“Magister,” Mórganthu said, “what you desire is power. But even more you desire coins. Gold coins!” Mórganthu raised Tregeagle’s belt and tapped a gold coin.
Tregeagle slapped Mórganthu’s hand away. “And you’ll give me gold? Hah. Take your rag-loving brigands and get out of my village.”
Mórganthu peered long into Tregeagle’s eyes. Then, glancing at the gathered warriors, he sighed. “A bargain. We will pack up and depart your village if I fail to make an iron coin turn to pure gold before your very eyes.”
Tregeagle whistled and, without warning, grabbed Mórganthu by the tunic, holding the flat of the gladius to the druid’s face with the blade edge up against his nose.
Mórganthu blinked.
Tregeagle smiled, his brows furrowed. “I accept. But know that I carve the noses off duplicitous imps.” He let go of Mórganthu, who staggered before catching his fall.
“Give me a coin, then … a bysall.”
Tregeagle drew forth a slightly bent iron coin. “Make it into gold!” he scoffed.
Mórganthu took the small coin and held it before the people. “Watch.” He struck the Druid Stone with his staff, and it blazed up. Mumbling some indecipherable words, he threw the coin onto the black surface of the Stone.
Tregeagle puffed his cheeks out, for there lay the same bent coin, but it was now pure gold.
Connek’s heart nearly stopped beating. It could make gold! He yelled and pounded his fist into the air.
All around him, the people shouted and stomped their feet.
Tregeagle fell to his knees. Not daring to touch the blue fire, he gripped his sword and flicked the glimmering coin off the Stone. He held it before his puzzled eyes, scratched the coin on the edge of the sword, and marveled at the gold shavings left in the palm of his hand.
“How did you do that?”
Mórganthu grinned. “Not I. It was the Stone. Try another coin. The Stone gives permission.”
Tregeagle pulled from his bag a handful of silver, brass, and iron coins and threw them onto the Druid Stone, each one turning instantly to gold. The magister’s hands shook as he swept the golden trinkets off the Stone with his blade. Gathering them up, he held them before his spinning eyes. And he laughed until all the villagers laughed too.
Connek didn’t join them.
His reveling turned to anger as the coins fell into the grubby hands of Tregeagle. Connek walked forward, fell at Mórganthu’s feet, and begged for coins to put on the Stone too.
Mórganthu bent down and whispered in Connek’s ear, “Begone! You shall not get crumbs from my plate unless you do my bidding before tomorrow night.” And Mórganthu kicked him.
In blistering rage, Connek retreated toward the outer circle of villagers, but three women almost ran him down. That too-good-for-you Trevenna was first, followed by the bizarre Mônda and her daughter, Ganieda.
Trevenna ran to her husband and knelt beside him. She pulled on his shoulders and spoke in his ear. Tregeagle ignored her and braved the blue fire, raking newly made gold coins off with his bare hands and showing them to her. She, unbelievably, spurned them.
In contrast, Mônda and her daughter gawked at the gold coins and hugged Mórganthu, who greeted his daughter and granddaughter with a broad smile. They danced around Mórganthu and the Stone to the beat of the still-throoming drummers.
Soon the villagers danced as well, and Connek found himself moving in rhythm with the drums.
Bag it, why couldn’t he stop his feet? This hadn’t happened before when he looked at the Stone. He concentrated but could barely slow his steps for a moment before his feet danced off again. He wondered if he wore bewitched boots, but they wouldn’t hold still long enough for him to pull them off, curse them!
The warriors watched with fascination but did not dance. Once as Connek passed, he saw Vortigern’s mouth hanging open in a grin as he looked at the Stone. Each time Connek rounded the circle, the battle chieftain was the same, his glassy gaze fixed on the strange, mesmerizing, and ever-burning surface of the Stone. What was Vortigern thinking? What did he see in the Stone that made him waver there like a stalk of grain caught in a spinning, shifting wind? Another time around, and Vortigern had pulled out his blade and thrust it at an invisible foe. What enemy did he see? The fool! If Connek could just control his own boots, he could slip over there and rob the warrior blind.
But time blurred, and soon Connek knew only the movement