His headlong flight slowed as he reached the edge of the forest. Gazing down at himself, he saw he was naked and standing on a golden circle. Far below him lay the trees, and he could see a stag running on a hillside, pursued by wolves. He shivered, afraid that he would fall from the circle, wishing it had walls. The circle curved up into a half-sphere and he sat back on a high seat.
This was wondrous beyond his dreaming.
On the hillside the stag had turned to face the pack. Lamfhada watched as it lowered its head. A wolf leapt — only to be hurled into the air. A second wolf moved in behind the stag… then another. Their fangs tore at the animal and the stag fell, its throat ripped, blood spilling to the earth. Lamfhada was struck by a terrible sadness, and the golden sphere dropped to the earth. Frightened by the light, the wolves ran off. Lamfhada stepped from the sphere and approached the dead stag. It was old, its fur grey around the mouth. The boy knelt by it and reached out; but his hand passed through the beast, and he remembered that it was his spirit that flew. Golden light flamed from his hand, filling the body of the stag. The wounds closed and the grey hairs vanished. Old, stretched muscles swelled with youth and vitality. The stag’s head came up, it surged to its feet and with one leap it bounded from the hilltop. The wolves closed in, but its speed carried it clear as it ran for the sanctuary of the distant trees.
Lamfhada climbed into the sphere and took to the skies, joy flooding him.
At the edge of the forest once more, he gazed out over the realm beyond and saw the Red gathering like a distant sunset. He sensed another presence and saw a man hovering in the sky. He was dressed in red armour and his hair was glittering white in the moonlight — and yet as Lamfhada looked closer, he saw the knight was almost transparent.
‘Who are you?’ asked Lamfhada.
Blood-red eyes turned on him and the Knight tried to fly closer. But the Gold turned him back.
‘I am Cairbre,’ the Knight whispered. ‘And you?’
‘Lamfhada. Why are you here?’
‘To see, to learn. Are you with Llaw Gyffes?’
‘Yes. Do you know him?’
The Knight smiled. ‘I will know him… soon. His pitiful little army will see the power of the New Gabala. Tell him I said this. Tell him the King is coming in the spring, with all his soldiers. Tell him there is nowhere to hide from the Red Knights.’
‘He would not hide,’ said Lamfhada. ‘He will not fear you.’
‘All creatures of flesh and blood should fear me,’ declared Cairbre, ‘and all who ride with me. You, boy, what is the source of your magic?’
‘I do not know,’ said Lamfhada warily. ‘I am new to the Colours.’
‘There is only one Colour of importance,’ snapped the Knight.
‘You speak of the Red. Yet it cannot heal.’
‘Heal? It can create a form that needs no healing. Why do I talk to you? Begone, boy! I have no wish to slay you.’
‘Are you in pain?’ asked Lamfhada suddenly. ‘Are you ill?’
Cairbre’s eyes flashed and he dragged his sword from its ghostly scabbard, swinging the blade at the golden sphere. But the sword bounced back and Cairbre’s face grew ever more pale.
He dropped the sword, which floated by his side. ‘Kill me,’ he said. ‘Come on, boy, kill me!’
‘Why? Why should I do such a terrible thing?’
‘Terrible? You have no idea of the meaning of the word. But you will, when we come for you in the spring. Tell Llaw Gyffes you saw me. Tell him.’
‘I will. Why do you hate him?’
‘Hate? I do not hate him, boy. I hate myself; to all else I am indifferent.’ The Knight turned away and grew ever more transparent, then suddenly he turned, his body bathed in brilliant red. ‘Ollathair!’ he cried. ‘You come from Ollathair!’
Lamfhada shrank back and a wall of golden light sprang between them.
The Knight began to laugh. ‘Oh, this is rich! Go to him. Send him my regards. Cairbre-Pateus sends greetings!’
And then he was gone.
Lamfhada fled for the cabin and the safety of his body. He awoke with a start, wondering if he had dreamt his flight, yet he could still see the burning eyes of the Knight.
He sat up. In the opposite corner lay Elodan, fast asleep; Gwydion still sat at the table, staring into a goblet. Lamfhada rose.
‘Can you not sleep?’ asked the Healer.
‘May I speak with you, sir?’
‘Why not? There is little else to occupy us.’
‘I have found my Colour.’
Gwydion’s eyes sparkled and he clapped Lamfhada’s shoulder. ‘That is good. I hope it is Green; the world has need of Healers.’
‘It is Gold.’
‘There is no Gold, boy. You are still in the Yellow.’
‘No, sir. I floated in a golden boat and saw an ancient stag die. I gave it life, and it rose.’
‘Pah! What you had was a dream — but it sounds a damn fine one!’
Lamfhada shook his head. ‘Wait! Let me try again.’ He closed his eyes and reached for the Colours. The Yellow welcomed him, but of the Gold there was no sign.
‘Do not be disheartened, lad,’ said Gwydion. ‘These things take time. What else did you see?’
‘I saw a Red Knight floating at the edge of the forest. He gave me a message for Ollathair; he said Cairbre-Pateus sends greetings.’
Gwydion recoiled, the colour draining from his face.
‘Do not deliver that message! Do not speak of it. Do not even think of it.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘And that’s as it should be. But trust me, Lamfhada. Say nothing. It was just a dream… just a very bad dream.’
Ubadai knelt by the body that lay across the trail. It had six legs and was covered in scaled skin. The jaws were longer than a man’s arm, and were rimmed with three rows of teeth.
‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ declared Errin. ‘And there’s not a wound on it.’
Ubadai placed his hand on the creature’s chest. ‘All muscle,’ he stated. ‘No fat; this one freeze to death.’
‘They had many strange beasts in the zoo at Furbolg,’ said Sheera. ‘Perhaps someone was transporting more from the coast and they escaped?’
Ubadai shrugged. ‘Maybe. But I grew to manhood on the Steppes, and I never heard of a lizard with six legs. We should find a safe place to camp. The sun goes down — maybe more beasts.’
Warily they stepped around the carcass and continued on up a winding trail. At the top of the hill the path widened and split, one trail leading to the east, the other south. Ubadai sniffed the air. ‘That way,’ he said, pointing east.
Errin was too tired and cold to argue; he hitched his saddlebags to his left shoulder and walked on. After another quarter of a mile they came to a bend in the trail, and there ahead of them was a small stone-built house nestling against the side of a sheer rock wall.
Before it, on the snow, sat an old man in faded blue robes. His head was bald and round, but a white forked beard grew to his chest.
‘Is he dead?’ Errin asked, as Ubadai approached the man.
The old man’s eyes opened.
‘No, I am not dead,’ he snapped. ‘I was thinking, I was enjoying the solitude.’
‘My apologies,’ offered Errin, bowing low. ‘But are you not cold sitting there?’
‘What has my condition to do with you? This is my home and this is my body. If it is cold, that is its own affair.’
‘Indeed it is, sir,’ agreed Errin, forcing a smile. ‘Look, my companions and I are in need of shelter. Could we prevail upon you to allow us to spend the night in your home?’