‘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.’
‘That’s a nice thought,’ snapped Errin. ‘The conquering Knight kills a sick beast - hardly the basis for a great saga. It didn’t look ill to me.’
‘Yes, it did,’ said Sheera. ‘Its chest was almost blue. And it did fall before attacking.’
‘It had thin skin,’ said Ubadai. ‘Not good for cold.’
‘Can we stop feeling sorry for the creature?’ asked Errin. ‘It wasn’t exactly a wounded rabbit.’
‘You wait here,’ said the Nomad. ‘I’ll find horse.’
After the tribesman had gone, Sheera built up the fire. ‘It doesn’t matter that the beast was not at full strength, Errin. You still tackled it - and you pulled me clear of the talons with astonishing speed.’
He grinned at her. ‘I was rather pleased with that.’ He wanted to tell her about the belt, but thought better of it; it was pleasant to be seen in an heroic role. Looking at Sheera, he was struck by her similarity to her sister: the same wide eyes and full lips, the same piercing gaze. Sheera was taller, her hair shorter and more tightly curled, but there was no doubting the blood line.
‘What is wrong?’ she asked, as she saw his face change.
‘Nothing. Would you like something to eat?’
‘Not at the moment. I’m still a little queasy from the battle.’
‘It was brave of you to stand before the beast with just a burning branch,’ he said. ‘You looked very impressive there.’
‘I didn’t have time or space to use my bow. You showed great skill in charging your horse at it.’
‘I can’t claim too much credit for that; the poor animal was trying to stop and lost its footing.’ He looked away and silence fell between them. ‘Look . . .’ he said at last. ‘About Dianu . . .’
‘Let’s not talk about it,’ she said, her face hardening.
‘There are some things that must be said. I was a fool; I know that, and no amount of breast-beating will erase it. But I knew nothing of the danger she was in; I did not know you had Nomad blood.’
‘You killed her, Errin. Your arrow pierced her heart.’
He closed his eyes, then opened them to stare into the flames. ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘My arrow . . . but you do not know what it was like. I had a broken leg and was making my escape. I wanted to rescue her, but I could not get down from my horse. When I rode to the hilltop, she was being tied to a stake at the top of a pyre -’
‘I don’t want to hear this!’
But Errin pushed on. ‘If I had reached her, I could not have freed her. She would either have burnt slowly to death or choked on the smoke. What would you have done, Sheera?’
‘All those people around her,’ she whispered. ‘She must have known many of them. She used to distribute gifts in Mactha - food and coin for the needy. Yet they cheered as she was led to the stake; we heard that in Pertia. And they screamed in rage when you robbed them of their sport. What makes people act like that? How could they be so cruel? So evil?’
He shook his head. ‘How can I answer? Some weeks ago a slave boy ran away after I had bought him as a gift for the Duke. I hunted him down, and when he had almost escaped I loosed an arrow into his back. Why? How can any man answer? He was mine; he disobeyed me; I watched him crawl into the forest to die alone. It’s been on my mind ever since. I cannot justify it - no more could any man present when Dianu died justify his passions.’
‘Are you sure the boy died?’
‘No, but the arrow went deep.’
For a while they sat in silence, then Sheera spoke again. ‘It is hard to believe how soon the world can change. I spent four years in Furbolg - attending school, enjoying feasts and dances and banquets. I even met the King. He was tall and not old, but his eyes were strange and cold. I did not like him, nor his new Knights. Many rumours sprang up about them. Some men said they were demons from another world; others claimed they were sorcerers who sacrificed living victims on a secret altar. Then the fear began - the arrests, the executions, the mobs chanting in the streets. I used to walk along the Perfumed Path at night - you recall it?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘A haunt for lovers. Roses and many other flowers lined the path all the way to the Royal Park.’
‘No one used it during my last year in Furbolg. Four women disappeared while walking it, two others were attacked and raped. It became a place of fear. And the murders and robberies! Not a day passed without word of some new outrage, but even that was not enough to concern the nobility. Then one evening at the palace everything changed. The King had ordered a special feast; we arrived late and saw that the palace hall was packed with beds and couches and everywhere people were rutting. The slave at the door told my uncle that no man was allowed to remain with his wife; all had to find other partners. We slipped away then, and that’s when my uncle sent me to Dianu and our plan to escape was formed.’
‘The King turned the palace into a brothel?’ exclaimed Errin. ‘And the nobles stood for it?’
‘Four who refused to take part were later accused of treachery. That’s when the King’s champion, Elodan, left his service and challenged the Red Knight, Gairbre. We were already on the road by then, but we heard of the fight.’
‘Yes,’ said Errin softly. ‘Cairbre told me of it. The world has thrown away its sanity.’
‘Not the whole world, Errin. Only the Gabala.’
‘Perhaps Cartain will raise an army strong enough?’
‘No, he will not,’ said Sheera fiercely. ‘Cithaeron is far away. And, anyway, there is already an army here. You have heard of Llaw Gyffes? Now is the time, Errin. Not in a year or ten years. Now!’
‘But the man is a peasant - you can’t be serious.’
‘A peasant? I would sooner be ruled by an honest peasant than a mad king. But his army would grow even faster if men like you were allied to him.’
Errin shook his head. ‘I have heard many stories of the legendary wife-killer, but I have never seen this army. What would it consist of? Killers, thieves, robbers? Would these put an end to King Ahak’s reign of terror — or add to it?’
‘When I was a child,’ said Sheera, ‘there was a fire on the estate. Our foresters set another blaze before it, burning all the ground in its path. The first fire was starved and died, and the land was safe. Within a few years you would never have known there had been two fires.’
Ubadai entered the cave. ‘No good,’ he said. ‘Horse bolted and I saw wolf tracks. We walk now.’
‘Back to Pertia?’ enquired Sheera softly.
‘No,’ said Errin. ‘We’ll find Llaw Gyffes.’
‘Better and better,’ grunted Ubadai.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Lamfhada lay in a warm corner of the cabin covered by a thick woollen blanket, his head resting on an embroidered cushion. He could hear Elodan and Gwydion talking in low voices, but the sound washed over him as he reached for the Yellow. He was anxious to see which Colour approached the edge of his vision. Would he be a Healer, or a Wizard, or a Seer, or a Craftsman? He closed his eyes, drawing the Yellow to him and feeling its warmth. His body lost all sensation of weight and he seemed to be floating effortlessly in a warm sea, slowly rolling over and over, yet rising into the glow above. Often he had reached this stage, but mostly he remained a little below it, bathing in the Yellow. Tonight he rose and rose, seeking the Colour of his life. The Yellow deepened into Gold and his eyes snapped open to see the sky was ablaze with colour: Red, Green, White, Blue, Black, Violet - and Gold. They merged and swelled together and he felt himself on a river of magic, whirling above the forest. At first he was frightened and struggled to return, but the Gold brought him tranquillity and he fastened to it.
And from the darkest, deepest corner of the hall of memory came the realization that he had touched the Gold once before - as a nine-year-old child torn by grief at the death of his mother. He remembered the hooded man chanting on the hill and knew him as Ruad Ro-lhessa, the wizard Ollathair. But there was another man close by, he recalled: a man who had sent the frightened boy home. Yet his name was still lost to Lamfhada.
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.’