Tamer of Horses

by Amalia Carosella

  Beside him, Hippodamia’s delight shone in her eyes, and he hid his own irritation for her sake. But it was far harder than it should have been to release her hand when she tugged against his hold, intent on greeting her kin. Even more difficult to watch her run toward them without even the barest glance back. After the morning they’d had at the spring, she should have had eyes only for him, her entire being aching for more of his touch.

  Instead, she flew into her father’s arms, hugging him tightly, smiling and laughing as Hylonome and Cyllarus teased her for the delay. And it was not until Pirithous had joined them that she seemed to spare him any thought, stepping back from Centaurus and turning that smile upon her husband instead.

  “King Pirithous has been more than kind to me,” Hippodamia told her father. “And you are all to consider the cups at your places as his gifts to you.”

  “Our gifts,” he corrected, forcing a smile to his lips.

  Hippodamia slipped her arm through his, looking up at him with warmth and joy in her eyes. “For a lasting peace.”

  He let out a breath, and some of his own tension with it. Truly, he could not be angry when she looked on him with so much affection. He was fortunate she looked on him with any, no matter how much pleasure he had given her in recompense. But the thought only reminded him of Eurytion, and he could not help but lift his gaze from hers to search him out. Surely he would not have missed this. If only for one last opportunity to persuade Hippodamia of her mistake.

  “Father, you must see the horses he’s given me!” Hippodamia was saying. “Come, let me show you, and you can have no doubt of my husband’s generosity. The horses upon the plain are magnificent, but they are nothing compared to the king’s stables.”

  “She hardly exaggerates,” Hylonome agreed. “I have never seen so many fine animals, some as beautiful even as the Mares of Magnesia.”

  “If King Pirithous will allow our absence, it would be my pleasure to see them,” Centaurus said, smiling fondly at his daughter. The grimness of their last meeting had left his face, and Pirithous could hardly blame him for his relief after how things had begun. “But perhaps tomorrow might serve us just as well—”

  “No.” There. There was Eurytion, black eyes fixed on their small party, and Pirithous wanted a word with him. All the better if Hippodamia and Centaurus did not bear witness, for he was certain the centaur would not like what he had to say. He dragged his gaze back to Hippodamia and lifted her hand to his lips. “If my bride desires you to see her wedding gifts, I would not diminish her pleasure by refusing her the right. By all means, go. The feast has waited this long, and a trip to the stables will hardly keep you.”

  Her smile was all brilliance, and had he not just granted her permission to leave him, he would have thrown her over his shoulder instead and, centaurs or no centaurs, she would never see her wedding feast at all. When she looked at him that way, he could not bring himself to care for anything but the thought of when he might bed her next.

  Hippodamia rose to her toes, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I promise we won’t linger.”

  And then she was gone, running off with Centaurus and Hylonome as he and Cyllarus watched. Pirithous waited until they had disappeared through the porch and out into the palace grounds before he turned away, searching for Eurytion once more. The centaurs were enjoying themselves, a sea of flanks and flicking tails, smelling of musty grass and damp caves. They roared back and forth across the tables, laughing loudly, and beside him Cyllarus grunted.

  “If this is the welcome we might receive, you will find more centaurs making the journey to your palace, King Pirithous.”

  Pirithous half-shrugged. “An open hand is a small price to pay for peace.”

  And Eurytion had disappeared. He wanted to growl with frustration.

  “Yet you do not seem pleased that so many have come to take advantage of your hospitality.”

  “It is not the many which draw my ire, Cyllarus,” he said, baring his teeth. “Only the one. When this feasting is done, I promise you, Eurytion will not be welcomed beneath my roof again. I would not have him here even now if I did not think he would challenge his removal.”

  Cyllarus snorted. “What threat is Eurytion to you?”

  “He threatens the peace, seeks to steal Hippodamia from me with his poisonous lies, and if not by those, I do not think he will hesitate to use force. If one of my men touched Hippodamia without her consent, whispered treason in her ears, I would have him killed. I have sworn to treat your people as my own, and I will. With great pleasure, in Eurytion’s case, should he decide to test me.”

  Cyllarus stared at him, nostrils flaring. “This is the peace you would offer us? Not a week has passed, and already you make threats against our people.”

  “I threaten Eurytion and Eurytion alone,” Pirithous said coolly. “And can you truly say you would not do the same, were it your Hylonome he sought?”

  The centaur looked away, but Pirithous did not miss the flick of his tail or the shudder of his hide, as if he wished to shed a swarm of flies. “Eurytion is protective of his charge, nothing more.”

  “You tell yourself the same lie Centaurus told me, but it does not make it truth. You are blinded, all of you, to the danger, and out of respect for my mother, this is my warning. To you. To Centaurus. To Eurytion himself. You will not get another.”

  He did not wait for Cyllarus to respond. This was his wedding feast, and he had more than the troubles brought by rowdy centaurs waiting to be addressed. Peleus’s arrival, for one. If the Myrmidon king had not accepted his invitation, he would have had to send more men out to watch the river at the least—or, more likely, prepare for war.

  Theseus met him inside, his expression grimmer than Pirithous liked, though he made an effort at a smile even as he drew him away from the tables and the guests. “Tell me you did not exhaust your bride even before she could be presented as queen?”

  Pirithous shook his head. “She’s with her father, showing off her horses.”

  “Better she were at your side,” Theseus said.

  “What difference does it make?” The words came out sharp, and he ground his teeth, hating the sound. It did not help that Theseus only said what he thought himself. In the woods he had been certain the gods had blessed him, but he had not been at his own banquet for even long enough to find a drink and already he wanted the whole thing ended. “The Lapiths have had a week to know her, and I have made it clear she was already queen in all but name. Whether she shows her father the horses before we eat or after, it hardly matters.”

  “Just as the omens did not matter?” Theseus asked, his voice low. “You did not hear the priest’s warning in full, but we did. There will be blood spilled this day!”

  Pirithous stiffened, wishing for the weight of a sword upon his hip. “Peleus?”

  “He is here.” Theseus nodded toward the dais. The Myrmidon king was seated beside Nestor, his sharp eyes seeming to count every cup of gold, and his jaw tight, as if he did not care for the tally.

  Pirithous smiled. “And already regrets his coming, I see.”

  “You must have realized the trouble this would cause, Pirithous. You flaunt your wealth as if you fear nothing. If Zeus were not your father—”

  “The gods have had their share, and those who have come today are bound by law. What risk is there in showing generosity to those who would declare themselves my friends? It is hospitality, Theseus, as the gods demand, and what is the point of it all otherwise? This marriage, the raiding we have done, season after season? I will have peace and prosperity for my people, that they need never fear again.”

  “And if the gods have other plans for you? For them?”

  “I will appeal to my father, as you say. Shower Zeus and his priests in blood and riches until they are fat. Is that not what you’ve done? Turned to Poseidon and Athena for protection after giving offense to Artemis and Ares?”

  “We offended them, perhaps, but no priest warned us of bl
oodshed at our wedding feast, and if one had, we would have waited!”

  “Enough, Theseus.” He grasped him by the shoulder. “Please, I beg of you. Peleus is here as my guest-friend. The centaurs have their peace and Hippodamia is clearly treated with honor and respect. The only blood that will be shed today is upon the altars to the gods, in sacrifice.”

  “You are a fool to ignore this,” Theseus hissed. “And for what? Is planting your bride worth so much to you? More than the lives of your people?”

  “There is nothing to be done!” He released him forcefully, and Theseus gave half a step. They had always been evenly matched, strength for strength, passion for passion. “Eurytion drew her from her bed, Theseus. What would you have had me do? Let her slip through my fingers? Let the peace Dia wanted turn to ash and blood?”

  Theseus frowned all the harder. “Eurytion?”

  “He would have her believe I’ve bewitched her,” Pirithous spat. “If I hadn’t taken her to wife, he’d have seen it as an insult. He’d be stirring up the lot of them, making plans to steal her away in the night. There would have been no hope of peace, then.”

  “But surely Hippodamia believed none of it?”

  Pirithous rubbed his face, exhaustion creeping over him, as if he had been sustained until that moment only by passion and rage. “No, thank the gods. Though it did not stop me from making myself a fool. And now it is done, all of it. Whatever comes as a result—there is nothing any of us can do if the gods have other fates in mind, Theseus, but I could not risk losing…”

  “Hippodamia,” Theseus finished for him, and smiled wryly. “Though I think it had less to do with Dia’s peace and more to do with the girl herself.”

  He only shrugged in response, unwilling to consider what he implied. “She is mine.”

  “I know the feeling well enough.” Theseus sighed, his gaze shifting to the dais where Antiope sat, listening attentively to one of Nestor’s tales. Peleus seemed less pleased with her company, but it was just as well. He was all the more likely to speak freely in her presence if he did not respect her as an equal, and Antiope could be relied upon to share what she might learn.

  “Trust her,” Theseus said, glancing back at him sidelong. It was not Antiope he spoke of, either. “It will be a long, hard road for both of you, if you don’t.”

  Pirithous snorted. “I could hardly leave her to go raiding if I did not, and you know I would not give that up.”

  Theseus laughed, tipping his head toward the dais. “As long as you are sure to tell her which of your neighbors she should not trust in turn.”

  He pressed his lips together. Guest-friend or not, it would not stop Peleus from encouraging others to weaken him, however they might, that was true. And while the Myrmidon king had known Dia to be formidable, he was not likely to grant Hippodamia the same respect. “Perhaps it would be best if we did not raid for some time, yet. It would be unkind to leave our wives so soon.”

  “If Antiope has anything to say about the matter, she will not be left at all.”

  “May the gods save us all from Amazon brides.” Pirithous clapped him on the shoulder. “And in the meantime, I must begin to speak with my guests. It would not do for Nestor to feel himself slighted, and I suppose I will have no choice but to exchange pleasantries with Peleus.”

  “Better those softer noises than the clash of swords in war,” Theseus said. “And better you than me, all the same. The gods have shown him too many favors, it has made him far too proud.”

  Pirithous did not disagree. “You’ll keep an eye upon Eurytion? And his kin?”

  Theseus bowed. “Antiope and I, both. But perhaps you might send another horse up the mountain for Zeus, to be safe.”

  He did not like it, but he gave the order. Theseus might be overcautious and even grim at times, but it did not mean he was wrong. In fact, Pirithous could not remember the last time he had been mistaken in his caution, and the knowledge sat like stone in his stomach.

  Because if Theseus was not wrong, another horse in sacrifice was unlikely to stop what was coming.

  Whatever it might be.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Hippodamia

  Hippodamia put Podarkes through his paces, showing off, she admitted, if only to herself, but she wanted so much to reassure her father, to prove to him that this choice had been the right one, for more than just their people.

  “He is a fine horse,” her father said, when she brought the stallion to a halt beside him. He took Podarkes by the halter, holding him steady as she slipped from his back. Hylonome had left them not long before, intent upon returning to Cyllarus’s side. “And as always, you ride well.”

  “He was Pirithous’s favorite, I think, but he did not even lift an eyebrow when I claimed him for my own.”

  Centaurus laughed. “Was that the reason for your change of heart? That he gave up his prized stallion without a fight?”

  She flushed, fussing with the fit of Podarkes’s bridle, that she need not meet her father’s eye. “It is more than just that. He is a good man, Father. Every one of his horses, he knows by name, and they nose about him, waiting for kindnesses. A bit of parsnip or a caress. He is good to his animals, as he is to his people.”

  Her father caught her by the chin, lifting her face. “And is he kind to you? Beyond these gifts and generosities—we all know what small meaning gifts can have, and I would not like to think he gives them only to make up for some other failing in his character.”

  “I cannot say he is perfect by any means.” There was no use in being less than honest with Centaurus, after all. He always knew when she spoke half-truths. “But he is certainly kind to me. Kinder than I deserved, at first, until we came to an understanding. It is only his pride that gets in the way, now and then, but not so much that I cannot overlook it. And perhaps, one day, we might love one another, he and I. I was not certain of it at first, but now that I have known him, I think there is hope.”

  “Guard your heart, Daughter,” Centaurus said, giving her chin a gentle pinch as he had done so often before. “Pirithous can give you children, wealth, riches beyond imagining, even peace for your people—but of love, the Lapiths know little, and I would not wish you to be disappointed.”

  “It is different, that is true, but Pirithous cares for me already, Father. He is mine as much as I am his. Is that not a place to begin?”

  “And what if there is nothing more beyond it? If this is both the beginning and the end? Eurytion was not wrong when he said it was cruel of me to trade you this way, but I would see you content, at the least, satisfied with what you are given back. And I fear if you look for more, it will only bring you greater unhappiness.”

  “But I am not unhappy at all!” she said, and Podarkes tossed his head in response, sensing her frustration. “Whatever Eurytion believes, it’s born of jealousy more than truth. Pirithous has given me more joy than I could ever have imagined, and I know this is not the end, Father. I have only to look at what Antiope and Theseus share to see what more awaits me.”

  Centaurus sighed. “A son of Zeus is not the same as a son of Poseidon, Mia.”

  “And I am no Amazon queen,” she said bitterly, stepping back. Her father’s words sounded far too much like Pirithous’s own warnings, and they stuck in her heart like knives. “But can you not simply share in my joy? Pirithous is no centaur, but he is my husband, my mate! Do I not owe him at least the hope of love between us?”

  “You twist my words, girl,” he said, stamping a hoof. “You are new to this world, to these men. You cannot know their cruelty, and no matter what pleasures Pirithous might show you in his bed, he is still a man. Do not confuse his lust for love, or you will only be hurt all the more by his disloyalty. Give him his heir and be his queen, ensure our peace, but you owe him nothing more than that, and you are lucky if he returns even that much of your courtesy.”

  “Then I suppose I am very fortunate indeed,” she said, turning back to Podarkes. The stallion’s eyes rol
led white, his nostrils flaring, but when she took a grip upon his mane and placed her hand upon his shoulder, he did not hesitate to help her to his back. “I must return Podarkes to his stall, but I see no reason why you must attend me. I’m certain our people already wonder what’s become of you.”

  “Mia…”

  She felt his touch upon her ankle, but Hippodamia tapped her heel to Podarkes’s side and let the horse sidle away. “Enjoy your feasting, Father.”

  She left before he might see the tears threatening to spill from her eyes. What a fool she had been to think he might understand. Or perhaps it was worse than that. Perhaps he was right, and she did not know. Perhaps she was a fool to have any faith in Pirithous at all, even if he had not laughed at her dream of love. Not, she reminded herself bitterly, that he had ever suggested he believed in it, himself.

  But she wanted so much to have a true marriage. For Pirithous to recognize her as his equal in all things, as his match and mate. She had the strength for it, she was certain, and it was too late now, besides. She had committed herself to him. To this marriage. To their future, together, bound by the gods.

  Was it really so wrong to wish for love, too?

  “Mia!” The creases of a frown cleared from Pirithous’s brow the moment he caught sight of her inside the megaron. He did not seem to have taken his seat upon the dais yet, and came to her at once, excusing himself from the men he had been speaking to and taking both her hands in his. He must have been keeping one eye upon the entrance all the while to have spotted her so swiftly. “I was beginning to fear Podarkes had gotten the better of you.”

  “Even a Lapith stallion could not throw me if I did not wish to be thrown,” she said, though she could not bring herself to smile. Her mood was more than soured, and she had taken her time stabling Podarkes, struggling to find some remnant of the joy she had carried with her from the spring.