Lucius had flawlessly passed the test of power. That evening, after Amalgáid and Lucius returned to the Druid settlement from the Eagle’s Beak, Lucius lay on his bed in the men’s house.

How strange it would be if Teilo and Justan could see me now, he thought. How little they know of the world! Their thoughts are shaped entirely by the teachings of the schola at Inissi Leuca. They have no idea that other gods and goddesses, other paths to the divine, even exist. For them, the ancient teachings are blasphemy, ugly, something to be avoided at any cost.

He felt suddenly sad for the brothers and monks who were missing out on so much beauty, and he felt especially bad for Martinus and his misguided minions who chopped down trees and destroyed sacred wells and sanctuaries. He felt sorry for those whose religion was circumscribed by a written book.

Why can’t they lift their noses out of that book and see the sacred creation all around them? The divine is so much larger than books. No one book could possibly describe or contain the miracles that happen every day, like the fact that the sun rises each morning and the flowers know when to close at night… Then the exertions of the day finally overtook him, and he drifted off into a peaceful sleep.

Amalgáid was at the Main House seeking a sounding board, someone with whom to discuss his appraisal of Lucius. He thoroughly approved of the sober charge who weighed his actions so carefully before speaking or acting, a trait Amalgáid respected. The young man was profoundly inner-directed and not easily moved by the agendas of others.

Báetán bustled about the Main House like a bee, energetically pursuing his labor of bringing in armloads of firewood and stacking them neatly against a wall.

“Báetán, stand still for a moment so I can share something with you,” Amalgáid said.

Báetán placed the last stick on the pile that now reached nearly to the thatched roof and turned to give Amalgáid his full attention.

“Our student is precocious, a deep soul with great potential. Today I read his aura and his spirit, and I saw something rather surprising. I need your opinion.”

“Certainly. What did you see?”

“I saw into his past, or maybe it is his future—it’s hard to be sure. He comes from a noble line; there was a golden torc about his neck. Very odd for one who came to us looking like a half-drowned wharf rat, don’t you think?”

Báetán replied, “If you saw it, dear Amalgáid, it is a true vision. Your Sight rarely deceives you. These are strange times, and many changes are afoot on the mainland. It would not surprise me if the gods had sent us a future leader of the tribes. So many things now hang in the balance.”

“I suppose you are right. The fact that there are two of them is fascinating, is it not?” Amalgáid asked.

“We will have to be patient and see what the future brings. From what Bébinn says, the young woman is equally talented,” Báetán responded.

“Perhaps it is a special grace from the High Ones. Maybe they have sent us two especially strong souls to carry on the old ways in the midst of the destruction all around us,” Amalgáid mused.

He reached for a silver jug of the Waters of Life, kept high on a shelf for ceremonial and medicinal use, and poured a thin stream into the fire as a thanks offering to the unseen ones who had sent such promising charges, and watched as blue tongues of flame licked towards the smoke-blackened opening by the roof-tree, bearing his offering up to the sky.

“Is buide lemm frit,” he murmured reverently. “Thank you for your gifts to us.”