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knew. And I knew I could not possibly have restored Rosmerta’s life if the druids had killed her. I was young, I was ignorant, I was …
    “You are gifted!” Menua shouted at me. “Didn’t you know? At your birth, our seer saw portents of talent in you that would be of great benefit to the tribe and would involve a long journey. So you were named Ainvar, meaning ‘he who travels far.’ We thought at the time you would be a great warrior who would attack some distant tribe and bring back its wealth to the Camutes.
    ‘ ‘We were wrong though, weren’t we? You journey in a very different way. This morning you traveled to the Otherworid and brought back your grandmother.”
    The idea was so incredible I stopped breathing for a moment. But he was the chief druid. He knew more than all the kings. If he thought such a thing was possible, perhaps it was.
    Suddenly the strength went out of my legs.
    Menua caught me before I fell to the floor. He guided me over to sit on his bench by the fire, and stood watching me narrowly until I summoned enough spit into my mouth to speak. “Do you think that I… ?”
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    “What I think isn’t the issue. Do you think you did it?” He was relentless, the chief druid.
    Be careful, my bruised brain warned me. If you brought Rosmerta back to life you acted in defiance of the druids, who meant her to die.
    Menua must want me to admit it, thus confirming that his potion had killed Rosmerta in the first place. But such an admis—
    sion would condemn me.
    I could think of no defense, so fell back on honesty. “If I did what you suggest it was accidental,” I told him. “Truly.” My ears were ringing; my bones felt hollow.
    Menua continued to fix me with an unblinking stare. “Ain-var,” he said as If bemused. “Young Ainvar, who is to travel.
    “We harbored too small an ambition for you, I think.” Sighing, he rubbed the high bald dome of his forehead with his fingertips. “You shall need to be properly trained, of course … ,” he said as if to himself.
    He was not going to kill me? Or turn me into a toad?
    “Even with training you may have nothing to contribute,” he went on. “Still, the omens are undeniable. The sun is back.”
    “You did that,” I said quickly.
    His gaze softened, “Ah yes. I did that. We did that, we druids working together.
    “You just might be worth some effort, young Ainvar. Bul listen to me. Right now people are busy “celebrating, they won’t think deeply. But when they crawl into their beds tonight some may recall that you were with us when we returned from the grove, and wonder what part you played.”
    The dark shelf of his eyebrows met in a frown over Menua’s nose. “Druids answer only the questions they choose to answer,” he told me. “Remember that. If you are asked about what happened today, look through your questioner’s eyes to the back of his skull and say nothing. Do you understand?”
    “I understand.” He is including you with the druids, my head told me. My heart leaped-
    “You will live with me for a time and we will leam together what talents you may possess, Ainvar. Whatever they may be, it appears your gifts are of the head, not of the arm.”
    “Gifts of the head?”
    “Powers of the mind. Those who have them may, if they sub-mit to the necessary years of study and discipline, aspire to entering the Order of the Wise. They may have an aptitude for reading omens or memorizing the poems that contain our histories. Or
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    they may be sacrificers, or healers, or teachers like myself. Each of us has an invisible ability, you understand, unlike obvious gifts of the arm such as swordwielding or craftsmanship.”
    Cautiously I raised my hand and fingered my head; the head that Celts held sacred.
    “Am I to be a druid?” 1 dared to whisper.
    Menua assumed a dubious expression. “There is the remotest possibility. Very remote, mind you. Druids must be obedient to the law and you showed a