And yet a hard truth stayed with Dorelei. There was only one sickly infant in the rath, and she had none in her. The grass was not good here, nor was it better for them anywhere she could remember. If they were Mother's first children, why did they grow fewer and weaker while tall-

folk lived fat in the glens? Why did outsiders seek Prydn magic in important matters like birth or illness and then hate and fear them for having it to give?

Gawse must have pondered these things. That was what took the lightness from her step and made her brood in the crannog of winter nights. While Dorelei rolled in her sleeping robe, Gawse thought of tomorrow. Now it was her turn. She could already feel the weight that bowed Gawse's shoulders and turned down the corners of her mouth, a weight on the soul.

Where is tomorrow for us?

She wouldn't think of that now. Lughnassadh was coming, the day when their sun father marked them apart from tallfolk. Dorelei would tell the story to fhain as Gawse did each year. Neniane's infant daughter was too young to understand, but the others would expect it. They would feast and drink barley beer, but after Lughnassadh the mist on the moor would grow colder each day, the sun lose its warmth, and forgetful Lugh be that much more distant from them until it was time to crowd the flocks and ponies into the crannog against one more lean winter.

She turned to push herself against Cru, half hoping he'd wake and talk to her, but he only sighed and burrowed deeper into sleep. It would be light soon. Already Dorelei could smell the rain on the east wind. She couldn't sleep with so much troubling her. Perhaps if she went alone into the circle now and talked to Mother, there might be wisdom. The hill above her, Cnoch-nan-ainneal, was the oldest circle known to Prydn. It was said Mabh's own people dragged the stones into place. She could start her own fhain in no stronger place. Dorelei wrapped the wool kilt about her hips, clasping it with the bronze brooch. She slipped into her vest, bent to pull the robe over Cru, then padded barefoot up the dew-wet slope toward the circle of great stones.

On summer nights the heath never grew really dark, just a silvered gray. Dorelei could see every part of the hill, every light and shadow on the stones above her.

Then the gray and silver moved.

Dorelei froze to a stone herself. Only her eyes moved, following the shape that flowed in and out of shadow.

Wolf.

Dorelei waited. It moved again. Only one. Not hunting. Wolf never hunted alone. Like Prydn they lived beyond the tallfolk fires and spent much time singing to Mother. Tallfolk feared Wolfs song without understanding that Wolf sang much the same as men did, for the pleasure. Hungry wolves were a threat, but in deep summer with food plentiful, Wolf was just another child wandering the moor for the whim of it.

The gray wolf sat near one of the stones. She growled deep in her throat when Dorelei slipped into the circle but did not crouch or retreat. Dorelei moved upwind of the wolf bitch and squatted on her haunches, arms dangling from her knees. The wolf growled again, a tentative warning.

"Be still,'' Dorelei assured her.

Wolf lifted her muzzle to try the new scent and its many facets—grass, sheep, man, but none of the fear smell that came from humans when she was close. That confused Wolf. Fear and threat always went together. The growl softened tc a questioning whine.

Dorelei grinned at her. k4 Dost talk to Mother?"

What mother?

Wolf clearly didn't know what she meant. Foolish bitch, be nae better than dog.

There were fewer wolves now. Men hunted them out of their lairs, remembering a time when they themselves huddled in protective circles of fire and Wolf waited patiently in the dark beyond for the fire to burn down, though it never did. Men grew bigger and Wolf smaller—

Like thee.

—And now Wolf was dying out of the land.

Like thee, said Wolf.

t4 Be still. Dost nae remember Mother?"

Wolfs tongue lolled out. She laughed at Dorelei in the moonlight.

Remember what? There is hunting and mating and cubs, and now your fear smell rising. You will die out.

"And what of thee? Could not even bargain with men to live by their fire like common curs. Must always live outside."

Like thee. Will come a time when Prydn-Faerie is only a name to frighten their pups as mine is: Wolf will eat you. Faerie will steal you. Thee's nigh hunted out, Dorelei.

Wolf flowed up off her haunches and stalked to Dorelei, sniffing at her knees and between her legs.

"Take care, woman. Do have my knife."

Be hard as tallfolk knives? They are ten times greedier than I. In their ten-times heat they forge harder knives.

Blackbar magic was bad luck even to mention, but Dorelei crossed her fingers against it. "My knife be made from bronze in good stone mold."

Flint broke flesh. Bronze broke flint. Iron will break bronze.

Dorelei felt an urge to cuff her. "Mother will not let us be broken."

Broken and forgot.

"No."

Wolf leered at her. What place has thy name on it? Cannot live on the wind and leave a trail.

"Rainbow does."

Where dost point thee, Dorelei?

Wolf tasted morning in the air. Time to return to her own pups, who were whelped with more sense than this silly woman would ever have. She flirted her tail at Dorelei and loped away down the hillside.

Rainbow must point somewhere; unthinkable that the most beautiful of earth signs should have no significance. There was a meaning, Dorelei was sure. When she looked at Rainbow, a memory stirred deep in her, rising a little in response to her effort to recall before it sank again.

Where dost point thee?

Dorelei rose and stood among the dark stones of the circle. ''Mother, speak to me

Not the proper address or respect. She should stand in the right place and scatter the white stones, but this once in her need, woman to woman, Mother might forgive her.

4 'Mother, speak to me. Be Wolf right? Would let us be forgo;

But the reassuring strength that always filled her with Mother's voice did not come. What mother 1 Dorelei shivered at the treacherous thought. It was not Mother's eye at all but only a light in the sky with no more love for her than the eye of a fish might hold. Dorelei reached to cup the mooneye and wash her hand in its light. It vanished in dull cloud, eluding her.

t4 Do not turn from us."

No hint of Mother anywhere on the moor, only the east wind and the first drops of rain. Never before had Dorelei felt so utterly alone, so abandoned, the stomach-sick moment before falling. The rain pelted her upturned face; she backed a step, whimpering. The night was no longer soft, the stones not old friends but strange giants glaring at her with no more pity than Hawk gave the lamb. In a moment they would begin to rock back and forth, tearing themselves out of the ground to bump heavily in at her, leaning over her, crushing her under their weight into the earth that was never friend but only cold dirt—

Cru!

Mother turned from her, the world was cold and dead. Dorelei fled from the circle and down the hill to the only safety left. The rain was falling harder when she dove* under the fleece robes, writhing against Cru for comfort.

Sleepily he brushed her away. "Wet."

"Oh, Cru../'

She wanted to tell him about Wolf and the drab taste of her thoughts, the emptiness where there was always comfort before. She wanted to know Wolf was foolish,

that Mother did hear them. But how strong would Cm feel in turn if Gern-y-fhain herself was lost to magic? She felt bleak with the truth of it. She dare not tell Cru or any of them even when the fear was crushing her spirit. Dorelei squeezed against Cru and set her teeth to his shoulder. He woke foggily. There was still sleep in him and the robes were warm against the rain. He didn't see her tears or the rain that washed them away in secret. In a little while Dorelei slept herself as a mercy, but she dreamed of Wolf.

When Dorelei raised her head out of the robes the early sun slanted on the stone circle. Far to the west the rain still lowered over the hills, but the east was clear and blue.

And there was a rainbow.

Wolf lied. Mother had not turned from them. The rainbow trail arced across the morning sky, and Dorelei wanted to cry again for relief at its clear beauty. She thought of the old song, the few words of it she remembered.

Be not where but only when —

None of them, not even Gawse's old mother, could remember the rest.

Cru yawned and stretched. "Must go back to rath."

Dorelei bent to kiss him. His mouth smiled under hers.

"Did make child-wealth last night?"

"Perhaps. Cru...?"

He sat up, pushing the long silky hair back from his face. To the northwest, around the side of the hill, a few of their sheep straggled away from the flock, nibbling at the wet grass.

"Cru, dost remember Rainbow song?"

Cru's mind was on food, but he allowed part of it to her question, remembering no more than Dorelei. There once was such a song in the old fhains.

" 'Be not where...' "

" 'But only when.' Be more words than that."

"Not in my head." Cm cupped the breasts of the rainbow-rapt Dorelei from behind and nipped at her neck.

"Dost nae remember the tale?"

"Of what?"

"Rainbow, fool."

"Nae."

"Was a sign," Dorelei said.

"Of what?"

"Do nae know."

Neither of them could remember the story. It was long ago. They had no concept of time like house-dwelling Venicones or Britons, but counted from seasons and fire-festivals, and it seemed tens of seasons past, when they were little more than infants, that Cru might have heard something of it. He was barely walking then and Dorelei still slung from Gawse's shoulder.

"Came a woman from some other fhain," Cru struggled to recollect. "Were in western pastures then and tallfolk there, Brigantes and Roman men. Gern told the story to them."

Cru remembered only that the woman spoke of Rainbow and wore more gold and silver than any gern in his young memory. Even the Romans wondered at it.