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magic, Ruad?’
    ‘Of course they are magic,’ snapped the Craftsman. ‘Do I look like a cobbler?’
    ‘What will they do?’
    ‘There is a word which I will write down for you, and when you say that word, the boots will give you speed and strength. You will be able to outrun any man and, over rough ground, even a horseman.’
    ‘I don’t know how to thank you. They must be priceless.’
    ‘Unfortunately they are a failure. Yes, even I fail, young Lamfhada. They will not hold the magic. They will give you an hour, maybe two; then they are just boots. But they are good boots.’
    ‘Can I not restore the magic?’ asked the lad.
    Ruad grinned. ‘It will be good practice for you to try, at least. You need the Power of the Black, which is Earth Magic. But the Black is capricious and not easily drawn . . . and you can only find it at night, under moonlight. I used gold thread, and there is no metal better attuned to the Currents. The difficulty is control. Too much gold and the power is such that no man could wear them and still keep his balance; one leap would carry you so high you’d die of the subsequent fall. Yet too little and the power is exhausted within an hour. The problem has irritated me for a decade.’
    ‘And the Word?’ Lamfhada asked.
    Ruad took a piece of charcoal and wrote it on the table-top. ‘Do you know how to pronounce it? And don’t do it!’
    ‘I know,’ said the runaway, his blue eyes locking to Ruad’s face. ‘That is your given name, is it not?’
    ‘It is, boy, and no man must know of it. That is why I asked you never to talk of your work here.’
    ‘You have shown great trust in me, Ruad. I will not betray it. How is it that men think you dead? And why would you want them to?’
    ‘You and I are no different, boy,’ Ruad told him. ‘All men are slaves. My joy is that I understand magic better than any man alive. I love to create things of beauty. The Knights of the Gabala were beautiful — their armour beyond compare, their hearts as pure as the hearts of men could be. But there are in the world other powers, aligned to the Red, linked to the Dark-light. My work was sought after by those powers and it still is. But you do not understand me, do you? And indeed, why should you?’
    ‘Your skill was desired by evil men,’ said Lamfhada. ‘I understand that.’
    ‘I was captured five years ago by the King’s men and taken to Furbolg; there they burned out my eye. The King wanted magic weapons, but I would give him none.’
    ‘How did you escape?’
    ‘By dying. My body was thrown into a pit beyond the castle walls.’
    Lamfhada made the sign of the Protective Horn and shivered, but Ruad chuckled. ‘By appearing to die! No heartbeat. No breath. They buried me - thankfully -in a shallow grave. I dug myself clear and staggered to the home of a friend. He nursed me for eight days; then I was smuggled out of the city and made my way here.’
    ‘One day they will find you, Master. Why not come with me to Llaw Gyffes?’
    ‘Because I am not ready. And I fear there is something I must undo. But you go. Live your life. Be free — or as free as any man can be.’
    ‘If only the Knights were still here,’ said Lamfhada sadly.
    ‘It is childish to dream of what can never be,’ Ruad whispered. ‘Now it is time for you to go.’ He opened a drawer under the bench, taking from it a long knife of razor-sharp steel. ‘Here, you may need this.’
    ‘Is it magic also?’
    ‘The worst kind of magic there is. With one thrust, you can destroy a lifetime of dreams and hopes.’
    Llaw Gyffes stood alone at the crest of the wooded hill on the edge of the forest, one hand resting on the broad trunk of a twisted oak, the other hooked into his wide leather belt. It had begun to rain, but the tall man appeared not to notice. His eyes were fixed on the jagged plain beyond the forest where several deer were grazing alongside a group of big-horn sheep. In the distance six riders were slowly