Frightening even to think it, so big. None among Prydn had done it, not even Mabh. But iron-magic was once a locked gate that opened before her like Jericho.

They would have a place. . . .

215.

I couldn't say [Ambrosius wrote to Marchudd]

whether one bears a Faerie child or simply drops it like a sheep, but we must wait for both if we want the Prydn archers, which means spring at the earliest. That was my estimate in any case, since VI Legio will not be ready to march before then.... S. Patricias has presented his wife's price for their men. Not gold or cattle, but land within Parisi holding and granted in perpetuity by treaty or patent. You must deal with this as you will, but they are quite serious. Land for service.

... as if she were Mother herself, earth itself heaving in its deep recesses lo loose this force into the world.

Dorelei bit hard on the cloth and pushed when Neniane told her to. Poor Padrec looked white. For all his magic, he wasn't used to this greater wonder. His kind made much of the end of life but waited outside at the beginning.

The pains were so close together they seemed one.

Padrec's fingertips were dark red from her grip. She must bear live wealth. Neniane and Guenloie had already brought their daughters to thain, the good milk spilled from their breasts. She must do this. She must push. Yet it was like pulling on a giant bowstring of earth. Pulling like Cru, drawing the arrow to the head, aiming life at a world not left to tailfolk alone.

"Now, sister. Do have a's head free. Now."

Cru . . .

She loosed the arrow.

Guenloie took the bitten cloth from her mouth and swabbed her face as Neniane deftly handled the aftermath of birth. She cut the birthstring and laid it by the fire to dry. Guenloie had willowbark tea ready to rout any linger- ing pain and clean water to wash Dorelei's body. The birthstring must be blessed by Padrec. This was the strong- est magic for the child in the first perilous year of its life.

Padrec was barely listening or coherent. Yes . . . of course, he would bless it, anything. He saw only the exhausted face on the pillow, the lips that barely opened to call him.

"Padrec ..."

He took the cooling cloth and pressed it to her cheeks.

"Be alive and whole, sweet."

216 "First daughter?"

"A Prydn man."

"Oh . . . did thee sicken?"

"A little. Be strange but a wonder as well. Here." He coaxed more tea to her a sip at a time. "A wonder. Why do women hide such miracles from men, such strength?"

She passed a limp hand over his cheek. "What man be brave as my husband? Thee sees now how quick life comes."

"Quick? Seemed hours- Here, drink more."

Wan herself, she tried to smile. "Thee looks pale."

"Nae, but . . . there was a man, a priest like me. I dedicated myself to him once. He called the organs of life the center of all evil. 'Ecce undo?' he said. 'That's the evil spot..' And I believed him."

"Dost seem a troubled man."

"Yes. Here, drink more while's hot."

"Nae."

"Come. Drink it." He put his tips to her sweaty cheek.

"Let me bully you this once. Come, now."

The tea worked with her exhaustion to dull the pain of being stretched farther apart than she ever thought possible. "In three days, if a takes good suck and thrives, thee will christen my son as Crulegh."

He wouldn't let Dorelei see his disappointment. After Cru, then. Not him. "And what in Christ?"

"Padrec. Crulegh Padrec."

"Must be holy. Mine be just a name."

She lay with her eyes closed, thinking on it. "Mo-ses."

"No, Dorelei. You see-"

"Father-God spoke to Mo-ses as to Paul."

"Paul would be better. Moses be from Hebrew-main."

"What difference? Did hear the same voice. Mo-ses."

His silly differences were lost on her. She would have no other name. Padrec said it meant "from the rushes," which grew at the edge of water. If Crulegh was not the prom- ised bright daughter from the sea, he would be close.

"Have dreamed of water, Padrec. A great, crashing world of water."

Crulegh took to the nipple tike Cruaddan to the bow, a messy but efficient engine of digestion. Padrec was con- cerned for Dorelei, worse than an old woman at it in some 217.

ways, the more because no one else seemed to regard the gem as fragile. They all thought it quite proper when she rose within hours of her labor, while Neniane nursed the infant for his First feeding. Padrec's male protecliveness was outraged.

"Go back to bed at once."

"Why?"

"Damn it, woman, you need to. Why, a woman at home would-"

"Tallfolk women be soft." Dorelei dismissed them with audible contempt. She must be up, and there an end.

Soon they would move to new pasture. With the young men gone to holy war, there would be more work for the rest. She must be strong enough to ride. Child must toughen through spring and summer to survive the autumn rade and the winter again. For all their Rainbow-gift and iron- magic, there were things Prydn could never afford, and frailty among them.

"Be time, Padrec. Take my child and let Jesu hear a's name."

"The wind stili draws a knife across Cnoch-nan-ainneal.

Can do it here by the hearth."

"No." Doreiei wouldn't consider it. "Will be cold on rade. Bairn must learn it now."

Padrec wrapped himself and the bairn in Cru's big cloak, and Dorelei put on her new one bought from the Venicones. Together they (eft the crannog and went to Malgon's tempering trough. The few people about the ridge saddle made way for them, as they were on solemn business. About and below them, the bright rath-tents were being struck, the sheep being counted and culled of the sick. Weak or deformed lambs would be butchered for eating now and salting for the rade. Far down in the meadow, the stallions kept jealous watch over their mares.

Padrec dipped a bowl into the trough and consecrated the water. He pushed back the heavy folds of the cloak to expose the tiny forehead, still soft and misshapen from its passage into life. Padrec touched a finger to the fine dark fuzz that would grow someday to black silk like Cru's-

Ave, my son, as well you may be. I don't know exactly what day you were born. I am forgetting my kalends. No matter. We Prydn go by our own signs. Look, son: the

218 hazel and alder are in bloom. The kestrel flies north again, and Tod-Lowery cries for his vixen. These are your kalends. They tell you to ride as I must.