already gone. All you can do is live in the new

‘Are there any more of these fracking places?’ he asks. ‘Anywhere else where they’re doing the same thing?’ She is sitting on one of the bunks now, with her socks up on the stained old covers. Hugging her knees. Giving him a strange look. ‘Yeah, loads. Why?’ ‘Whatever they were doing there, it had something to do with magic,’ he says. ‘And when

‘I don’t mean shagging him. That’s very on brand if you don’t mind my saying so. But I mean . . . you’re trying to save the planet, and your big idea was to try and get some bloke to fix everything?’ ‘He’s Arthur Pendragon, he’s not just “some bloke”.’ ‘Now you listen to me,’ says Nimue. ‘Arthur Pendragon is the definition of Just Some Bloke.

‘They’re not real in the same way that me and you are real. Or a horse, or a cow, or any other beast. But when you get some spare magic released into the world, then the magic doesn’t like being idle, so it takes the form of something. If it’s only a little bit of magic then it’ll just be a gnome or gremlin or something. If it’s a lot of magic, you

What has happened to the Medlwc? Does it just empty into this basin now, becoming a canal, losing all sense of itself as a wild thing that flows down from the hills? Kay hates it, the way people treat the world. People used to worship rivers. Now they brick them in, they make the water bend to their own will. They play at being gods themselves.

‘But it’s crazy,’ she says. ‘I’m not from Wales. I don’t speak Welsh. I don’t even like leeks!’ ‘But you have slain a dragon,’ says Gethin. ‘Look, this whole business of restoring the Welsh monarchy, it was all Dai’s idea. Twenty years ago, people would have laughed, if you told them there ought to be a King of Wales. But then Dai came along, and

Maybe he has friends in high places. Wyn’s been up there long enough to have endeared herself to the right people. She’s probably been baking treats for Saint Peter, who has provenance over this sort of thing. Walking down to the gates of heaven once a week with a wicker basket full of warm honey cakes. Talking idly about her heathen husband and

‘I haven’t seen a wyrm this big since that mess at Passchendaele,’ he says. ‘The blood sacrifice. It takes more than petty witchcraft to summon a big queen dragon like this.’