Tamer of Horses

by Amalia Carosella

  “They only need time, mouse. We all need time.”

  “And time is the one thing we do not have,” she said, running a last handful of straw down Podarkes’s back. “I’m sorry, Pirithous. I’m sorry I went to meet Eurytion that night. I’m sorry I did not refuse to marry you when the omens were so ill. I am sorry that instead of peace, I gave your people war.”

  “Mia—” He breathed her name into her hair, so close behind her she could feel the heat of his body against her back. “My little mouse, there is blame enough for all of us to choke upon a share if we wish, but I do not believe for a moment that any of it is yours. I do not believe for a moment that this was not all my folly, from the start. And if I have lost you because of it…”

  His voice broke, and he dropped his forehead to her shoulder, one hand fisted in her tunic, at the waist. “Gods above, Mia, I will never forgive myself. I will never forgive myself for ruining this.”

  Her mouth was dry, her throat tight with words she could not say, promises she could not keep. She wanted to tell him he would not lose her. That she would stay in his arms forever, no matter what came. But she would not lie, could not bring herself to betray his trust so utterly as that. So she only turned, letting him draw her against his body, and found his lips with hers. Found the tears upon his cheeks with her fingertips and brushed them away, wishing she could brush it all away so easily. With just a kiss and a touch and the softness of her breasts pressed against hard muscle.

  He kissed her back, his hand knotting in her hair, drawing her out of the stall, away from Podarkes. They tumbled into the hay a moment later, Pirithous cushioning her fall before rolling her to her back. His mouth had left hers, following the line of her jaw, down her throat, across her collarbone, leaving fire behind. Her back arched, her hands upon his shoulders, and the heat of his breath through her tunic, over her breasts, made her ache all over. He bit her through the linen, suckled her hardening nipples as they tightened in response.

  It had been only days since they had made love, but it felt like those moments at the spring were years ago, her body was so hungry, so desperate for his. She wanted him. Wanted him safe and whole and home, his heart beating hard and fast against her own.

  But his hands did not drift below her hem, did not search for the skin of her thighs beneath. His fingers did not pluck at the knot of her belt, did not curl into the cleft between her legs. And then his mouth had gone, too, his face turned away.

  “I can’t,” he said. “Not if this is goodbye. Not if this is the last time I’ll ever love you, ever know you. Tell me it isn’t. Tell me you’ll stay.”

  She drew his head up, searching his face. “Would you have me lie?”

  He groaned, burying his face in the curve of her neck. “Tell me—tell me at least that you love me. Tell me that is not a lie.”

  She closed her eyes, twined her fingers through his hair. It would never be a lie. It would never be a lie, but if she said it, she would shatter. “Pirithous…”

  “Please, Mia. If I must let you go, at least let me have your words. Let me know your heart.”

  “Oh, Pirithous.” She brought his forehead down to hers, their noses brushing. “Pirithous, of course. Of course I love you.” She swallowed the rasp of her voice, opening her eyes to stare into his, like moonlight shimmering through clouds. His expression blurred with her tears, but she took his face in her hands, held him steady, held him close. “If I go—it will not change that. I will always love you. I will always want to be with you. To be yours, again.”

  “Mia.” He stroked her hair. “My little mouse, don’t go. You don’t have to go. We will fight. My people. The Lapiths. They want to fight. Just stay with me. Be mine, be mine and I will be yours.”

  The tears spilled, a sob heavy in her chest. “I wish I could promise you more.”

  He let out a ragged breath and kissed her. Kissed away her tears. Kissed away everything but him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Pirithous

  He made love to her in the hay, his horse-tamer, his little mouse. Not so shy anymore. Not afraid of anything at all, but perhaps for love. The love her centaurs would steal from her, if he did not stop them. If he did not stop her.

  He had to stop her, and this was how he would begin. “I love you,” he murmured against her throat, against her lips, whispered in the hollow between her breasts. “I love you, Mia. My love.”

  She arched against him, her fingers twisted in his hair, in his tunic. He pressed his thigh between her legs, giving her the pressure she needed without the satisfaction. She could beg, and plead, just as he wished to. She could pray to the gods for release, but he would not grant it. Not until she was his. Not until she had promised herself to him.

  To him alone.

  He unknotted her belt and drew her tunic over her head. The hay made a coarse bed, but she was strong, raised to race through the woods on horseback with branches tearing at her arms and legs. She stretched out upon the hay pile like a cat, the expanse of her bared brown skin a banquet of pleasures laid out for his tasting. He bowed his head, offering her the honors she deserved, praying at the altar of her beauty with hands and mouth and tongue.

  Her hips rose with a whimper, her legs spreading of their own accord, but he would not dip between her thighs. Would not touch her below the waist with more than just his leg wedged between hers. She rubbed against him, rocked, squeezed. When he suckled her breasts, she writhed.

  “Pirithous, please!” It was nearly a sob, a cry of need.

  He lifted his head, letting her see his smile. “Stay with me.”

  She shook her head, grasping at his sides, his arms, fumbling with his belt, his tunic, searching for his skin. She was strong, but he was stronger. He rolled to his back, pulling her with him. She straddled his hips, the linen trapped between them, and she whimpered again, frustration and desire. The warmth of her center, the sight of her naked, but for a touch of light and shadow, and the pieces of hay in her dark hair. He wanted her. He wanted her to be his.

  “Please,” she breathed again, both her hands upon his chest. She had settled atop him so perfectly, had it not been for his tunic, he would already be inside her.

  He lifted his hips, letting her feel his length. Teasing her. “Promise me.”

  She kissed him instead, the flare of her desire, her love, her desperation white-hot and needy, filling him up and adding fire to his own need. His hands settled upon her hips, but she rose up on her knees, laughter rippling through her kiss.

  She had always been quick. Beautiful and brilliant. A perfect queen. His match in every way. And now she proved it, teasing him as he had teased her. Nipping at his earlobe, at his throat, dropping kisses across his collarbone, until she met linen instead of skin. One hand slipped between their bodies, her fingers wrapping around his desire.

  “No more clever words,” she said. “No more sly promises.”

  He groaned as her hand moved, warm through the linen, caressing, taunting, making him throb. She had learned so much, come so far to touch him so boldly, and he never wanted her to stop.

  “Just love me, Pirithous,” she murmured, her lips against his. “Let me go with your love.”

  He gathered her in, shifting forward, and helped her pull the tunic up over his head. Helped her fit her body to his, and gloried in the soft, breathy gasp she gave as he sank deep inside her warmth, filling her at last. They sat that way, breathing hard, as if joining alone was all they needed. And he knew, in that moment, as their hearts beat together, their foreheads meeting, and her nose against his, he never wanted anything else but this. Never wanted to move, if it meant she was forever his.

  “I love you,” he said again, without artifice this time. A selfless promise, instead of a bond. “I will love you, no matter what comes.”

  “Pirithous.” She shuddered, her body clenching around his, and slowly, so slowly, as if she could not stand, either, for it to end a moment before it must. One hand upon her hip, h
e guided her, slow and easy, and he kissed her just as tenderly. Her body molded to his, and he held her so tightly, so carefully, keeping her now as he could not keep her later.

  If this was to be goodbye, he would make it last. They would make it last, together.

  As much of forever as they could have.

  He left her sleeping, covered by the rough-spun wool of a horse blanket. Much as he would have preferred to stay with her, skin to skin, to linger in the warming bonfire of her love, he could not miss the banquet. Not without hurting his people. And they already suffered enough without such a slight from their king.

  So he went and sat at the table in the megaron, with Theseus at his right hand, and he ignored Antiope’s knowing glance when his wife did not join him. Hippodamia needed her rest, needed all her strength if she meant to stand against her people. And he knew well enough by now that he had not stopped her—could not stop her. Love only fed the flame of her need to act, it seemed. Not that he ought to have been surprised. He wanted to protect her all the more fiercely with every joining, every kiss, every touch, every glance and word exchanged. He wanted to protect her because of love.

  “Your people grow restless, Pirithous,” Theseus said. “And for that matter, so do I. How can you stand the waiting?”

  “Would you ride out from the shelter of the Rock if you knew an army was on its way to break against your walls?” Pirithous asked, his lips twitching at his friend’s impatience. “I thought you were supposed to be the more restrained of the two of us.”

  “Which accounts for my astonishment that you have sat by this long,” Theseus said. “And while your walls are strong stone, this palace is hardly as solid as the Rock of Athens. Surely you should at least be gathering supplies in case of siege.”

  “Centaurs do not lay siege,” Pirithous replied, unable to keep his good humor, or even the appearance of it. “I do not need Hippodamia to tell me that. Nor should you.”

  “It is not only the centaurs you have to concern yourself with,” Theseus said, his voice low. “They will come like a tidal wave, and break, to be sure. At what cost, we cannot know. It will be violent and fierce, but it will not last. Peleus, though—his Myrmidons will not be so easily undone. They are disciplined, Pirithous. Hardened and determined men, and excellent fighters, all of them.”

  Pirithous pressed his lips thin. The truth was, he did not wish to think overmuch of Peleus. Not when he had the centaurs to concern himself with first. If he could only keep his men behind the walls, keep the gates barred and barricaded, they might repulse them with little in the way of casualty. But he had only to look around the megaron, watching his men feast with hollow eyes and grimaces instead of smiles, to know their blood still ran too hot for reason. The centaurs would come down the mountain, and his people would charge out to meet them.

  “Centaurs!” Melanthos burst in through the doors, gasping for breath. Pirithous had set him upon the wall, along with a number of his other men—those he knew would remain loyal, no matter what came. “The centaurs are coming, my lord! Down the mountain, with arrows aflame and already flying.”

  Pirithous cursed. And Hippodamia lay naked and asleep in the stables, unprepared. He had not expected them at night, but he should have. He should have known they would not war like men. “Send word below. Bring the women and children inside the walls, with any livestock and supplies they can carry. But quickly!”

  “I sent men already to warn them,” Melanthos said. “But if the fire catches—”

  “Yes, I know.” The horses would panic if fire broke inside the walls. To say nothing of what it would do to their crops, outside. Pirithous rose, lifting his voice above the roar of the men all leaping from their seats. “Get your women and children to safety first! No man is to meet the centaurs until all have been brought inside the walls. We will fight together!”

  “Hippodamia?” Theseus asked. Antiope was already gone, no doubt eager to retrieve her bow and find a place upon the wall before the men began to crowd it.

  “The stables,” Pirithous said. “Asleep!”

  “Not for long,” Theseus said. “Will you come?”

  “I’ll need a horse, regardless,” he agreed. “Or they will not hear a word I say. Melanthos! Get back to the wall and send Atukhos and a dozen of the young men to the horse pastures. If the centaurs charge us, it will not be long before Peleus seeks to take advantage of our distraction, and I will not lose our horses so easily.”

  Melanthos shoved his way through the others to escape the megaron, and Pirithous followed with Theseus at his back. He must get to the stables. He must reach Hippodamia before she woke and heard the word of it herself. She would be too eager to ride out, too desperate to wait for Theseus to join her.

  Once they were out in the yard, free of the press of people, he broke into a run. He did not need to look to know Theseus kept pace. Straight through the palace courtyard and around to the stables. Machaon would be there shortly, no doubt, once word reached him, but Pirithous worried less for the horses and more for his wife. If she had heard, and gone already—

  “Theseus!” Antiope waited for them, a sword belt in her hands and her bow and quiver upon her back. “Your sword. And your promise that you will take care. I can only do so much to protect you from the wall.”

  “Mia?” Pirithous demanded.

  “Inside, yet.”

  He left Theseus with Antiope to their goodbyes, and pushed through the stable door. Deeply shadowed, the lamps unlit and the moon hidden behind the clouds, he clipped his elbow against a stall before he slowed. “Mouse?”

  “Pirithous!” She caught him by the hand as he neared Podarkes’s stall, and threw herself into his arms. “You’re here. And I must go. I must go, before it is too late.”

  She had dressed, the soft linen of her tunic smelling of horse and hay as he crushed her against his chest. “I know.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

  “No,” he said, framing her face in his hands. “As long as you live, that is all that matters. Go and do what you must, but promise me you will protect yourself, too. Let Theseus guard you, and do not risk your life more than necessary.”

  She gulped back a sob, nodding once, and he let her go, reaching for Podarkes, already bridled. If he did not busy himself, he would throw her over his shoulder and haul her back into the palace. He threw a blanket over the horse’s back and drew him from the stall. Dimly, he knew Theseus was seeing to his own horse, Antiope helping him, but he could only hear Hippodamia. Her hitched breaths, her soft touches. He found the glint of her eyes in the darkness and drank in every shadow of her form.

  She caught his hand again, and slung an arm around his neck, pulling his head down for a frantic, desperate kiss. He savored the taste of her mouth, even the dampness of her tears beneath his fingertips, before she tore her lips from his, and he lifted her up onto the horse’s back.

  “Go!” he said. “Before I change my mind.”

  She hesitated only a heartbeat, then swung her leg over Podarkes’s withers and kicked him into a gallop, Theseus right behind.

  They had no more time.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Hippodamia

  They rode against the rush of people streaming toward the main gate of the palace, but there were men enough upon the wall, and at the sight of them charging toward it, the back gate lurched open. Hippodamia had wondered at the village’s placement upon the riverbank, but she was glad now to know they would have that much more shelter, that much more protection. The centaurs would have to circle the palace to reach it, coming within range of the archers on the wall, and it gave her time before they clashed against the Lapiths, besides. Before the lust for blood overcame any hope of reason.

  She could see them, now that they were beyond the wall, with their flaming arrows fitted to their bows. The first round of arrows guttered in the open field and the grasses before the wall, and the centaurs still stuck to the tree line, darker sh
adows against the black of the wood where they did not carry flame.

  “Hippodamia, Tamer of Horses, Daughter of Centaurus would speak with Cyllarus and Hylonome!” Hippodamia called, reining Podarkes in before she entered the range of their bows. And how far might Antiope’s arrows fly? Farther, she thought, than the bows of the centaurs could reach.

  “And who rides with you?” a harsh voice shouted back.

  “Theseus, Son of Poseidon Horse-Lord!” he answered for himself.

  Hoofbeats sounded against earth, hard and fast, and Hippodamia held Podarkes steady, her chin high and her back straight. She would not let them frighten her. Would not let them think her weak. Not now.

  The galloping shadows resolved into two forms, and Cyllarus and Hylonome slowed their charge, stopping only near enough for her to recognize them, with wary glances at the wall at her back.

  Cyllarus reared, too restless to keep still even when he dropped again to four hooves. “Theseus has delivered you, as we asked.”

  “Theseus stands at my side as guard and witness. I am here only to ask for peace. To beg you for it, if I must.”

  Cyllarus sneered. “Peace! With the man who killed your own father?”

  “Eurytion killed Centaurus,” she said, letting Podarkes toss his head, that Cyllarus might see the sign of her anger in the shift of his weight, the flick of his tail. “Eurytion murdered him, to steal me, to break the peace my father forged. And you have taken up his purpose, like foals too young to know the difference between passion and truth.”

  “Do you think it matters?” Cyllarus demanded. “Do you think truth will stop them from hunting us down? Whether Eurytion or your husband killed Centaurus, it changes nothing. Your precious Lapiths will not rest until our blood has watered the mountain! Your king has admitted as much, himself.”