‘No!’ screamed Lug, raising a slender hand to point at the struggling bird. Ruad watched in amazement as two fragile bronze feathers which had dropped from the bird reversed their flight and pinned themselves to the wings once more. For a few seconds the hawk steadied. Then the wings snapped shut and it plummeted to the ground, lifeless and ruined. Lug ran to it, gathering the feathers and cradling the twisted body.
Ruad Ro-fhessa came up silently, laying his hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘Do not let this dismay you, Lug. My first bird did not even make the window. It was a great achievement.’
‘But I wanted it to live,’ he protested.
‘I know. And it did; it found the sky. Next time we will check the neck joints more thoroughly.’
‘Next time?’ repeated Lug sadly. ‘I reach the Age next week. There is no place for me in the House and I shall be sold.’
‘That is next week. Many things can happen,’ said Ruad. ‘Bring the bird back to the forge and we will see what can be saved.’
‘I think I will run away. I will join Llaw Gyffes.’
‘Stronghand may not be an easy man to follow — but we will talk about this on another day. Trust me, Lug. And now let us see to the bird.’
Ruad watched as the youth wandered the hillside gathering the fragments of metal. The feathers had fallen away — and then reversed their flight — albeit for only a few seconds. Yet Lug had only reached the Yellow, the least of the Colours.
Back at the workshop, they left the bronze fragments and sat by the fireside. Lug was silent and sorrowful.
‘Tell me,’ said Ruad softly. ‘What did you feel when you shouted to the sky?’
The youth looked up. ‘Despair,’ he answered simply.
‘No, I mean at the moment when you screamed.’
Lug shrugged. ‘I do not know what you mean, sir. I… wanted it to fly.’
‘Did you notice what happened when you called out to it?’
‘No. It fell.’
‘Not immediately,’ said Ruad. ‘It tried to gather itself; in some way you were still linked with it. But you say you felt nothing. What Colour did you feel? Was it the Blue?’
Lug sat for a moment, trying to remember. ‘No, it was the Yellow. I can only reach the other Colours through you, sir.’
‘No matter, Lug. I will think on it. It is almost time for you to be going; your free time ends at dusk, does it not?’
‘I have a little while,’ said the youth. ‘Marshin says the family will not return from Furbolg until tomorrow. They are bringing guests for the auction.’
‘It may not be as bad as you think,’ offered Ruad. ‘There are many good Houses. The Lady Dianu may need a house servant — or the Lord Errin. Both have good names for their treatment of slaves.’
‘Why should I be a slave?’ Lug snapped. ‘Why? The empire has gone. All the lands are now being ruled by peoples who were once slaves. Why should I remain? It isn’t fair!’
‘Life has a habit of not being fair, boy. The Fomorian War was the last, and you were a victim of it. But you will have an opportunity to buy your freedom; it is not so bad a life.’
‘Have you ever been a slave, sir?’
‘Only to my Craft,’ admitted Ruad. ‘But that does not count, does it? You were taken… what, five years ago? How old were you? Ten, eleven? It is the way of things, Lug. Wars cost money and that is recouped by plunder and slavery. The Gabala fought that war for national pride, for the right to give away their empire and not have it taken from them. You were one of the last victims. I know it is not fair, but a man who goes through life complaining about fairness will make nothing of himself. Trust me on this, boy. There are three kinds of men: winners, losers and fighters; The winners are blessed by the Colours; no matter what they do, life treats them like gods. The losers waste their energies whining like scolded children; they will amount to nothing. The fighters keep their swords sharp and their shields high; they expect nothing they do not battle for, but they fight until they drop.’
‘I do not want to be a warrior,’ said Lug.
‘Listen to me, boy!’ snapped Ruad. ‘And with your whole mind. I am not speaking of swordsmen, I am speaking of life. Your wits are both sword and shield; it is a matter of perspective. If you want something, then plan for it. Think of all that could go wrong, and picture all that can be done to make it right. Then do it. Don’t talk about it endlessly. Do it! Set your mind to the task. You have a good mind and a great Talent. I do not know how you held that bird in the air, but there is in you a power. So search for it. Build upon it. And never allow despair to rule your heart. You understand me?’
‘I will try, sir.’
‘That is a good enough answer. Now go home and I will examine the bird.’
Lug stood and smiled. ‘You have been very good to me, sir. Why do you take the time?’
‘Why should I not?’
‘I don’t know. In Mactha they say you are a hermit who dislikes the company of people. They say you are… rude and surly, ill-tempered and short of patience. But I have never found you to be so.’
Ruad rose and laid a huge hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘I am what they say, Lug. Make no mistake on that. I do not like people; I never have. Greedy, grasping, selfish and self-serving. But I have a way with Talent, boy. I can make it flourish — as a gardener with blooms. You remember the day I caught you hiding in the bushes behind the workshop?’
‘Yes,’ said Lug, grinning. ‘I thought you were going to kill me.’
‘On each Tiernsday for seven weeks you had hidden in that spot and watched me work. You showed patience — and that is rare in the young. That is why I decided to teach you a little of the Colours. And you have been a good student. If the Source is willing, you will continue so to be. Now be off with you!’
After the boy had gone, Ruad gathered together the remains of the metal bird, examining the points below the neck which had given way. The pinions were too slender, but only by a fraction. Lug had good hands and a sure eye, but as yet his soul was not attuned to the magic of the sky. But then, Ruad knew, magic was built on harmony and a slave boy reaching his majority was unlikely to find it. He could be sold to a ship’s captain and spend his life below decks, or to a prince and suffer castration to serve in a harem. And there were other, even less savoury ends for a youth of his looks. Yet these perils were not great. The vast majority of bright young slaves were bought by good masters who used them well in their businesses, giving them opportunities to buy their freedom at the age of thirty.
Still, who could blame a boy for fearing the worst?
Ruad locked his front door and saddled the old bay mare. He rarely rode into Mactha, but now he needed supplies — salt and sugar, dried meat and herbs and, most of all, more ingots of bronze and gold.
Bronze was a good metal for an apprentice to work with, but it did not take to magic like gold. Had Lug’s bird been Fomorian gold, it would have flown over the highest mountain and returned at a thought. But gold was scarcer than a woman’s virtue.
Ruad heaved his ungainly body into the saddle and steered the old mare down the trail between the pines. The ride took two hours and the sight of the white stone buildings of Mactha brought him little pleasure. He waved to the guard on the North Gate and rode on to the livery stable owned by Hyam. The old man himself was sitting at the paddock fence, bartering furiously with a Nomad trader.
Ruad unsaddled the mare and led her to the hay-box. Then he brushed her back and returned to the fence, where the debate was hotting up.
‘Wait! Wait!’ said Hyam, waving his slender fingers in the Nomad’s face. ‘We’ll put it to this traveller.’ He turned to Ruad and winked. ‘Good sir, be so kind as to examine the two horses by the rail and give me your honest opinion as to their worth. Whatever you say, I will abide by.’