Watching, part of his mind always on his own purposes, Ambrosius turned to the squat young aide beside him. "The odds are too long."

"I gave four to one."

"Pity. Even money."

"No."

"Watch."

Confused by a hundred hooting voices, the rattled hounds settled into a stiff-legged circling about the stone of Drust, the rumble in their throats a questioning sound now. They found no clear signals. If the creature bolted or attacked, they would tear its throat out. They relied mainly on smell, and this one confused them, rich with male and female alike, mingled with the trace of sheep and heath, all neutral to the dogs but compounding the enigma. Hackles high, one of the stiff-walking brutes minced forward, muzzle stretched out to sniff warily at the unmoving hand.

"Even money," Ambrosius said again. The boy was beautiful. Useful.

Confused by anomaly and shouting voices, the dogs gave it up. Their small concentration diffused, they snuffled about the earth of the pit for any sign to follow, finding old food traces and their own urine smell but nothing else. When they had quite forgotten Drust, he made his first sound, a low, reassuring whistle.

"Come, dog."

Their heads snapped about. One sure voice in so many without meaning. "Come, dog."

One of them lumbered back cautiously to sniff at the offered palm. Drust gave him ample time to read it all, then slid his fingers slowly over the muzzle to scratch behind the bitten ear. The dog tensed slightly, but no blow followed, only the soothing voice.

"Glory to God, Alleluia," Drust crooned to him.

Padrec felt his own naked awe. I am a priest and my convert teaches me.

Drust backed smoothly toward the gate. When the dogs growled, uncertain, he froze again, palms still extended. He laughed low in his throat as if he and the dogs shared a mournful joke. "Be still. Open the gate."

"I will say when it is over," Vaco called with poor grace. He was more than a little afraid. First the damned priest, now this weird boy. And was he not out the length of his wagers, to say nothing of presence lost? "It is not done yet."

"Nae, what more?" Drust's eyes came up to find Vaco, the only part of him that moved. "Dost nae feel the God of Daniel here? Must sing thy dogs asleep for thee?"

The Romans guffawed, knowing it was clearly over; even the village folk began to titter. Vaco read it all and made a poor attempt at not caring.

"Ah, well, then. It is only that I am bored with the small sport in it. Open the gate."

Drust was barely out the gate when Padrec smothered him in exultant arms, lifting him high like a loved child.

"I heard thee, brother. Glory, indeed! Glory to God, Alleluia!"

The rest was a blur of noise and movement: baffled dogs in the cage, challenging Rof for lack of anything else they could understand, Rof roaring back, skipping, yipping Guenloie, who couldn't kiss her husband often enough as Padrec led him to Dorelei and formal honor, shouldering through a tide of Prydn and Venicone fringed with amused but surprised Romans. Ambrosius nudged his stocky aide.

"Get my horse."

4 'Are we leaving?"

"No. Winning."

Ambrosius bounded from the mounting block into the saddle, sword aloft. "Prydn and Venicones! Here is the light of God, such men as Drust Dismas."

He kneed the horse through the crowd until he reached the dazzled boy. "Mark me all: if Venicones will not war for Christ, why not the very children of Christ? What says Drust Dismas?"

Drust tried to rouse out of a fog of triumph. "Would I...?"

"What say the valiant men of Prydn? What answer from the child of Christ, brother to Daniel?"

The victory over Venicones was no more triumph to Drust than his own stunning, revealed power in Christ. As Daniel, he was touched by God, forever changed beyond that even Padrec could impart. He shot both hands aloft, crying to Prydn and Jesu in the affirmation he was born for. "Yah!"

"Yah, Prydn!"

As the cry went through the people, Bruidda pushed through the press to grip Dorelefs arm. "Stop this, girl. Be dangerous."

Dorelei shook her off. "And the hounds were not? How much magic must thee see to believe?"

"This be not magic."

"Make way for me, old woman." She worked her way to Drust, who yearned to her for vindication.

"Must go, Gern-y-fhain. With all my brothers and Padrec to lead. Salmon fhain be touched by God."

Touched by God ... the words and the living proof of them swept through the Prydn men. Touched by God—they chanted it, jiggled and danced it in circles about the baiting pit and the silly, impotent dogs who leaped and snarled at the fervor beyond their jaws. Touched by God, and if the stamping, fevered men were not sure which god touched them, what matter? Bruidda might snap at them for fools, common sense might cool them later, but now they were inflamed. They danced

and brandished their bows. The Roman masters of the earth had need of them, and all part of the new day come with iron magic. Fhains rode together and pastured where they pleased. The men of Prydn would earn men's honor under the Chi-Rho. The gerns dare not deny them. From this good fortune would come more sheep and child-wealth— yah!

If none of them could be sensible now, Padrec still worried. "Must think on this, Dorelei."

"Aye, must." But he saw the fever in his wife as well.

"Pride speaks now, but must think this out."

Yet even as he spoke caution, Padrec saw the Chi-Rho moving forward over the land of the Coritani, the green hills of Ireland in the distance, scholars with polished Latin writing his name in the annals of the Church. "We must be wise in this."

"Truly, husband." But through me was the iron tamed and the fhains brought together. I feel a larger life in me than the wealth. There will be tale-speaking in the summer raths and winter crannogs, how the men went forth in tens and tens at the word of Dorelei Mabh.

Almighty God, through whose only Son I hope to be saved ...

Is this truly right for my folk? It is all so sudden. I only showed them Your magic, and their faith was enough to create more. If anyone is touched by God, as John in the wilderness, it is Drust. If anyone can inspire them, it is Dorelei. If any were born with souls shaped in the womb to Your will, the Prydn are. They are not fools, they would laugh at a tallfolk war, but that it is Yours as well, and being so, they will not be held back.

Their faith is frightening, so pure. How will that gold endure in a world of dross? They tell me to lead them— I who was never a soldier and sworn not to draw blood. Lord, I don't ask to know all, but fall as it will, let my folk have some good of this to their own. They live so much in an old world that this new one might easily

swallow them. Drust, Artcois, Bredei, all the young men ready for this holy war like a bright-ribboned fair. They should have something of their own for it. My soul is an open hand to my Lord. Teach me Your will. Amen.

There was little official correspondence on the Cori-tani war, which was brief and historically minor. In his later years as archivist to Marchudd Rhys, Meganius noted that most of it ran from Ambrosius to the prince. Fitting; they were similar men, aggressive and brusquely competent, and even their courtesy tended to chill. Young Ambrosius was as self-possessed at twenty as the boy Caesar, his cursive style as angular and lean as the thinking behind it.

Drust Dismas now has as much presence as Do-relei or Patricius. By making much of him, I have set up a male pride against the matriarchy that guides them, but it is the young queen I must finally bargain with.

Of course, there were letters never attached to the court record, the property of Meganius himself, letters scratched out on the field, the voice of his own Sochet, clear as a bell but darkening through spring and summer from bright peal to funeral knell.

Like Uriah the Hittite we are set in the forefront of every battle. We are the very point of the spear. The Chi-Rho goes ever before us . . .

And then later:

It is hard to remember even the holiest purpose when you are hungry and wet. There is no rest but always another hill. God is with us, but we are so tired.

And the last letter, the very stylus strokes clumsy, stunned as the hand that dragged it over the smudged wax tablet.

I have left no vow unbroken now. My marriage, if error, at least erred to the side of love, but not this. Why should I ask God to help me? He may not even exist. It is hard to write. I am wounded and in chains.

Meganius wrote to Auxerre at the end of it, informing Germanus that the reclaimed lands would support a new biscopric if a pallium could be sent. The clergy at Auxerre were puzzled (but relieved) that the heretic of Ebur-acum did not press for the inclusion of these new parishes in his own diocese. No matter; Germanus was only too quick to nominate.

There lives in our grateful memory that S. Patri-cius, once our sturdy help on our late visit, whose strength and resolution in Christ shapes him admirably to the new See. We would know his mind in this.

Meganius carefully mislaid the letter. The mind of S. Patricius then was the last thing Germanus would want to know. One of the earlier letters, perhaps, from the spring, while the bell was still a peal, the men, horses and faith unworn.

Never have I been so clearly set to God's work or given brothers whose Grace so far exceeds my own. This is, if any work ever, to be a war in the name of God. It is our destiny. It is mine.

-oAo-

©LORY

TO ©OD,

3LLELUIA

Jesu, I am Dorelei Mabh, first wife to Padrec Raven, who is known to You. The fhains follow me now, and I am a great queen. Shall I do this new thing never tried before? Shall I lift my hand like Mo-ses and send forth my Prydn against Egypt-fhain?

You have given us so much. Where tallfolk have only tale-speaking of Your magic, we have seen and done it. This is only right. We are Mother's first children and have kept magic from the first days.