Dedication
To Luke, who met me when this story was first taking flight.
And to Ori, whose story is just beginning
—K.G.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Epilogue
The 25th Winged Horse Race Scroll
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Ad
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
Long ago, on the southern slopes of mighty Mount Olympus, in a house with a roof made of sky, lived the three Fates. Although they were always busy spinning, measuring, and snipping the threads of mortal lives, their work gave them plenty of time to talk. They liked arguing best.
“Might!” snapped Atropos, brandishing her shears. “Might is greater than love. The thicker the thread the better.”
“Love!” insisted Lachesis, tapping her measuring rod. “Love is greater than might! Two threads are better than one!”
“Bother,” muttered Clotho, pulling back her spindle. The thread she’d been spinning had snapped.
Rain was falling now, and Atropos and Lachesis were too busy arguing about who was getting wetter to notice the snapped thread. Before they did, before Clotho could change her mind, she knotted the thread back together. She hated when threads snapped before they were snipped.
Of course, she wasn’t supposed to fix threads that broke. She wasn’t supposed to meddle. But where was the fun in that?
She was a Fate, after all.
One
There was magic in the storm. Pippa’s skin tingled. Rain beat down on the tile roof of the stables like the hooves of a hundred horses, and, through the window, she watched lightning bolts flash in the distance. Zeus, king of Mount Olympus, god of the sky, was saying something. But what?
The horse in the stall behind her, an old mare, pawed anxiously at the ground, interrupting Pippa’s thoughts. The groom, Alcaeus, who was in charge of the horses, would likely appear any moment to tend to the mare, and the stables still weren’t clean.
Pippa had been working there for over a year. The South Wall Stables, on the outskirts of Athens, were the largest she’d known, housing the horses of traveling merchants, as well as a few for the master of the house and his son.
I’d better get back to work, Pippa thought, but was interrupted again, this time by another flash. Not of lightning, but something else. A giant wing, feathery and silver, dipped from beneath the clouds like a sideways sail—there one moment and gone the next.
Pippa gasped.
Only one creature had a wing that size—a winged horse.
She couldn’t help herself. She rushed out of the stables, into the storm, eager to get another look. Instantly she was drenched, but she barely noticed. All of her attention was focused upward on the clouds, hoping for another glimpse.
Could it be? Had she seen Nikomedes, Zeus’s steed? Zeus had had many horses since Pegasus retired long ago to the skies as a constellation, and Pippa tried her best to keep track of them. She had heard tales of Nikomedes’s silver wings and golden hooves, though of course she’d never seen him before now. No one had, as far as she knew.
Pippa raced on. Along the pathway that ran through the master’s property, the oikos, and out onto the cobblestone road that wound its way toward the agora, the marketplace, the heart of Athens.
Although the road usually bore merchants and carts, laborers and messengers (and even the rare bandit), now it was empty. Everyone had taken shelter.
Everyone except Pippa. The coarse cloth of her tunic clung to her skin, and her bare legs and feet were muddy. But on she went—past the mud-bricked inn that housed travelers, and the olive trees soaking up the rain—chasing the retreating clouds . . . until her foot struck a stone and she tumbled forward, landing in a puddle with a splash.
She rolled out of the puddle and sat, hugging her legs to her chest. One knee was scraped, and both were covered in muck. Her big toe, which she’d stubbed, throbbed. What was I thinking! She was just a foundling, without parents or a home. Foundlings didn’t glimpse the steeds of the gods. That was for the likes of the all-seeing Oracle and other priests and priestesses and . . .
. . . Song-stitchers? A staff appeared in front of Pippa’s face. Covered in intricate carvings, it was the staff of a rhapsode—a song-stitcher, reciter of myths and teller of tales. Pippa knew, for she had spent her earliest years in the care of one, an old woman named Zosime. Zosime had found her when she was a baby and cared for her until she was old enough to look out for herself.
But whereas Zosime had been well-kept, this song-stitcher was the opposite. Her face was thin, her weathered skin stretched over bone, and her eyes were sunken and dark, like the pits of two olives. She wore a long woolen himation, which wound across her hunched shoulders and up over her head like a hood, shielding her from the rain. Across her back was slung a lyre, some of its strings broken and bobbing in the wind like unruly strands of hair. Even her staff was chipped, the symbols hard to make out.
The staff’s symbols helped a song-stitcher remember her tales, as did tapping the staff on the ground. But Pippa hadn’t heard this song-stitcher tapping.
Where had she come from?
“Hurt, child?” The woman extended her staff. “Here.”
Pippa gripped it and rose to her feet, noticing one symbol in particular carved on the top. Three feathers, woven together.
“What does it mean?” asked Pippa.
“Ah,” said the woman, eyebrows rising. “There are more stories coming soon for that one.”
Pippa was puzzled. Weren’t a song-stitcher’s tales old ones, the stories of gods and goddesses? Unless this woman had seen something in the storm too. Had she seen Nikomedes?
The song-stitcher’s dark eyes clouded over as she tapped her staff in time to her words. “Aloft, wings beat and feathers fly. Hark the horses of the sky.”
So she had seen something! Or was she speaking in riddles, as song-stitchers tended to do?
“What tale is that from?” asked Pippa. “Tell me more.”
“I wish, I wish. But that one is not a tale for telling—not yet. I can tell you another, a tale of great intrigue.”
Although she was tempted, Pippa shook her head. “I must go back,” said Pippa. Really, she’d already been gone too long. The mare and her colt didn’t like storms, and she didn’t want to leave them untended. Not to mention, Alcaeus would be furious. Although he rarely whipped the horses, he did not shy from whipping her.
The song-stitcher’s hand shot out and gripped Pippa’s arm, her fingers curling around Pippa’s wrist like snakes.
“No!” Her voice crackled. “There are so many tales I know. I know the truths of the gods. I’ve seen things no one should.”
Pippa had heard of song-stitchers like this—those who had gone mad from their stories. Often they rocked alone in corners of the market, muttering and murmuring to no one. Some said that the gods had disgraced them, or that their stories were too accurate for the gods’ liking, and so they had been punished.
The song-stitcher went on. “Share your
food with me then? But you don’t have any, do you? Only fate kept you alive, but for a purpose? We’ll see . . .”
Pippa yanked her arm free and hurried away. It was simply madness and luck that this woman had landed on some truths. She glanced back. The song-stitcher was still tapping her cane. Poor woman. But Pippa would be in trouble herself if she didn’t make it back before the groom discovered she was gone.
Already the clouds were gathered far off in the distance and the rain was nearly a memory.
The magic was over.
Two
When Pippa returned to the stables, Alcaeus was there, hunched yet imposing, in the mare’s stall. “You old nag,” the groom soothed. “Stop your fussing. It’s just a storm.”
The mare’s colt, in the stall opposite, flicked his ears back. He, like his mother, was clearly agitated.
Pippa put a comforting hand on his neck. His ears relaxed; his tail swished. He had long lashes almost like a donkey and was one of her favorites. She stepped closer. Hay crunched under Pippa’s feet, and the colt nickered. The groom turned and spied Pippa, his brow furrowing.
“There you are, useless girl! Where were you?”
“I saw . . . the storm . . . ,” Pippa stammered.
“Yes, yes, the whole city saw,” huffed the groom. His gaze drifted to her muddy legs and dripping tunic. “But what were you doing out in it?”
“I saw—” she started again.
He didn’t let her finish. “You don’t see, you do!” he barked, in a tone he never used with the horses. “And you aren’t doing anything! The stalls aren’t clean, nor the mare fed.”
The groom paced, his fists clenching and unclenching over an invisible whip. “I should never have taken you on. A girl working with horses. Pah!”
“But . . . I saw a wing—in the storm. The wing of a horse.”
His eyebrows furrowed again. “You think Zeus would grant you sight of his steed?”
“I-I-I” she stammered. “I didn’t think . . .”
“Think! That’s your problem. You think too much.” His breath reeked of stale wine and sardines, and he stopped pacing and leaned toward her. “Always thinking. Trying to tell me which horse has a lame hoof. As if I hadn’t spotted the stone. Of course I knew! My great-grandfather rode the gods’ horses!”
The groom loved to boast of his family, but what was truth and what was wine speaking, Pippa never knew. She did know that she had done him a service earlier by letting him know of his mare’s condition. If he had known about the stone in her hoof, then why hadn’t he picked it out?
“You may have a way with horses, but as of tomorrow you no longer have a job here,” he went on.
“Fine,” the word burst from Pippa’s mouth before she could stop it.
“Fine?” the groom spat. A fleck of sardine flew toward her. “I’m glad you think so, for now I want you out immediately. An empty stomach and no bed should teach you some manners. Believe me, you shall find no beds or stables around here, not after I tell my friends what I think of you.”
“But . . .”
“Ha! Not so quick with your tongue now, are you?”
Pippa’s heart clenched. She was good with horses; he had just said so himself. Surely he wouldn’t lie to others—but . . . this was Alcaeus. Of course he would. She gulped. Losing her job was one thing, but not being able to work with horses . . .
“I see you don’t have a response to that.”
“I didn’t mean . . . ,” Pippa started.
“Well, stop standing there like a statue! I want you gone by the time I’m back from supper! Not that you have any belongings to collect, do you, foundling? Good riddance, though now I will have the bother of finding a replacement.” He grunted and then left, muttering under his breath.
The mare nickered, and Pippa turned her attention to the horse. Although her head hung low as usual, the whites of her eyes were showing, and her ears pricked. The mare was used to the groom shouting at Pippa. It must have been the storm that spooked her. Pippa rubbed the mare’s neck. “Hush, hush,” she soothed.
She would not miss the groom’s yelling. Or the stables themselves. Even her meager food; it wasn’t like Alcaeus gave her much. But she’d miss the horses. She loved horses more than anything: their warm, moist breath; their thoughtful eyes; and the proud way they tossed their heads.
“Don’t worry,” Pippa murmured. “The storm is over now.”
It was true—the night sky was clear and strewn with stars.
Chewing on a handful of horse grain—who knew when she might eat next—she climbed, one last time, to the stables’ roof. The tiles were slippery as eels, so she was careful but not afraid.
The roof was her favorite place. From there, she could see the whole city and the great temple, the Parthenon, in the distance. Sometimes, with the stars and moon so close and the horses below, she felt like a goddess up on Mount Olympus. Though a goddess wouldn’t be forced to eat animal feed.
Pippa gazed at the sky. Of all the families of stars, Pegasus seemed to jump from the darkness, each star twinkling doubly as bright.
How many nights had she hoped to spot a winged horse among the twinkling stars? Today, had she really seen one? Already the storm seemed like ages ago.
Pippa took a deep breath. She shouldn’t have wandered from the stables. But it was too late for regrets. Alcaeus’s heart was shriveled like a fig without any of the sweetness. There was nothing she could do except go into Athens tomorrow and beg. It would be harder now that she was almost twelve; people wouldn’t be as generous as when she was younger. And there were slave catchers too, always on the lookout for a foundling.
To comfort herself, Pippa reached for the coin tucked in her pocket. It was thin, thinner than most coins, and the symbol on it was almost worn away from rubbing. A winged horse. She liked to feel the shape beneath her fingers.
Once, a stable boy she’d worked with had told her the coin was an obolos, a special token used to pay the ferryman to carry you across the river Styx into the Underworld after you died. Perhaps it was. After all, her parents had left her by a well when she was a baby, with nothing more than this coin.
Lots of babies were abandoned—sometimes because a family was poor, sometimes because they already had too many girls. Whatever the reason, the baby was unwanted. She didn’t know why her parents had left her. But if they had given her an obolos, they must have thought she would die.
Even though it hurt to imagine this, having the coin gave her strength. Because, despite everything, she had survived.
Though life had never been easy, there always seemed to be someone who took her in, sometimes for months, sometimes for just a few weeks. Her skill with horses had served her well. She’d always managed to find work—from mucking stables to helping a bridle maker. But if Alcaeus was true to his word, would she find another job with horses? Would she have to work in the mines . . . or clear rocks for ditches . . . or look after kennel dogs . . . ? A knot formed in her stomach.
Pippa gulped, and the gulp became a yawn. The night had a heaviness about it, like a woolen blanket. It was time to leave. Time to find a place to sleep—though where, she wasn’t sure. She was about to climb down off the roof when she heard a voice below and stayed where she was.
“Tonight’s the night,” Alcaeus said. “The signs are all there. It’s been near a hundred years. The storm was Nikomedes’s farewell. Soon the gods and goddesses will descend and take their chosen children.”
Children? Had Pippa heard him right?
“Humph,” replied the groom’s friend. “They’d be better off choosing those who know how to ride—like me.”
“The best rider is someone light, someone small. A child. I’ve told you that, Gurgos. My great-grandfather rode when he was ten. Better he hadn’t and I wouldn’t be cursed as I am.”
“You can’t blame your luckless life on that.”
“Can’t I?” replied Alcaeus. “If he’d won, it would be a different matter, bu
t he lost. . . . If only I’d had a chance. I would have won, I know it.”
Gurgos grunted.
“It’s time to sleep, for both of us,” replied Alcaeus. “We’ll see if I’m right, soon enough. The announcement will be . . .”
Alcaeus’s voice went low, and Pippa leaned closer, until . . . her foot slipped out from under her. She skidded down the slippery tiles and off the side of the roof.
Thud! She landed in a heap on the wet muck below, barely avoiding the wooden bench on which the two grooms sat.
“You?” Alcaeus grimaced.
Beside him, his friend with a bushy beard frowned. “This is your charge? The foundling?”
“No longer a charge of mine,” Alcaeus said, glaring at Pippa and grabbing her arm. “Didn’t I tell you to leave?”
Pippa scrambled to her feet as Alcaeus dragged her across the courtyard.
“Out!” He shoved her toward the front gate. She stumbled but didn’t fall again. She didn’t look back, even though she could still hear the groom’s voice: “Serves me right for taking pity on her.”
“You are too nice,” came Gurgos’s voice. “What do you think she heard?”
“What does it matter?” They laughed, and their voices faded as they headed back inside.
What did I hear? she wondered as she stumbled down the dark road. The song of the cicadas filled the air with a hum. What announcement?
This was one of the things she loved about horses. They didn’t keep secrets. Not that it mattered, as the grooms had said. What mattered tonight was to find a place to sleep. With every step it felt like she was moving through honey. Had Morpheus, god of dreams, put a spell upon the night? It certainly felt so, for Pippa didn’t make it far before exhaustion overcame her. She curled up by the side of the road, sheltered by a wild rosebush, too tired to care about its thorny branches. All that mattered was closing her eyes so she could forget the day ever happened and dream that everything could be different.
Three
A soft nose brushed her cheek, followed by a whispering whinny. She blinked. Was there a horse standing over her? Yes, with eyes black as the space between the stars but just as full of dreams. Then a face, this time a woman’s, so kind and sweet she thought at first it might be her mother’s. But it glimmered with a golden light. A goddess! The goddess leaned toward the horse and murmured, “If you wish, little one.”
Wings of Olympus Page 1