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Were I higher on the slope of Wirrheal I would be able to see the hills of the Silures, purple and soft in the distance. Beyond them, far from my sight, the mountains said to be the home of the fferyllt. The home of the cup. Those who work the tin and lead of Cornualle and the Mendydd tell of these magical craftsmen in the far mountains, druid alchemists who work spells into the blowing of glass, and wisdom into the elements. The sun is warm on my face, and I am weary, and again my spirit wanders, across the water and the far hills, to the slopes of yr Wyddfa.
I see in my mind the hidden city of Emrys, on the high escarpment of Penmaen, and within it the stronghold of Braich y Dinas, called by many Dinas Affaraon, the Fortress of High Powers. I know no person who has been there, though tales abound, so I use only my imagination to see the towers and flying banners emblazoned with the dragons of the fferyllt. In a courtyard hard against the mountain wall there hangs a cauldron over a blazing fire. Around it are the chemists, stripped to the waist against the blazing heat, pouring into the cauldron their secret proportions: fine white sand from the outer isles, and copper from the hills, and other things I know not of. Within the cauldron is the rich glow of blue, molten glass. A Lady, beautiful and terrible seems to appear from the flames, wearing a deep scarlet robe. She stirs the cauldron with a great paddle and then, wondrously, reaches into the molten glass and lifts out a blue cup fully formed and glowing with life. "I am the renewal of life," she says in a voice that is at once a gentle mist and a raging torrent. A squall of snow swirls off the summit of the mount, obscuring the scene, and I realize with a smile that I have once again clothed the simplicity of these lands in images of my Romanized mind.
---- Chapter Eight
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