‘I do not like company,’ the old man replied.
‘Then sit out here in the snow,’ said Ubadai. He turned to Errin. ‘Why waste time on a stupid old fool? Let’s get inside.’
‘No!’ said Errin. ‘We will find a cave or something.’
The old man grinned. ‘I have changed my mind,’ he announced. ‘You may stay. I expect you will want to light a fire. There is no wood and you will need to gather some. I believe there is an old axe inside.’
Ubadai muttered something under his breath and strode into the house, emerging moments later with the weapon. Errin bowed once more to the man sitting in the snow.
‘Why did you change your mind?’ he asked.
‘Because I am capricious by nature. Now go away and let me think.’
Errin and Sheera moved into the dwelling. There was only one large room, neatly laid out with a bed in one corner and a table with two bench seats set in the centre. The hearth was cold and empty, and there was sign of neither cooking utensils nor food of any kind.
‘I’ll gather some tinder,’ said Sheera. Nodding, Errin dumped his saddlebags against a wall. The stone house was colder than death; ice had formed on the northern wall, where water had flowed through a crack in the roof. He walked over to the bed, where a single threadbare blanket was casually laid. There was no mattress, merely a line of wooden slats.
Errin looked around; the room was stark and inhospitable. He walked out into the gathering dusk, skirted the seated figure and joined Sheera in her wood gathering. In the distance they could hear the steady thud of the axe. For some while they gathered what dead-wood could be found and carried it into the house. Sheera started a fire, but its warmth took an age to penetrate the grim cold of the dwelling.
Ubadai came in after an hour and threw the axe against the far wall. His face was red and shining with sweat. ‘Need help,’ he muttered. Errin and Sheera followed him to a clearing where he had cut down a dead tree, and reduced it to manageable chunks and sections. It was dark by the time they had ferried the fuel to the house, and the fire was blazing brightly in the hearth.
The trio sat round the blaze long into the night, and every once in a while Errin would rise, walk to the door and stare out into the moonlight where the old man was still sitting. It had begun to snow. At last Errin went out to where he sat and squatted down in front of him.
‘Excuse me, sir.’
The man’s dark eyes opened. ‘You again? What is it now? You have the house — what more do you want?’
‘Are you trying to die?’
‘What if I am?’
‘I… I know that is your own business, but the house is now warm and I would feel more comfortable if you joined us. Perhaps we could talk. Death is very rarely an answer to anything.’
‘Don’t be foolish, boy. Death is the final answer to everything. It is the end of every journey; it is peace and an end to strife.’
‘Yes,’ Errin agreed, ‘but it is also an end to laughter and joy, to companionship, to love. And most of all it is an end to dreams and hopes.’
‘Ah, yes, but then death holds no terrors for a man without dreams and hopes. Has it occurred to you that the more we love, the greater is our sadness? For ultimately all things end. No dream is ever completely fulfilled.’
‘Could it not be said the other way around?’ offered Errin. ‘The greater our sadness, the greater our joy. How can we recognize one without the counter-balance of the other?’
‘Answer me this, young debater: if a man loves a woman for forty years, adores her, lives for her, how great is the pain when she dies and leaves him alone? Given the choice to go back and start again, would he not be wise to avoid the first meeting and live his life without love?’
Errin smiled. ‘Does a man who lives in winter regret the summer? Would he choose to spend his life in a perennial autumn? The argument is not a good one, sir. Come inside and enjoy the fire.’
‘The fire is immaterial, but I will join you.’ The old man rose smoothly, brushed the snow from his clothes and followed Errin inside. Sheera was asleep by the fire and Ubadai was sharpening the old axe. He looked up at the old man.
‘Not dead yet, then?’ said the Nomad.
‘Not yet,’ the man agreed.
Errin pushed shut the door and walked over to the fire, holding out his hands to the welcoming blaze. He removed his cloak and outer tunic, allowing the heat to wash over him. ‘How could you sit there so long?’ he asked as the old man sat beside him.
‘Feel my hand,’ said the stranger. Errin took it and found it was warmer than his own. ‘Incredible. How do you do it?’
‘He is a wizard,’ said Ubadai. ‘I could have told you this.’
‘Are you a sorcerer, sir?’ asked Errin. ‘Of a sort. I am the Dagda. But I cast no spells — you are safe here.’
‘What form does your magic take?’
‘Don’t ask!’ snapped Ubadai.
‘I tell the truth,’ the Dagda answered, ‘and I see all the spinning colours in the circle of life: the past, the present, and all of the futures.’
‘You tell fortunes,’ said Errin. ‘Could you tell mine?’
‘I could, Lord Errin. I could tell you everything that lies in store for you.’
‘Then do so, please.’
‘No. You see, I like you.’ He turned to Ubadai. ‘But you I will tell, should you desire it?’
‘Pah! Not me. You shamen are all alike. Death, despair, and bad luck. You say nothing to me, old man.’
‘Very wise, Ubadai,’ said the Dagda, smiling. ‘Will you answer me one question?’ asked Errin. ‘Perhaps.’
‘Can the King’s evil be defeated?’
‘You are sure Ahak is evil?’
‘Do you see his deeds as good?’ countered Errin. ‘We are talking of the man who led the last victorious army and successfully negotiated a peaceful end to the days of empire. We are talking about the King who introduced legal reforms to aid the poor, who set up a special tax so that food could be distributed among the poverty-stricken. And have you forgotten the free medicines for the sick and needy?’
‘I have not forgotten,’ replied Errin. ‘But nor can I forget the massacre of the Nomads, nor the disgusting events now taking place in the capital.’
‘And what does that tell you?’
‘That the King has become evil.’
‘Indeed, Lord Errin, it does. But the important word is become. There is something that has entered the realm, corrupting all it touches.’
‘I have no knowledge of that,’ said Errin softly, ‘but from wherever it comes, can it be defeated?’
‘The answer must be yes. Most evil springs from the hearts of men. And all men must die — therefore their evil dies with them. But your question was perhaps more specific. Can this evil be destroyed swiftly, by Llaw Gyffes? The answer, as we sit here, is no.’
‘But it could change?’ pressed Errin.
‘There are many futures, and every man has an opportunity to fashion his own. The Colours are shifting, the Harmony gone. But, yes, it could change. You see, the success or failure of your venture depends on the whim of a thief and a murderer.’
‘Llaw Gyffes?’
‘No. Get some sleep, Lord Errin. In the morning I will be gone. Rest here until you are ready to leave, then travel east. You will find the man you seek.’
‘And where will you go?’
‘Wherever I choose,’ answered the Dagda.
Groundsel found himself strangely reluctant to part with the golden-haired child he had carried from the blizzard, but once the refugees had been found quarters in the stockade an elderly woman approached him, naming herself as the girl’s grandmother. The child’s name was Evai, and Groundsel felt both pain and gratification as she wept when her grandmother took her to the makeshift huts being erected against the north wall.