Tamer of Horses

by Amalia Carosella

  But when she saw him approach in the stable, all the warmth in her expression faded away into cool regard. She turned her back upon him, bringing Fire alongside the readied horses held in the gentle hands of the horsemaster, and leapt from the mare’s back to the back of his raven-black stallion in a move so graceful he might have believed her to be a goddess, had he not known otherwise.

  The stallion tossed his head, dancing back half a step before she had him in hand, her fingers coiled in his mane instead of holding the reins. And this from Podarkes, who permitted no other rider but Pirithous and the horsemaster himself. By all rights, she should have been thrown, Tamer of Horses or not.

  “You should be more careful of yourself, my lady,” Pirithous said, pausing beside her. “Leaping upon a strange horse so carelessly might cost you dearly one day.”

  She lifted her chin and Podarkes snorted, no doubt responding to her anger, though for the love of Aphrodite and Hera, he did not know what he had done to inspire such emotion. “I earned my name, King Pirithous.”

  His jaw tightened at the implied insult and a jerk of his head sent the horsemaster from the stable. “In private, you may speak to me however you desire, Princess, and I swear to you I will take any tongue-lashing you wish to give without objection, but in front of our people, you will show respect to your king.”

  “The same respect you show to your queen,” she agreed coolly.

  “And what insult have I given you, Hippodamia?”

  She laughed, high and sharp, and turned the stallion away. “Better to ask what insult you have not given, Pirithous. And I promise you, I will not be shamed so cruelly again. Not by the man I am meant to marry or any other.”

  He vaulted up onto the mare, younger and spryer than Fire, and guided her after Hippodamia. This time, she would not leave him behind. A well-placed heel against the mare’s ribs, and they caught the stallion before he left the stable. Pirithous leaned over and took the reins she so disdained, leashing her horse—his horse!

  The impudent little wildling. Not that he did not admire her horsemanship, but he had hardly expected less from a girl raised by centaurs—ah! Was that what had troubled her?

  “You should not mistake my teasing for insult, Princess.” She had been perfectly well-behaved, if hesitant, until he’d put her on Fire’s back. And after the previous night, he had counted it only for shyness, not unusual at all in a maiden.

  But there was no hesitation now, just a flash of anger in her eyes and a toss of her head, echoed by the stallion between her shapely legs. If she rode a horse so well, he could only imagine how well she would ride him, and the thought made his own seat much less comfortable than it had been a moment before.

  “Perhaps you should not mistake insult for teasing, my lord.”

  He laughed, drawing the stallion near enough that her bare leg brushed his as they rode toward the palace gate. “You are determined, aren’t you?”

  She slanted him a narrow glance, her body stiffening at the contact. “To win your respect, yes. I am that.”

  “Not that,” he said, grinning. “I would not waste my day in showing you the lands we will hold if you did not have that already. But as you are absolutely determined to misunderstand me, I fear you won’t trust it to be so, even when I say it plainly.”

  “And should I trust your word so easily, when you show no faith in me or mine?”

  “No faith?” He nodded to the guards upon the gate as they passed, and the young men smiled to see their king laughing with his future wife. Or at least laughing in her company, for Hippodamia sat haughty and unforgiving beside him, her mouth a thin line and her eyes narrowed. “What greater faith might I have shown in you and yours, Princess, than by accepting the terms of this peace? Nor did I doubt your word when you claimed yourself to be free of affection for any other. What more proof would you have of me?”

  “You should not have asked at all!” Podarkes jerked his head at some sign from her, dancing sideways, and the reins nearly slipped from his fingers.

  He tightened his grip and clucked his tongue. The stallion settled, knowing his master’s firm hand, and Hippodamia glared at him, though he was not certain if it was because of his offense or the failure of what might have been her escape had he not been quick enough to thwart her.

  “You ride my horse, Hippodamia. You can hardly expect him not to obey my commands.”

  “It is not your horse which offends me.”

  “I suppose it isn’t,” he agreed, letting his gaze travel from her face down her body. Her legs hugged his stallion as if she had been born to ride, and the tunic did not do much to cover them. They were as sun-browned as her arms, the smooth skin marked with thin silver lines. No doubt from riding through the forest, cut and scraped by branches and thorns along the way.

  His fingers itched to trace each mark, his body to be pressed between her sleek thighs. He lifted his gaze back to hers, cool as ever. Not tonight. Not until those dark eyes turned to pools of desire. And he would see them so, he promised himself. Before the solstice.

  “But as you have agreed to become my bride and mother of my sons, I fear you will be offended for a very long time.”

  He twitched the reins and turned both their horses toward the mountain.

  Pirithous released his hold on the stallion’s reins when they reached the faint trail, too narrow to ride side by side. Podarkes knew the way well enough, and Hippodamia had settled, the flame of her anger quenched by curiosity. This part of the mountain had always belonged to the Lapiths, the forest too thick for the centaurs and missing the caves they preferred. But the hunting was good, and when the trail brought them out of the forest to the stone outcropping, the view was even better.

  Hippodamia, riding in silence before him, drew in a sharp breath, and urged Podarkes forward, until the stallion stood on the very edge of the precipice. Pirithous brought his mare up beside her, though not quite so near the edge. His mare was not so steady as Podarkes. The great herd of the Lapiths grazed below them on the plain while the herdsmen watched for raiders and lions. Lapith horses were never left unguarded but, they still lost a handful each year to raiding from their Myrmidon friends. It was an unspoken rite of manhood among their people to sail north and follow the river inland to steal horses from the Lapiths.

  “I have never seen so many,” Hippodamia murmured.

  “Gold and silver might be traded away, but we will always have our horses. None but the Lapiths can break them, so we let them run half-wild. The horses Peleus and his Myrmidons steal come back to us in time, useless to his people but for breeding. Even if he had the land to keep such a large herd alongside his cattle and goats and sheep, his men are such poor horsemen they are bound to lose them, one way or another. When the mares he’s stolen make their way back to us again, we gain their foals as well, courtesy of Peleus’s finest stallions.” He watched her carefully then, and listened harder to the current of her awe as he went on. “I have sent word to my people that any foals studded by Peleus’s stock are to be given up to their queen in dowry, and you will have another ten horses from the palace stable as well. Any but Fire, of course.”

  She stared at him, wide-eyed, so startled the stallion felt it, and threw up his head, dancing back from the ledge. Pirithous hid a smile. Put her on a horse and he need never use his power to know her feelings, she communicated them so easily to the beasts.

  “A woman who earned her name taming horses ought not be kept from them, Princess. Surely you did not think me so foolish as that?”

  “But so many?” she breathed. “For my own?”

  “Yours to do with as you wish,” he promised. “Dia would have wanted you to have some wealth of your own, and I thought you would prefer horses to gold, though I will give you cups and plates and bowls enough of that, too, if you desire it. Gold and silver halters, perhaps, to mark the horses which belong to you?”

  “You would shower me with riches,” she said, her gaze returning to the grazing ho
rses, softer now, her surprise laced with confusion. “But I am already yours, King Pirithous. I am paid for by peace between our peoples.”

  “And you will be my wife, my queen. Even if you cannot love me, as you say, I would give you every pleasure.” And if she would not accept him into her bed yet, he might at least begin with the pleasures he could offer outside of it.

  He brought the mare around, guiding it back toward the trees. “You might do more than simply stare, Princess.”

  He smiled slowly, letting the flush of her discomfort wash over him, though he did not look back to see the blush in her cheeks. Let her think he had not noticed, and let her believe, too, that he had spoken carelessly. Better if she did not know yet that he had felt the flash of desire, quickly buried, or she was bound to find some reason to take offense, rallying anger from its ashes instead. He must go carefully now. Slowly. It had been a long time since a woman had given him such trouble, and the release he found in her body would be all the sweeter for the wait.

  “There is a trail down to the plain,” he went on, before she could balk. “We’ll share our meal with the horses, if you wish.”

  As a boy, before he had grown old enough to spend his summers raiding, Pirithous had taken his turn as herdsman, helping to guard the horses. And even as a man, when the seas were too rough or some demand of Dia’s kept him from taking ship, he had come here, riding through the half-wild herd and making himself known to them. Day after day, month after month, he had waited for them to grow used to his scent, his movements, his presence in their midst, but Hippodamia had only to laugh and instead of starting, the horses lifted their heads, ears twitching. When she reached out her hand, they stretched out their necks, touching velvet noses to her fingers and breathing her in.

  Yes, she would make a very fine queen, and in truth, she was no wilder than the horses of the plain, so cherished by his people. She need only become used to his presence, trained to take food from his hand and to tolerate his touch. She need only be tamed enough to ride, and then he would set her loose again, to run wild with the herd, if she wished it. A horse queen would serve his people quite well.

  They had left their own horses with one of the herdsmen, though Pirithous carried the bags packed with their meal, and more parsnips, for he had thought he might need to lure the horses. He need not have worried. A filly came nosing at her hands and Hippodamia smiled at him over her shoulder, her eyes bright with joy.

  Pirithous was glad to return it. He would have gifted her the horses yesterday had he known she might forget her sworn dislike of him so easily. He only hoped her glow of pleasure would last through the day.

  “Not so wild after all,” she said softly, when he moved to her side. “Or is it only because they know you?”

  “Most of them have known me since birth, or the winter just after.” He grinned, showing her a handful of parsnips. “But more, perhaps, that they know I bring them food.”

  She laughed again, and the horses came nearer, crowding around them. Pirithous nudged more than one nose away from the bags he carried. Much longer and they would push their way in to steal the fruit he had promised Hippodamia.

  “There is a hillock up ahead,” he told her, nodding in its direction, “with a large boulder where we might sit and eat without the horses nibbling the food from our fingers.”

  Her eyes danced as she watched him struggle through the herd. She wove through them easily, speaking a soft word here or there so the horses would step aside—most often into Pirithous instead. If she had not taken such clear delight in his trouble, he would have found it far more unpleasant, but her joy fed his own pleasure. To see her smiling so carelessly was worth the price, and he would let her tease him all she wished if it meant the softening of her heart.

  “Come,” she said at last, laughter in her voice. Her hand found his, and she drew him with her through the press of horse flanks and the tickle of soft noses much more swiftly than he might have managed on his own. Her hand was so small, her touch so soft and gentle, like a bird alighting for the briefest moment.

  Then they were free of the herd, and her fingers slipped from his. He flexed his hand, the loss of her touch almost an ache in his chest. She had never reached for him freely before. Never allowed him to touch her without some stiffness in her manner.

  She ran ahead of him toward the hillock, fleet and graceful as a deer, tossing a grin of challenge over her shoulder. He dropped the bags he carried and gave himself to the race, his father’s blood lighting fire to his veins and lightning burning in his eyes. Tamer of Horses she might be, and blessed by Poseidon, but she was no demigod. If she wished to race, she would not win, no matter how far ahead she started.

  He caught her just before she reached the hillock, bringing her tumbling with him into the meadow grass. A shout of surprise turned just as quickly into laughter, and she was beneath him, all softness and warmth, her arms encircling his neck, her dark eyes smiling, and her full lips curving.

  His body hardened between them, and her eyes widened. Just a taste, he promised himself. And if she did not welcome him, he would let her slip free. But with her hair wild in the grass and her body so inviting, he could not help but lower his head and claim her mouth with his own.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Hippodamia

  She stilled completely, the hot flush of her cheeks spreading down into her belly until her stomach knotted tight. Then his lips brushed hers, so lightly she wondered if she’d dreamed it. Perhaps he had sent her tumbling and her head had struck the rock, and all the rest was nothing more than whispers of her dreams the night before. She sighed, disappointment mixing with hunger. None of it could be real. The horses and his kindness and his gift. It was too wonderful, and he had been too…

  His lips brushed hers again, more confident now, and lingering. She clung to his neck, drawing him down. If he was only a phantom, and if it was only a dream of a kiss, a dream of a king she might love, she need not shy from it. She parted her lips, but he did not answer by delving into her mouth, only nibbled at her lip, sending sparks of desire and need into her center. She moaned, lifting her head to reach for more, to taste his mouth if he would not take hers. He was mint and honey and exultation, and when she parted his lips with her tongue all the gentleness of his beginning fled.

  Pirithous pressed her down, the thickness of his desire hard between them, and even that only sent a thrill of heat and pleasure up her spine. She threaded her fingers through his hair, tasting his laughter on his tongue even before she heard it break, muffled against her mouth. The rough warmth of his palm slid up her thigh, beneath the hem of her short tunic, and when she lifted her hips in welcome, his laughter turned into a groan.

  “Not this way,” he gasped, tearing his mouth from hers. He dropped his forehead to her shoulder, lifting himself up, and the wind moved between them, cooling her body where it ached for his. “Zeus give me strength,” he murmured against her neck.

  She curled her fingers more tightly into his hair, her own laughter bubbling up. To have reduced him to this—the proud Pirithous who had stood glorious and naked in his tub, now panting at her throat and begging the gods for help. It could only be a dream.

  It could only ever have been a dream.

  Her laughter died with the thought, and she pushed him away. His shoulders were so solid, his body so heavy she could not have moved him had he not been willing. He rolled to his back beside her, rubbing his face with the hand that had slipped beneath her tunic and held her firm against his need.

  “Forgive me,” he said, his voice rough. “I never meant—I had not expected—” He made a sound, half-growl and half-groan. “Aphrodite save me. I had not realized the centaurs taught you so much.”

  She flushed, thinking of Eurytion, his gleaming black hide and his ebony eyes. Whatever there might have been between them had ended when Dia proposed her peace, and Centaurus had forbidden the others from touching her. Not that there had ever been more than the sweet, stol
en kisses of children. Not that he had ever filled her with sparks of need and desire, flaming bright hot at his touch. Compared to Pirithous, Eurytion fumbled like a newborn colt nosing for his mother’s teat.

  “I wish this could be more than a dream,” she said.

  He rolled to his side, propping himself up on his elbow and smiling down at her. He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek with a feather touch. “Have you always dreamed of me so?”

  “I dreamed of a king I could love.”

  His forehead creased, his gray eyes darkening. “Am I so terrible that to want my kiss you must think me a phantom?”

  “Proud and selfish and caring only for your own pleasure. You would demand a bride who is untouched, unspoiled, while you take woman after woman to your bed, and men, too, when it suits you. For all you Lapiths think the centaurs beasts, we do not demand anything from another we ourselves would not willingly give.”

  “I have never met a woman so difficult to please,” he said softly, sitting up. “Nor so determined to believe the worst in me.” He sighed, then rose to his feet and extended a hand to her. “Come, Princess. I promised you a meal. Perhaps when your stomach is full you will believe yourself awake, even if you cannot think better of me for it.”