"Stay thee: next day will confess the other."

Of course, good manners and rank were involved. A second husband must be confessed first. Padrec would not mind being confessed before Cruaddan. It seemed

reasonable.

Dorelei rolled over in the grass to glower down at Padrec when he laughed. "And what dost second husband find to smile at in a gem's wisdom?"

"Nothing . .. nothing." Padrec punctuated the words with kisses to her nose and chin. "Will speak to Jesu in the

circle."

Dorelei was seriously concerned and proud of her solution. "A be most strange in this. Will understand the

right of it?"

"If do put it clear as thee speaks," Padrec temporized.

Well, at least it's a start.

And Dorelei lay back pondering up at the slow-moving fleece clouds. Where is Cru? We used to lie together like this in summer. Now he goes alone, speaks little, and thai so carefully, I feel the hurt in him. One weeping was enough. He will not show

it aeam.

6 * *

769.

"Huff!" Bredei panted, mimicking the sound of the bellows he pumped. 'Huff Bring iron' Huff"

"Faster, Bredei," Padrec called. "Must be hotter."

"Aye, huff. and huff-huff again. Artcois, come help.

My arms drop off."

The bellows were only two large hide cups attached to handles that forced air through a long leather snout to heat the coal vitals of the fire. With one brother on each handle, huffing away, Padrec watched the iron turn from red to white, then lifted the ingot and laid it on Malgon's new anvil. Malgon took the tongs and held the iron as Padrec showed him, hammer poised for magic.

"Jesu biess thy arm and hammer. Now strike, Mal!

Knives for Prydn, toots for rath. Arrows for Lugh to ride.

Strike!"

Hammer swung, iron clanged its song of obedience in a fountain of fire against the falling night, fire-song rising to the sky, falling to the tallfolk valleys, Jesu-song, sacred fire.

"Ai, hear!" Bredei exulted. "Tang! Tang!"

"Hear the music of a's fire," Arlcois thrilled.

Tang! Tang! Tang!

The new fire rose from the ancient hilt and spread farther than they knew. hilltop to village, to other mains, one gern to another along the high ridges of the north.

They pondered the thing about their rath fires: a gern who turns old ways upside down, who tames Blackbar into slave, the young one called Dorelei Mabh.

They were older and more cautious; not all the news of this young one pleased them. It seemed sacrilege to take such a sacred name. They would know her heart.

They would see this magic. They followed Salmon pocked in stone along the ridges, looking for Mabh and the Raven.

They were all awed by this new iron-servant, but Malgon was fascinated as an artist finding a fresh color for his palette. He could not sing his heart in words or song like Drust, but his passion spoke through his hands, heard the iron, and translated its message to shape. Fine straight blades for swords, keener knives to work with, lethal ar- rowheads, tiny blades to dice meat and clean fish, pots and pothooks to make their cooking better and easier, to build

170 fire faster through iron's love of flint. Pictures in sione could be more sharply and subtly rendered with an iron awl, a clearer statement of Malgon's sense of order, action, and humor. He didn't laugh as much as the others, but he knew the spirit of laughter and froze it in stone, and so spoke to a much larger fhain than his own.

Malgon lacked the narrow fox-face of his kind. His head was rounder, features blunter than the other men, the difference between a tapered hand in repose and a working fist. Not handsome in Drust's way; even Guenloie said that. Malgon lived and thought and worked and loved with a controlled fire, heated by his own bellows. Neither joy nor sorrow tipped his scale too far. Malgon questioned where he could, accepted where he must, his inner reality always affirmed in stone or with a stroke in the earth itself. Like all artists, he knew the difference between loneliness and solitude. Musing over the new sword, the child of his own hands, he wished Cruaddan knew it.

All three of their women were pregnant at last. Did he bicker with Drust, or Artcois with Bredei over whose loving started it? Bairn would reach for one father as quickly as the other. Three children for one lost. Cru might well rejoice with the rest of them, but no. He rode and hunted alone, stayed away at night, and barely spoke around the fire, though all could see that Dorelei did not favor Padrec over him, onlv shared herself as she must.

Padrec was all courtesy and consideration, never once trying to be first. Wise in all other things, Cru was blind in this, seething like a covered pot. Someone should loosen his lid a little.

Malgon gave one more wipe to the sword with his oiled fleece. It was to be a gift for Cru, the blade etched with Salmon and Stag, Malgon's best work so far, since each working put more of iron's secret in his hands. He could feel the balance, tossing it into the air to circle and settle to his hand like a trusting child. Fine. Apt to many more uses than bronze, the working of iron called for more complex skills. The sharpened skill asked keener questions of iron. What more, what other shapes are hidden in you?

Padrec emerged from the false hummock that marked their rath, bare to the waist, to stretch and greet the day.

171.

Malgon brandished the new blade. "See!" He tossed it high in two full circles that caught the morning sunlight.

Padrec whooped and loped down from the rath toward the forge to thrust his head and hands in the tempering trough, spluttering as he wiped himself off.

"Yah! A looks a fine blade, Mal."

"Feel."

Padrec turned the blade in his grip, threw, and caught it. "Thee's prisoned iron-spirit in this."

Malgon watched in surprised appreciation as Padrec's arm flowed through a fluid senes of moves with the weapon, rather expert for one sworn not to draw blood. "Was Roman-soldier, Padrec?"

"No, we all learned a bit of sword as boys. I was rather good."

The blade became a wheel of light as it spun, flew, and buried itself deep in Malgon's chopping block four strides away.

"That's how a legionary knows he got a good blade.

Malgon Ironmaster."

Ironmaster. Who would have thought such a thing would be? The praise warmed Malgon like strong uisge, but Guenloie took the wind out of his bellows quickly enough. "What master? Cannae make, only shape. Malgon Iron borrower."

His wife meant it as a joke, but women did have a way of bringing a man down. Padrec consoled him: this was the artist's lot. For every caress, a curled lip. Like many other things in a Hawed life, Malgon could live with it.

For Cru there might come a time when his level head would find its natural balance, but men need a space to realize new things. He was halfway to accepting Dorelei's right to another husband, but it was her new wealth so quickly come that knocked him flat again and made him blurt out what no Prydn man should ask.

"Child-wealth be mine?"

"Be mine, Cru."

He felt hollow in his stomach. For the first time ever, Dorelei placed herself beyond him. There should be a joy between them at this time; he'd imagined it, how they'd feel, and now . . . ashes in his mouth. His hands ached to touch her, and yet she never seemed so distant. Her moods

172 Parks Godwin