Gwydion said nothing as he entered the small cabin that had been cleared for them. The old man merely put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. Ruad shook it loose.
‘I’ve lost him,’ he said, slumping to a chair. Gwydion sat beside the Armourer, staring into the broad ugly face and seeing his own reflection in the bronze eye-patch. Ruad cursed. ‘I sent him to his death, just like all the others.’
‘He was a man, he made his own decisions,’ said Gwydion. ‘And Gods, Ruad, it was worth the risk. If the Knights of the Gabala could assemble once more, we could sweep the land clean of this evil — we could raise a rebel army.’
‘They are all dead, Gwydion. Let me rest.’ Ruad stumbled to a straw-filled mattress set against the wall and stretched himself out.
Gwydion moved to him. ‘I will give you sleep,’ he said, touching his finger to the wizard’s brow. Ruad’s eye closed, his breathing deepening. Gwydion reached effortlessly into the Colours, marvelling at the strength of the Green, feeling the power flowing from the millions of trees and the birds and animals drawn to them. He replenished his strength and opened his eyes. The candle was burning low and guttering, so he lit another from the stub of the first.
A light tapping disturbed his thoughts and he moved i to the door and opened it. A youth stood there, pale hair glistening in the moonlight. Behind him stood a taller man, dark-haired and dark-eyed.
‘Yes?’ asked Gwydion. ‘Is someone sick?’
‘No, sir,’ said the youth. ‘I am seeking Ruad Ro-fhessa. I was his apprentice; my name is Lamfhada.’
Gwydion reached out and touched the youth on the shoulder. There was no evil in him. ‘Enter,’ said the old man, ‘but talk softly, for Ruad is asleep — and he needs his rest.’
The newcomers entered the cabin and Gwydion stoked the fire, hanging a kettle over the coals. ‘Would you like some herb tea? It is sweet and aids gentle dreams.’
‘You do not remember me, do you?’ said the hard-faced man. He thrust out his right arm, exposing the leather-covered stump.
‘Elodan? I heard you were dead. I am glad to see the story was untrue. You must forgive me; I am growing old and forgetful. When last I saw you it was as a Knight arrayed in silver armour, a black-plumed helm on your head.’
‘Long ago, Gwydion. Another age. The world has changed since then — and not for the better.’
Gwydion poured boiling water into a copper pot and added dried leaves, stirring the mixture with a wooden spoon. He let it stand for several minutes and then transferred it to three round-bottomed mugs.
‘Why are you here?’ asked the old man.
‘I have hopes that the wizard can mend my arm,’ said Elodan. ‘Lamfhada tells me he can do anything.’
‘How did you find us?’
Lamfhada grinned. ‘I have been practising with the Colours. I cannot master the majors, but I can now fly the Yellow. And I sensed Ruad was in the forest, though I could not tell where except that it was to the east of where I was. Then we heard of a healer and a wizard, and men were speaking about the three golden hounds. I was there when Ruad was working on the last of them, so I knew it was him. Do you think he will be angry that I sought him out?’
‘I do not believe so,’ said Gwydion, ‘but he has suffered a terrible loss and you may find him… changed. Have patience, Lamfhada. And you, Elodan, do not expect overmuch. Ruad is a wizard of great power, but some things are beyond mere men.’
‘My hopes were never high, Gwydion. But we will see.’
Gwydion turned his attention back to the youth. ‘The Yellow,’ he said, ‘is a wondrous colour. I too learned my skills in such a way. It is the Colour of Dreams.’
‘And yet it has no power,’ said Lamfhada.
‘No, no, you are wrong. The Yellow leads us to all the other Colours. It is a guide. Without it there would be no wizards, no healers, no mystics, no seers. Tell me, as you ride the Yellow, what Colour do you find pushing at the edge of your mind?’
‘None, sir.’
‘In time you will find yourself drawn to another Colour, which will intrude as you fly the Yellow. For me it was Green and I became a healer; for others, like Ruad, it is Black. For some, sadly, it is the Red. But the Yellow will lead you to the Colour of your life, for good or ill.’
‘Are all men governed by Colours, then, even when they are not sorcerers?’ Lamfhada asked.
‘Of course. The Colours are life. Look at Elodan — what Colour does his soul wear?’
The warrior said nothing, but Lamfhada swung to look at him. ‘I do not know,’ said the youth. ‘How does one tell?’
‘It takes little magic, my boy,’ said Gwydion. ‘A farmer is a man who loves the land and the yield of the land. His is the Green of growth. But a warrior? What other Colour is there for a man who lives to strike his fellows with a razored blade, or a deadly mace, or a flashing lance? Elodan’s Colour is Red, and he knows it. He has always known it. Am I right, King’s champion?’
Elodan shrugged. ‘There will always be a need for warriors. I feel no shame at what I… was.’
‘Ah, but then you were not a warrior because of that need. You chose the path because you enjoyed the fight.’
‘That is true. Does it make me evil?’
‘No, but neither does it bring you close to sainthood,’ said Gwydion, reddening. He took a deep breath. ‘Forgive me, Elodan. I have no right to berate you. But much of my life has been spent healing wounds caused by swords or arrows or axes; dealing with the result of hatred, lust or greed. I know you are not evil — but I loathe the men of swords. Come, it is late. Rest here, and we will speak to Ruad in the morning.’
Errin regained consciousness after a few moments and sat up groggily. Ubadai helped him to his feet. ‘Bad chin,’ said the tribesman, grinning. Errin staggered.
‘I’m sorry,’ apologized Sheera. ‘I thought you’d move or something. I mean, the speed with which you tackled the beast… Are you all right?’
‘Only my pride suffered lasting damage,’ said Errin. ‘Can I sit down somewhere?’
‘Not here,’ replied Ubadai, gesturing at the bodies. ‘Blood will bring many creatures — wolves, lions, who knows? You can sit on my horse.’
‘No, he can’t,’ said Sheera. ‘It ran as soon as you dismounted.’
‘Better and better,’ Ubadai grunted. The tribesman scanned the area, then pointed to a nearby hill. ‘There should be caves — with our luck, many beasts there. Hip-deep in beasts. Still…’ He gathered the saddlebags and provisions from Errin’s dead mount, and waited while Sheera fetched her meagre pack from the shelter beneath the tree. Then he supported Errin as they moved slowly uphill. The fresh mountain air soon revived the nobleman. As Ubadai had predicted, there were many shallow caves. He entered one on the south of the hill, but backed out swiftly. ‘Bear,’ he said. The second cave was empty and the Nomad gathered wood and built a fire.
Sheera settled down beside the fire, grateful for the warmth, and sat watching Errin. ‘I really am sorry,’ she said.
He shrugged. ‘Don’t be. I never was very good at defending myself. My old sword tutor said my wrists were as strong as damp lettuce.’
‘You moved well enough against the beast, and that sword-thrust all but disembowelled it.’
‘Beast was dying anyway,’ Ubadai told Sheera. ‘You could have killed it with that branch.’
‘What is that supposed to mean?’ Errin asked.
Ubadai shrugged. ‘Sick, maybe. But when it killed horse it nearly fell. It did not charge — it staggered.’