"Aye, huff. And huff-huff again. Artcois, come help. My arms drop off."

The bellows were only two large hide cups attached to handles that forced air through a long leather snout to heat the coal vitals of the fire. With one brother on each handle, huffing away, Padrec watched the iron turn from red to white, then lifted the ingot and laid it on Malgon's new anvil. Malgon took the tongs and held the iron as Padrec showed him, hammer poised for magic.

"Jesu bless thy arm and hammer. Now strike, Mai! Knives for Prydn, tools for rath. Arrows for Lugh to ride. Strike!"

Hammer swung, iron clanged its song of obedience in

a fountain of fire against the falling night, fire-song rising to the sky, falling to the tallfolk valleys, Jesu-song, sacred fire.

"Ai, hear!" Bredei exulted. "Tang! Tang!"

"Hear the music of a's fire," Artcois thrilled.

Tang! Tang! Tang!

The new fire rose from the ancient hill and spread farther than they knew, hilltop to village, to other fhains, one gern to another along the high ridges of the north. They pondered the thing about their rath fires: a gern who turns old ways upside down, who tames Blackbar into slave, the young one called Dorelei Mabh.

They were older and more cautious; not all the news of this young one pleased them. It seemed sacrilege to take such a sacred name. They would know her heart. They would see this magic. They followed Salmon pocked in stone along the ridges, looking for Mabh and the Raven.

They were all awed by this new iron-servant, but Mal-gon was fascinated as an artist finding a fresh color for his pallet. He could not sing his heart in words or song like Drust, but his passion spoke through his hands, heard the iron, and translated its message to shape. Fine straight blades for swords, keener knives to work with, lethal arrowheads, tiny blades to dice meat and clean fish, pots and pothooks to make their cooking better and easier, to build fire faster through iron's love of flint. Pictures in stone could be more sharply and subtly rendered with an iron awl, a clearer statement of Malgon's sense of order, action, and humor. He didn't laugh as much as the others, but he knew the spirit of laughter and froze it in stone, and so spoke to a much larger fhain than his own.

Malgon lacked the narrow fox-face of his kind. His head was rounder, features blunter than the other men, the difference between a tapered hand in repose and a working fist. Not handsome in Drust's way; even Guen-loie said that. Malgon lived and thought and worked and

loved with a controlled fire, heated by his own bellows. Neither joy nor sorrow tipped his scale too far. Malgon questioned where he could, accepted where he must, his inner reality always affirmed in stone or with a stroke in the earth itself. Like all artists, he knew the difference between loneliness and solitude. Musing over the new sword, the child of his own hands, he wished Cruaddan knew it.

All three of their women were pregnant at last. Did he bicker with Drust, or Artcois with Bredei over whose loving started it? Bairn would reach for one father as quickly as the other. Three children for one lost. Cru might well rejoice with the rest of them, but no. He rode and hunted alone, stayed away at night, and barely spoke around the fire, though all could see that Dorelei did not favor Padrec over him, only shared herself as she must. Padrec was all courtesy and consideration, never once trying to be first. Wise in all other things, Cru was blind in this, seething like a covered pot. Someone should loosen his lid a little.

Malgon gave one more wipe to the sword with his oiled fleece. It was to be a gift for Cru, the blade etched with Salmon and Stag, Malgon's best work so far, since each working put more of iron's secret in his hands. He could feel the balance, tossing it into the air to circle and settle to his hand like a trusting child. Fine. Apt to many more uses than bronze, the working of iron called for more complex skills. The sharpened skill asked keener questions of iron. What more, what other shapes are hidden in you?

Padrec emerged from the false hummock that marked their rath, bare to the waist, to stretch and greet the day. Malgon brandished the new blade. "See!" He tossed it high in two full circles that caught the morning sunlight. Padrec whooped and loped down from the rath toward the forge to thrust his head and hands in the tempering trough, spluttering as he wiped himself off.

"Yah! A looks a fine blade, Mai."

"Feel."

Padrec turned the blade in his grip, threw, and caught it. "Thee's prisoned iron-spirit in this."

Malgon watched in surprised appreciation as Padrec's arm flowed through a fluid series of moves with the weapon, rather expert for one sworn not to draw blood. 4 'Was Roman-soldier, Padrec?"

"No, we all learned a bit of sword as boys. I was rather good."

The blade became a wheel of light as it spun, flew, and buried itself deep in Malgon's chopping block four strides away.

'That's how a legionary knows he got a good blade, Malgon Ironmaster."

Ironmaster. Who would have thought such a thing would be? The praise warmed Malgon like strong uisge, but Guenloie took the wind out of his bellows quickly enough. "What master? Cannae make, only shape. Malgon Ironborrower. '

His wife meant it as a joke, but women did have a way of bringing a man down. Padrec consoled him: this was the artist's lot. For every caress, a curled lip. Like many other things in a flawed life, Malgon could live with it.

For Cru there might come a time when his level head would find its natural balance, but men need a space to realize new things. He was halfway to accepting Dore-lei's right to another husband, but it was her new wealth so quickly come that knocked him flat again and made him blurt out what no Prydn man should ask.

"Child-wealth be mine?"

"Be mine, Cru."

He felt hollow in his stomach. For the first time ever, Dorelei placed herself beyond him. There should be a joy between them at this time: he'd imagined it, how they'd feel, and now . . . ashes in his mouth. His hands ached to touch her, and yet she never seemed so distant. Her moods changed like spring weather now, and everything Cru said came out wrong.

"Should be glad of wealth, Cru."

As if he'd not tried to be. "Yah, Gern-y-fhain."

"Such a 'yah.' Dost turn sour on thy lips."

"Did only say—"

"Oh, thee's stupid! Go hunt." Then, to his confusion, Dorelei turned her back and burst into tears. All the things he wanted to say or do seemed inadequate now. Was it possible she didn't know how much he needed her?

"Need nae hunt," he answered lamely.

"Then go walk, ride, go anywhere, but away."

Her back forbade him like a wall. He knew she felt sick with the wealth, he knew women could be unreasonable anytime. Usually it took only a gentle touching, a holding to let her know all was well. Cru knew this and wondered sometimes if Dorelei had a like knowledge of him. She needed to be held now but would not suffer it. He needed to reach for her and his pride was in the way, and the thought of Padrec. So he left her with the distance still between them and went for his pony to ride through most of the summer day, until he topped a high bare fell where the wind cried like wolf-song. There, between earth and sky, Cru squatted still as the rocks and brooded. Fhain called him wise. He didn't like what wisdom prompted him to now, but he couldn't stop it.

He delayed his return to rath until late afternoon, not liking the way he felt. In his acid view the very green of the hills turned to poison. When he led the tired pony up the path toward byre, he saw his whole fhain gathered on the ridge by Malgon's forge, the men with their new swords, and Padrec practicing with Artcois. Padrec kept the movement slow and precise to show the cuts and parries. What they lacked in size, fhain men made up in speed. More than once Padrec stopped short to laugh in surprise as Artcois dropped low on sinewy haunches and shot up far faster than larger men could hope to.

Cru hovered at the edge of the group, twisting the pony's reins in his fingers. Neniane was wearing Dorelei's blue stones for the whim of it, hands pressed to her

swelling belly. Stupid Guenloie had begged Dorelei's bridal gown, her own wealth bulging against the tight waist. Cru wished he could share the happiness they felt; anything to relieve this weight that tightened his jaw until it hurt.

Drust spied him first and waved. "Cru! Come join. Dost make Roman-soldiers of fhain."

Aye, does he not. Cru dropped the reins and moved forward as Artcois lowered the sword to rest. Cru took it from him.

"Now Padrec will teach first husband."

"Right, then." Padrec mopped his forehead with a bare forearm. "Stand so, Cru. Feet so. Sword up in this manner."

Cru circled the larger man, trying several swings. Padrec blocked easily, circling to counter him.

"They'll mostly be bigger than you and go overhand for your head. Like so. And so. Block it square. Get under the blade like a shield. Under it, Cru. Good. Again."

Watching her husbands, not all of Dorelei's malaise was due to the child. She chilled with premonition, a wave of it. It could be the wealth that made her instincts unreliable—or sharpened them, she couldn't say— but the chill grew to fear. When Malgon brought her a drink of water and berry juice, Dorelei waved it away; the smell nauseated her now. She drew Malgon close.

"Mai, stop them."

"Do but play, Gern-y-fhain. Blades be not even edged yet."

"Nae, dost hear? Come between them. Padrec, husband—"

The thing happened even as she spoke. As the blades clanged together, Cru slid forward, left hand streaking out with the knife. Dorelei stopped breathing. She heard Padrec's grunt of surprise and pain. He faltered back a step, the thin red line broadening on the under part of his sword arm, then spattering on the grass.