“It must be grief.”
“I can only pray.” But he was not sure he believed it. Without trust, their marriage served nothing. It had been so from the start, and Eurytion’s attack had not helped matters.
“I will watch her, Pirithous.” Antiope touched his arm, and when he met her eyes, they held no sharpness. Only sympathy. “And you can be sure I will do everything in my power to keep her safe.”
He nodded. “When she wakes, she must see to Centaurus’s body. Send for me, and perhaps between the two of us we will keep her from escape.”
Her lips curved. “She is fleet and strong. If you were anything less than a son of Zeus, she would have slipped from your reach already.”
“If I were anything less than a son of Zeus, she would have been right to go.” And then he left her. There was much yet to do, and if he did not address his people soon, and clearly, they would go to war without him.
As it was, he was not certain he could stop them.
He was even less certain he wished to.
“We await the queen’s direction,” Theseus said, meeting him in the megaron. “And I’ve set one of the younger boys to watch the carts. Should any of your people grow restless, we will know of it.”
Pirithous had already sent runners to find and gather his nobles, and now he took his seat upon the dais to wait for their arrival. Theseus stood beside him, a forgotten coil of rope in his hands, which he twitched absently against his thigh.
“Antiope is still above?” he asked.
Pirithous grimaced. “Hippodamia is… unwell. Your wife was kind enough to sit with her, that she would not wake alone.”
Theseus’s eyes narrowed. “She has great affection for your bride.”
“Indeed.” Pirithous stared into the hearth fire, watching the jump and flicker of the flames. “I only hope Antiope’s friendship might grant her some peace. But I fear Hippodamia was right—we have lost much.”
“Too much?” Theseus asked.
“Perhaps.”
Theseus limited himself to a grunt in response, no doubt because Plouteus had arrived, with a handful of the others. They presented themselves to Pirithous, bowing with all appearance of respect, and Pirithous nodded stiffly back, wishing Dia still lived. That he had been king in more than just name for longer than seven days. He ought not to have left the ruling of his people to his mother for so long, or at the least, he ought to have stood at her side with greater frequency, to understand his duties more fully before she had gone.
But if he had stood beside her, it would have been his judgment the people looked for, and how could he have given it when he knew so little, and cared even less? He was not Theseus, renowned for his wisdom. Nor had he inherited Dia’s serenity and perception. He knew how to fight, how to raid and rustle and thieve. But to command more than a small band, made up of men he knew as brothers? And as more than brothers when there had been need.
Perhaps it would have been different if Eurytion had not led the centaurs in such a brutal attack, but as things were now, he did not trust his mother’s councilors. Not with his wife, or the shape of his kingship. They saw only a threat, an affront to Dia’s legacy and an excuse to throw away a peace they had never truly desired. But he saw Hippodamia’s tears, her grief, her bowed shoulders and her stillness in the tub, lost in the sorrow of knowing her sacrifice had ended in failure and loss. He saw the blood of his people spilled upon the floor, too much already, too many widowed and orphaned, too many broken with grief. And how many more before those who lived were satisfied?
He rubbed his forehead, slumping back in his chair. He needed time. Time to determine for himself the right action, and time for Hippodamia to come to terms with her grief. Time for all the Lapiths to grieve. For if they went to war now, reckless and angry and broken, he would lose too many men. No doubt Peleus hoped for such an outcome, and Pirithous had no desire to satisfy him.
“My king, we have assembled as you asked,” Plouteus said, drawing him from his thoughts.
Pirithous gave a short nod. He did not dare glance at Theseus. Here, in this megaron, he was king alone. And he must speak his own mind boldly, even without support.
After another moment, he rose.
“We have lost much,” Pirithous began, his gaze touching on each of the men before him. Not only his mother’s councilors, he realized, seeing faces he had not expected among them. Melanthos, one of his best raiders, and Atukhos, who never returned from their time at sea without some injury or another, but somehow always lived to fight again. They touched their fists to their foreheads in respect, gold rings and bracelets and armbands flashing in the firelight. Somehow he had not considered that his men had grown rich enough to be counted as nobles among the Lapiths, but it heartened him now. Lightened him to know he might have their support, even their counsel.
“We have lost much,” he said again, nodding to Kotullon, and the others who had lost fathers or brothers, daughters or sons or wives. “And I would give all those who were lost the honors they deserve in death. For the men who died as warriors, we will have games. Seven days of games, with prizes from my own treasury. For the women and children, we will feast at banquet for those same days, with food and wine from the palace’s stores. None will be turned away from our table.”
“What of the centaurs?” one of the men called out. Not Kotullon, at least. Perhaps he had silenced at least that much dissent. “Games and banquets are all well and good, but you cannot mean to let this insult stand!”
Pirithous held up his hand, quieting the murmur of agreement. “It does us no good to enter battle without our wits. The anger in our hearts will make us careless and weak in ways we cannot afford. If our only enemy were the centaurs, perhaps the risk would be less, but we must not forget that Peleus and his Myrmidons wait just beyond our borders. Nothing would please them more than for the Lapiths to go unprepared to war against the centaurs, that once weakened, we might be conquered by the Myrmidon army all the more easily in our turn.”
There was more than murmuring this time. A cacophony of voices, half in agreement and half made furious by his suggestion. Had they worn their swords, Pirithous had no doubt that hands would have settled upon hilts, with blood drawn before they calmed. He let them fight amongst themselves, sharpening their arguments and their tongues upon one another. When they spoke again with one voice, or two, he would answer readily enough.
“What would you have us do, my lord?” Melanthos asked, shouting to be heard above the others. “If we do nothing, all of Thessaly will believe us cowards. More than just the Myrmidons will come raiding, thinking us ripe and ready for plucking.”
“We must act!” Pirithous agreed, meeting his friend’s eye. “And I give you my oath that we will. But not this day, nor the next seven. As has ever been my way, I will not allow men blinded by grief to throw themselves headlong into battle. When the Lapiths ride out against our enemies, we will do so with clear minds, and be all the more dangerous for it.”
Melanthos grinned, recognizing the phrasing from years at his side, raiding upon foreign shores. “And all the richer?”
“Those among the Lapiths who abide by the rule of their king will certainly find themselves rewarded.”
“Then for these seven days, my sword will remain within its sheath,” Melanthos said, bowing low. “And I would encourage these others to swear the same. Never once in five years has King Pirithous led his men astray, nor taken us into a battle we could not win. I do not believe he leads us poorly now.”
“Nor do I,” Theseus said, raising his voice above the din, and Pirithous was glad of his support. “Whether it is what you wish to hear or not, for a son of Zeus, King Pirithous speaks with the wisdom of Athena.”
“Go home to your families,” Pirithous said. “Make love to your wives and give comfort to your daughters. Train with your sons, if you wish, and compete in the games to honor those we have lost. Clear your heads of bloodlust and vengeance, and when the pyres no
longer burn, come to me again.”
And he would pray, in the meantime, that what he offered them would be enough.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Hippodamia
She did not like to be watched, Hippodamia decided, struggling to hide her grief and pain behind a mask of indifference as she knelt beside her father’s ruined body. She had washed it carefully of blood and filth, a task made all the more difficult by the fur which had matted and clumped. He looked so much smaller in death. More than anything, she wished to weep, but surrounded by Pirithous and his men, she could not. Would not give them the satisfaction of seeing her so broken. Bad enough Pirithous already kept her as a true hostage, guarded by Antiope and held against her will. And if his people realized how reluctant a queen she had become, what would they think of their king?
“Dare I trust you with the knife?” Pirithous asked, his voice so low she doubted even Antiope had heard. She was the nearest to them, for all the others looked upon Hippodamia warily, uncertain of her purpose.
She snatched it from his hand, glaring, and his lips twitched as if he wanted to smile. Her fingers tightened around the hilt. “Perhaps you shouldn’t.”
“Theseus feared, before we met, that you might slit my throat while I slept, but I must admit, it was never a concern of mine. Even less that you might attempt to do me any harm now, with so many watching.” He tilted his head at the lamb he had brought, solid black and as calm and quiet as anyone could hope. “Particularly if you wish your father’s body to remain unspoiled long enough to complete your rituals.”
She narrowed her eyes. “A threat of that kind is beneath even you, Pirithous.”
“It was no threat. But I am certain you realize my people are not so sympathetic to your grief as I am.” And then he did smile, as he scattered the barley for her sacrifice. “And I should think you know the only thing I desire beneath me is you, little mouse.”
She flushed, busying herself by wiping the blade clean with the hem of her tunic, that he might not see how his words affected her. And he dared speak so while she prepared her father’s body! She would have slapped him, had they been alone.
“You can hide your face, Hippodamia, but not your heart. Your desire is as familiar to me as my own. Just as your love has become.”
Love! She pinned the lamb against her side and cut its throat in one smooth stroke. How dare he claim she loved him. “And my anger?” she demanded. “You should know it better than the rest by now.”
She ought to have been praying, but it was all she could do to direct the flow of blood into the golden offering bowl. Her hands shook, and her stomach twisted into knots at the thought of what she must do next.
“It is an old friend by now, and I confess, I do love the color it brings to your cheeks, the brightness to your eyes and the fire to your heart. Your anger gives you strength, Princess.”
Strength. She looked up from the bowl to find his gaze intent upon her, but not with lust, or even desire. He studied her with compassion, and the realization made her flush again. He was provoking her, true, but for more reason than his own amusement. He was trying to distract her. To lend her the strength she would not accept, otherwise.
“Tell me what else I might do to help you,” he said softly. “Let me show my people the honor Centaurus deserves, one king to another.”
If he thought she would forgive him simply because he showed her kindness now—
“It is not my intent to offend you, Mia. But if you wish for any kind of peace, it must begin with us, here and now.”
She let out a breath, her throat thick with grief. “What hope is there for peace?”
He crouched beside her, taking the golden bowl from her shaking hand. “None, if you will not trust me. But together? I have bought us seven days in which to find a way. If nothing else, we might soften the blow. Turn a river of blood into the trickle of a stream.”
“By allowing my people to be hunted like dogs again, as we lived before under Ixion’s rule? Centaurus would never agree to such a scheme.”
“Centaurus would see that I work to save his daughter as well as his people. But not even the gods hold absolute power. And son of Zeus or not, I am newly king. Had I proven myself already, perhaps things would be different. Perhaps things might yet be made different in time, if you remain at my side.”
“You have made it clear I have no choice in the matter.” That was the only difference between the previous night and this new day, and she hated him for it—how could he have thought for a moment that she would not? But she nodded to the lamb, its small body drained of life, and took up the bowl again. If Pirithous wished to show her father honor, she would let him. For Centaurus. “Make of the rest an offering to Poseidon Horse-Lord. We will burn the fat and bones with herbs over my father’s body after I anoint him.”
He did as she asked, working silently at her side, and she used the blood to stain Centaurus’s body with the Horse Lord’s mark, as Chiron had taught her when she was small. His forehead, his cheeks, his chin, his throat, and the place over his heart.
“Have you no need for oils or shroud?” Pirithous asked, when she stepped back to study her work.
She pressed her lips together. “We do not burn our dead, nor seek to preserve their bodies in this world. The centaurs will entomb him within the mountain’s heart, his body whole.”
“And the rest of the blood?”
Hippodamia swallowed, staring at the bowl in her hands, and the blood inside. “It is for me. To draw his wounds upon my body, and mark my grief upon my face.”
He fell silent, just as she had feared he would. He would forbid her from it, she supposed. Because of his people. Because when she smeared the blood on her face and her body, they would see she grieved for her father above all, and that her heart still belonged to her people.
Pirithous gave a grunt and turned away, his shadow shifting enough to make the blood shine in the sudden light. “Enough,” he said, raising his voice to the others. “We have let you watch this far at your queen’s insistence, that you would not suspect her of sorcery, but allow her now to pray in private.”
She looked up, startled, and Pirithous gave her a grim nod. “Whatever you must do, We would share in it, for Centaurus was Our kin, too, as Ixion’s son, and a loyal friend to the Lapiths all his life.”
He said it for the men who still lingered, she knew, but he could have said nothing at all, or simply hurried them on their way. “Why are you doing this?”
“You are my wife and my queen, Mia. We are as bound in grief as we are in joy.”
She shook her head, fighting back the tears that pricked behind her eyes. “I am only another prize.”
“Because I sought to win you?”
“Because, by your own admission, I am something to be owned. And then you call me wife and queen, claim I have your love, and make a show of presenting me as your equal—” Her voice broke. “Do you not see that it cannot be both? I am either your equal and free, worthy of your respect and your love, or I am little more than a slave, and worthy of nothing!”
He stepped forward, cupping her cheek. “Mia—”
“Whether I stay or not, the choice must be mine, Pirithous. Not my father’s or your mother’s, or even yours alone, but mine. Ours!”
He shook his head, letting his hand fall away. “Every other choice, I swear to you before your father’s shade, we will make together. But not this one. You are my wife and my queen, and I will not lose you.”
She closed her eyes, her hands gripping the bowl so tightly she feared it would warp between them. She would not cry. Would not weep. Would not let him see her pain. She had been a fool to ask it of him. A fool to believe he might be capable of more. No matter what he said, in his heart he was no better than a pirate, seeing something he desired and taking it for his own.
“Mia, please understand. It is for your sake more than mine.”
“Go,” she said, turning her face away, for the tears presse
d against her eyelids, threatening to spill. “Just go.”
She streaked her face with blood, though her cheeks were damp already. And when she struggled to paint the wounds upon her own skin, to even remove her tunic, Antiope offered steady hands and silent sympathy. The cut of the knife, from her shoulder through her breasts, Antiope drew faithfully, and then the second from her ribs and across her belly, ripping through the muscle and into the gut. Her father had bled to death quickly enough, the blood of the lamb nothing to what had spilled in the megaron. And in his last moments—when she might have said goodbye, might have heard his final words, or begged his forgiveness for her foolishness not long before—she had been torn from his side.
That was the wound that cut deepest. That Eurytion would be so cruel as to deny her that small comfort after striking Centaurus down. That she would have to go on without her father’s wisdom, her father’s love.
“If only I had not gone to him that night,” she said, dropping to her knees beside her father’s body in the grass. “If only I had listened to you at the stables. Trusted you. If only I had not been so blind. I would give anything now to take back my anger, to make the last words I spoke to you words of love.”
Antiope touched her shoulder. “No one blames you for what happened, Hippodamia, least of all Centaurus. And I am certain he knows your heart.”
“I was so angry…” She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes to stop the tears from smearing the blood on her face. “I behaved like a child.”
“Then behave as a woman grown, now,” Antiope said gently. “Until the flesh is gone from his bones, his shade remains. Let him see you have taken his words to heart.”
Hippodamia laughed, her heart twisting. “His words. How could I deny them now? He told me to guard my heart. To restrain my hope and resign myself to the truth of my marriage. That Pirithous was just a man, and no matter how much pleasure he gave me, I should not confuse it with love. How much less it would hurt now, if I had only believed him!”
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