Tamer of Horses

by Amalia Carosella

The rest of that day was spent in the cavern, Pirithous encouraging her to choose gifts for her friends as well as her father. They emptied a yawning chest of a hodgepodge of silver goods and ingots and refilled it with cups and platters for the feast, guest gifts, and what jewels, once admired, Pirithous insisted she keep to wear when she was queen. He carried treasure up the stairs as easily as he might have lifted a skin of water to his lips, laughing when she frowned.

  “Heracles held the whole world upon his shoulders, Princess, and though I do not quite have his strength, I am the son of his father, still.”

  “A true son of Zeus even in matters beyond pleasure,” she teased him. “Though you have hardly given me opportunity to notice.”

  “And even less, come tomorrow.” He set down the chest to close the door again, and covered it once more with the altar. “We need only wait for the sun to rise.”

  Her skin prickled at the promise in his voice, low and determined. “Before the feast.”

  His eyes met hers, silver-gray and intent. “The moment the sun breaks over the mountain, even if I must give up my own blood in dedication to Aphrodite to see her satisfied. We will go to our feast sated and content, your face flushed and your body warmed and well-loved, and no one will doubt that we have the blessing of the gods.”

  “And after the feast?” Her throat tightened with anticipation. To be joined at last, to be truly filled by his hard body, and feel his seed spill inside her—she smoothed the short tunic over her stomach, so he would not see the way her hands shook.

  But Pirithous stepped toward her, tall and fine, his eyes liquid and warm. “After the feast, I will make you tremble with desire, pleasure, and need, until even the whisper of my breath against your skin sends you shuddering to your release.”

  It was a promise she meant to make him keep.

  That night she spent alone, for Pirithous did not trust himself and Hippodamia could not blame him. The temptation of his body, and the moment so near when they might consummate the marriage so long planned would have undone her, even if he had disciplined himself completely.

  But she did not sleep. Instead she stared out at the mountain and the road from the trees to the palace gate. The moon was nearly full, bright enough to darken the stars, and washing everything in silver. The light glinted off the golden bridles hanging from their pegs in the stables, always open for the horses to come and go as they wished. The halters they wore during the day were not full gold or silver, too heavy and too gaudy for such use, but all of the horses she had chosen were given gold and silver fittings between the leather straps over nose and brow, and engraved silver nameplates sewn to the leather as well.

  So when the centaur came out of the woods to stand framed in the moonlight, all but liquid shadow even then, Hippodamia’s eye was drawn to the movement, then caught by the stillness and tension of his figure. Not so much as a switch of his tail nor paw of his hoof against the earth, but bleak and heart-rending all the same.

  Eurytion.

  She did not think, only reached for the nearest tunic, rumpled but still scented with lavender and lightning, and slipped from her room into the corridors of the palace, down the stairs, and into the night.

  She ran, her bare feet making no noise upon the stone inside or out, and Eurytion started at the sight of her, half-rearing in surprise. He charged forward to meet her and crushed her in his arms, lifting her up.

  “Mia,” he murmured, as if it had been years instead of days. “My fleet-footed fawn.”

  She laughed. “Let me down, Eurytion, or I’ll have bruises before you’re done.”

  He set her to her feet, but held her hands still, then her face, framed carefully. He stared at her so strangely. As if he had forgotten her features.

  Hippodamia flushed, turning her face away. “It has not been so long that you should not recognize me.”

  “Too long, all the same, Fawn. Every night a torture, imagining what you must suffer. This marriage—it was wrong of Centaurus to take you from us, even for Dia, even for peace! Come away with me. This very night. This very moment. Let Centaurus make some other peace for our people. One that does not steal you from me, from even the hope of happiness.”

  She pressed her fingers to his lips, shaking her head. “You need not fear for me. Not for a moment. And tomorrow you will see, I promise you. Pirithous is more than kind, generous to the point of foolishness…”

  Eurytion reared back, his black eyes narrowing as they raked over her body. “You wear his clothes.” One hand caught at her hair, bringing it to his nose. “You smell of him, of musk and need. You gave yourself to him? Or did he take you—persuade you with his father’s power that this was what you wished?”

  “He is a good man and a better king!”

  “And all those nights we spent together, dreaming of a future—dreaming of what you might do, if you were free—you forget them so quickly?”

  “I was a child, Eurytion, with childish dreams. And you know as well as I what my future would have been. Death and blood was all that awaited me among the centaurs, but Pirithous can offer me a good life. Children of my own!”

  He snorted, his lip curling. “He’s bewitched you, just like all the others who surround him. But it hardly matters. The moment he leaves his palace, leaves you behind long enough for you to know your own mind, you’ll come to me, call to me to take you from this place. You’ll beg Centaurus to allow your return, and when he understands what your precious Pirithous has done, Dia’s peace will shatter.”

  “Perhaps that is your dream, Eurytion, but it is not mine.” Her heart twisted, though only half his words made sense. There was something in them, some breath of truth that curdled her joy. “It will never be mine.”

  She wrenched free of his hold and left him in the moonlight, wishing she had never come at all. Or better yet, that he hadn’t.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Pirithous

  He could not wait for dawn. All he had done half the night was lie restlessly, unable to sleep, unable to settle his mind into quiet. It was a night he would have spent exhausting the palace women, and lying alone in his bed while Hippodamia slept just beyond his door was maddening. Even if he could not find his release yet, her presence, her warmth, would be enough.

  He rose, slipping silently through the bathing room. At the other end, her door stood open as if in welcome and he smiled. It seemed his little mouse had no wish to wait for dawn, either. His blood heated at the thought, his body hardening. Not long, now. The moon had already begun to set, its white rim kissing the ground. And he would lie beside her, ready for the first purpling of the sky…

  But the room was empty.

  He froze, searching the dim room for any reason for her absence. Her sandals sat discarded by the door to the hall, of course, for she hardly reached for them without reminder, and her short tunic lay puddled outside the bathing room. The rumpled bed told him only that she had been as sleepless as he, and the jewels he had given her were all accounted for, spread out upon the table near the hearth. Had she been stolen in the night, the thief would not have overlooked such wealth so near at hand.

  He fingered the cuff she had chosen for Hylonome, staring blankly at the wall. Surely she would not run naked through the palace the night before their wedding feast? Naked upon the balcony he had no trouble believing, for he had caught her more than once leaning upon the railing in the dead of night, after waking for some other need.

  “Mia?” he called softly, parting the curtains and stepping outside, smiling at his foolishness. It was only that there were so many guests suddenly crowding his halls that he could not help but think the worst first. Hippodamia would make a fine prize to the man who might steal her. Even bound by the laws of hospitality, he had no trouble believing some might be tempted, and Peleus had yet to arrive, after all.

  Yet Hippodamia did not answer, nor turn to him with a smile. Instead, he was greeted by the murmur of raised voices in the distance, and his gaze searched for
the source of the sound. A centaur, blacker than the sky above, and a woman in a man’s tunic stood upon the road.

  He narrowed his eyes. Hippodamia, he had no doubt, though he could not see her face, and by the jerk of her movements and the pitch of her voice, she was not pleased.

  Nor was he to find her so, for he recognized the centaur easily enough. Eurytion, it seemed, had decided to come. One last gamble to convince her not to wed, perhaps, and Pirithous could only pray the centaur’s arguments fell upon deaf ears.

  He gripped the railing, the stone crumbling in his hands. From such a distance, he could not hear the words exchanged, but he could feel Hippodamia’s impatience. And something else, bitter on the back of his tongue, spoiling her contentment like the worm that has burrowed inside the apple, only revealed after the first bite.

  She spun away from the centaur then, and Pirithous tensed. If Eurytion laid one hand of restraint upon her, peace or no peace, he would tear the offending limb from the centaur’s body.

  But Hippodamia continued on unmolested, her head held high. Pirithous stepped back before she saw him, and frowned. That she had gone to Eurytion at all made his eyes burn, the edges of his vision going white. She had sworn to him her affections remained her own, unpromised to any other, yet this foul beast had lured her from her very bed, when by all rights, she should have been thinking only of him and the pleasure he’d promised her as her husband.

  It stung his pride, to be sure, but worse than that—whether she had turned from Eurytion tonight or not, his little mouse had lied. Something had passed between them to draw her out into the night, giving encouragement to the centaur’s desires. And if she lied about that so convincingly, what else had she hidden from him? He knew for certain she had not lain with the beast, but had he not proven these last nights how much else they might have shared? And Hippodamia had been eager. Too eager for a maiden.

  Pirithous retreated to his own room, for if he met her coming back to hers, they would both regret the result. His hands were fists, still gritty with stone dust, and while he wanted more than ever to claim her as his own, to leave her in no doubt as to where she belonged each night, to begin his marriage by taking her in anger was unthinkable.

  She would have some explanation of course, and better if she came to him than if he forced her to confess, but the longer she waited, the longer she left him pacing in his room, the less he wished to hear it. It would only be another lie, another deception. And to think she had wept so prettily over even the thought of betraying him just days ago, then promised him her honesty!

  He snorted. The sly mouse had known what she was doing from the start, tugging at his heart, playing upon his sympathies. From beginning to end, she had done nothing but manipulate him. Perhaps he had given Antiope too much credit in the matter. He could just imagine it now: Hippodamia and Eurytion, heads together in the night, deciding how best to bring him to his knees. Perhaps those times he’d found her looking out into the darkness, she had been waiting for some sign from the centaur, and he had been too great a fool to realize the truth.

  The door creaked open and he whirled, his eyes blazing white. Hippodamia stood framed against the darkness of the room beyond, dressed in his own tunic. He could not quite stop himself from growling and her haunted face paled, her eyes going wide.

  “Pirithous?”

  How she managed to give her voice such a note of innocence, as if she were so unsure of herself, of him, he did not know, but he had no patience for it. “Should you not be in your bed, Princess?”

  “I couldn’t sleep…”

  “Could you not?” He stepped toward her and she stepped back. “Poor little mouse, so distracted by the thought of her wedding day. Or was it something else on your mind? Someone else.”

  Her face reddened, her spine stiffening. “You cannot still think I would turn to Antiope?”

  “Not Antiope,” he agreed, almost snarling. “Though I suppose that is not beyond you, either. All that talk of how centaurs mate for life—how long would you have waited before you betrayed me?”

  “What?”

  “Eurytion, Hippodamia. And after you swore so solemnly you had no feelings for him but friendship. I should have known! The moment you asked that I allow him to stay with you—I should have known then that you lied.”

  “Pirithous—”

  “Another lie, little mouse?”

  “No!” She glared at him then, eyes alight with righteous fury. “Eurytion and I shared nothing more than a few kisses as children—it meant nothing!”

  “And tonight? When you went to him in the dark, threw yourself into his arms? Did that mean nothing too?”

  “I only wanted—”

  “What, Princess? To reassure him that you had me wrapped around your smallest finger? That it would not be long now, before you might be reunited? Did you think you could convince me to let him stay? Is that what you wanted with all your talk of taking other men to your bed? Your centaur lover right beneath my nose?”

  She slapped him. Hard enough to make his cheek sting and his head turn, and he clenched his jaw. He had almost forgotten the fire in her heart. The wildness. He should have known she hadn’t been tamed. That her softening had all been part of the lie. Perhaps she had simply wished to use him for his seed before she left him for her people once more, his son in her belly to be raised by beasts and used against him, once grown.

  “The only lover I ever wanted was you,” she said, liquid pooling in her eyes. “Not Eurytion, not Antiope, not some palace slave. All I wanted was your loyalty in return for mine.”

  “Pretty words, Princess,” he murmured. “A shame I cannot trust them.”

  Her chin lifted even as the tears spilled down her cheeks. “Then perhaps you should not take me as your wife.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Hippodamia

  Eurytion had been right to worry, to fear for her. He had been right, and she had been such a fool. No matter what they shared, Pirithous’s pride would always stand between them, worse than any mistress in his bed.

  But Pirithous caught her by the arm before she turned away, his jaw working and his eyes cold. “I fear you have misjudged me again, my lady. There is no stopping now. The feast will go on, and when it is finished there will be no question as to where you belong. This peace will not be broken by me, and I will do everything in my power to ensure it is not destroyed by you or Eurytion, either.”

  She shook her head, jerking her arm free. He would never understand, and she had not the patience to explain. How could he believe she had no wish for this peace? After everything she had sacrificed—after everything they had shared!

  “You’re a fool, Pirithous.”

  “Then you will be a fool’s wife.” He nodded to the baths. “Call for your maid. Wash and dress. We go to the priest first, for his blessing, and I do not care if our guests are awake enough to follow. I would have this done with before your lover can interfere any further.”

  Lover! She spun on her heel, slamming the door behind her. Barring it, she was certain, would only enrage him, but she did so anyway. If he wished to be a brute, she would not deny him the opportunity to show the truth of his character.

  In her own room, she splashed water on her face, scrubbing away the tears that stained her cheeks. She would not give Eurytion the satisfaction of knowing he was right, nor would she give Pirithous any proof for his claims. If he thought she would go running to Eurytion now, throw herself at any other, he would be sorely disappointed. She had known from the start that this marriage would be strange. That she had little hope of love, never mind joy. As long as he did not betray the peace it promised, she would suffer his accusations, even his anger, and have all she desired.

  But she had given him no reason to mistrust her. None! And he had made up his mind before she stepped foot in his room. He had decided her beneath him from the beginning, from the moment he had laid eyes upon her in the megaron. That was why he had offered her the choice,
not because he wanted her willing—for he certainly would not have her so now—but because he had not wanted her, had not trusted her or her motives.

  Eurytion had been wrong about one thing, absolutely. Pirithous had not bewitched her. He would have had no cause to distrust her if he had, and she would not be so furious, besides. She had gone to him in honesty, for comfort in his arms, and instead he had turned on her like a maddened dog!

  Not wishing to face her maid or any other, she did not bathe, only washed and dressed. Pirithous had chosen her gown from among his prizes in another storeroom, not so well hidden and just as neglected. Silk, he had called it, smooth and soft as water against her skin, and dyed a pale yellow, the color of morning light. The girdle she had chosen for herself, purple leather with teardrops of gold that chimed against one another as she moved, with a sound as delicate as water trickling over stone.

  She braided her hair loosely, and waited for full dawn. Even Pirithous would not roust a priest from his bed, though she had no doubt he had been tempted by the thought. Perhaps by the time they reached the shrine he would see reason—surely he could not believe the things he had said. Not truly. And she had only wanted Eurytion to know she was happy…

  But it seemed she had spoken too soon.

  Pirithous did not speak to her at all as they walked the path up the mountain, Hylonome and Cyllarus following silently behind. Her father had arrived late the night before, and slept still, but he had already done his part by bringing her so far.

  Theseus and Antiope waited for them at the shrine, bleary-eyed and rumpled, with a pure white horse tied to the altar. Whatever qualms Pirithous might have had over shaking the priest from his bed, they clearly did not extend to his cousin. She should have thought of it herself—sent her maid to Antiope, to wake her husband, and told them everything. Surely Pirithous would have listened to Theseus, if no one else.

  “The priest says the omens are ill,” Theseus warned, his voice too low for the centaurs to hear. “It would be better if you waited until tomorrow.”