“Just too much wine, that’s all.” He offered her a cup, helping her to sit up beside him. “Drink that, and you’ll feel better after you’ve eaten.”
She frowned at the contents, clearly not water alone. “What is it?”
“A potion for the headache. I’m told overindulgence is often followed by one, though I can’t say I’ve ever experienced it for myself, thank Zeus. Antiope thought to have it sent up for you.”
“How thoughtful.” She wrinkled her nose against the smell. “Are you certain cold water would not serve just as well?”
“Not in the least,” Pirithous said. “But I rather think Antiope would not lead you astray.”
Hippodamia snorted, eyeing Pirithous sidelong, for someone had filled her cup the night before, and if she had mixed her own wine, it would have been much too weak to leave her feeling so ill. “Unlike my husband?”
“Your husband thought it would be best if you forgot yourself and your troubles for a time, and saw you safely to your bed, unmolested.”
She took a sip of the potion, forcing herself to swallow, though it was far too bitter for her liking. Better to hide in her cup than to let him see the flush in her cheeks. Perhaps she did not quite remember everything that had passed between them, but the roughness of his voice as he promised to keep her in his bed for days was not so easily forgotten.
“If I overstepped, I beg your forgiveness,” he said after a moment. “I only thought to give you some small moment of peace before the storm swallowed us whole.”
The storm. She let the cup drop from her lips and stared at her reflection in the liquid. Her people. “Pirithous, I must try. To stop this, somehow. To stop them.”
He sighed. “If I let you go to them, they will not give you back. There will be no stopping a war either way, then, for your people will have no reason not to attack, and mine will have even more reason to want their blood spilled. I know it is difficult to stand by, to do nothing, but there are times when taking no action is the best course, the only course that will not make matters worse.”
“And how often have you done nothing when it meant your friends, your family might die?”
His jaw tightened but he did not flinch from the question, only met her gaze. “You forget I am Dia’s son, born while Ixion reigned in all his madness. Did you never wonder why I kept away? I spent my days with the horses, and when that was not distraction enough from the trouble Ixion made, I left to raid.”
“And if I did the same, your people would say I betrayed them. They would say I left to allow Cyllarus the freedom to attack.”
“Which is why I would have you stay,” Pirithous said, taking the cup from her hands. “To prove your honor.”
She snorted. What had honor brought her father? Her people? Or the Lapiths, for that matter? Nothing but blood and death and heartbreak, and now this. And yet, her father had believed so strongly in this peace, in her marriage to Pirithous and the alliance of their peoples. He had died for it, and after all that he had done for her, the way she had spoken to him…
She would not give up on his dreams. Perhaps she could do nothing else, but she could do this. She could honor his memory, and if it meant giving up her life for the same cause, so be it.
But to give in to Pirithous so easily—he had caged her so completely, and dared to call it love. She was still not certain she believed him, but she knew her own heart. She wanted to trust in his love, however confused he might be. Maybe all the more because she had lost so much else. What did she have left, if not Pirithous?
“You must allow me to meet them when they come,” she said. “If you will not let me go to them, if you refuse to grant me the freedom to act as I believe I must, to leave if it would benefit our people, you must at least give me this.”
“Mia…”
“No, Pirithous.” She lifted her chin, staring into his eyes, willing him to see her resolve. “You will not make excuses. You will not sit here and tell me that my life is too precious, when you would spend your own taking the same risks. If I remain here at your side, as your wife, as the peacemaker my father hoped I might be, you must allow me to act as such! Or what is the purpose of any of it?”
His gaze slid away from hers, his lips pressed thin. “And after? When your kin are vanquished, what then?”
“I will know I have done all I could,” she said, ducking her head to catch his eyes again. “Do you not see, Pirithous, that to refuse me this would twist our marriage into nothing but resentment and bitterness? I would always wonder what might have been, if you had only let me attempt to reason with them. I would hate you for locking me away. For keeping me safe at the expense of my people, even of yours.”
He closed his eyes and let out a breath. “Will you at least allow me to stand at your side?”
Her heart wrenched. Because she didn’t dare. Knowing her people, even the sight of him would enrage them beyond reason, and it would all be for nothing.
His eyes opened when she did not answer, his hands tightening around the cup he held. “Mia, I beg of you, grant me that much in compromise if you will risk your life this way.”
She shook her head, her throat thick. “Perhaps Theseus or Antiope. But not you, Pirithous. It cannot be you.”
He did not take it well, of course. She had not expected him to. Had not truly expected him to agree to her terms at all. But he had, though it had seemed to pain him deeply, and Pirithous had left her almost at once, mumbling something about speaking to the men upon the walls.
And for the first time since he had found her in the bath after their wedding banquet, she was truly alone. Without a guard or a companion, or Antiope lurking just outside her door.
Hippodamia closed her eyes, falling back into the bedding, and lay still in the empty room. Empty, but for her grief and the shades of the dead whispering too near. There was little she could do to help them, but for the living, at least, she might act. And perhaps, if Poseidon blessed her, if the gods saw fit to spare both their peoples, she could prevent a war.
If she could only find the right words.
But that had been Centaurus’s gift, not hers. He had spoken with such authority, such wisdom, and who was she? Not even a true centaur. Nothing more than a foundling child, of no consequence at all but for the fact that Centaurus had chosen to raise her as his own, and with her marriage to Pirithous and her father’s death, she was even less of a centaur now, the bonds between herself and her people strained to breaking by Eurytion’s jealousy and rage. She did not have Centaurus’s blood, only the memory of his affections. Nor did she truly have power or strength enough to win leadership that way—not fighting against another centaur.
She had her skill with a horse, a deep knowledge of her people, and her father’s name. It would make for a golden tripod, more decorative than practical in any way. Good for nothing more than the bluster of a prize.
She would simply have to hope that Podarkes could outrun the centaurs when she failed.
There was nothing to do but wait, then. The Lapiths held their games to honor the dead and Hippodamia stood upon the wall, wrapped in one of Pirithous’s wool cloaks against the wind and keeping watch with the guards. She hadn’t been certain she would be welcome at the games, though none had questioned her presence at the pyres the night before.
“Lady?”
She tore her gaze from the mountain as Theseus joined her. Kind as his wife had been, Hippodamia had not spoken much to the King of Athens, and what time they had spent together had always been in the company of Pirithous or Antiope.
“Pirithous said you had need of me,” Theseus said.
She pulled the cloak tighter around her shoulders, and could not quite bring herself to meet his eyes. “I am not sure why.”
“Are you not?” he asked. “I had thought whatever rift had opened between you bridged at last, or surely Pirithous would not leave you upon the wall without a guard.”
“I have given him my word I will remain. Offere
d in compromise, though he did not care overmuch for my terms.”
“Ah,” Theseus said, and she could feel his eyes upon her. “Something to do with your people?”
Her heart twisted, realizing at last what Pirithous had meant by sending him. “I told him he must let me meet them when they come. To reason with them, if it is possible. He asked to stand beside me, but I feared it would only inflame Cyllarus’s fury to allow it. I told him it would be better if it were you or Antiope.”
Theseus was silent for a moment, and when she glanced at him sidelong, he seemed to be staring at the mountain, just as she had. “I do not think they will listen.”
“You are known for your justice, King Theseus, for your wisdom and judgment. Surely you understand why I must try, no matter how little hope of success there might be.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “And I understand, too, how difficult it will be for Pirithous to watch you ride out from the safety of his walls, utterly impotent while you risk yourself for his people.”
“Is that not the queen’s right? Her duty, even?”
“In the absence of the king, perhaps.”
“And I stand in the absence of my king, my father, Centaurus.”
Theseus grunted. “It would save Pirithous some face if presented in such a way, even if it will do nothing to ease his fears, but I am not certain it will do you any service in the eyes of his people.”
“His people will see the proof of my loyalties with their own eyes if I am forced to flee from mine. What can they possibly say then? What resentment can they possibly hold?”
He laughed, short and sharp. “Those who suffer, twisted by pain and grief—they will find a way to place the blame upon your shoulders if they desire it, I promise you. But the rest… It will certainly prove your bravery, Lady, if nothing else. And if you desire it, if you believe it will do any good at all, I will stand at your side. For Pirithous’s sake, as well as yours. Better if it is me than Antiope, though I know she would not refuse you.”
She met his eyes, then, at last, straightening beneath his gaze. “Better because you have just as little desire to watch her ride out from the safety of these walls as Pirithous does me?”
Theseus smiled, and she felt its warmth as a glint of sunlight on water. “As little as you wish to see Pirithous ride to battle, when that time comes.”
“Yes, but Pirithous would never let my fears stop him from acting. Just as I will not let his fears rule me, in this. We have the same right, King Theseus, as you do. To risk our lives for those we love. To act in their interests. To protect our people and our families.”
“Who exactly do you wish to convince, Hippodamia?” His eyes were laughing now. “Or do you forget I married an Amazon?”
Her face heated. “An Amazon you would prefer to keep hidden behind strong walls.”
“And would you not wish to protect Pirithous, if you could? To shelter him from the rage of the centaurs when they come boiling down the mountain? Is that not what you seek to do with this compromise of yours?”
She let out a breath. To protect Pirithous, yes, though she had not realized until that moment how desperately she wanted to keep him safe. “I wish I had never come to him at all, if war is all it’s wrought. I would not have him suffer because I failed in my one duty. I would not have any of the Lapiths suffer for it.”
“Do not take so much upon yourself, Lady. It was not your failure which brought about this unpleasantness. You did everything that you ought, and Pirithous did not make it easy, I know.”
“Not at first,” she said, frowning at the mountain. It felt so long ago now, that day. When Centaurus had placed her hand in Pirithous’s she had not imagined it possible to care for him this much. Nor had she imagined the conflict that would follow. It had all blindsided her. Eurytion’s folly. Pirithous’s generosity. “But that was before I knew he was kind.”
“Sometimes I think he hides his best qualities too well,” Theseus said. “As if he fears Ixion still looks over his shoulder, waiting to twist every good thing into madness.”
She shook her head. “He hardly speaks of Ixion to me.”
“He does not speak of Ixion at all,” Theseus said, “but that does not mean he is not haunted by him. Everything Ixion destroyed, Pirithous has rebuilt. Everyone Ixion wronged, he has repaid. The centaurs were the last of it. To bring about a peace between your peoples was not only Dia’s hope, though I doubt Pirithous would ever admit to the reason why.”
She swallowed. She had been young enough to escape the worst of Ixion’s rule, but his blood ran through every centaur’s veins. “You do not think this is Ixion’s madness, still?”
Theseus said nothing, but she did not think he ignored her question, only turned it over in his mind and did not care for the truth which presented itself.
“Centaurus was not mad,” she said into the quiet that stretched between them, for she did not need his answer. Not truly. She had only to remember what had become of her wedding feast, the wildness which had overtaken her people, turning them into beasts. “But perhaps the rest of us are.”
“Not you, Lady,” Theseus said gently. “In this one instance let it be a comfort to know you do not share their blood.”
She wished it was. But it only left her feeling emptier than she had begun.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Pirithous
The last of their guests, save for Theseus and Antiope, had gone by the following morning. Pirithous was glad of it. Even Antiope he would have sent away, if there had been any chance she might go. As it was, all he dared do was place more men upon the wall, and hope what Hippodamia feared would not come to pass.
“Antiope and I went riding this morning,” Theseus said, joining him on the wall.
Pirithous had not precisely been pacing it, but he had certainly been prowling with the excuse of seeing to his men. Hippodamia was with Antiope in the kitchens, overseeing the preparations for the evening feast, and it seemed if he could not be in bed with his wife, he could have no peace unless he was moving. Or perhaps he simply had no peace at all.
“It is not only the centaurs who watch your walls, counting the men you set upon them,” Theseus went on, unbothered by his silence.
“Peleus,” Pirithous agreed. “He waits to see what will be left of us after the centaurs come, I’m certain. Or else he waits until we ride out against them, hoping to take the palace and the horses while my back is turned. He stands to gain much from this war he’s started.”
“I have men in Athens who would be willing to fight,” Theseus said. “Or at least remain behind the walls to guard your back, and ensure Peleus will not have the opportunity he seeks.”
He shook his head. “It is too late for that now. And even if it weren’t—this is my fight, Theseus. These are my people. We will succeed or fail together. Against Peleus and the centaurs both, if it comes to that.”
“But you need not succeed or fail alone,” Theseus said.
“Which is why I have not sent you home, my friend.” He smiled, clapping Theseus’s shoulder. “Though if you wished to go, to keep Antiope safe—”
Theseus snorted. “She would not leave now even if I begged, and I would not abandon Hippodamia, for your sake or hers, besides. Antiope would never forgive me if I let your wife ride out to meet the centaurs alone. Though I must confess to you, Pirithous, I do not know what help I will be. The centaurs do not trust me, and I do not believe there is anything Hippodamia might say that will sway them from this course. Cyllarus is angry. The others want vengeance, thinking it will ease their sorrow. Whatever peace you hoped to forge is lost.”
“I hope only for my wife’s peace, now,” Pirithous said. “And she will have none if she does not do this. Keep her safe if you can, bring her back to me behind the walls. Beyond that, I hope for nothing.”
Theseus nodded. “She will have my sword to shield her, and Antiope’s bow, from the walls. We will bring her back to you whole in body, if not in spirit. Fai
ling her people, Pirithous—it will not be without cost. She may not have peace, even then.”
“Her failure is mine, too, Theseus,” he said quietly, the truth of the words heavy in his heart. “Our marriage was meant to unite our peoples, that one day our son might rule centaurs and Lapiths as one. I should have known Peleus would interfere. I should have delayed our wedding when the priest warned me of the omens. But I was too angry, too stubborn, too jealous to see truth or reason. I wanted her to be mine.”
“Because you loved her,” Theseus said.
“Because I did not trust her,” Pirithous said. “Because I was blinded by desire, no better than Cyllarus, with his mind fogged by rut. Now I am hers, lost in her, and she is less mine than ever.”
“You cannot own an Amazon, Pirithous,” Theseus said slowly. “I begin to think the same is true of the centaurs as well. But Hippodamia has promised to stay. She has chosen you. I think you are wrong to think she is not as much yours as you are hers.”
“Until the centaurs come, and she rides out to meet them, I do not think I will ever know for certain.”
Theseus grunted. “You still don’t trust her.”
“I trust that she will do what she thinks is best, and if it will avert a war, I do not doubt for a moment that she will return to the centaurs, to her people.” Pirithous pressed his lips together. “And I cannot blame her for it. I cannot say, were I standing in her place, that I would do any different.”
And perhaps that was what frightened him the most. For they were much alike, when it came to honor and sacrifice and duty. Too much alike, when it meant she might leave him, and after all they had shared, he might be forced to let her go.
Pirithous made the games more competitive. More sword work and spear throwing, more bow hunting, with man- and centaur-shaped targets. He dared not whisper of an attack, or incite his own people into rage, but he could train them, still. He would train them, still.
He and Theseus took turns walking among the men and boys, correcting their draw on the bow, their grip upon the sword, their form as they threw, and the funeral rites became something more. He could only pray what little preparation he could offer would be enough. That perhaps it would save one of the boys, too young to know better how to fight.
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