Free The Horse Goddess (Celtic World of Morgan Llywelyn) by Morgan Llywelyn

notice. He stared out, his eyes filmed over.
    The priest was already exhausted from his exertions in a way that only a shapechanger could understand, but his life belonged to his tribe. When his art was needed, there could be no hesitation, no limit to the giving. His obligations had been set forth many generations ago by the great druii who had first come to understand the ordered rhythms of life, death, and rebirth.
    All forms of existence were subject to complex, immutable laws, even in the otherworlds. Everything was maintained in a delicate state of balance requiring absolute harmony. There were things that could not be changed; actions that, once taken, must always bring certain reactions. The druii were the gifted ones, born with a greater innate understanding of these laws than the rest of the people. With that understanding came the ability to manipulate some of the lesser forces of nature, but those powers must always be used for the benefit of the people.
    Power misused made the practitioner vulnerable to the rage of the great fire of life and could mean the fragmentation of his own small spark from that fire. His individuality might be torn apart and scattered on the winds between the worlds, left to howl in baffled hunger in the darkness, never to be whole again.
    “The girl is not in the village,” Kernunnos said at last. “I can feel her … far off. Very far,” he added, surprised. He
turned back to Toutorix. “And something is wrong.”
    “Find her!” roared the chief of the Kelti.
    “Leave me,” said Kernunnos. “When I know, I will come and tell you.”
    Toutorix returned, halfheartedly, to his guests and the preparations for feasting. Already the boasts and the contests had begun. Soon Bellenos, the most aggressive of Esus’ men, would be wrestling Okelos—or Goibban, if the smith could be talked into taking part—for the hero’s portion of first meat served. A boisterous gaiety had replaced the energetic industry of the community, and kin-fights were breaking out, wagers were being placed, dogs were barking, women were laughing. The first festival of the new sunseason had begun, ignoring the last icy blast of winter driving down from the peaks.
    Alone in his lodge, Kernunnos crouched beside the firepit, speaking in the spirit language. He rocked back and forth on his haunches, reaching outward with his mind, exploring his psychic surround with invisible fingers. At last he nodded to himself and got to his feet. From his collection of animal hides he selected one of the most powerful and drew it over his shoulders as he began the song of incantation.

    Epona woke. in absolute darkness. She knew a moment of disoriented terror, thinking she had gone blind. The darkness was so solid it was tangible, and she was alone in it with a monster that gasped and panted. Her head cleared a little and she recognized the sound as her own labored breathing.
    She was alive, then; somewhere under the Salt Mountain.
    She felt a tremendous weight pressing down upon her and tried to shift beneath it, only to be rewarded with a stab of pain. She gasped, inhaling air thick with particles of salt that made her choke and cough. Fire was running up her arm. Surely its light should enable her to see something …? No. It was not fire, but pain. The salt-fall had long since extinguished her torch, and she was partly buried under the slide,
one badly injured arm pinned beneath her body, her legs numbed by the weight of the salt.
    She forced herself to go limp, trying to rest and gather strength. All her life she had heard stories of mine disasters resulting from some thoughtless insult paid to the earth mother, but she had never thought to apply such risks to herself. Now those memories rushed back, larger than life.
    More than one man had carried his pick and mallet into the mine and never returned.
    It was unthinkable that she meet the same fate. She would not just lie there and die meekly. She moved her body in various