"There is a great contest," she said, "to be held in my land. He who can craft the finest verse shall win that which is greater than gold can buy. But he that reads another's words as his own shall pay dearly for his plagiarism. But the prize ..."

Marchwyr was curious. "What -is- greater than gold can buy?"

"The answer to that question is different for every man, woman and child. Something that is precious to one, which is worthless to another."

"Where is this land of yours?" Marchwyr inquired, dreamily.

Her dainty, noble hand pointed off toward the mountains. "At a certain summit of Yr Wyddfa, at twilight on the 24th of November, the clouds that gather thereat are strong enough to walk upon. Simply step onto the clouds and walk West, and you will come upon my land of Ylleugedd. I hope I will see you there ..."

As the opiate dream began to fade into slight whisps of memory, Marchwyr reached out his hand to touch the woman before she disappeared. In the desperateness of the moment, his hand struck the harsh stone of the well. He shook the pain out of his hand, and his mind became set on what he was supposed to do - spend the next months composing the greatest verse he could muster.

There was a problem ... Caswallawn wouldn't allow such a thing so early in his studies. Marchwyr would have to be cautious and secretive. So, in the balm of the afternoon, he set off back toward the castle, to begin his task.