‘I will not fail you, Samildanach. Be assured, he will die.’
Lamfhada watched the Red Knight disappear into the distance. ‘Ruad,’ whispered the youth. ‘Are you still here?’
‘He never was here,’ came a voice in his mind. ‘Return to your body. I will come to you within a short time.’
Lamfhada did as he was bid; then he stood, wrapped a blanket around his shoulders and silently moved past the sleeping Knights. Outside the cave, he sat on a rock and scanned the countryside. After a few minutes he saw a tall figure making his way up the rocky path. Dressed in long robes of faded blue and ancient leather sandals, the man was old, and completely bald; a forked white beard flowed to his chest and he was using a quarter-staff to aid him on his climb. The newcomer halted before Lamfhada.
‘I am the Dagda,’ he said, ‘and you were born under lucky omens.’
‘Thank you for your help. Why did you impersonate Ruad?’
The Dagda shrugged. ‘It was a necessary deceit which sowed the seed of fear in Samildanach’s mind. Also,’ he continued, sitting beside the youth, ‘I knew Ruad Ro-fhessa — and I think my deceit would have pleased him. How are you faring, Lamfhada?’
The Armourer shrugged. ‘I do my best. I can do no more. But I wish Ruad was here to guide me.’
‘That is understandable, but a man is strongest when he is alone. Remember that. You have the Knights, and I think the Source is with you. Even so, there is much you must suffer.’
‘I know all this. When I found the Gold I saw all that could be, all that should be, all that might be. What I could not discern was all that will be. Good men will die, I know that.’
‘All men die, good or otherwise,’ said the Dagda. ‘And I know what you saw. I was with you when you flew.’
‘You were the one whose presence I felt? I hoped it was Ruad.’
‘Do not be disappointed. I have waited for you for a very long time.’ The Dagda chuckled. ‘Precisely one hundred and forty-two years! Does that seem a long time to you, child? I can see that it does. Well, we are here now and you have much to learn.’
‘What do you mean… waited for me?’
‘You — or one like you. Ruad would have told you, had he lived. You walk the Gold, Lamfhada, and that is rare. It is special. All the Colours are subject to the Gold, and it is part of the Great Harmony that when the Colours are threatened the Gold shines. The Red is swelling over the Realm, but its users do not understand the Harmony. They seek to make the Red preeminent, but no Colour exists of itself. If the Red is allowed to dominate, the other Colours will fade and die» Neither can the Red exist alone. So then, those who seek to promote the Red are actually destroying all magic. And without magic, the world would have only one colour: it would be Grey — the grey of the tombstone, the grey of ashes. You understand?’
‘No,’ said Lamfhada. ‘Magic is used by very few. How would the world be harmed if it failed? Trees would still grow, flowers would bloom. Babies would still be born?’
‘No, that is not the case. All life is magic, and all men feel it. They see the spectacle of the dawn and they are filled with a sense of wonder. That is magic. See the look in the mother’s eyes as she holds her firstborn and cuts its cord. She understands magic. In that moment, for that precious second, she understands. But when the Harmony is disrupted — as now in the Realm — and the magic is under threat, there is only cynicism and despair and Man’s more brutal emotions begin to surface. No, my friend, the world needs magic as it needs air and water.’
‘Who are you, Dagda? What are you?’ Lamfhada asked. ‘Are you some sort of god?’
The old man shook his head. ‘I am a man. N^o more, no less. A long time ago I was — in the world’s eyes — a great man. But I forsook my life and its riches, for I yearned to know all the world’s secrets. I came to this forest and met a man — a man who had waited for me for eighty-seven years. He was the Dagda. And though his story was different from mine — as indeed yours will be — we were the same. We were rings in a chain that began when Man first reared to his hind legs, and will end when the stars fall and the sun dies… and perhaps not even then.’
Lamfhada’s mouth was dry and he wished to be free of this strange old man. As if sensing his fear, the Dagda placed a bony hand upon his shoulder.
‘We — he and I, you and I — are the Enchanters. We watch the Colours, and we nurse them. We walk the land and we maintain the Balance. Where all is war, and plague and death, we seek to aid the White or the Green or the Blue. Where all is peace and tranquillity, we strengthen the Red and the Black. But mostly we guard the Yellow, for as you now know, Lamfhada, the Yellow is merely the Gold disguised. And it is the Gold that maintains the other Colours.’
‘Why is this not known?’ Lamfhada asked him.
‘Once it was, boy. And through such knowledge, men made themselves gods and brought calamity upon themselves. Now it survives in folk tales and legend. The Sun worshippers echo the Mystery; they worship the sphere of Gold that feeds the earth. Think of it. All that grows or lives or breathes depends upon the sun. And that is so with the Colours. The Yellow is born of innocence and the laughter of children, fed by the sense of wonder in the young. In its turn, it nourishes the others. But now the truth has become a Mystery, for it is safer that way. I guard that mystery. Now you will guard it.’
‘What do you require of me?’
‘I? I require nothing. I have completed my task, as the Guardian before me completed his. He was the Dagda… now you are the Dagda.’
‘I do not wish to be.’
‘No more did I. It is lonely, Lamfhada. And yet it is fulfilling — you will find it so.’
‘And what if I die? Do you tell me the world will end? I do not believe it.’
‘If you die, another will be chosen. And you are only one of many. But you will not die yet. You did not see your own death in any of the futures, only the deaths of your Knights. I know; for I too have seen the futures. I will leave you now — you will need time to think.’
‘When will you come back for my answer?’
The old man smiled. ‘I will not come back. I have done all that I was required to do. Now I will find a place. I will watch the stars, and I will die at peace and join the Colours.’ The Dagda pushed himself to his feet and looked into Lamfhada’s eyes. ‘You have changed, young man, since I first saw you on that hillside six years ago, when you watched the Gabala Knights ride to a doom they did not deserve. And you will change even more through the long, lonely years ahead. Count the days, and the months and the years. And one day you will look into the face of a newcomer and you will see what I see. Farewell.’
‘I don’t want it. You cannot do this to me,’ shouted Lamfhada, storming to his feet.
But the old man ignored him. He had heard those same words before. One hundred and forty-two years, three months and eight days before. But then it was he who had spoken them.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Groundsel reined in his stallion at the top of the rise and gazed down in silent wonder at the Bridge of Chains, spanning the chasm. The bridge was constructed of huge rings of iron from which hung rods connected to more rings. To these were fastened wooden planks. The swaying structure began on the northern slopes of a wooded hill and stretched for almost a quarter of a mile to where it joined a stone promontory set beneath a portcullis gate. ‘How did they make it?’ asked Groundsel as Morrigan rode alongside him.