The priest had stiffened, glancing up at his king, but Pirithous, jaw set, nodded once, and the old man went back to his work. Eurytion’s tail switched, his hide shuddering as if plagued with flies.
“There will be no other reading of any omens, unless your lady requests it,” Pirithous said. She looked up sharply, finding Pirithous’s cool gaze upon her, his arms crossed over his broad chest. “It is her right to demand the same satisfaction I have claimed, after all, if she is unhappy with the outcome.”
“Our marriage secures peace for my people and yours,” she said, careful not to let him see her confusion. She had known for some time that women among the Lapiths had few rights. Her father had made it clear to her what role she must play, even as a queen. “If it requires a trade of my happiness in exchange, I will give it gladly.”
“I do not believe in taking women unwilling, Hippodamia. Least of all a bride. Oaths sworn before the gods are just as binding as marriage vows, and the peace you desire will be made between our people all the same.”
“Until your death, only,” Centaurus said. “But if Hippodamia provides you with an heir, a child born and raised as our kinsman, our peoples will be united behind him, and his children after. This is why Dia wished for your marriage to my daughter, and why it is my wish as well.”
But Pirithous did not look to Centaurus when her father spoke. He kept his eyes upon her. “And what do you wish for?”
“Centaurus raised me as his own, saved me when I would have been left to die upon the mountain. I owe him my life, and it is his to spend as he sees fit.”
“Already you speak as a queen,” Pirithous said. “But you do not answer me. I would know if you have given your heart elsewhere before we go forward, before the priest gives us the blessing of Zeus. For it will be a blessing, Hippodamia. The gods cannot want less than peace and my father will be glad to see me wed, hoping it might reconcile me to the task of kingship I am set.”
She swallowed, unable to turn from his gaze. This was his pride again, she was certain. It was not enough that he had insulted her, suggesting she had come to him already tarnished by another’s use. He would shame her now, too, before her father and her friends. Whether it was for her own benefit, that she might know her place, or for Eurytion’s, that he might learn his, she did not know, but it was clear she would not escape the lesson.
“Hippodamia?” Centaurus prompted, his eyes narrowing at her hesitation.
“And if the answer does not please you, will you punish my people?” she asked.
“I have sworn already that I wish for nothing but peace, my lady. But I will not marry you against your will, nor will I be the cause of your misery. No lasting peace can be built upon strife.”
“Then I must admit I do not believe myself capable of love for you, though for a moment in your megaron, I feared otherwise. My heart and my affections are my own, unclaimed, but the longer I know you, the more certain I am they will never be yours.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Pirithous
“You misjudge me, Hippodamia.” Pirithous smiled, slow and satisfied. “There is no answer you might have given that would have pleased me more.”
As long as she did not love the centaur, the situation was not beyond repair, even if she did not know it yet. And after having his way so easily for so long, the challenge in her words, in the lift of her chin and the flash of anger in her eyes, only served to fire his blood. Once she sipped from the cup of pleasure he would serve her in their marriage bed, she would feel differently. She would be his, then, heart and body and mind, and would surely flush with embarrassment to remember this day.
Indeed, she flushed already, her face flaming red beneath all its grime, but Pirithous behaved as if he did not notice, nodding again to the priest. “And what sign does my father give?”
The priest stared, opening his mouth, then shutting it, as his gaze slid from Pirithous to the centaurs to the girl, and back again. Pirithous could not blame the man. No matter what answer he gave, there would be some of his audience who would be displeased by it, and certainly Eurytion’s behavior offered no assurance of their supposedly peaceful natures, even if Centaurus had been all politeness.
“My king,” he finally managed. “It is as you said, a blessing. But—”
“But?” Pirithous arched an eyebrow. A but could only serve to give Hippodamia and Centaurus an excuse to change their minds, and he had not the patience for it now that he knew her free of Eurytion’s influence.
The priest cleared his throat, glancing again toward the centaurs. Whatever he had been about to say, Pirithous had dealt with him often enough that he knew to think better of it.
“I fear it is not yet an auspicious time to wed,” the man said, bowing his head. “It must wait until the summer solstice if you wish your bride to bear you fruit.”
Pirithous exchanged a glance with Theseus. Seven days, then. A sevenday until he could take Hippodamia to bed and ensure himself an heir. But that did not mean he could not spend the time well. By the solstice she would be eager for him. And no doubt, Antiope would encourage her to change her mind, even if she only offered her assistance at Theseus’s request, without any care for his needs. Even if it was only for Hippodamia’s own good, for that matter.
“We would be honored if you would remain as our guest until the solstice,” he told her.
She looked to her father, who nodded, and then pressed her lips together in what was clearly unspoken irritation. “Might I keep a companion of my own kind until the wedding?”
If she asked for Eurytion, after everything they had discussed, he would lock the centaur in the stable and Hades’s curse upon the peace they were meant to build. Still, he had no grounds to deny her such a small request, and if she was to become his queen, he must trust her at least this far. And yet…
“Antiope, Queen of Athens, will make you welcome, but if you require another companion, I must warn you she does not suffer men of any race gladly. She was the Amazon queen before she consented to marry Theseus.”
Hippodamia’s eyes widened. Word of Theseus’s wedding to the Amazon queen had spread far, but not, it seemed, to the mountains—or if it had, Centaurus had not seen fit to share the story with his daughter.
“Of course,” she said. “And I would not wish to give offense to the wife of Theseus. But there are females among my people. Father, will you send word to Hylonome? Perhaps she would be willing, though I know she does not care to leave the mountain.”
The old centaur smiled, no doubt relieved now that the day had been named. “I will ask it of her myself.”
“Then it is settled,” Pirithous said, for Eurytion stirred, his black gaze locked upon Hippodamia with a possessiveness he had no wish to tempt with opportunity. “We will feast tonight to celebrate. You and your people are welcome to remain, Centaurus.”
“Better if we go,” he said, shaking his head. “The sooner we reach the mountain, the sooner I might send Hylonome back for Hippodamia. A delay will serve nothing, and I think we have already worn your patience thin this day.” One hind-hoof scraped the packed earth floor, kicking dust at Eurytion. “We will return upon the solstice, but know that while our daughter is housed within your walls, we consider the Lapiths bound to Dia’s peace.”
“And so we shall be,” Pirithous agreed. “You have my word as king.”
Centaurus stretched out his hand, and Hippodamia clasped it, pressing it to her cheek. He drew his daughter into his arms and Pirithous stepped away to grant them a moment for their farewell. The priest and Theseus came with him of course, though Theseus did not turn his back completely upon the centaurs, and Pirithous trusted he would keep sidelong watch upon Eurytion, even now. He was not so foolish as to think his betrothal to Hippodamia brought an end to the trouble that centaur might cause, peace or no peace.
“You goad your young bride unkindly,” Theseus murmured. “If you continue this way, it will only serve to make her wilder.”
; “I have no objection to wildness in my bed.” He smiled broadly, now that Hippodamia would not see it, though he kept his voice low. “She has such spirit, Theseus! It is no wonder Dia chose her.”
Theseus grimaced in return. “I wonder very much if your mother chose her in a fit of rage after you despoiled her maid. Already this girl is determined not to love you, and you only look pleased by the challenge. Have you considered at all what it will mean if she never softens?”
“You speak as if you did not win the heart of an Amazon.” Pirithous clapped him on the back. “Do not worry so, Theseus. She is still a woman, and Centaurus did not even raise her to hate men.”
Theseus shook his head, his mouth a sour line. “If you speak so before Antiope, I will not blame her if she responds with violence against you, king or not. And worse, you antagonize Hippodamia’s companions. You said yourself that strife is no way to begin this peace. Eurytion looks as though he will not be happy until he has your head at the end of a spear.”
“Eurytion leaves with Centaurus. When next he meets Hippodamia, he will see a woman well-loved and know himself defeated.” Pirithous shrugged, casting a glance over his shoulder at the black-furred beast. “It hardly matters. Whatever trouble he brings, it will be nothing I cannot finish.”
“And you will give your bride another reason to resent you when you have cut down her kinsman,” Theseus replied.
“King Pirithous,” Hippodamia called, sorrow softening her tone. When he turned back to her, her eyes were downcast, her hands knotted tightly before her. “My father would return with us to the palace, that he might place my hand in yours before your people.”
“Perhaps Theseus would go ahead of us to spread word that the announcement will be made?” When he looked to his cousin, Theseus nodded, and left them with a bow. The king of Athens never hesitated to humble himself, though Pirithous could not understand the practice. Perhaps that was the difference between a son of Zeus and a son of Poseidon. Certainly Theseus did not share his appetite for women, if he could spend so long with only Antiope in his bed.
Pirithous offered his arm to Hippodamia and grim-faced, she took it.
“You cannot think me so repulsive, surely,” he said gently, for she reminded him now of the young girl he had feared she would be, all the fight having drained from her body. “And you will be queen soon, among a people where that title carries great meaning.”
“Your people will surely honor me for bringing them peace, if nothing else. But as for being queen—I am more concerned with what naming me queen means to their king.”
“Nothing awful,” he assured her. And he ought to have realized it would concern her. Raised among the centaurs, how could she know anything at all about how a husband might treat his wife? “Antiope would hardly tolerate me were I to answer otherwise.”
“And is it her opinion you value, or the respect and friendship of her husband, who would not tolerate any insult to his wife?”
Pirithous laughed. “Is that all you fear? That I will treat you as nothing more than a prize?”
“Am I not a prize, King Pirithous? Another woman for your bed and little else.”
“If that were your only value, my mother would not have chosen you as my bride. And we have already agreed there is no sense in this if I mistreat you. Any slight I give you before my people will serve only as an example to them of how they might ignore the spirit of our peace. It would be worse than dishonorable. Now, I ask you, what purpose would that serve either one of us?”
Her forehead creased and she fell silent, but Pirithous did not for a moment believe he had won. If it was not the answer she had expected him to give, neither was it the one she had wanted. He was not Theseus, willing to tie himself to one woman and one woman alone, but that did not mean he would not grant her all proper honor and respect.
She would simply have to understand.
Antiope stood at Theseus’s side when Pirithous returned from the shrine ahead of the centaurs. The king and queen of Athens waited with the Lapiths nobles at the palace gate. If the charcoal patterns drawn upon her skin did not set her enough apart, as always, Antiope wore a man’s tunic, the same blue as Theseus’s own, stopping just above her knee and girdled at the waist with a knot of golden snakes. Though she had given up her axe and bow, the knife sheathed at her waist was deadly enough in her hands, and Pirithous had no doubt she had already found and assessed his store of weaponry in case of need.
He greeted her warmly, taking both her hands in his and lifting them to his lips to kiss her fingers. She laughed at his exuberance, flicking her fingers free of his grasp. In private they might disagree, even argue, but before his people, Antiope would not shame him. Her grace was one of the many reasons Theseus had not hesitated to take her as his queen. It was Pirithous’s hope that Hippodamia possessed some measure of the same or, if she did not, that Antiope would train her to be queen enough.
“It is fortunate you were at home when your mother took ill,” Antiope said. “I can only imagine what trouble it would have caused had you been at sea.”
“Dia was stubborn enough to linger until I returned,” Pirithous said, half-smiling at the thought. Even the gods would have been forced to wait until she was ready to leave this earth. “But I fear I will not have opportunity to raid as I would like this summer. Theseus must go alone if he wishes to fill his coffers.”
Antiope’s amber eyes lit. “Once I have seen your bride settled, I shall accompany him myself.”
Pirithous laughed, for Theseus’s expression had lost its humor at her words, his attention caught completely by the suggestion. “With Pirithous’s wedding to disrupt the season, it would be better if I remained in Athens,” he said quickly. “Besides, he is new to kingship, and I would not abandon him so soon.”
“You are a true friend, cousin,” Pirithous said, clasping his arm. And though he tried to keep his expression sober, he could not quite stop himself from grinning. “May the gods reward you for your sacrifice.”
“I pray to them nightly,” he said, glancing sidelong at Antiope. “Athens is in need of an heir as well.”
“Centaurus comes.” Antiope’s eyes narrowed against the sun. Theseus often teased her for having the eyes of a falcon—a fine compliment to any archer, but not usually meant to describe color as well as sight. “The girl rides upon her father’s back.”
Pirithous turned to look, conscious of the murmuring that had broken out among the nobles. They had hardly seen Hippodamia, hidden as she had been by the horse bodies of the centaurs while they stood in the megaron, and again as they marched out to the shrine. But now she was clearly displayed, and dressed as strangely as Antiope, with her legs bared below the knee. All the better to ride upon a centaur’s back, he assumed, though she did not sit astride now.
“They say she has only to whisper and even the wildest stallion will obey,” Antiope said, behind him. “Imagine the lines she might breed! Already your people are known for their horses, but with her skill, you will have animals even the gods will envy.”
“A worthy bride for a king of the Lapiths,” Theseus agreed. “If you can win her.”
“Has he not already?” Antiope asked. “She has agreed to the marriage, or surely Pirithous would not accept her?”
“She has agreed for the sake of her people,” Theseus said. “Not for love of Pirithous or a desire to be queen. And I fear my cousin has not helped the matter.”
“She will have no cause for complaint as long as she is mine,” Pirithous said, keeping his eyes upon Hippodamia.
Her dark hair was crowned with a wreath of white wildflowers, but even so, she had not lost the stray bits of leaf and stick, the disarray a reminder of her upbringing. A wild creature, born of the mountain and the wood, only waiting to be tamed by her king.
He stepped forward to meet them, and Centaurus stopped, angling his body so that Hippodamia might be seen clearly by all those who waited at the wall. Her father reached back, and Hippodamia too
k his hand, her head bowed demurely and her gaze seeming to fall upon Pirithous’s sandals.
“Pirithous, King of the Lapiths and son of Ixion and Zeus, in honor of Dia and in the name of the peace she forged between our peoples, I give you my daughter, Hippodamia, Tamer of Horses, to become your wife upon the summer solstice.”
Centaurus held out her hand, and Pirithous took it.
“For as long as Hippodamia remains among the Lapiths, we are bound by this pledge of peace.” Pirithous caught her about the waist, lifting her down from her father’s back and setting her gently to her still-bare feet. When she did not look at him even then, he tipped up her chin, meeting her eyes, the color of rich, fertile earth. “Let this peace begin between us, my lady.”
“As you are to be my husband, my guardian, and my king, I can hardly disobey.”
He searched her face for some hint of warmth or affection and found nothing but cool regard. For the first time, he allowed himself to dip beneath the surface of her body, tasting the flavor of her emotions. Sorrow, first and foremost, for everything she would leave behind, and resignation after, for the fate she had chosen and accepted in sacrifice. But there was no sweetness there, no desire, no love but that which she held for her kinsmen and her father.
Pirithous leaned down, brushing his lips over hers. To seal their vows, he told himself, even as his body lurched at the softness of her mouth, the caress of her breath upon his face. To make his intentions clear.
She stiffened in his arms, her lips pressed firmly closed against his, with indignation flaring bright and hot between them. He sighed, releasing her chin, and forced a smile he did not feel. By all rights, she ought to have softened, some spark of want flaring that he might fan it into flame, but at least she’d had sense enough not to reject him openly before both their peoples. At least she did not shame him so publically as that.
Perhaps he would make a queen of her yet.
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