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Authors: Morgan Llywelyn

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If a man betrayed his trust with his brother’s livestock or women he was outcast, sent from the sight of the prince forever, all that he was allowed being one horse and his
gorytus.
Such men formed small bands of their own, ranging the steppe, living by theft and stealth, dangerous to all whom they met.
“Dasadas will ride with them someday,” Kazhak had once confided to Epona. “He watches you, watches you, all the time. Day will come when Kazhak will announce Dasadas is no longer his brother.”
Epona had been equally aware of the eyes of Dasadas, following her around the encampment, but she had paid no attention. Kazhak was her man; as long as he satisfied her it would have been dishonorable, by the laws of the Kelti, to look at any other.
But on this muddy morning she was not satisfied with Kazhak. Instead of temporary anger, flaring up like a spark and dying away in his arms, she felt a cold and permanent rage, like a stone in her belly. Kazhak had betrayed her, he had never intended to make her part of his tribe. She was just a useful possession.
And she would not be possessed.
As she rode away from the encampment, letting her body refamiliarize itself with the movements of the horse, the shifts of weight and balance necessary for riding, she caught sight of another lone rider also setting out from the huddle of wagons. She squinted her eyes against the sun.
The solitary rider was Dasadas.
At Epona’s signal the brown gelding broke into a trot, lifting his knees high to pull his feet out of the sticky mud. Epona remembered a fold in the land some distance from the encampment, an undulation of the earth containing a longdry streambed. A few stunted, dead trees were there, and before winter she had ridden to that place to practice with bow and arrow, out of sight of the Scythians who might have laughed at her clumsiness.
Today she yearned to be out of sight of the Scythians again. She headed for the dry streambed, and Dasadas reined his own horse in the same general direction.
She knew it, but she did not care.
I do not belong to you, Kazhak,
she said silently, clenching her jaw, pushing the horse to go faster.
The streambed was not dry now; a thin trickle of melted ice lay at its bottom, and one of the trees might not be dead. Two or three tiny green leaves were struggling for life on a topmost branch.
Epona sat on the horse, looking up at that unequal struggle, the weak leaves against the wind and the sun and the barren earth. She got off her horse and knelt at the base of the tree, fumbling with the brooch that held her bearskin cloak. She used the point of the brooch-pin to scratch her wrist, and dripped a few tiny droplets of blood onto the tree roots, whispering an invocation.
“What you do?” a voice challenged.
“Offering a sacrifice so this tree will live,” she answered. She did not look over her shoulder, but she was aware that Dasadas had dismounted and was standing behind her. She could smell his body, a different smell from that of Kazhak; more acid, more bitter.
“Can you make tree live?”
“I can help.” She completed the sacrifice and stood up, rubbing her arm. “If the spirits wish; if they accept my offering.”
“Why you care?” Dasadas stepped in front of her so she had to look at him. He was thinner than she remembered, his flesh burned by the intensity of the spirit within until it had melted from his bones, leaving his face as sculptured as an Ionian figurine.
“I have an obligation to life,” she told him, knowing he would not understand.
“Would you …” Dasadas hesitated, licking his lips. Beautifully shaped lips, Epona thought to herself, looking at them for the first time. There were those who would have said Dasadas was a beautiful young man.
“Would you … teach Dasadas your magic?” the Scythian asked hesitantly.
Epona stared at him. “You have to be born with the gift,” she said. “I cannot make you
drui
. If you have a talent, you can be taught how to use it, that is all.”
“You will not teach?” He looked like a disappointed child. “Dasadas give you something in return, if you teach. Dasadas best archer of all Royal Scyths. Dasadas show you how make bow, arrows, kill anything. Is trade?”
The
druii
could be born anywhere, among any people; so it was taught. Perhaps this Dasadas did have the gift. If the link had been broken between herself and Kazhak, perhaps this young man who stood before her, trembling with some strange passion, would be a friend to her spirit.
Who cared for the stupid laws of Kolaxais and the shamans?
Epona smiled at Dasadas, a wide, reckless smile, white teeth framed by chapped red lips. “Teach me to use the bow first,” she said. “Then we will see about the magic.”
Dasadas agreed without hesitation. He would have agreed to anything to be close to the yellow-haired woman, to hear her voice, to feel the excitement that coursed through him only when he was in her presence. The magic. The magic!
They hobbled the horses and sat on the ground together, and Dasadas explained about the bow as he would have explained to a son of his. The only way to become a great archer was to know every aspect of the bow as well as you knew the veins and hairs on the backs of your hands. Dasadas began by telling Epona how the bow was manufactured, that she might know its most intimate secrets. She. had learned the Scythian language very well, for an outsider; it was not as difficult to explain to her as he would have thought, and her mind grasped a concept as quickly as a man’s.
The Scythian bow, the most accurate weapon of its kind, was a short reflex bow consisting of a wooden heart, very thick and almost entirely rigid on both sides of the handgrip, but thinning away to form a very slender limb like a willow sapling. Sometimes this was composed of several leaves of
wood doweled together, but more often it was cut from a single stave. It was always curved, with the back forming a pronounced concavity in the direction of the arrow’s flight, and with a symmetry that spoke to the Kelti spirit within Epona. Looking at the bow, she saw beauty.
As Dasadas explained, after the wood was formed, a thick layer of sinew steeped in a urine compound was laid on the back of the bow and pressed into place. This solidified into a rock-hard layer that was both firm and curiously elastic, almost inseparable from the wood. The belly of the bow was similarly fitted with long plates of curved horn, lying to the wood without tension in any part. These processes alone might take a man several winters. The contact surfaces of the horn and wood were patiently rasped in preparation for the boiled fish glue that would hold them together, and the glue was applied in many thin layers. When a man undertook to make a bow for himself, he was dedicating years of his life to the task, allowing the weapon many long months of resting and drying out before the next step was taken.
The final result was an object of deadly beauty and harmony, a perfect instrument as valuable to its owner as his horse or his wagons.
Epona looked with newly appreciative eyes on the bow she had inherited from Basl. It was as if the dead man’s spirit lay obediently in her hands, ready to kill at her command.
Next Dasadas set up targets for her and coached her in the technique for drawing the bow and for sighting her quarry. He was patient and skillful, but his hands trembled violently when he had to touch her to adjust her fingers on the string. Epona remembered that under the Scythian rule he could be killed for touching another man’s woman, and thought that was why he trembled.
Wherever Dasadas made contact with Epona’s bare flesh, his own flesh burned as if he had touched fire. Magic, it was magic. She was sharing the magic with him, he said to himself. This was the way, then; he could not take it by force, but she would give it to him if he humbled himself. No Scythian ever humbled himself for a woman, but to Dasadas the
sacrifice did not seem too great in return for the way he felt when he was in her presence.
Epona, Epona. Shoot the arrow, Epona
.
She did, and when she hit her mark she laughed with delight.
Dasadas stood as close to her as he dared, aching for more of her, but he was aware it was not her body he wanted. Not exactly. It was something else he longed to capture, that special quality that enchanted him, that light and laughter and energy so different from the nature of any woman he knew. When he thought of the women who were his wives, he hated them. As he hated Kazhak, for possessing Epona.
Tabiti fled across the sky, and at last caution summoned Dasadas from his madness. If Kazhak came looking for the Kelt and found them together he would be merciless to the younger man. Life had never seemed particularly sweet to Dasadas. Life was harsh, and violent, and often exciting, but not sweet. Yet in Epona’s presence he had the feeling there were many faces to life that he had not seen, and there might be sweetness, too. Somehow, somewhere, as part of the magic. He wanted to live a long time; he wanted to live long enough to taste the honey and feel the magic coursing through his veins.
He might not live longer than a few heartbeats more if Kazhak found them alone together, so far from the encampment.
“You must go back,” he told the woman with sudden urgency. “You ride back to wagons from north. Dasadas will wait until nearly sundown; ride in from south. But you go now, quickly, before Kazhak looks for you.”
Epona understood, but she had not yet fulfilled her part of the bargain. She had not begun to discuss the powers of the spirits with Dasadas. He had generously given all their time together to her, teaching her to shoot the bow. When she tried to protest he waved her objections aside, however.
“If we are careful now, there will be another time,” he told her. Her face was soft and open to him; he felt he had made great strides today. He was stalking a new kind of
game, something as quick to run as an antelope, but capable of the savagery of a lion. The hunt might take a long time, and much careful strategy, but it would be worth it. It would be worth anything.
He told her, “In only few days, mud will begin to dry on Sea of Grass. It will be possible for wagons to move again. Men will go in every direction, seeking fresh pasture. Some, good brothers, will follow Kazhak, but not many. Every man likes to go his own way. Aksinya may go with Kazhak, but Dasadas will not be welcome.”
There was truth to his words. Epona shook her head in silent agreement.
“So, is few days,” Dasadas continued. “You ride out, Dasadas ride out and meet you. Different places. Be very careful. You will soon shoot arrows as good as … as Basl did. You will tell Dasadas about magic, maybe teach him a little, yes?” He smiled disarmingly, crinkling the skin around his eyes into unfamiliar folds.
He was a young man, handsome to Epona, now that she was used to the faces of the Scythians. And when he was near her, he burned with a fire that lit up his eyes and radiated its heat to her. She was both flattered and intrigued. To be wanted so desperately, so obviously, was soothing to her bruised spirit. When she thought about Kazhak she blamed him bitterly for desiring her as nothing more than a trading piece to be used in the elaborate game he was playing with the shamans. Dasadas wanted her for herself. He wanted to be with her. He wanted to listen to what she had to say.
And he wanted her for bedsports, too. She knew that; what woman would not? It was unfortunate that she felt no desire for his body, but perhaps that would happen if they were together more. She had grown accustomed to the pleasures of the body, but she no longer intended to share lifemaking with Kazhak. She would punish him.
Perhaps she would punish him with Dasadas.
She laughed suddenly, tossing her head so the heavy yellow hair with its copper threads swung free across her back. “I will ride out and meet you, Dasadas,” she said. “We will
shoot arrows together. We will talk about magic. Until the mud dries; until the wagons move.”
She sounded so reckless he was frightened for her. No nomad woman, undertaking a forbidden relationship, would have spoken above a whisper. “You will be careful?” he urged.
“Careful?” Epona laughed again. “Hai, Dasadas, I have never been careful!”
A
fter the long torpor of the winter, when mere survival was difficult enough and no additional effort was possible, the nomads were bursting with the fresh energies of oncoming spring. The tribe of Kolaxais became frantically busy, preparing for its dispersal. Tents had to be struck, the framework carefully repaired and stored in the wagons; the wagons themselves required a final checking and provisioning before the trek began in search of summer pastures; there were good-byes to be said, the men embracing each other warmly, the women sharing a last pot of root tea with their social equals; the livestock had to be rounded up, counted, and allotted.
This last, the most serious task of the spring, kept all able bodied men busy. No one had time to notice that Epona and Dasadas were absent from the encampment part of each day.
The forbidden meetings gave Epona a heady sense of defiance. It was this that intoxicated her, more than Dasadas’ devotion. She rode out each morning with a pounding heart, eyes scanning the horizon, and on one level of her being she
almost hoped to see Kazhak riding toward her. She wanted to stand before him and acknowledge that she had betrayed him, as she felt he had betrayed her. She wanted to laugh in his face, to challenge him, to defy all the restrictions and conventions of his people—his people, not hers—and fight to the death, if necessary, for her freedom.
Fight to the death, as she now wished she had fought beside the farmers in their field, when the Scythians galloped down on them.
And yet she was in no hurry for her transition. Even when the pattern went against her, she enjoyed this life too much to be eager to leave it, and she was always curious about what might happen nextday. She did not really want Kazhak to come upon her and Dasadas and strike them down.
She did not really want to see the look in his eyes, if he found her with another man.
She rode out, and she met Dasadas in different places, each of them a long gallop from the encampment, hidden from casual eyes by the roll of the land or a sheltering gully. She became proficient, then deadly, in her use of the bow, learning the skill with a speed that astonished Dasadas and gave him yet another reason to admire her. She kept her share of the bargain as well, explaining to him, slowly and patiently, the teachings of the
druii
. She was careful not to make the mistakes she had made with Kazhak, speaking to him as an equal who should surely grasp what she was talking about. She tried to teach Dasadas as one would teach a small child, with clear, simple examples, things any mind could grasp.
And she was disappointed. Kazhak had rarely listened, professing impatience with all that was magic, but from time to time his mind had reached out to hers and she had been aware that he knew exactly what she meant. This never happened with Dasadas. He furrowed his forehead in his effort to follow her explanations, but it was soon obvious he had no gift. He could not understand what she tried to teach him. He yearned for the knowledge, the magic, but he had no ability to absorb or use it. He never felt it deep inside, where such magic must originate; he kept trying to get her to teach him to do simple
tricks, things she felt were more typical of the shamans than the
druii
.
There was no link between them; Epona and Dasadas never locked eyes and let their spirits speak to one another. And it was not a thing you could ask a man to do. The spirit within Epona knew that such a meeting happened of its own accord, or not at all.
Without that link, there was no desire. When Dasadas stood close to her, his eagerness as tangible as flesh and blood, she felt nothing for him, and each time he tried to touch her more intimately than was necessary for teaching the use of bow and arrow she moved away from him.
At last, in frustration, he grew angry with her. “Why you meet Dasadas if not to touch?”
“We made a trade, your knowledge for mine. The Kelti always honor their word.”
“Is more than trade, Epona! Is … you are so much, so much more than other women, do you understand? You are … you are in the dreams of Dasadas, all the time, like the wolf.”
Epona stiffened. “What wolf?”
“The giant wolf, the one we killed. He still comes to Dasadas in dreams. Aksinya says he dreams of wolf, too.”
Epona felt as if a cold wind had blown across the Sea of Grass, sending a shiver up her back. “Are you and Aksinya the only ones who dream of this wolf?” she wanted to know.
Dasadas looked puzzled “Is strange, we are only ones who saw silver wolf in Carpatos, but Dasadas has heard two brothers, maybe three, mention dreaming of him. Very strange.”
I should not be surprised
, Epona thought.
I should have known this would happen.
“Dasadas, I want you to do something for me.”
“What?” His voice held the surly undertone of unrelieved lust, his hunger for her souring in his belly.
“Ask other men if they have dreamed of the silver wolf. Ask men who have not heard what happened to us in the Carp
tos.”
“If Dasadas does that for you, what will you do for Dasadas?”
the Scythian asked slyly. “Kelti are such good traders; what will you trade?”
She had begun this game thoughtlessly, like a child, but she was not playing it with a child. His quick breathing and demanding eyes reminded her of that. A time would come when he would reach for her and she could not honorably pull away, having made an unspoken but implicit offer they both understood. Yet her flesh did not desire his, would never desire his. She knew that now. “What do you want?” she asked him.
“To be near you.”
“You are near me now.”
“All summer. Ask Kazhak to let Dasadas and his wagons come with you to the summer grazing. If Epona asks, Kazhak will agree.”
She was not so certain of her ability to persuade Kazhak, and she was not sure it would be prudent to have Dasadas in close proximity throughout the long summer. What she had begun as a few days’ sport, in defiance and out of anger, could become deadly for all involved during the pastoral days and star-filled nights. But if Dasadas told the truth, if the giant wolf was really following them through the dreamworlds, it would be comforting to have him nearby, a proven ally.
“I will ask Kazhak,” she promised. “And you will question the other men, see how many have experienced the same dream?”
“Dasadas will do that,” the Scythian agreed.
The days were growing longer, the time for preparation shorter. Already the first small groups of herders had set out from the encampment, riding their horses and cracking their whips to establish early dominance over the animals in their care, their women and children following in the wagons. The weakest animals were assigned first; the choice of the herds would be apportioned last, to Kazhak and the other members of Kolaxais’ own family … and to the kin of the shamans, who had been promised well-bred horses and healthy young livestock.
“In three days, we will leave, too,” Kazhak told Epona.
The next morning she hurried to her arranged meeting with Dasadas, but he was a long time in coming. When at last he rode into view his handsome face was troubled. “Almost every man has dreamed of the wolf,” he told her without getting off his horse. “Is very bad thing, Epona. Is not discussed, because what man cries aloud over bad dreams? But Dasadas asks; they tell. That wolf, that strange wolf we saw, wolf that killed Basl, has walked through this camp many times. Many times. Is a demon, a terrible thing! We must tell the shamans, they must fight it.”
“No!” Epona said quickly, laying her hand on his arm to stop him physically. “Don’t tell the shamans, Dasadas.”
“For why?”
Why? Because the shamans would want to know where the silver wolf came from, and why it was plaguing the dreamworld of the Scythians. They were not stupid men, Tsaygas and Mitkezh; it would not take them long to find out that the dreams had begun with Epona’s arrival. It would not take them long to determine that it was the Kelti woman who had led the silver wolf onto the Sea of Grass.
“There is no need to tell the shamans because I have the magic to protect the people from the wolf,” Epona told Dasadas. “When the camp breaks up, your brothers will no longer have bad dreams about that demon.”
Dasadas’ face flooded with new admiration. He never doubted her ability to do as she said, which both touched Epona and put a new responsibility on her shoulders. “You can take away the wolf? Is wonderful thing, Epona! But … why did you not do this when we were riding here, when wolf chased us, when wolf killed Basl? Why did you not use your magic to save Basl?”
“All magic is limited, Dasadas,” she explained, hoping this time he would understand. “I can draw the wolf away from your people, but I will not kill it.”
“You cannot kill wolf? Demon cannot be destroyed?”
“It can be destroyed,” Epona told him truthfully, though she felt a strange reluctance to say those words. “But I am
not the one to do it. It is better just to lure him away and let the people forget about him.”
“Dasadas believes you,” said the Scythian, his eyes shining with something very near worship. “Now, will you do as you said? Will Kazhak make welcome the wagons, the herds of Dasadas for the summer grazing?”
That was a hard promise to fulfill. When she broached the idea to Kazhak, his immediate reaction was one of anger. “Why does Dasadas want to graze his horses with my horses? Let him find his own pastures!”
“You and he have traveled together before,” Epona reminded him. “Every summer, your wagons have followed the same ruts as his; you have always been brothers.”
“Now he wants to share more than my grass,” Kazhak said suspiciously.
Epona told him, then, of the dreams of the huge wolf, but she did not say she had learned of these dreams through conversations with Dasadas. She let Kazhak think it was the talk of the women, gossip heard over mares’ milk and root tea.
Kazhak was surprised. “Many people have dreamed this?”
“So I understand. Have you never had such a dream?”
He thought for a moment. “When we hurt the wolf, back in the Carp
tos, that was the last Kazhak saw of it, awake or asleep. If my brothers dream of the demon wolf, why does it not come to Kazhak?”
Because you have slept within range of my guardian fire, Epona answered him in her head. The fire I built with my two hands according to the old ways, and gave special charge over my safety. The sacred ritual fire.
Wise are the ways of the people, who taught you these things
, said the spirit within.
You were wrong to turn your back on such wisdom.
But she had turned her back. She had set her face toward the east, and she must deal with thisday as she found it. She would do what she could to alleviate the nightmares of Kazhak’s people. To this end, she told Kazhak what she had told Dasadas, that she would be able to lure the wolf away from the main body of the tribe so that it followed his wagons and
left the others in peace. “I think it is better for us to face the wolf, for we have dealt with it before,” she said. She did not tell him that there was no choice; she did not tell him what the wolf wanted. “But it would be better still if we had other experienced warriors with us, who know the ways of this thing. Aksinya and Dasadas would be a valuable addition to our family for this grazing season.”

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