But it stung, all the same.
“You cannot be angry that they love Theseus?” he said, shifting to lean over her. His hand found her waist, his thumb caressing. “He is the hero of Attica! Of course they would trust him, after all he’s done.”
“Of course,” she said, staring at the plaster wall, painted with horses racing along a plain. “But they will not trust me, though I have fought at your side. Just as you did not trust me the night before we were wed. Always, they will look for my failures, my mistakes, and hold them against me, see them as proof that I am disloyal and unworthy of their king.”
He pressed a kiss to the point of her shoulder. “Only time will change that. Once they come to know you, it will be different. You need only stay. Show them where your loyalties lie. Stand at my side long enough, and they will stop seeing you as the daughter of the centaurs, and begin to see you as a woman, instead. As their queen.”
“Stay, and smile proudly when they roll the heads of my kin across the painted floor? Lie to them with every breath to prove I am worthy of their trust?”
Pirithous sighed, lying back on the bed. “I would not ask that of you.”
“Perhaps you wouldn’t, but your people will. And if I turn away from the sight, they will think I am weak, see it as betrayal.”
“We are married, Mia. You are bound to me. To them. They will see that you do your duty, that you are loyal to that binding and faithful to the gods. You judge them too harshly.”
“If they believe that in returning my father’s body to his people I will betray them, even after I have fought to protect them, how am I wrong?”
He made a low noise of frustration at her back. “Even if Eurytion had not struck at us today, my people would not have loved you overnight. Would you have been so offended by their mistrust then? Demanded they give you what you had not yet earned with your deeds? They have known you for only a sevenday, Mia! And at that, little of it was spent in their company. They will not trust you simply because you were made their queen.”
Her face flushed, and she sat up, throwing the linens off. “Do you think it was nothing to me to strike at Eurytion? Is that not deed enough, that I turned against my own when they acted unjustly?”
“You were attacked,” he said. “Of course you would defend yourself! But you expect them to understand what they cannot know. To them, Eurytion is just another centaur. They do not know he protected you from childhood, serving as your guard and guardian, nor can they realize how you trusted him, even cared for him. To see him murder your father…” He caught her by the hand, tugging her back down. “Mia, they do not know what they witnessed. And how will they know, fully, what you have suffered, the loyalty you showed, if you do not stay to explain it to them?”
Always it returned to this, and even as she let him settle her at his side, allowed her body to soften against his, her thoughts raced. By law, she belonged to Pirithous now. She was his to protect, to lock away, if he desired it. But their marriage had also been a covenant of peace, one she was bound to honor. Remaining at his side while his people hunted hers could not be the right choice. Certainly it would not bring peace.
By all rights, she should have left with Cyllarus and Hylonome. Should have led her people back to the mountains, never to return. The priests would have been persuaded to void their marriage. After the spilling of so much blood, they ought to have been wringing their hands, begging Pirithous to give her up. A quick death. A sacrifice to appease the gods. No doubt it was only Pirithous’s will that prevented it.
“Will explaining change anything?” she asked. “Will it stop them from hunting my kin? Sate their lust for blood and vengeance?”
He was silent for a moment, long enough to prove his uncertainty. “Surely you owe it to your people to try? Leaving us—that is a simple thing. But there will be no coming back, if you do. I would not have you regret it, as I know I will.”
“Because you believe I am the only worthy queen for your people,” she said, the words bitter on her tongue.
“Is that not reason enough?”
For him, perhaps it was, but it only made her heart ache that much more for the things he did not say. Did not feel.
What if her father had been right?
If she stayed, and he never loved her, and her people still died, would she not regret that more?
“Sleep, Mia,” Pirithous said, tucking her head beneath his chin. “Perhaps in the morning light, our path forward will be that much clearer.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Pirithous
He didn’t take his own advice, but lay awake in the bed long after he had pushed Hippodamia’s frustrations toward exhaustion and sleep. She needed rest, and he did not feel the slightest bit guilty using his power to encourage it. Not when she clearly turned the same arguments and worries over and over again in her thoughts.
It wasn’t that her fears were without merit. He understood them well enough, even worried at them himself. But nothing could be solved by talk, only action, and for that they both must wait until morning.
He cursed Eurytion silently for bringing all this to the fore. And what would he do if the centaurs did not accept his offer? What would he do if instead, the Lapiths hunted Mia’s people to their doom?
Pirithous snorted at himself and forced the thoughts away. He was no better than his wife, agonizing over things he could not control.
Except… perhaps he could, in some small way. Perhaps Theseus would, on his behalf. In the megaron, the others had looked to Cyllarus, allowed him to speak on their behalf. If any small part of Cyllarus wanted peace, wanted to protect his people, surely Theseus could inflame those feelings, encourage them to blossom into action and acceptance. Pirithous did not dare to risk influencing his own people in such a way, but if Theseus could only drive the centaurs from the mountain, surely it would do more good than harm in the end.
He lost nothing by asking. Antiope would not approve, of course, but neither would she wish Hippodamia to suffer needlessly.
No one who knew Hippodamia could ever wish her ill. Even Eurytion had acted, in some small part, out of what he believed to be her interests. To save her from a loveless marriage to a pirate king who would only dishonor her.
And perhaps Eurytion was not so wrong after all, though Pirithous hated to admit it, even to himself. Hippodamia deserved better. She deserved the peace she had traded herself for, at the very least. The respect of the people she ruled, as well. By all rights, he ought to have been able to give her that much. The Lapiths should have loved her—would have had no reason not to, if not for the fool centaur.
If only Centaurus had lived.
If only Eurytion had never come.
If only he could trick his own mind as easily as he had Hippodamia’s, and put himself to sleep to break the pattern of his thoughts.
Pirithous closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, catching the scent of rose petals from Hippodamia’s hair. How she still smelled of the spring he did not know, but his body stirred in answer. He wanted her, to be sure, every soft movement of her body against his reminding him of the sweetness of what they had shared. But for once, perhaps even for the first time, it was not desire which overwhelmed his senses. His need for her did not build into an ache, impossible to ignore, but rather, with each caress of her breath against his skin, each unconscious shift of her body, searching for his, it seemed to quiet.
He could not lose her. Even if the peace between them, so newly won, had been shattered, he would not give her up. And more, he would have it back. Would have her back, and no more of this talk of leaving. She was his wife, their union witnessed by Aphrodite herself, and he would not surrender her so easily. The time for fear was done, and she had bound herself to him willingly. Every law, sacred or otherwise, supported his right to her now.
Tomorrow, he promised himself. The new day would dawn, and he would make his wishes known. Hippodamia was his, and she would remain so, no matter what became of her peop
le.
It was the only way he would have any peace.
A knock on the door brought him awake, though Hippodamia slept on, curled against his side. He slid his arm out from beneath her head, glad for all his practice if it meant she would not be disturbed, and rose.
“My lord?” his steward called, his voice low.
“A moment,” Pirithous said, glancing back at Hippodamia, her brown legs tangled in the bedding. Leaving her made him ache, and he wanted nothing more than to wake her with slow kisses, tease her to whimpering completion before she opened her eyes.
But she was not likely to welcome his desire, and he did not trust himself if she refused him. So instead, he belted a kilt to his waist and stepped out into the hall.
“My lord, I thought you should know there is agitation over the bodies.”
“What bodies?”
“The centaurs, my lord. The men want to desecrate their remains.”
Pirithous swore. Of course they would, maddened by heartbreak and grief. And he had not even thought to guard them. If Centaurus’s body was polluted—
“I will see that the bodies come to no harm. Go to King Theseus. Drag him from the arms of his queen if you must, but rouse him and tell him what you have told me, and that I require his judgment in this matter.”
“Yes, my lord,” the steward said, bowing quickly.
Pirithous did not watch him go, slipping back inside his room with the silence of a shadow. He dared not wake Hippodamia now, but he needed his sword and his crown, if nothing else. Reminders of his authority, both. And he must hurry. Judging by the light, it was well past dawn. He had slept much later than he had meant to, giving his people far too long to dwell on their losses without direction. Theseus would have absented himself out of respect, to allow Pirithous’s voice to rule without interference and give the Lapiths time to grieve in privacy.
He pulled his sword from the brackets on the wall, and collected his golden circlet from the table beside the bed. Hippodamia stirred, rolling toward the place where he had been. He paused only long enough to press a kiss to her forehead and persuade her mind into deeper sleep once more. Better if this were settled before she woke, and that the ruling came without her voice.
He left her, slipping the sword onto his belt after the door had shut behind him. A king did not run through the halls, but he moved with swift purpose all the same. They had cleared the bodies from the megaron and the courtyard, piling them within the inner yard on the far side from the stables and roping the area off to keep the horses away.
His men were already there.
“King Pirithous!” Plouteus greeted him with a smile, rope looped over his shoulder. “We thought to string them up to teach the boys where to strike. We will not be caught unawares again.”
“Indeed, we will not.” It was Eurytion, his black hide matted and smeared with blood and gore. There were ropes already wrapped around his hooves. Pirithous drew his sword, slicing the bonds from the flesh. “But nor will we offend the gods with barbarism.”
“They are nothing more than beasts!” Plouteus spluttered. “What offense can it give?”
“The centaurs belong to Poseidon.” He met his noble’s eye, holding his gaze until the man looked away. “I will not bring the fury of the Earth Shaker down upon my people. Not this day, and not for these reasons.”
“And how are we to learn to protect ourselves?” one of the other men called out, Kotullon. His father had been one of the men lost in the fighting, and Pirithous could not blame him for his anger, but even so.
Even so.
“This centaur’s name was Eurytion,” Pirithous said, his voice cool. “He was Queen Hippodamia’s guardian during her youth, charged with her protection. When he fought yesterday, it was for her protection still, misguided though he might have been. She helped to slay him with her own hand, though until that moment she had counted him the dearest of friends. These centaurs are Our kin twice over. Once through Queen Hippodamia, and once through Ixion and me, your kings. Will you deny it?”
Kotullon’s hands balled into fists. “He led the charge against us, goaded the others on!”
“Peleus goaded them,” Pirithous corrected him sharply. “But even if a brother betrays you, his murder does not come without sin, without penalty and price. Will you bring the anger of the gods upon the head of your wife, your child, your widowed mother? Have they not suffered enough already? Lost enough?”
“You only stop us because of her,” Kotullon mumbled.
“Say it again, Kotullon.” Pirithous ground his teeth, lifting his sword. “Look me in the eye and say it once more.”
“My lord, he does not know what he says,” Plouteus said, catching the boy by the shoulder before he could respond. Kotullon’s jaw was working, his face flushed, but he kept his eyes downcast. A sulking child.
And that was all it was, Pirithous thought. A boy’s sulk. But it did not change how he must respond. “Then he should not speak at all. And let it be known now, I will suffer no slight to the queen. What happened at the banquet does not change that we are married. She is mine, and all matters of her honor touch my own. Queen Hippodamia is owed our respect and our kindness, and I will tolerate nothing less from my people. Am I understood?”
“Yes, my lord. Of course!” Plouteus bowed. “We meant no disrespect to the queen. It is only—the things she said, the promises she made to the centaurs—surely she spoke out of turn? Without your blessing?”
“Queen Hippodamia acted in the interests of us all,” Pirithous growled. “Or would you have preferred to keep fighting? For your own blood to stain the floor of the megaron?”
“She promised them we would not follow, that they might leave in peace,” Plouteus pressed.
“And so they did. Who of us, at that moment, wished to pursue them?” He kept his response carefully neutral. “We needed time to see to our dead, and Queen Hippodamia gave us that, and more.”
“There,” Plouteus said, squeezing Kotullon’s shoulder. “You see, Kotullon? It is as I said. King Pirithous is with us, and Queen Hippodamia is his tool, that is all.”
Pirithous bared his teeth, his hand tightening around the hilt of his sword. “Was Dia the tool of Ixion?”
“My lord—” Plouteus took a step back, his eyes going wide.
“Was she?” Pirithous demanded. He felt the lightning in his veins, the spark of it dancing along the edge of his sword. “Would you have dared speak of her so dismissively? She who sheltered you, protected you from Ixion and his madness? Guided you and led you to prosperity after his death?”
“N-no, my lord. Of c-course not.”
“And the woman Dia chose to lead you upon her death, do you think she would choose one only to be my tool? To be used by me and cast aside so easily?”
“B-but the peace—” Plouteus stumbled over Eurytion’s legs, pulling Kotullon with him nearly to the ground as he fought to right himself.
“Perhaps you think I am bewitched by my bride,” Pirithous said evenly. “But do you think Dia would be so easily taken in? That she would marry her only son to a witch, no matter what the centaurs offered in exchange?”
“No,” Theseus said from behind him. He clasped Pirithous’s shoulder, and relief flooded him as it never had before, a wave of calm washing over him on its heels. Theseus’s calm. His power. “Sheathe your sword, my friend. We are all unsettled by what has come to pass, but I would not give Eurytion’s shade the satisfaction of knowing he turns us against one another.”
Pirithous snorted, eyeing the centaur’s corpse with distaste as he put his sword away. He thought it far more likely that Peleus had hoped for such an outcome more than Eurytion. “I cannot say I am not glad of your wisdom, Theseus. And your friendship, now. Antiope still sleeps?”
“She offers your queen what comfort she may,” Theseus said, nodding to the men who stood idle. “I cannot begin to imagine the depths of her grief. To lose her father, find herself betrayed by her protector, an
d see the peace she worked so hard to build lost with the deaths of her new people as well as the old—you were wise to send her to her bed, Pirithous. Now what is all this? Surely your men would not insult their queen’s honor by defiling the bodies of her kin?”
“No, King Theseus,” Plouteus said, his face flushing. “Of course not.”
“It is only right and proper to allow them the opportunity to collect their dead,” Theseus said, frowning. “But I cannot blame your people for not wishing the centaurs to return, nor would I permit them within my walls, if I were king. Would you allow me to be of service to both your peoples? Let me arrange for the disposal of their bodies. Antiope and I can see them taken up the mountain, where the centaurs might claim them peaceably.”
“You would have my thanks,” Pirithous agreed. “Speak with Hippodamia upon the matter. She can tell you where best to leave them. And if you would be so kind as to deliver them a message from me, as well?”
“All the better to have the protection of Hermes on this errand, though I must admit I do not think the centaurs are likely to strike at us.”
“Certainly you will be much safer than any of my people, but we cannot afford Poseidon’s ire, and I will not refuse Centaurus the honors he is due, one king to another, no matter what his people have done. He surely sanctioned none of it, after working so long for peace.”
“Anyone who believes otherwise is a fool,” Theseus said, his gaze flicking to the men surrounding them. “Plouteus, perhaps you will show me where I might find a cart for the task I have been set?”
Plouteus bowed deeply. “Certainly, King Theseus. It would be my honor to serve you.”
“And Kotullon, if you would speak to the horsemaster? Machaon is his name, is it not? I will need a steady team for the work.”
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