Tamer of Horses

by Amalia Carosella

  The younger man glanced first at Pirithous, as was proper, since the horses belonged to him, but when he gave his nod, Kotullon bowed as well, and left.

  “Those of you who wish to help King Theseus load the cart, stay, but he will not wish to have others underfoot,” Pirithous said, after Plouteus had guided Theseus away. “We could use more wood for our pyres, if you wish to be of use. The funeral games begin at dusk, and I mean for the fires to burn like beacons in the night.”

  Then he left them, too. Guarding the remains would only convince them he had sided with their enemy and undo all Theseus had accomplished with his easy manner. What he would have done without his support…

  Likely Kotullon would have lost his head, and Plouteus would have spread the word of the king’s madness. By evening, his people would have believed him Ixion come again, and he would have been fortunate to keep his throne. Pirithous shook his head, cursing his own foolishness. It was one thing to act rashly while Dia ruled, another altogether to lose his temper now. They would think it Hippodamia’s influence, and all the more so when he took offense so easily on her behalf.

  “Perhaps I was wrong, King Pirithous,” Nestor said, when he reached the courtyard on his way back to his rooms. “The way you defend your queen, I begin to think you may have married for love, after all.”

  The polite smile he had meant to give in greeting froze upon his face, and Pirithous found himself rooted to the earth. “How could I have, when Dia arranged all? I had not even met my bride until my mother’s funeral banquet, but seven days ago.”

  “A sevenday during which, it seems, you spent little time apart.”

  He shrugged, forcing a lightness into his words which he did not feel. “She swore she could never care for me, and I found the challenge of winning her a pleasant distraction.”

  Nestor laughed, clapping him on the back. “Tell yourself that, lad, if you must. But it will not change the difficulties which face you now, and I do not think even your loyal King Theseus will have the power to save you in the eyes of your new wife.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Hippodamia

  A pleasant distraction. Hippodamia slipped back into the shadows of the stairwell and shut her eyes against the sting of tears. Her nails bit into her palms, her whole body flushing with humiliation. That was all she was to him, all she had ever been, and she was a fool to have believed anything else, even for a moment. Centaurus had been right. So right.

  Pirithous excused himself from Nestor with a derisive laugh, mumbling something about bread and cold meats and keeping his bride’s strength up, and her stomach twisted, bile rising in the back of her throat. Gods above, but she had known. She had known from the start this was what she had agreed to, so why did it make her want to heave up her empty stomach now?

  “Mia?” Antiope said, catching up to her. She’d gone back to her own room for something; Hippodamia didn’t remember why. No longer cared at all. “Are you ill?”

  “I was just a challenge. A distraction.”

  Antiope pressed a hand to her forehead. “Perhaps you should rest, yet. Pirithous is sure to return before long.”

  She shook her head. He’d told her himself, when she’d declared herself incapable of loving him. She’d realized then that he’d taken it as a challenge. But she’d thought—and why should she have thought it at all? They’d only had seven days. Just as Pirithous had said. How could she expect him to love her in just seven days, regardless? It was a dream. From that first kiss on the plain with the horses, to the time they had spent at the spring. A dream turned to nightmare upon waking.

  “I don’t want to see him,” she heard herself say, her voice strange. “I can’t.”

  “Mia, you cannot blame him. If war comes, he has no choice but to win. It is his duty, and his people asked for none of this.”

  She swallowed, opening her eyes at last. Antiope’s gaze was warm with concern and sympathy, but it did nothing to ease her feelings. “We never should have married. I thought I had resigned myself, but not to this. Not to any of this.”

  Antiope sighed, cupping her cheek. “You should not blame yourself, Hippodamia. Or your marriage. Pirithous did what he believed was right, and so did you. If you had delayed, it would have insulted more than Eurytion.”

  “I’m nothing to him, Antiope. I bring nothing without this peace, and how quickly I gave in to him, how easily I gave myself up!” She jerked free, running up the stairs, back to her room. Away from Pirithous, who had gone to the kitchens, and Antiope, who had married for a love beyond anything Hippodamia would ever know. Because she was just a game to Pirithous. A pleasant diversion. And what use would he have for her now?

  There was no greater distraction than war, and Eurytion had given him that. Or did he mean to use her as his noble excuse? To claim that whatever came was only in defense of her honor, all the while knowing she would give up even that for the safety of her people. Hadn’t she already? At the shrine, when he shamed her. And for nothing. For nothing at all, for Eurytion had still come for her, still tried to take her from him. To free her from him.

  Perhaps she should have let him. There was no hope of peace, and Centaurus…

  She barred her bedroom door behind her, slumping back against it. Antiope called to her, voice low and urgent, but she said nothing, did nothing. She had remained to honor her father’s memory, his desire for peace, but if there was no hope of peace, what purpose did it serve to stay? What purpose could she serve if she was nothing more than a challenge to Pirithous? He would hardly respect her opinions, listen to her counsel! Centaurus had been blinded by his dream, and she, even more so.

  Pirithous had blinded her, but now she could see.

  She gathered her belongings, what few she had, wrapping them in the bundle of her tunic. All the gold and silver, all Pirithous’s gifts, she left behind. Their weight would only slow her, and she had no need of baubles on the mountain.

  “Hippodamia, please,” Antiope said. “Am I not your friend? Will you not let me help you?”

  She hesitated, hugging the bundle to her stomach. Antiope. She would miss Antiope. And if she owed anyone an explanation, it was the Amazon queen. The wife of the Horse Lord’s son. Perhaps Antiope would even help her, though Theseus surely wouldn’t. He was too loyal to Pirithous.

  She crossed to the door, bundle still in her arms, and unbarred it. Antiope pushed it open at once, shutting it firmly behind her again before staring hard into her eyes.

  “I’m leaving,” Hippodamia said, not waiting for her to speak. “I will not remain here as queen to a people who mistrust me, or as wife to a man who has deceived me from the first moment.”

  “It is not easy, I know,” Antiope said gently, holding out her hands in friendship. “Perhaps I do not know what it is to be deceived into love, but I know the struggle of being queen to a people who distrust everything that I am.”

  Hippodamia hugged herself harder, giving Antiope the same distance she would a poisonous snake. “And perhaps if I had Pirithous’s love and admiration as you have Theseus’s, it would be different.”

  “You are so certain he cares nothing for you.” She let her hands fall, and her eyes darkened with sorrow. “Do you think so little of yourself, Hippodamia, that you do not see how worthy you are? This is the trouble with the world of men, the way they teach women to doubt, to see themselves as such small creatures. But you burn so brightly, and you are so wrong to think you bring nothing to this marriage beyond the peace between your peoples. Were Dia living still, she would laugh at such a thought!”

  “But Dia is dead, just as my father is,” she said, the words sharp on her tongue. “Let their shades laugh or weep, it hardly matters now.”

  Antiope drew back, shock written clearly in the lifting of her brows. “You let your grief speak for you.”

  “Better than letting foolish dreams blind me to the truth.” Hippodamia’s hands fisted in the fabric of her bundle. “I thought to ask you for your aid
, but I see now I was wrong to believe you might help me.”

  “Help you to leave?” Antiope barked a laugh. “Why would I, when it will serve nothing but your death? When it would mean another woman, a weaker woman, made queen in your place? No! I am Amazon still, Hippodamia. I would not see Dia’s legacy destroyed so easily as that.”

  She had been so wrong. So wrong in so many ways.

  “We were never friends,” she said, surprised at how deeply it cut. “You only wanted a strong queen. A woman who might rule in partnership with a man, as his equal, perhaps even his better.”

  “No, Mia.” Antiope’s lips thinned, and she reached out, but Hippodamia stepped back. “Yes, I hoped you might lead, that in Thessaly at least, women might keep what little power they had won. But that is not all. How could it be all?”

  Wasn’t it? How could she trust any of it? Any of them. There was a reason centaurs did not mingle with men. A reason they kept to themselves and their mares. Humans were snakes. Liars and thieves and manipulators, no matter their sex. “If that is what you wished, your dream is dead too. Better another woman take my place, one born of these people. I’m certain you can teach her the strength she requires.”

  “If you leave, they’ll only hunt you! Can you not see how much pain that would cause us all? Would you drive Pirithous into madness, like Ixion? You think he does not care for you, but you are wrong. We all do! And I promise you, if you leave him, you will cost him his crown. Exiled, he will be worse than powerless. There will be no one to stop the Lapiths from slaughtering your kin, then.”

  “Mia?”

  Pirithous. She could hear him now, the scuff of his sandal upon the tiles. When he wished to, he could move as soundlessly as a leopard, and she could only thank the gods he gave her as much warning as this.

  She made for the door, but Antiope reached it first, holding it fast. Hippodamia shoved at her, grasped the handle and heaved.

  “I will not let you do this, Mia.”

  Antiope might as well have been stone, and no matter how much of her life she had spent in exercise, Hippodamia would never have the strength of a daughter of Ares. Never have strength enough at all, and that, too, was another reason to go.

  Antiope did not move even a finger’s width, and her voice was low and hoarse. “Out of love for you, I cannot.”

  “Theseus has agreed to take the dead to your people. He waits only for you to anoint your father’s—” Pirithous stopped, and Hippodamia did not need to turn to know he had pushed open the door from the baths and seen them. Seen her, clutching her bundle, tearing at the door.

  Tears rose, flooding her sight until everything blurred. “Please,” she begged, though she did not know to whom, or for what. “Please.”

  And then Pirithous had her, his hand closing upon her shoulder, spreading warmth down her arm. She tore herself from his grasp and ran, grateful for her tears now, glad that she could not see his face. If she could only make it through the bathing room, she could bar his door on the other side. She need only reach the stables, reach Podarkes, and he would never catch her.

  “Hippodamia, stop!” He was faster. She had forgotten how fast, for she had not even reached the tubs before he caught her again, fingers tight around her arm, just above the elbow, jerking her back. “Gods above, girl! Have you gone mad?”

  “Let go!” She struggled against his hold, but he only lifted her off her feet.

  “What’s happened?” he demanded, though his head had turned back to her room, to Antiope. As if she were not there, in his arms, fighting against his hold. “If that fool steward opened his mouth—”

  “And tell me what?” she cried. “That I was nothing more than a pleasant distraction for his king? A challenge to his pride he wished to conquer?” She freed one hand and slapped him.

  “Ow!” He nearly dropped her, and even through her tears she could see astonishment in his wide eyes. But he only took a firmer grip upon her wrists, even if her feet touched the floor, and dragged her back into her room. “Who whispered such bile in your ear, wildling, that you would take it so to heart? You know what you are!”

  “I know the sweetness of your tongue, the lies you weave so carefully while you ply me with pleasure. Nothing more!”

  He shook his head, his gaze shifting to Antiope, still standing at the door. “I cannot believe this of you, but who else’s words would carry such weight?”

  “I do not know,” Antiope said. “I left her to find my sandals, and when I met her again at the stairs, she was frozen with it. She would only say that she was just a challenge, a distraction.”

  “When?”

  “Not long ago. I thought I heard Nestor in the courtyard, but why would he say such a thing?”

  Pirithous swore, the viciousness of his curses startling her back. And this time, he released her. So suddenly she half-fell upon the bed, but she did not waste time before finding her feet again.

  “Your words, Pirithous. Your words, like knives through my heart. I should have listened to Eurytion. To my father! But I wanted so much to believe better. To dream.” She grabbed up her bundle, dropped in her struggle against him. Pirithous watched her, eyes narrowed. “I’ll spare you the trouble of ridding me from your bed by leaving it now. Cyllarus will need my help, and as you said, I was their princess. Now I will be their queen.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Pirithous

  If she thought for a moment—but she did, that was obvious. She thought he would simply agree to let her go.

  “No.”

  She stiffened, lifting her chin. The tears were dry, now, and her eyes flashed. “I’m certain the priests will release you from this ill-fated marriage. It will be nothing to turn the bloodshed of yesterday into a message from the gods.”

  Pirithous shook his head. “Antiope, I would speak with my wife alone.”

  For once, the Amazon queen did not argue, though the look she gave Hippodamia, filled with grief and longing, did not escape his notice. Something more had happened between them, but he had not the time to spare for it. Not while she stood before him, demanding the right to return to her people. He waited only for the door to close behind Antiope, though no doubt she stood yet at the other side, listening. All the better if she heard, and gave Theseus the news, so he would not have to repeat himself later.

  “I have no interest in being released from the bonds of this marriage, Hippodamia.” She drew a breath, but he lifted his hand, silencing her with a hard look. And if his eyes burned with his father’s lightning, all to the good. “Centaurus placed your hand in mine, and there it will remain.”

  “For your pride,” she accused, her lip curling.

  “By my desire!” His hands balled into fists, and it took all his will not to grab her and shake her until she understood. “You are mine by sacred law and right. My wife and my queen. With Aphrodite’s blessing, besides!”

  “Aphrodite!” She whirled, then spun back again, hurling the small bundle at his head. “How dare you use her name!”

  He caught it easily, tossing it aside, even as he longed to reach for her. “You were willing, Hippodamia. Do not deny it, now! You wanted me as much as I wanted you.”

  “And if I have no desire for you now? If I refuse you, what then? Will you still insist upon keeping me? Lock me in my room as a prize, until I wither away? If it is only your desire which drives you, what use am I then?”

  “You twist my words,” he growled. “Are you so determined to find misery here? Have I not treated you with all honor and respect? Given you pleasure beyond any you might have hoped for in some centaur’s arms?”

  “My people have need of me, pleasure or not. Would you have me turn from them? Would you turn from yours?”

  “It does not matter,” he said. That she asked him that, after all he had promised her the night before—how could she not see that he had turned his back upon his own people for her, already? How could she believe he did not do everything in his power to save hers? For he
r sake! For her love! “The choice is not yours to make, not any longer.”

  “I am not Lapith, that by marriage you might own me, Pirithous.”

  “Do you defy even the laws of the gods, then? Are your people so savage as that?”

  She flew at him, hands balled into fists, a strangled cry slipping from her lips. He let her strike him, let her pound her fists against his chest with a force so surprising he stepped back, bracing himself against her fury.

  “I hate you!”

  Those words—they lodged themselves in his heart, bruising far more than her fists. He swallowed against the tightness in his throat, the pain of knowing she no longer wanted what he might give. But all the same. He would have her know. He would have her hear the words, even if she did not believe them. He scarcely could himself.

  “And I love you too much to let you die.”

  Antiope waited outside the door, just as he had thought, her face grave. “She will not sit quietly in her rooms.”

  “No,” he agreed, closing the door firmly behind him. Hippodamia had exhausted herself between pummeling him, weeping, and fighting, and in truth, he was worn thin, too. Pleasure may not have tired him, but this did, this love for her she would not accept. Far more than he wished to admit. “Are you with me, Antiope?”

  “Like you, I would not see her throw her life away for a cause that is lost already. Nor see your people lose a worthy queen.”

  “Will you guard her?” He did not know who else to ask. Who else he could trust. And perhaps Antiope might reason with her in ways he could not. “If I let her go, my people will believe they were betrayed, beginning to end. They will think Centaurus fooled Dia, and that Hippodamia deceived me. It will be war then, open and bloody.”

  “If you let her go, she will die. After Eurytion, her people will not trust her any more than yours.”

  He let out a breath, but it did nothing to ease the tightness around his heart. He had not even considered how her people might respond. “Perhaps if you tell her so, she will believe it. She trusts nothing I say, now.”