Tamer of Horses

by Amalia Carosella

  “Mia, please, we must—” Pirithous stopped himself at the sight which greeted him in the bathing room.

  Hippodamia had her knees drawn up to her chest in the bath, her face hidden in her arms, resting atop them. She looked… fragile. Utterly broken. This was not the woman who had challenged him, declared him unsuitable for her affections, or herself his equal. It was as though her flame had been smothered, and seeing her that way made his heart ache in sympathy and grief.

  “Ah, little mouse,” he said gently, crossing the room to her. She did not so much as twitch when he knelt beside her, though when he lifted a hand to her hair, stroking it from her face, she shuddered. “Today, you showed the bravery of a lion. Proved yourself a fitting bride for any hero.”

  Not a shudder, he realized, but a sob. All but silent. And still, she did not lift her head. Shock, perhaps. He’d seen it before, while raiding. Seen it in the boys, after they fought as men for the first time. Hippodamia was no sheltered maiden, Antiope had spoken true on that score, but she had seen her father struck down before her eyes, and had a hand in the death of the centaur who had been her guardian and childhood friend. She had seen her people lose their minds to lust and act with unspeakable violence toward the Lapiths. And all at her wedding feast, a banquet which should have been a joyous occasion. Better they had stayed at the spring. Or given in to desire, and gone straight to their marriage bed.

  “I wish I were worthy of the honor,” he said, more to himself than her. He pressed a kiss against the side of her head. And then he gathered her up, lifting her from the water, long since grown cold. Her skin was chilled and prickled with gooseflesh, her body stiff in his arms. “Let’s get you warmed and fed.”

  She curled in upon herself all the tighter when he laid her upon his bed, rolling away from him with nothing more than the smallest sniff against the tears that dampened her cheeks and caused her hair to stick against her face. Pirithous sighed, sitting down beside her. How he wished he could reassure her, offer her some comfort. But the words would only be hollow, and he would not lie to her. Could not bring himself to betray her trust in that small way, even if he must turn his back upon her people.

  “I know you do not wish to speak of it, or even to know it,” he said, smoothing her hair back. “But I would have you hear it from me, Hippodamia, and know I take no pleasure in the telling.”

  She went still, and even her breathing seemed to stop.

  “My people will accept nothing less than blood,” he forced himself to say, the words bitter upon his tongue. “If I wish to remain king, I must give it to them.”

  Hippodamia rolled to her back, the first response she had yet made to his presence, but the way she looked at him, the anguish in her eyes… “Is your kingship worth so much to you? Your pride? Is it truly worth the lives of so many in exchange?”

  He shook his head, unable to meet her eyes. “What do you think will happen, Mia, if I forbid this war? If I refuse them the right to take their vengeance?”

  “You will save my people!”

  “No!” The word came far more harshly than he meant it to, and he clenched his jaw, inhaling sharply through his nose and forcing himself to calm.

  He had been over it so many times in his head, spoken at length with Theseus and Antiope, even with Nestor, though the old king had been anything but helpful. There was no other way. Their hope for peace was shattered, and if he meant to salvage anything at all, only one path lay open to him, and it was not one she would wish him to take.

  “If I do as you wish, as I wish, I will be exiled,” he said slowly, careful now to weigh his words. She must understand this, if nothing else. “If we are fortunate, perhaps they will allow you to come with me, and if it were only that, Hippodamia, I would go. I would flee with you to Athens and live on, dishonored but at peace, I swear it.”

  Her eyes narrowed, as if she distrusted even that. He took her hand, held her gaze, and all but willed her to believe. It was not only her father’s wish for peace, after all. It had been Dia’s, too. And the centaurs—perhaps they were not his kin by blood, for he was far more Zeus’s son than Ixion’s, but they were his responsibility, all the same. Ixion’s legacy, like everything else he had been given.

  “It is far more likely that they will make an example of you,” he went on, though even the thought of it made him sick, souring his stomach with fear and rage. “Kill you first, as a message to your kin. And while they make war, Peleus will ready his own men. He will wait until the worst of it is over, until the Lapiths have driven the centaurs from the mountain, and the centaurs have weakened us in turn. And then he will strike. He will take our land and our horses and all our wealth, and he will turn our women and children into slaves after he slaughters our men. There will be nothing left of the Lapiths or the centaurs, either. Everything will be lost. Both our peoples, wiped from these lands.”

  “You cannot be certain,” she said, her eyes wide, her voice so small. It was a child’s denial. “You cannot be certain that is the way of it. The priest said there would be peace!”

  “Paid for in blood.”

  “But they will have it, either way. Whether you remain as king or not, they will have their blood.”

  “And if I am no longer king, there is certain to be more of it spilled. Zeus will have no reason to watch over my people. The gods will forsake them, just as you fear Poseidon will forsake yours. But if I stay, Mia—if we stay—perhaps we can soften the blow.”

  She made a strangled sound, pulling her hand free from his. But at least she was sitting up now, and responsive. “You would have me stand at your side while you declare war upon my people? You would ask that of me?”

  “Not war,” he said quickly, watching her all the more closely now. He was not certain how she would respond, but he could not lose her. Could not stand the thought that she might join the centaurs instead, to stand against him, that it might be her head brought to him before they were through. “My people will not trust yours in word or deed, but I do. If they will leave the mountain peaceably, I will delay a hunt for as long as I am able, to give them time to go.”

  “And your people would be satisfied by this?” she demanded.

  “They will be satisfied when I promise them a bounty for every centaur’s head they bring to my hall. They will believe I wish to see them hunted to extinction, that I have joined with them in their anger. But when they begin their hunt, your people will be gone.”

  “Gone from the mountain, but still endangered,” she accused. “If the Lapiths will not be satisfied by anything less than blood, and you promise them a prize besides, they will hunt them well beyond the mountain’s slopes. And it will not only be your people who stalk them. My people will never have peace, never know safety again.”

  He could not argue that truth and would not insult her by trying. She was not wrong, but it was the only solution he could see. “I can limit the bounty, declare that only my people will receive a prize. And perhaps in time, they will weary of the hunt. But is this not better than outright war? At least they will have some hope of escape, of survival!”

  “And why should they agree to this, Pirithous? Why should they leave their mountain at all? You do not consider their refusal, and they are not likely to be welcomed elsewhere. Not after your guests leave, and word of all this spreads.”

  “Because if they remain, Princess, they will die.” It was cruel of him, perhaps, but what good would coddling do either of them? “Do you not see? Even this much risks more than I wish, but I will do it. For you. For those of your people who are innocent of this crime.”

  She lifted her chin, tears shining in her eyes. “And if I choose instead to return to my people? To stand with the guilty?”

  He pressed his lips together, determined not to let her see how deeply those words cut. After only seven days, they shouldn’t have. He ought to have been bored with her, by all rights. Happy that she might give him excuse to take another woman to his bed. But his heart twis
ted, and his hands balled into fists. “Do not make that choice.”

  “What good does it do me to stay, Pirithous?” The tears spilled out, and her voice caught. “What good does it do you? Your people will never trust me now, never accept a child of my body as king. I will always be looked on as the cause of all this pain.”

  He could feel her despair, and it made him ache all the more. “My people will know that the blame for this falls upon Peleus, Eurytion, and myself alone,” he said firmly. It was no more than the truth. “They will not fault you for any of it. I will see to it, and Theseus and Antiope will grant their support to the cause. No one argues with Theseus’s judgment, even if they might question mine.”

  She stared at him, her eyes wide as moons, all disbelief and confusion. “I don’t understand.”

  Pirithous reached out, cupping her face in his hand and brushing the tears from her cheek with the stroke of his thumb. That she could believe even for a moment he would not do everything in his power…

  “You are my wife, Hippodamia. It is both my duty and my honor to protect you, to safeguard you in your father’s place. Even if I did not care for you, I would not dishonor Centaurus’s memory by allowing my people to mistreat you in any way. You are their queen, both Dia’s choice and mine.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Hippodamia

  She let out a shuddering breath, catching his hand and holding it tightly against her cheek. Holding him tightly. Even if I did not care for you.

  “You cannot have doubted me?” He spoke so gently she thought she must have imagined it. Pirithous could never be so insecure, so worried of what another might think of him. “I know I have been a fool, Hippodamia, but you must realize I have no desire to give you up. Indeed, it has been my fear that has driven me.”

  “A son of Zeus, afraid?” she asked, baffled that she might have caused him any such emotion. He was so sure of himself, always. So confident. “What could you possibly have to fear?”

  “Surely I do not fool you so completely?” His smile was strange, as if he laughed at himself. “I feared you would leave me, Mia. For the first time in my life, I feared a woman had seen what I offered and found me wanting all the same. Not worth even the peace I might bring you, and now—” He turned his face away, his hand slipping from beneath hers as he did so. As if he could not look at her, his shame was so great. “Now I cannot even give you that.”

  “Pirithous—”

  He held up his hand, stopping her, and when he met her eyes again, she could see his resolve. “You asked what good you might do me by remaining, and I do not know the answer. But I can tell you what good I might do you, if you stay. Perhaps I cannot promise the peace our parents desired, but no harm will ever come to you while you live as my wife. I will give you children. As many as you wish. And I will take no other woman to my bed without your full blessing. I will shower you in gold and silver and jewels. I will even give up my raiding, but for reasons of dire need, to remain at your side. And I will beg of you, Mia, if I must. Beg you to stay, to be my queen. I did not know it at first, could not see why Dia chose you, but I understand it now. There is no other woman I could trust, no woman better suited to the duty. If it is not you, the Lapiths will have no queen at all.”

  He said it all so fiercely, as solemnly as any vow, and it was clear he meant it. All of it. But he could mean every word, and it would not matter if his people did not approve. Kings were not kings simply because they were born princes. Centaurus had taught her that, and Pirithous himself had now confirmed it.

  “Will your people accept me?” she asked, though she hated that she must. “Truly, Pirithous. No matter what it is that you desire, do you truly believe they will trust me as you do?”

  “In time.” His eyes flashed lightning white, his jaw going tight. “I will make it so, I promise you. And in this one thing, I will not be denied. If they wish for a queen, it must be you. If we had not married already, perhaps it would be different. But we have, and with Zeus’s blessing. The priest will say as much.”

  She was not certain the worth of such a blessing when it had only brought them bloodshed and war, but she did not dare speak such blasphemy aloud.

  “Do not give up on me so quickly, Princess. Give me time to make this right.”

  She shook her head, hating to see him so desperate as this. He was a son of Zeus and a king, and in the end, he must act in the interest of his people. That was his duty, more than even what he owed his wife. And that he blamed himself for Eurytion’s foolishness… “It is no more your fault than it is mine, Pirithous. I stood beside you at the shrine. I went to Eurytion in the night, and perhaps if I hadn’t, perhaps if I had remained in my room, we might never have argued.”

  He smiled sadly, stroking her cheek. “I think he would have found excuse enough, regardless. He was determined, Mia. From the first, I knew he would be trouble to us. To Centaurus, too.”

  From the first. “That was why you shamed me,” she realized, catching his hand by the wrist and stopping his caress. “That first day, at the shrine. When you made me speak of my affections. It was not only for your pride, then, was it?”

  His lips pressed thin, his expression guarded. “I knew he coveted you. And I hoped that if you denounced his affections, he might resign himself to our match. It was not, perhaps, the kindest way, but I felt it needful.”

  “I hated you for it!”

  His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Happily, it did not last.”

  “But you couldn’t have known I would forgive you. And what would you have done if I hadn’t? Taken me to wife and endured?”

  “What is a shrewish wife in exchange for peace?” he teased, lips curving. It was not quite a smile, but it was no less smug. “You are not the first woman to scorn me, little mouse, though I hope very much you will be the last whose affections I must win for my people’s sake.”

  “Just theirs?” He was insufferable, truly, but his teasing reassured her all the same.

  “For mine, too,” he admitted, pressing a kiss against her knuckles. “But I did not realize it then.” Pirithous met her gaze and held it, his gray eyes beseeching. “Tell me you will stay, Mia. That I need not fear it will be your head brought to me in exchange for a prize. Tell me you will stand at my side as queen.”

  She wished she could. In that moment, his eyes upon her, she wished so much that none of this had happened. That Eurytion had never come, and the only displeasure of their wedding feast was the waiting until they might slip away to their marriage bed.

  She wished she could, but she did not see how. For all that he might promise her, and all that he might give, she was not certain she could live with herself if she accepted. And to live her life among a people who hated her own, hunted them down? Even for love?

  But Pirithous had been very careful not to promise her that, and the realization twisted her heart just as much as the rest.

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly, dropping her gaze.

  His fingers tightened around hers. “Then we must at least enjoy the time we have left.”

  It wasn’t the response she had expected, and the way he said it sent a shiver down her spine. Nothing about his words spoke of surrender, of resignation or sorrow. He was all self-assurance now. Confidence and determination.

  He had not given her up.

  But if not because of love, then why?

  It was a subtle campaign, Hippodamia decided. He made no demands upon her that night, only held her in his arms, stroking her hair and soothing her grief. His kisses were soft, all affection and kindness. Like the first they had shared, when Centaurus had put her hand in his before the palace gates.

  But of course, that reminded her that her father was gone, and when the tears welled up, then spilled, Pirithous hushed her gently, brushing them away with a tenderness that surprised her.

  “Tell me,” he murmured, nuzzling her ear. “Let me help.”

  And so she spoke, haltingly, of her argument wit
h Centaurus. Of the way she had dismissed his wisdom, though she did not say precisely what it was he had warned. What she had done was awful enough without insulting Pirithous, as well. And what good would it do to reveal her loyalty, so foolishly misplaced? It would only give him hope for what she was no longer certain they could ever have.

  “What rites would you have performed?” Pirithous asked, when she had finished. “I will see them done, for Centaurus deserves the honors, one king to another, and I would not have you feel that you have not done your duty.”

  “I would see his body cleansed and anointed myself, but it must be returned to my people, Pirithous. He must be given up to them, that he might return, too, to the mountain itself.”

  He pressed his lips together, his gaze growing distant. “Perhaps Theseus and Antiope might do us that kindness. And deliver my bargain to Cyllarus, besides. Your people are much less likely to strike at Poseidon’s son on such an errand, and mine will recognize the wisdom of it far more readily if the suggestion comes from Theseus’s lips.”

  She knew it was true, but she hated the thought. Hated that she could not see her father’s body given back to the Horse Lord. “Is there no way I might accompany them?”

  “If you do, and the centaurs disappear from the mountain, my people will believe you betrayed them by giving warning.”

  “And will they not think the same of Theseus?”

  “After he and Antiope fought so fiercely for the Lapiths?” He shook his head. “Even if they had given only a token wave of their swords, there is not a man in Achaea who would dare speak such slander against the king of Athens. Not when he is known so well for his judgment and wisdom. If Theseus sees fit to warn them, and perhaps some might whisper it is so, they will think it is proof of his greatness, not a reason for mistrust.”

  She bit her lip on her reply, rolling away from him in the bed. What good would it do to object? To remind him that she had fought against the centaurs too, had helped to kill Eurytion as he had carried her away? What difference did it make at all if his people would not trust her, even after she had defended them and sent the centaurs back up the mountain? She was not even certain she would stay.