"Never mind,' he called to the servants within the house as he hurried down the walk. "I'll go myself."

In the gloom, he recognized Patricius folded belly down over a smaller form that wove unsteadily toward him. "Malgon? Oh, preserve us, is he hurt? Not dead?"

He helped Malgon lower his burden to the ground, as

257.

288 it couldn't stand on its own. The Faene tried to straighten up; the effort destroyed what balance remained to him.

They both reeked of cheap uisge. Maigon made a slurred attempt at speech.

"Padrec be much . .. much in need."

"You're drunk."

Sodden as Patricius. Maigon collapsed on his rump, gazing blearily up at the bishop, then wilted down beside the other body. One of them belched.

Meganius counted to ten and then. drawing on a patient character, counted his blessings. At least he's come home.

"Corus!"

How many days was it now? When Padrec could think of things like that, he seemed to remember handing one of his gold bracelets to the obese tavernkeeper. What before that? Hazy. He left the paiace and walked with Maigon. They found a dim little tavern near the south gate that made up in squalor what it lacked in charm.

They drank wine at tirst, then called for uisge, then after- how long?-the fat man asked for a reckoning. That's when I paid with the bracelet, told him to keep the uisge coming.

The tavern never seemed to close. It was light out- side, then dark and light again, and after that he couldn't see as far as the door and it didn't matter. One of them must have ordered food. A bowl of something appeared in front of Padrec.

Wine-drowned chicken? Oh, I can't, your grace. It's a fast day.

The uisge floated them into a raucous, orgasmic laugh- ing jag untiT the laughter turned morose, and then they cried until exhaustion took them, and they bellowed for more uisge. Somewhere in one of the light periods, when the tavern bustled around the sodden island of them, they began to keen, but the other customers complained.

Sing if wit like, but stop that-whatever it is.

The complainers had a Contani look to them. Padrec and Maigon quickly agreed on evident truth. Any tallfolk who objected to the voiced soul of Prydn was not in harmony with Mother and should be cleansed from her-

They managed to rise.

1.

289.

Padrec woke in one of the darker periods. He was lying on the floor with the taste of blood and vomit in his mouth. His lip was swollen and split. With great care, he hauled himself onto the bench again. Red-eyed Maigon was hung over the table like a garment carelessly thrown at it. When Padrec shook him muzzily, Maigon opened an eye like a hemorrhage.

"TalKoik man says must go, Padrec."

"That was this morning," the tavernkeeper told them in a tone drained of patience. "Out, you two."

"I'mmute." Padrec thought about the distance to the door, then melted over the table and lost consciousness again.

No, not near enough to oblivion He could still think and dream, the dreary treadmill still turned, unable Eo stop. He dreamed of foolish things less painful than oth- ers: Marchudd princely in his chair of state.

Everyone knows Tir-Nan-Og and the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

Weren't we going to sing, Mal? No one said we couldn't sing.

The treadmill turned, cranked by Ambrosius, and Marchudd prompted him in the words everyone knew, everyone knows.

Padrec moaned, lifted his head with effort, and turned the other way on the labletop, the pillow. He dreamed of Dorelei humming softly before sleep, stroking his hair as he lay with his mouth against her small breast.

Be not where but only when The Prydn hoard be seen again

"Not the right words," Padrec mumbled into the pillow.

It seemed he slept on forever, a Tir-Nan-Og of the mind. The rest of the world and time hung on a rack, waiting while he dreamed. Of course he knew the right words, knew them from the cradle, from the time he left his mother's breast and fell asleep on his old nurse's lap.

Beneath . . .

He never wanted to take his nap in the afternoon but would delay and evade Nurse's coaxing until he was cranky- tired. Then she would haul him up onto her big soft lap

290 and, thumb tucked safely in his mouth, he'd drift away listening to ihe Brigante hill songs from her own childhood.

Beneath the greening . . . something, something. He re- membered the rhythm more clearly than the words. Green- ing hollow sods, that's it.

The treadmill churned, too tired to cease.

Dorelei had the words wrong. He hurried back through the maze of exhausted sleep. As he drew near enough to call, he remembered the words in a burst, all at once.

"Dorelei! I've found the words."

His wife's head lolled forward between her arms pin- ioned on the cross. "Thee's lost the words, Padrec."

He opened his eyes, then squeezed them shut against the brightness of whitewashed, sunlit walls. While his head throbbed softiy, his cheek felt damp. Someone had wept on his pillow.

Though he was strong enough to carry Padrec home, Malgon was much sicker- The tallfolk uisge tainted his mind with strange pictures. Padrec could sleep it out of him, but Meganius called the court physician whom Marchudd had placed at his disposal. The slight Parisi doctor came eventually, fashionable in his Byzantine robe, and inspected the sweaty, trembling lump of misery on the couch.

"Your grace, who . . . what is this creature?"

"Faerie."

The doctor subjected Malgon to professional scrutiny:

an acute inflammation of the stomach, possibly a nonfata!

dose of poison.

"A week of uisge, master physician."

"Um. Very like and noi the best, I'd say. But that's the least of it."

The physician's examination was thorough and pity- ing. An accumulation of maladies. Bad food and not enough of that. Exposure- Skin looks unhealthy. Exhaustion mosdy.

Never seen one of these creatures before, you must real- ize. They must subsist differently- Well, give him fresh milk with the cream unskimmed. Eggs, boiled only, no condiments or spices. Let him rise when he will. That will be some days yet, by the look of him. Both of them, come to that.