Bruidda's eyes closed and opened again. "Ending has begun." She moved closer into the light, the two fhain men gliding after her. With great reverence, Malgon made the mourning sign and put his hands to her belly. Padrec did the same. They stood in respect before her as she sank to the position of rest, speaking with icy vindication.

"Did rade north from Cnoch-nan-ainneal, all fhains together and Dorelei higher than all, even Reindeer. All in the name of thy Jesu and Father-God."

But would the girl be counseled? No, she led them through the lowland glens in pride and daylight. They were seen by Taixali, even Naiton and his murderers who killed Bruidda's son. Would Dorelei even then have the caution of a dull-witted sheep? Would she think of her people before her pride? Nae, nae, all be changed now, all be in Jesu's hand. Had she worked miracles any

less than Padrec? Will give Rainbow-gift to these tall-folk. A will see that our strength be in peace and love, oh, yes. Trust Dorelei: she will go among these Taixali thus. And so she did, with many words from the Father-God's book.

"A's strength might be in peace and love." Bruidda spat into the fire. "But nae Naiton's."

The Taixali elder was not awed but vengeful. He nursed grudges against Dorelei for lost presence. He fell on them in daylight, following a night of dark moon, after making magic of his own. Then Prydn saw how wise Dorelei had grown in Jesu. She raged through the survivors, seeking a vengeance she called God's on Taixali she called Egypt-fhain. The other gerns knew they followed only madness and left her. They threw away what iron they had and cleansed themselves in the circle and begged Mother's forgiveness. None rode with Dorelei but her own fhain women and their wealth.

Bruidda rose off her haunches. "Salmon swims where a must. Should not jump from river to run on dry ground, nor Reindeer breed in water. Malgon first husband, dost still pray to Jesu? Dost still believe?" She waited for the answer. "Speak: dost still believe?"

The answer was slow in coming. "Drust did."

"And where be Drust now?" Bruidda demanded in a flat voice. ' 'Leave this lying fool of a Raven. Find thy wife, an a still lives."

"Where, Gern-y-fhain?"

A bare shrug: that was not Bruidda's concern. "Where dost wind go? Nae fhain will give place to Dorelei. Nae rath a can rest in for long. Be spit on now, cast out, and this Raven as well. Leave him, Malgon."

Bruidda and her men did not move back into the dark, it simply closed around them again. "North ..."

They were alone again.

When Padrec woke next morning, Malgon was squatting motionless across the cold ashes of the fire. Padrec had the impression he'd been the object of study for

some time. When they were ready to ride, Malgon unhooked the quiver of army arrows from his saddle and tossed them away. He drew the iron knife and held it out to Padrec.

"Thee'11 have need of it, Mai. Braw work of thy own hand."

"Will have nae more iron. A's magic turns bad." And there was something else that Malgon fought to confess. "In the night, did almost use it on thee."

Padrec's throat went dry. "Jesus."

They looked at each other.

"What stayed my brother's hand?"

Malgon took his time to compose the thought. There was a quiet dignity to it. "Be bonds between us, Padrec. Have fought together, have shared things beyond fhain, beyond what any woman, even Bruidda, could know."

"Bruidda. Visions." Padrec dismissed them with contempt. "Ending? Death? Death's been common as salt to us. I'm sick of religions, yours and mine alike. Keep thy good knife."

But Malgon hurled it into the ashes of the fire. "What are we, Padrec? Where are we? Lost!"

"We're going home. Come here." Padrec engulfed the smaller man in wiry arms. "Going home, Mai. Then we'll think on what to do."

"Could nae do't, Padrec."

"I know."

"Did want to. Was so feared in the night. Feared all summer of death, of being lost and never to see Guenloie again. Feared a would put me on the cross when believing be gone anyway. Feared of Bruidda, and how . .. how could rid myself of all that fear and thee, once and always. With one blow." Malgon shuddered in Padrec's arms. "Did almost."

"Look at us: lost beyond finding and not a faith or a god to patch our souls with. But we have women and children somewhere."

"Dead," Malgon whispered, broken.

"Nae. Listen." Padrec shook Malgon hard. "Listen!

Are we dead? Mai, I've a gutful of gods and omens. Enough."

Padrec stumped away to his horse, threw his saddle over, and began to cinch with angry, decisive movements. "Gods awake, gods asleep, gods who don't give a deacon's damn. I am me, Mai. I am here between earth and sky. A poor joke of a priest, but a man like you and undeniable. We have a family, and I'm going home."

Padrec's grin was a defiance. "Pick up your knife and arrows, man. Iron couldn't kill you all summer. Cannae hurt thee now."

Malgon felt barely encouraged, but the artisan in him hated to leave such fine work. And then didn't Padrec wink at him, heaven and hell forgotten, unimportant.

"Will rade with thy brother, Malgon, or stand weeping in the cold?"

Malgon retrieved his weapons. "Will be insult to Mother."

"Mother's managed since before the ice," Padrec threw over his shoulder, trotting ahead. "A's a big girl now."

That same day, following River Findhorn to the northeast, they came on the solitary stone covered with symbols. Most of them were ancient: Rainbow-sign, the marks of Wolf and Hawk fhains, even old Salmon marks. But far down and quite new were the waved lines of Salmon again, shallow-scratched into the crumbling granite surface.

"You see, Mai? It's them. We'll find them."

Between this stone and the sea, Malgon remembered only one crannog and that rarely used by Salmon in his lifetime. They wrapped their cloaks tighter against the cutting wind that smelled of salt now, and pushed on. When they reached the low, bare rise that Malgon pointed out, they called to announce themselves. Their hopes leaped for a moment when they seemed to receive an answer, but it was only their echo, lonely as themselves, wandering over the hills and gray river and back again.

The crannog was empty, the newest signs months old.

"No, look." Padrec crouched at the gern stone. "Salmon."

"Gawse." The terminal discouragement was audible as Malgon sank down on the stone. "Was a boy when a cut it."

"Well, then, they've gone on."

"Where? Be nothing but sea and world-edge. World-end." Malgon covered his face with dirty hands. "Where, Padrec? Did hear Bruidda. None would help them. Will thee byre horses? Be tired to death."

"Here's dried chips. Will make a fire." Padrec reached out to scratch at Malgon's unkempt growth of beard. "And must shave, brother. Will Guenloie kiss such a forest of a face?"

The cheer fell flat on Malgon. While Padrec bustled with pretended energy over the fire, Malgon just sank lower into his gloom.

"Have lost them. Have lost all."

"Ah, belt up," Padrec grumbled over the tinderbox. "I'm going to make us a fire."

"Here to sea be nothing. Should never have taken Blackbar. Mother and Lugh turn from us."

"Such a worrier." When the chips caught from dried grass hoarded in the tinderbox, Padrec settled himself on a stone. "A man can wallow in guilt like uisge, Mai, and grow as sick from it. I could feel guilt: did thee not say as much in Eburacum? Was not Father-God but me. I brought thee to the iron and to Jesu and asked thee to believe. Did nae come as well to fhain?" Padrec touched his scarred cheek. "Crulegh may be my son. My blood flows with fhain's. Was not easy to stand in two ways at once. Truly, with guilt for a knife, a man can cut out a's own heart." Padrec spread his arms. "So, do think a man must reckon his guilt carefully and pay what's due when it's due, but no sooner and no more."

And that was the gospel according to Padrec on this particular bleak day. He felt at his own dirty beard; if nothing else, they'd both feel better for a clean face.

Padrec took up their goatskin water bag, chuckling an incongruous memory tickled his mind. Years ago it was, in Auxerre. He hadn't seen the humor of it then. He laughed aloud.

"I just remembered something. When a man takes final vows as a priest, he puts on a white robe. The day in Gaul when I was ordained—oh, Malgon, I prayed all the night before, hoping God would find me worthy, piling objections on my hopes, seeing all my unworthii-ness like a great debt to be paid. Bishop Amathor was worried I'd make myself ill with fasting. When it was time, I was in such a state and haste to get to the church, I ran from my cell and went plumpl in a mud puddle.

"Well, like the black fawn, I thought it an ill omen of the degree of sanctity I'd achieve as a priest, and no better than I deserved. Malgon, I didn't even have the resolution to get up. Just sat there in that puddle and started to cry."

One hand on the ladder in the brightening firelight, Padrec laughed again. "Then Amathor, God bless him, he was just on his way to the church—he came and offered me his hand up. He saw how miserable and foolish I was, and he just laughed and said, 'Succatus Pa-tricius, God will accept you. Once you get mud on a white robe, what else can happen between here and your vows?' "

The laughter rolled out of Padrec again, a clear, healthy sound. "Look at the two of us, where we've been and what we've seen. Gods, gerns, or demons, what in hell can they do to us that's not already been done? So let's wash our faces and go home."

In the spreading light, Malgon's attention was caught by something else. "Padrec. Here."

In the loose dirt by the stone wall were the impressions of small, bare feet. Not old, not so much as a season. Like Rof on a scent, Malgon traced about the wall. Nothing. Then he delved in the space between the firepit and the wall, the warmest spot in the crannog. The scrape marks were clear as a stag's in rutting season,