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shocking disregard for the law today. If that is the way you intend to proceed we should have Dian Cet as chief judge declare you a criminal now and be done with it.”
    Knowing the use to which druids could put criminals, I shook my head violently. “I’ll never again break the smallest prohibition, not as long as I live.”
    Menua’s eyelids crinkled at the edges. “Ah, I think you are going to cause me seven kinds of trouble, no matter what you say. But you may just be worth it if we can tolerate each other long enough to find out. Now go collect your bedding from Rosmerta’s lodge. 1 have no provisions for guests.”
    That night I slept in the home of the chief druid. Our old lodge would be assigned to the first couple to marry and conceive a child after Beltaine, the festival of spring and fertility.
    In the darkness I lay wondering.
    Was it possible I had somehow worked the greatest magic of all, the magic reserved for the Source of All Being? In ignorance and passion, had I struck the spark of life?

CHAPTER THREE
S
    OMETIMES I CAUGHT Menua watching me narrow-eyed, stroking his lower lip, and knew he was wondering, too. My formal instruction began with criticism of every as—
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    pect of my being. Nothing I was or did, it seemed, was right. For example, I was unforgivably awkward, an insult to Menua’s eyes.
    “Look to nature,” he advised me- “Every creature that emerges from the Cauldron of Creation is as graceful as it can be according to its physical abilities. Thus do willow tree and water rat alike honor the life within themselves. Life is sacred, a spark from the Source of All Being.
    “But you blunder about as if your joints were untied, Ainvar. You bump into this and stumble over that, you spill your precious food and tear clothing it took someone much effort to make. As you come from a line of warriors, I assume you began learning how to handle weapons in your ninth summer. Tell me; Are you as inept with a spear as you are clumsy in my lodge?”
    My ears burned hot. “I’m good with a spear. And a sling. And last summer I became tall enough for a sword.”
    “Aha!” Menua pounced. “So we must assume you have some control over your muscles if you choose. Then why isn’t every gesture you make, in public or private, a way of thanking the Source for an able body?”
    Pointing his forefinger at me, Menua roared in a voice like thunder, “Celebrate yourself!”
    My bones obeyed. My spine, slumped in the customary curve of growing boys, straightened itself. My hand, which had been grabbing for a lump of Damona’s bread, stopped itself, men reached out slowly and with restraint. My eyes observed for the first time how cleverly hand and wrist could work together to create a harmonious line.
    Menua nodded approval. “Now you no longer resemble a pig rooting through a midden heap. That is appropriate for pigs but not for people. From now on, you will take pleasure in human grace.”
    The chief druid never made an awkward gesture, even when he scratched himself. Every movement was fluid, celebrating the ability to move.
    I was so impressed I even believed he farted musically.
    Nantorus, king of the Camutes—we always called the tribal chieftains kings—came north from his stronghold at Cenabum to congratulate the druids on the success of the new ritual. I had seen him before, for he was a frequent visitor to the sacred grove. To maintain his position a king needed the support of the Otherworld. He was not born to kingship but elected to it by the elders and the druids, and needed all the support he could get.
    Though he did not impress me as Menua did, Nantorus was
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    splendid and fierce-looking in a crested bronze helmet and coat of leather incised with lozenge shapes picked out in red. Tall and broad, with a flowing brown moustache, he was the symbol of Camule manhood. Also he moved with a kingly grace, my head observed.
    Menua entertained him in our lodge. I hovered in