"That's a shame. But I took her from you once—"

"Tallfolk!"

"Wherefore?" Padrec slammed it back at him. "I rode with the fhains under Ambrose. I was with Dorelei every moment when she bore Crulegh into the world. I saw him come, still corded to her with the birthstring. And I have loved her better than thee ever could, scant man. Woman and wealth be mine. Have earned them."

Cru choked out something that deepened into a primal howl and propelled him awkwardly onto his knees. "Dorelei!"

Her only response was to gather up Crulegh and turn to her pony. "We go."

"Nae, wife. Wait."

"NO!" she screamed. "Be weak, Cru. Have paid too much. Do carry much. Cannot carry thee, too. Padrec will be father to Crulegh."

Cru's howl broke in a sob, but Padrec kept at him. "Fhain leaves thee."

"Thee will not." Impossibly, Cm put one twisted ankle under him and wobbled up to stand half erect before them before collapsing again. Weeping, he tried to pull himself along on his elbows toward Dorelei. "Not my son. Not my wealth."

"Get up, Cm."

"Not my..."

"Get up."

Hopeless it was. Cru only snarled through his tears. "Thee lift me up, Jesu-man. Jesu cured the halt. Take up thy bed and walk/ was't?"

"That was a man who wanted to live, Cru. Could do nothing with thee who only want to die."

Agonized, Cru watched Dorelei fork Crulegh over the saddle and vault up behind him.

Now, Padrec prayed, now if it's in him at all. Am I telling him to do his own miracle, or asking it of God? And then Padrec had part of his answer, bursting out, "Cru, help Him to help thee!"

Cru tried. He struggled, desperate. Once more, gasping with the effort, he heaved up on the long-flaccid legs, got almost erect before they went out from under him. Defeat was too long a habit. He only covered his face.

"Leave him, Gern-y-fhain." Padrec waved her on. "Death is what a wants. Go."

Dorelei moved on without looking back, fhain after her. Only Padrec's horse was left, Padrec himself, and Cru weeping on his knees. Fhain was out of earshot now and Padrec despairing as much as Cru. So much for miracles. Padrec scanned the open sky.

"Ravens came for me once, Cru. Was nae dead yet, and a came. Ravens can wait. Can smell death coming. Here." Padrec dropped his knife beside Cru. "Should make an end before that."

Cru closed a grimy fist on the hilt. "Do hate thee, Padrec."

"Dorelei hated to kill Bruidda, but a did it. Jesu can

nae help thee. Miracle will nae help. Thee will nae let it."

Padrec walked away to the horse. God, Jesu, he did try, it's in him. Is it in You? Or me? Here, now, this is what faith reduces to. Let him try again.

Then Cru's voice behind him, no longer weeping. "Will have thy horse, tallfolk."

When Padrec turned, Cm was heaving himself up, swaying for balance, the knife out in front of him, yearning for Padrec's flesh.

"Will have to come for it, Cm."

Cm lurched forward a step, "And kill thee."

"Will help." Padrec moved to a point halfway between Cm and the horse. "A little way, Cm, just a little. Here I am."

Cm swayed forward, wobbling precariously. Another step. Another.

"Come on, just a few more and you can reach me. A few more after that to the horse and all it can carry thee to. Come on, Cm."

The small man staggered forward, dragging each foot like the iron that fettered it so long. Only the knife never wavered. He was almost within reach when the legs buckled and tumbled him on the ground. When he raised his head, the hate was a pleading.

"Help me, Padrec. Help me reach you. Mother, Jesu, help me!"

"Help them, Cm. Dost nae understand? Be God that needs you. One more time, Cm. One more step."

Cru's shoulders bunched over the faltering legs. Another sob choked out of him. Then he saw Dorelei and fhain growing smaller in the distance, leaving his life and his miserable death. And somehow he stood up again, stumbled forward to lay the knife against Padrec's heart. But why should the great Raven be weeping like himself?

"Well, Cm. Can kill me now. Or I'll help you to horse."

Cm blinked through a mist over his soul as Padrec

held out a hand. "Come, that's the style. One step, another. And another. Will help. Another."

"Miserable tallfolk filth—"

"Shut up," Padrec said, pulling him along tenderly. "I've seen God at work only once before—another step, that's it—and I think it's happening now, so be quiet and get on with it. Good, Cru, good. God needs you first, then He can help."

Cru pushed aside the supporting arm. "Will do't myself." He took the last slow but firming steps to grasp the saddle horn. "Nae, do nae help me."

The hands might tremble, but the shoulders were still powerful. With one heave, Cru pulled himself astride the horse and reached to gather the reins. "Have won thy horse, Padrec."

"And the rest." Padrec looked off after fhain. "If thee can do as much for thine, so can I. So must I."

The men looked at each other.

"Did hate thee," Cru confessed. "Could still, to think of thee with her." He turned the horse about, walked it a few paces. Padrec wasn't following. "Come up behind?"

"No, Cruaddan."

He'd said it to give Cru heart and only now realized the truth. Once before did he see God at work, not Jesu but Drust on the cross. All his faith, all his Christianity came down to that agonized but pure death and showed his own heart wanting. And now Cru did it by wrenching truth even farther into the light. God created men out of need, men like Cru and Drust and Meganius, women like Dorelei: far too noble to be called dust. That busy old Boyo working in his Six Days, did He know all He took on? Well, I do, and that makes me worth finishing what I started. "Keep the knife, Cru. Let it be my gift."

"Thee do nae rade with us?"

"I can't go, I..." How to say it? Could he ever? "Salmon goes where a must, remember? Cannae always be together. Tell Dorelei, a was beauty. Say I will be filled with her and empty." He reached for Cru's hand

in farewell. * 'Between us, we found the road of the gods. I will always be her husband. We will meet again in Tir-Nan-Og." Padrec smacked the horse on the rump. "Till then, brother."

Cru turned once to raise a hand in farewell. "Lugh ride thy arrows, Padrec."

"Did always know Crulegh was thine. Kiss thy wealth for me." And I will bless my own for thee and Drust.

For a while he watched from the hill: Cru galloping after the others who stopped, expecting a different rider, but darting out to surround the one they got. It was far now; Padrec's eyes were not sharp as Malgon's. He saw the huddle of them paused together; then one who rode some way back toward his hill. Don't, Dorelei. Understand it. We have had such beauty. Miracles. And this is one of them. I have found my own treasure.

For all the distance between them, he felt her close and read the acceptance in her stillness. They watched each other for a long time, the spring wind blowing between them. Then Dorelei turned her pony and walked it back toward Cru and her people.

Padrec's pace south was half stride, half dogtrot, but he caught up with the freed slaves before long and slept that night in the house of Cair Ligualid's priest. Not too well; he wasn't used to beds anymore.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned."

Hearing confessions was one office Maganius usually left to the diocesan priests, but Father Colin was abed with a stomach disorder—not surprising the way he stuffed down pickled eel drowned in liquamen, and shellfish so far out of season. Someone else could be sent for, but the appointed hour was come and past, and the bishop happened to be in the church at the time. He couldn't honestly decline. Meganius settled himself in a cushioned chair behind the curtain and listened for the first of them.

"Bless me, Father."

Curious how rarely one heard anything new, although now and then on a warm spring day like this, the mind could wonder detachedly about the faces veiled by the confessional curtain. Over a lifetime, one could tell much just from sound. A swish of linen or samite, the delicate scrape of a sandal: a woman, probably young and well placed. The young ones hesitated, as if their sins were somehow novel. The older ones mucked on into it with the ease of habit.

Soft shoes, a heavy, clumping gait, the protesting creak of the kneeler: a merchant or farmer. Dull thud of bare feet, a peasant or scullery girl. The voice murmured through the curtain, soft or grating, plaintive, perfunctory, or greased with self-satisfaction. Meganius listened conscientiously and wished it done.

Soft shoes again, a light step but firm: a vital man in good condition. The creak and clink of a belt unbuckled, slight clatter of a sword laid aside. An officer from Ambroses' legion?

''Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."

Meganius raised his head, suddenly very still except for his pulse. The voice waited for his response. "Father?"

Meganius was glad for the curtain between them. "Yes, I am here."

"Forgive me, Father—"

And have you forgiven yourself, Socket? Finally! "How have you sinned, my son?"

Meganius wondered if it was really chance that Father Colin was indisposed. It was a complex confession, more meditation than anything else, but sure and unhes-itant.

"I thought I was lost and willingly so. I thought to turn my back on my Father's house but found in truth that neither He nor it would leave me; only that when I felt my soul move with His will, like His own shadow..."

Meganius waited. "That was well put. Go on."

"In your own words." You never lacked for them.

U I am a priest like yourself."

God, was he not? Meganius felt like singing—dancing, even. "And?"

"My faith left me, but God would not. Does that seem strange?"

"Not for a priest."

"I once said that man was meaningless without God. That's not true, can't be true. Just turned around. God is meaningless without man. Please, Father, I am not a heretic...."