Then Dorelei was at their side. "Padrec, who be these folk that a be so bound?"

"Slaves for sale," he told her with a note in his voice she'd never heard before. "What's done is well done- Do have nae love for slavers."

Dorelei only shrugged; the men only did what was necessary then. She might have sickened at Bruidda's death, but she would not shrink from killing now any more than Padrec or Malgon. "Take the iron from them," she or- dered. "Let a go free."

The decision was translated to the grateful British.

"God bless, lady . . ."

"Jesu and Mary Virgin bless you."

"Where's Crow, then, poor little sot?"

"He won't last long, I'll be bound."

"Och, don't waste pity on that trash."

"Is he not crippled? He can't help it. Look where he just dropped down in his tracks."

"Dirty sot. Drunk when they took him, drunk when they caught him again and broke his legs-thank you, sir, thank you."

Two by two, with keys found on the dead traders, the .iron dropped from the staves until only one yoked pair remained, a wilted Brigante woman who sat patient as an old horse beside the inert body chained to her, neck and neck. The man looked frail and slight between the sprawled crutches.

"This is the one you call Crow?"

"Aye, sir, and a weary old woman would thank you to pan us. Crow's a good soul but not much in the way of company."

Padrec sprang the well-greased padlocks on her neck and ankles. The woman stepped out of them. feeling gingerly at her chafed neck. "Bless you, sir."

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"Yes, yes. Let me see to this sad tittle man."

Crippled as he was, they'd still put irons on him.

Feeling at the twisted ankles, Padrec wondered why. The breaks hadn't healed that well, hands could feel out that much in the dark. Even unfettered, the little man would never run or even walk well again. Padrec unlocked the irons and tossed them aside.

"Right, then. Crow. You're free. D'you hear? Wake up."

"He's that ill," the woman sympathized. "Just dropped down there when we stopped, poor sod."

"Crow?" Padrec bent close over the starveling face un- der short-chopped black hair and a dirty smudge of beard.

The head moved slightly. Even in the poor light, the fhain scars were clear.

"Dorelei!" Padrec's exultant shout rose like the trum- pet of heaven, no doubt heard by the still-fleeing slavers and anyone else within a mile or two. "Dorelei, it's CRU!"

In a moment they were all about him, leaving the other slaves mystified as they were suddenly liberated.

Guenloie, Malgon, Neniane, a shrieking knot of Joy about the lost lamb found, and Dorelei tearing through them to dive at Cru like a hawk in love, squeezing him close, her lips against his mouth and bearded cheek.

"Husband . . . Cruaddan."

". . . Dorelei? Oh, wife, have been sick."

"But healed now, home."

"Nae. did break my legs as Padrec's."

"But healed and home, Cru. Oh, husband, have been so empty without you- Neniane, bring Crulegh. Oh, Cru."

On her knees, his head in her lap. "Have been a gern, Cru. Have done such magic, but nae so great as this. See thy wealth, Cruaddan-"

She gave him now the thing he'd once been jealous enough to ask. just as well, Padrec thought. A man should know what was his and what not. He stepped quietly back from the circle of adoration. The fact didn't hurt; not a sadness but a stillness in joy. Cru was home; there was justice after all. Wherever Dorelei went, she'd be the more complete for Cru, halved without him, simple as that, and nothing to do with Padrec himself. When he could wedge a word between them, he pressed Cru's hand between his own.

385.

"Greet thy brother husband. Hast been folly and war, much sadness, and now a joy with thee home. Be fhain again."

But Cru had no ear or eye for anyone but Dorelei and the sleepy, confused buy.

"Be a match for them an a come back."

Padrec peered down from the hill at the heath stretch- ing away toward Esk, a blue line in the distance. "But keep watch, Mal."

They'd withdrawn into the hills as a precaution in case the slavers had any thought to repossess their goods.

Once hidden, the lot of them slept a few hours. At day- break a fire was made; since they were in sight of Esk, the rest of the tea and oatmeal was shared out to all, including the freed slaves. With Durelei's permission. Padrec gave each a few coins and pointed them south the few miles toward the Wall and home.

"And you of Eburacum, if you go to hear Mass under Bishop Meganius, ask him to pray for me. Father Patricius."

Oh. then, they'd heard of him, right enough. He'd be the one called Raven, the Faerie priest. Och, the tales told about him-that he was dead, that he couldn't die ever, having gone under the hill with the little folk, slain a hundred at Churnet Head, turned water into wine. And here was the clout of him alive in front of them. Dyw!

"Actually, it was wine into water," Padrec informed them gravely. "There was a great deal of wine and no water, and we all needed a wash, but that's another story.

Peace be with you. Go and pray for me."

That much was easy. Their problem, evident with the rising sun. was Cru. Fhain vied with each other to show him kindness and that his rightful place was restored.

They brought his porridge first and hoi, the children were pushed at him to be kissed and complimented for their beauty and resemblance to their mothers. The chil- dren squirmed to be away from him, and small wonder.

Cru smelled foreign, even after a loving and meticulous shave by Guenloie to free his handsome face from the slothful tailfolk beard. Dorelei bathed him in a slow, sen- sual act of love just shy of copulation. She would have done that, right and proper as it was, if Cru were not so

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weak. He smelled like a man who'd drunk more than he'd eaten for months, the fine lines of his face blurred with uisge and defeat. More than his legs had been broken, but only they were healed. Dorelei was baffled.

"Padrec, help thy brother husband," she begged in private. "Be nae a cannot walk. A will not. Help me."

Help all of them. They shouldn't remain here in open, strange country. God knows what tales the slavers told when they stopped running. Fhain must be gone. But there Cruaddan sat. He could walk with the crutches alone, he said. A wonder the traders kept him, except that the slave market was never glutted.

Cru's quest was theirs in small. When Dorelei ban- ished him, was he not gone off the edge of all the world he knew? No Tir-Nan-Og, only alien tallfolk places and open heath, hunting sometimes and borrowing others, even begging.

"Did cross the Wall. Nae dared go among Picts."

And sold his pony and then the rest of his few posses- sions, piece by piece. He was an oddity among the Brigantes.

At first they were curious, having seen few Faerie so close.