In all, I would say the land breathed sorrow. No, that is too strong a word; melancholy, is better. This narrow hump of rock and turf was sinking beneath a dolorous weight, moody and unhappy. The strange hills were sullen, and the valleys sombre.

As we rode along our way, I tried to discern what it was that made the region appear so cheerless. Did the sun not shine as brightly here as elsewhere? Was the sky hereabouts not as blue, the hills less green?

In the end, I decided that places, too, have their own peculiar natures. Like men, a realm can be marked by the same qualities that characterize the soul: amiable, sad, optimistic, despairing… Perhaps over time the land takes on the traits of its masters so that it comes to reflect these traits as impressions to anyone who journeys there. I believe that certain powerful events leave behind their own lingering traces which also colour the land in subtle ways.

This was Llyn Llyonis, now known and feared by many as Llyonesse. I could understand the fear – Llyonesse was not a convivial place. And the sense of brooding sorrow increased the closer we came to Belyn's palace, which was perched on the high cliffs of the land's end, facing west. Like Ynys Avallach, it was a strong place: high-walled, gated, and towered. It was larger, for more of Atlantis' survivors had stayed with Belyn than had gone north with Avallach in those early years.

Belyn received us with restrained courtesy. He was, I think, happy to see us, but wary as well. My first impression of him was of a man given to bitterness and spite; one in whom life has grown cold. Even his embrace was chill – like hugging a snake.

Maildun, my uncle whom I had never met, was no better. In appearance he was very like Avallach and Belyn; the family resemblance was strong. He had the imperious bearing and was a handsome man, but arrogant, moody and intemperate. And, like the land he lived in, possessed of a potent melancholy that hung on him like a cloak.

Nevertheless, Gwendolau and Baram did their utmost to ensure there would be no misunderstanding of their motives. They gave the gifts Avallach had sent with them, carefully explained their reason for coming, and generally behaved as brothers long lost and lamented. They must have sensed the temper of the men with whom they had to deal, for they treated them warmly and, before our stay was over, won Belyn as a friend, if not Maildun as well.

I suppose there were important matters accomplished, but I do not remember them. My attention was otherwise engaged.

From the moment we rode into the foreyard of the palace, my spirit felt a heavy, suffocating oppression. Not fear – not yet; I had not learned to fear it – but the stifling, cloying closeness of a thing wretched and pathetic. I knew that this, and no other reason, was why I had come. And I decided to make it my affair to learn the source of this strange emanation.

I paid the required respects, and then, as unobtrusively as possible, made myself free in Belyn's palace. My first discovery was a young steward, a boy named Pelleas, I had seen lurking about. As he appeared to have no formal duties, I made him my ally and befriended him. He was eager to help me explore the palace, and I was gratified to have such a resourceful guide. Pelleas also knew quite a little about matters of court, and was not shy about revealing what he knew.

'All you see here was built later,' he told me when I asked. 'There is an older stronghold a little way up the coast – not much, mind, just a tower and an enclosure for cattle.'

For two days we had been searching the extensive grounds and buildings of the palace, and had not found what I was looking for. Time was running short; Gwendolau and Belyn were about to conclude their business.

'Take me there,' I said.

'Now?'

'Why not? Does not a steward serve a guest's every need?'

'But -'

'Well, I feel the need to go and see this tower of which you speak.'

We saddled horses and rode out at once, though the sun was already well down on its plunge towards the sea. The sea cliffs of Llyonesse possess a lonely and rugged beauty, looming over relentless waves that hurl themselves ceaselessly against black rock roots, to break and break again in frothy seafoam. On the sea side, what trees dare break soil grow as stunted, mis-shapen things: thin and with twisted branches for ever swept backward by the constant blowing of the sea wind.

The trail to the tower hugged the lea of the hills so that the wind off the sea did not buffet us so badly, but we felt the rhythmic thrumming of the waves resounding through caves deep underground.

The sun was touching the sea, pooling light like molten brass on the far horizon, when we came within sight of the tower. Despite what Pelleas had said, it was no mean thing. Many a British king would have considered himself blessed to own such a stronghold, and would have made it all his world. It was of the same peculiar white stone as Belyn's palace, which in the dying sunglow became the colour of old bone. It was square-built for strength, but tapered from its solid foundations to a series of rounded turrets so that, as we rode towards the scarp of land on which it stood, it looked like a thick neck with a face for each direction.

This, then, was where the last of Atlantis' children made their home on these foreign and forbidding shores. It was here the three crippled ships made landfall, here that Avallach and Belyn settled the remnant of their race before moving on to claim other lands.

Surrounding the fortress was a cattle enclosure of stone on top of an earthen bank, now ruined in many places. Heather flowed about the place like a second sea, inundating the inner grounds and washing right up to the stone tower itself. We tied the horses outside the turf bank and walked in through one of the numerous gaps in the fallen wall into the inner yard.

The tower gave no signs that anyone lived within, but the deepening sense of lethargy, of hopeless woe, gave me to know that I had found the source of the oppression I sought. The tower was inhabited, but by what sort of creature I had yet to discover.

Pelleas called out a timid greeting as we came into the yard. Our shadows leaped across the derelict ground and onto the tinted stone. There was no answer to his call, but neither did we expect one. He pushed open the wooden door and we entered.

Though weak sunlight streamed through the high, narrow windows, the shadows already grew deep in the place. Opposite the entrance sat a huge, cauldron-hung hearth with two chairs nearby. But the hearth was filled with ashes, and the ashes cold.

Wooden stairs leading to the upper chambers stood at the far end of the room. As I started towards the stairs, Pelleas lay hand on my arm and shook his head. 'There is nothing here. Let us go.'

'All will be well,' I told him. My voice sounded thin and unconvincing in the place.

The upper level was honeycombed with small rooms, one leading on to the next. Twice I glimpsed the sea through an open window, and once I saw the trail we had ridden to reach the tower. But one room contained another stairway and this one was stone and led to a single topmost chamber.

I entered the chamber first. Pelleas did not care to have anything to do with this search, and only followed me because he was not willing to stay behind alone.

At first I thought the man in the chair by the window must be dead – perhaps had died this very day, this hour. But his head turned as I crossed the threshold and I saw he had been sleeping. Indeed, he had the look of one who had been asleep for many years.

His white hair hung in wisps, thin as spidersilk; his hands, crossed on his breast, were boney and long, the untrimmed fingernails thick and yellowed. His face was that of one long dead: grey and spotted with blotches that faded into his moth-eaten scalp. The eyes that stared from his head were sunken pits rimmed red and weepy.