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walked to the fallen man, who was struggling to sit; hoisting him to his feet by his hair, he led him to his horse and bundled him over the saddle. Lord Errin grinned, tugged on the reins of his stallion and galloped from the yard.
    The man with the bruised throat lagged behind, then rode to where Ruad stood.
    ‘I tell you . . .’ he began. Ruad cut him short.
    ‘Please,’ he said, spreading his hands, ‘do not promise we will meet again. Insults make me angry, but threats bore me. And when I am bored, I am sometimes violent. And neither of us wants that, little man.’ The rider jerked the reins savagely and kicked his mount into a canter.
    After he had gone Ruad wandered to the well, hauled up a bucket of cool water and sat on the wooden bench to drink and watch the stars.
    Lug had been right to be fearful. The Duke would have been a poor slave-master. The Craftsman closed his eye and searched through the Colours. The boy would be frightened, his emotions racing. Ruad never liked to use the Red, for it always led to paths where evil walked. But the Red was strong and it knew fear. He found the current and concentrated on Lug. Within seconds he snapped clear and turned.
    ‘Come out, boy,’ he called, and the door of the woodshed opened and Lug stepped into the moonlight. ‘You almost made a liar of me!’
    ‘I had nowhere else, Master. But tomorrow I will find Llaw Gyffes — if he will have me.’
    ‘Come inside,’ said Ruad softly. ‘I have a few . . . toys . . . that may help you on your way.’
    Inside the cabin, Ruad stoked the coals to life and hung the old iron flat pan above the flames. Into this he scooped a little fat and as it began to sizzle he cracked four eggs into the pan.
    ‘I take it you are hungry, young Lug?’
    ‘Yes, Master. Thank you. But, with respect, I reached my majority yesterday. I am Lug no longer; I am a man, and it is not fitting to carry a child’s name.’
    ‘Indeed it is not,’ agreed Ruad. ‘What name have you chosen?’
    ‘Lamfhada, Master. I have long coveted the name.’
    ‘LongArm. Yes, it is a good name. The first Knight of the Gabala was called Lamfhada. If you bring to it a fraction of his fame, you will do well.’
    ‘I will do my best, Master. But I am no hero.’
    Ruad slid the eggs from the pan to a wooden platter. Then, slicing several pieces from the dark loaf he had made the day before, he passed the meal to the newly-named Lamfhada.
    ‘Do not judge yourself too harshly yet. I knew no Knights who sprang, fully-armoured, from the womb. All were striplings once.’
    ‘Have you known many Knights?’ Lamfhada asked.
    ‘Many,’ agreed Ruad, pouring a goblet of water and cutting himself a slice of bread.
    ‘Why did they leave, Master?’
    ‘You are full of questions, young man. And stop calling me Master — a man such as yourself may now address me as Craftsman. Or, as when you completed the bird, you may call me Ruad.’
    ‘You would allow me to use your given name?’ whispered the boy.
    ‘It is not my given name,’ Ruad told him, ‘but I would be pleased if you used it.’ The boy nodded and finished his meal, wiping the bread over the platter to scour the last traces of egg-yolk.
    ‘I hope my coming here will not bring you trouble. They will use the Seer, Okessa, to find me; he will know I was here.’
    ‘No,’ said Ruad, showing his crooked teeth in a wide grin. ‘They do not have a Seer good enough to penetrate my secrets - not even Okessa. Do not fear for me. Now, let me give you a present. Come.’ He led the runaway through to the workshop where he opened an oak chest that lay against the far wall. From it he took a pair of doehide boots, edged with silver thread. ‘Try them on,’ he told the boy.
    Lamfhada pulled off his sandals and struggled into the boots. ‘They are a little big.’
    Ruad pressed his fingers against the boy’s toes.
    ‘Thick socks should make them more comfortable, and you can grow into them.’
    ‘Are they