The village was thrown into uproar. Kazhak’s men were soon roaring like bulls, demanding explanations. The gutuiters were trying to get to the injured man to tend his wounds; the embarrassed lord of the tribe, horrified—or appearing to be—at the accident that had befallen his guest, was getting in everyone’s way.
The commotion attracted even Epona’s attention. The crowd was moving toward the guest lodge, where the gutuiters meant to care for Kazhak, and Epona’s feet carried her with the crowd as her ears caught snatches of conversation. Some people who knew nothing were trying to explain everything to others who knew less.
“It was a hunting accident.”
“Was he mauled by a bear?”
“Fell down the mountain.”
“How. could he fall down the mountain? Wasn’t there a guide with him?”
“No, he wandered off by himself.”
“Yes, Okelos, son of Rigantona, was with him and let him fall.”
“That explains it. Okelos has always been careless, just like that wife of his. But how is this going to look to the Scythians? Will they want revenge?”
“Is the trading arrangement jeopardized?” This from someone older, wiser; a contemporary of Toutorix.
Epona was not surprised to hear the accident blamed on her brother. He would not have made a good lord of the tribe. Once more, the wisdom of the council of elders was proven. How fortunate the Kelti were to have so many old heads!
But an old head could not help her now; if she went to one of the elders for advice in her own dilemma, they would only side with Rigantona. The promise had been given, after all. She had been exchanged, like something you can count and carry.
The only advice she had been given that might be any good to her was Mahka’s: You should run away, Epona. You have to fight for yourself in thislife.
She was standing to one side, watching the people crowd around the guest lodge, glancing from time to time at the angry faces of Kazhak’s three men as they stood nearest the door, and it was then the idea came to her. A wild idea, a reckless idea, exactly the sort of thing that always occurred to Epona; an idea that could not be credited to the spirit within.
Nematona emerged from the lodge and Epona hurried to intercept her. “Will the Scythian be all right?” she wanted to know.
Nematona smiled. “I doubt if he could be killed with an axe. They breed strong men on that Sea of Grass he talks about. He is cut and bruised and some of his ribs may be injured, but he never winced when I bound them and now he says he is ready to ride. We were able to convince him to take one night’s rest—he is somewhat weakened—but I suspect he and his men will leave at dawn nextday. They are all extremely anxious to go.”
Anxious to go, thought Epona. So am I; anxious to go.
“Have you seen Kernunnos?” she asked Nematona.
“He was away for a while, but now I believe he is in the chief’s lodge. Do you want to see him?”
“No,” said Epona firmly. “I never, ever, want to see Kernunnos.”
Nematona patted her shoulder. “The shapechanger upsets you, doesn’t he? He is difficult to like, I realize, but you will find he is very wise and a skillful teacher. When he finishes his share of your instruction in the arts of the priesthood you will know as much as anyone can while living in thisworld. I almost envy you, Epona, having so many secrets opened to you for the first time.”
You could not argue with one of the druii. They were so snugly interwoven with the physical aspects of the earth and the unseen powers of the otherworlds that they could no longer understand the reluctance of someone like Epona, who found the thought of giving her entire life to the priesthood unbearable. The druii were convinced theirs was the ideal existence; the kind of freedom Epona required was no more necessary for them than rain was necessary for rocks.
Freedom, Epona thought, hungrily. Passionately. Freedom such as the horsemen must know, sitting on those beautiful animals as they run across the … what was it called? The Sea of Grass?
Imagine a sea of grass. Not sailing ships but galloping horses, and a horizon unlimited by mountain peaks.
The Scythians will return to their sea of grass and I am supposed to go to the magic house.
“Nematona, are you certain the Scythians will leave nextday?”
Nematona’s lips twitched. “I can give you my word on it. I think Kernunnos would carry them all out of the village in his arms if necessary, to get rid of them. Right now he is not too happy with your brother, either, Epona. You would be wise to suggest to Okelos that he stay out of the shapechanger’s way for a while.”
Nematona headed for the lodge the gutuiters shared; a tall, stately woman in a rough brown robe like the bark of a tree. Epona knew if she narrowed her eyes Nematona would melt away into the forest surrounding the village, her graceful figure one with the pines and the ferns, moving in eternal softness among the green and living things, part of them forever.
Daughter of the Trees.
I am just Epona, the girl told herself, standing with her head held high. And I will remain Epona.
She sat down in a comfortable spot where she could keep an eye on the guest lodge.
Kernunnos had returned to the village to find that nothing had gone as he expected. The Scythian had somehow survived his dreadful fall and was not even crippled. The Kelti were more impressed than ever with his hardiness; they chattered among themselves about the strength and endurance these horsemen must possess.
Some of the men were saying to others, “Perhaps the secret is in the heads of their enemies; there may be something to that. Suppose we were to nail heads to our lodges? Suppose we have our women make us some of those trousers—that looks like an excellent garment, warm and practical for mining, as well as for riding. We could learn a lot from these Scythians.”
Kernunnos was furious. He blew into the chief’s lodge like a cold north wind. “We have underestimated these horse people,” he told Taranis.
“We? It was your idea to send him on the hunt. Can it be that he is stronger than you, Kernunnos?”
The shapechanger’s lips writhed back from his teeth. “Impossible. He should never have survived that fall. A mistake must have been made …”
“I have made no mistakes,” Taranis said pointedly. “I gave the Scythians hospitality, I exchanged gifts, I even arranged a very satisfactory trade. Whatever trouble there has been you have caused, Kernunnos. Kazhak has told his men we injured him with some sort of trick, and they are understandably very angry. They may well leave without bothering to conclude the trade at all.”
“This is not just a trading matter! I tell you, the whole future of the people is involved; I have seen it. If we do not destroy the influence these strangers have, in another generation you might not even recognize the Kelti.”
He spoke with the voice of prophecy. The eyes of the chief priest were clouded, and hooded by their long lids, but for once Taranis was too upset to be intimidated by the powers of the drui. The villagers had seen the Scythian gold; if it was taken away again, they would blame him, and their allimportant loyalty to him might be weakened. A brash young man like Okelos, who promised them more …
“I am going to do my best to see that the trade is completed before the Scythians leave, Kernunnos,” he said. “Then they will go and be forgotten, you will see.”
“They will not be forgotten! And they may well come back, with more of their kind!”
“If they do, we will enlarge our trading arrangements with them to everyone’s advantage,” Taranis told him, “and in the future I will ask you to let me handle dealings with outsiders, for that is the function of the lord of the tribe. I see now that this is no business of the druii. And if by some chance they return with warriors, meaning us harm, we will defeat them with our own warriors and Goibban’s iron. No one can successfully attack us here; that has been proved many times.”
Kernunnos felt his guts twisting. How arrogant Taranis was! Like all the Kelti, he put too much
faith in his courage and his physical strength, and there would come a time when those allies would be insufficient.
The continuation of the tribe as a strong, spiritually intact unit was the responsibility of the chief priest, and Kernunnos was not going to be allowed to fulfill that responsibility. Since the coming of the Scythians his position had already been eroded.
Nursing his resentment, he left the chief’s lodge and headed for the magic house to consult the spirits. He caught sight of Rigantona’s daughter outside the guest lodge, sitting on the earth close to the hobbled horses of the Scythians, and stopped abruptly.
It was a sign, a good omen at last. When he most needed help, there would be another drui to add strength to the magic that held the pattern intact and the people of the Kelti safe.
He approached her on cat’s feet “Epona,” he said, his voice caressing. “Epona.”
She whirled around to meet his eyes. She would no longer give him the satisfaction of seeing her pull away. “It is not yet the night of the full moon,” she told him.
“I was hoping you could be persuaded to join us early,” the priest said. “You are needed now.”
“The promise was for the night of the full moon,” she reminded him, standing her ground.
“There is a threat to the tribe and I must call on the combined strength of the druii to counter it,” Kernunnos said. “Your help will be invaluable.” His voice repelled Epona. It reminded her of globules of grease floating on the surface of the water in the hydria.
“I am not trained,” she said.
“Not yet, but you have a force in you, Epona; a greater force than you realize. I know how to harness that force. There is nothing to fear, it does not hurt.”
She was haughty. “You know I’m not afraid of pain.”
“Then come with me now and help me, daughter of Rigantona. Working together, you and I will do such magic as the first druii did many generations ago. We can make the pattern stronger than ever. We can keep the Kelti here, in the Blue Mountains, safe and prosperous, able to resist whatever forces of change might try to destroy their unity. There are other people of strength rising even now, Epona, I can feel it, and they will threaten us in future generations. But we can make the Kelti more cohesive, put new weapons in their minds rather than in their hands. Hai! When you give your life to the tribe …”
“I don’t want to give my life to the tribe. I want to live it for myself.” Why would no one listen?
“Would you forget your obligation to your tribe?”
She could sense the desperation in him and it surprised her. “I will never forget I am Kelti,” she said. “But I will not come to you before nextnight.” She was not lying when she said it, merely walking around the truth.
“Very well, girl.” He was angry, but he would not push her; he could not afford to make her more hostile. “But when the full moon rises I will see you. Do not forget.”
He left her alone then, with the horses.
“Oh, please,” she whispered, not knowing which spirit to address in this instance and so addressing the all in one. “Please!”
The sun moved across the sky and the shadows grew tall from the west. At last Taranis and the elders approached with tense faces, carrying the selection of weapons the Scythians had seen earlier. As they neared the lodge Kazhak’s men, Basl, Aksinya, and Dasadas, stepped forward to guard the door. Epona noticed that both parties kept their hands close to their weapons.
“We have come, Kazhak,” called Taranis in his booming voice, “to ask the health of our friend.”
There was silence within the lodge. The Kelti waited.
“I wish you sunshine on your head in the name of the tribe of the Kelti, and of Taranis the Thunderer!” the chieftain cried more loudly.
No answer. The Kelti shifted their feet and looked at one another; the Scythians fingered their sword hilts.
Uiska appeared in the doorway carrying a basin, and then Kazhak stood behind her, a new pallor underlying his swarthiness. Addressing Taranis, he said, “Kelti have good wishes for Kazhak?” There was no mistaking the sarcasm in his voice. It cut through his thick accent like a blade made of star metal.
“Of course we do,” Taranis assured him. “Your unfortunate accident on the mountain grieves us …”
“Accident.” Kazhak considered the word, chewing it as if it were meat. Then his lips curled; he did not like the taste. “No accident. Kelti broke own law of hospitality. Try to kill Kazhak.”
The members of the council all began speaking at once, each disclaiming such a possibility. They built one elaborate statement atop another in an attempt to convince the Scythian the Kelti had never hurt a guest in the history of the people.
Kazhak folded his arms across his chest—carefully, for his tightly bound ribs were sore—and listened to them impassively. His dark eyes gazed beyond to some distant horizon. When their speech ran down of its own weight, he turned as if to go back into the lodge.
Taranis held out his hand. “Wait!”
“Why wait? Kazhak rest tonight, ride tomorrow. You not want us here, we go.”
“But what about the swords?”
Kazhak waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. “Swords not matter. Friends matter. Kazhak and Taranis were friends. No more. Kazhak will tell wherever he rides, Taranis of the Kelti cannot be trusted.”
Taranis was dismayed. The whole affair had been bungled. His reputation would be permanently damaged if the nomadic Scythians spread stories about him throughout the lands beyond the Blue Mountains, lands crisscrossed by the traders.
“Wait, listen, I will prove that you are wrong,” he pleaded. He turned to the man at his shoulder. “Go quickly to Goibban’s forge and bring back the best of whatever he has; swords, spearheads, knives. Bring it here right now.”
He turned back to the leader of the Scythians. “We will prove our good faith by giving you much more than we originally agreed upon. Is that not a sign of friendship? I give you my word, no further harm will come to you or your men in the territory of the Kelti, and when you leave your horses will stagger beneath our gifts.”
Kazhak’s face gave away nothing. “At dawn, we go.”
Taranis became effusive. “Certainly, certainly, if that is what you wish. We will have the iron ready for you whenever you want to leave. In the meantime, we will prepare another feast, a feast for friends, and we will … ah … hold games to entertain you and your men. As we do for friends,” he emphasized.
“Your priest will be there?” Kazhak’s voice was harsh.
“No. No! Kernunnos will not join us thisnight.” Taranis had no intention of feasting with the shapechanger, not after thisday’s disaster.
Goibban, tight lipped and red faced, came from the forge with two apprentices. They carried finely crafted daggers, iron spearheads, and the sword Goibban had been preparing for the new chief, its polished bronze hilt inlaid with coral and amber. It pleased Taranis to see how beautiful the sword was; at least he could offer the best the tribe possessed.
At his direction, the apprentices laid the iron weapons at Kazhak’s feet. “The Kelti request you take these as a small token of apology,” Taranis said.
Goibban, who could expect no additional gold for this assortment of his best work, made a noise deep in his throat, and old Dunatis coughed to cover it up.
Kazhak examined the weapons by pushing them around with his foot. “Good things,” he commented. “Better than first ones, is it so?”
Insulted again, Goibban answered haughtily, “All my work is equally good. The hilts of these are more decorated only because they are for the nobles of our tribe.”
“Kazhak is noble of his tribe,” the Scythian replied. “These knives, this sword, almost good enough for Kazhak. Almost,” he added, and deliberately spat in the dirt.
Another silence ensued. Everyone waited while Kazhak considered. Then he permitted a very small smile on his lips only, in the manner of the shapechanger.
&nbs
p; “Kazhak accepts,” he said. “We take weapons, leave gold. But tomorrow we go.” There was a guarded quality that had not been in his voice before. From it, Taranis knew that in spite of Kazhak’s acceptance of the trade, things were irrevocably changed. The Scythians might feast with them, and, if he was very fortunate, they might not accuse him elsewhere of having attempted to kill their leader. But whatever tentative bonds had been forged between the two peoples were broken.
The council would be sure to point out to him that Toutorix, in his prime, would have handled the matter very differently.
From the Scythian gold hoard, Taranis carried a special piece back to his lodge as a gift for Sirona. It was a cat of solid gold, pinned to be worn as a brooch, exquisitely graceful and lifelike as it clawed at its own tail.
Sirona fingered the heavy piece. “It is strange that these savage men choose to take such beautiful things from the people they rob. I would not have expected them to have an eye for beauty.”
“The Scythian Dasadas told me his people ordered that made as they have much goldwork made to their own requirements, by Hellene craftsmen. Gold has great significance to them.”
“But where do they get the raw gold?”
“Ah, I suspect that begins as other articles they have stolen, and is melted down and reshaped. But you are right; they have quite a taste for craftsmanship in spite of their wild ways.”
“Is it possible they are a people of many layers, like the Kelti?” Sirona suggested.
“No one is like the Kelti,” Taranis said.
At the order of the tribe, games would be played during the remainder of the long summer twilight, in an effort to improve the Scythians’ humor. Areas were quickly staked out for wrestling, a course was marked for a foot race, and targets were set up for spear and bow. The best athletes among the Kelti drew lots to determine which would compete with the Scythians.
Taranis himself was to fight with sword and shield as part of a team competition: he and two others against Kazhak’s three men. The winner was to be the first side to draw a drop of blood from the other.
The Horse Goddess (Celtic World of Morgan Llywelyn) Page 18