“Another horse?” she demanded.
“No, my lady, of course not! I would not ask the Lapiths to sacrifice another horse so soon. A bull would be better, for Lord Zeus.”
She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply through her nose in order to keep her temper. A bull. Just as valuable at the moment as a horse, with so much livestock lost to the centaurs. The Lapiths did not keep an excess of cows and bulls even at the best of times, preferring to focus upon their horses instead. But if Zeus would prefer a bull, she would give him one. She must.
“I will send a bull up the mountain with the dawn,” she said, opening her eyes. She struggled to unclench her jaw, to keep her tone polite, though she resented his uselessness. At least it had been Aithon and not Podarkes lost. “And if you desire it, you will have our hospitality tonight.”
“My thanks, Lady,” he said, bowing. “As you must know, it is not safe to climb the mountain after dark. The centaurs were defeated but not expelled…”
She looked away, focusing on her hand wrapped around Pirithous’s. It was something she would have to see to, it seemed. The fates were cruel to place this burden upon her shoulders. Truly twisted to ask it of her.
“Glaukos!” she called out.
Pirithous’s men had been taking it in turns to stand outside his door, awaiting her commands, in service to their king. Melanthos had not yet returned, but she had begun to know the others a little better, and they were all respectful toward her, even solicitous. Whether it was because they saw her pain, or because they loved their king, she was not certain.
Glaukos opened the door from the hall, stepping inside and offering an abbreviated salute with a touch of his fist to his forehead. “My queen?”
“Glaukos, please escort our priest to the steward and see that he is given a room. And I would speak to Theseus, if you can find him. Will you ask your brothers to send word directly when Melanthos returns, as well?”
“It will be as you say, my queen,” Glaukos said, inclining his head. “And I will do even better, and send you Melanthos himself, if you do not mind him still covered in the filth of the road. He has only just arrived.”
She let out a breath, relief making her lightheaded. She had half-feared he would not return at all, and she had known that, whatever came, she would need him. “Give him time to bathe then, and send him up a meal. He deserves that much.”
“Of course, my queen.” He bowed again and then extended his arm, directing the priest to the door. “After you.”
The priest hesitated for just a moment, as if he wished to say something more, perhaps to press her for some action, but another glance at Glaukos’s fierce features and he only bowed instead, and left the room.
Useless man. To think she had hoped for some kind of answer from him, some solution. To think she had trusted him at all. She was likely better off making the sacrifice herself. And perhaps she would, if the bull she had promised him came to nothing. It was only that she did not like the thought of leaving Pirithous. Even for so short a time as to wash and relieve herself, though she had done that much.
She sighed, leaning forward to press her forehead against the back of his hand. “What will I do?” she asked him. “What would you have me do?”
But she knew the answer. The only thing which had checked Pirithous’s own response to the centaurs had been his concern for her. He had held back, and as a result his men had died, their village burned to the ground along with their crops. The centaurs had proven themselves faithless, now that Centaurus was dead, and any hope of reconciliation was lost utterly.
Which meant she had only one choice, even if it shattered her to see it through.
The centaurs must be driven off. Hunted into exile.
As queen of the Lapiths, she must let them die.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Hippodamia
“You’re certain this is what you wish?” Theseus said, searching her face.
He had arrived with Melanthos, and between the two of them, they had brought enough food for ten men and insisted she eat with them at the small table in the corner of the room. She had not had much of an appetite these last days, but they had both argued that she must keep up her strength. After all, she would do Pirithous no good if she did not care for herself. She had choked down the relish of cooked greens and nibbled at the lamb, but it was the wine she needed, to strengthen her resolve and dull the pain of what she must do.
“I see no other way forward,” she said. “I will not have the Lapiths live in fear of attack when they step outside the palace walls. The centaurs—they have brought this upon themselves, Theseus. I have tried to reason with them, as have you, but if they would not hear us before, they certainly will not now. Too many will be deranged with anger and pain for the deaths of their loved ones. They must be driven off.”
“She is right, my lord,” Melanthos said, picking at the bread on his plate. He pinched pieces from the softer interior of the heel and rolled them into balls between his fingers before tossing them into his mouth. “And if she means to rule in Pirithous’s place, this is where she must begin. To prove her loyalty to the Lapiths above all other ties, even in Pirithous’s absence.”
“Few will survive this, Mia,” Theseus said, his voice gentled with compassion. “You will see your people wiped out. Destroyed.”
“I know,” she said, unable to meet his eyes. She would not let him see the tears that stood in her own. “I know, and believe me, I do not desire it. I do not like it. I do not know, even, if the pain of it all will not destroy me. But what else is there to be done? I feel certain it is what Pirithous would wish, were it not for me. And perhaps we would be better off if he had not tempered his response for my sake to begin with.”
Theseus shook his head. “If you think to blame yourself for what has happened, I can promise you Pirithous would not stand for it were he awake, and I do not intend to allow it either. Pirithous would not have allowed rage and bloodlust to rule his decision, regardless of your marriage. And knowing what Peleus had done, caution was the wiser choice, besides. If you must blame yourself for anything, know that Pirithous’s choices, were they colored by his love for you at all, saved any number of lives, men and women both!”
“You cannot know it,” she said.
“King Peleus would have attacked while the men were gone to fight the centaurs, my lady,” Melanthos said. “It was the opportunity he hoped for from the start, though I am certain he was happy enough to see us weakened by Cyllarus’s charge. Even if Antiope had remained upon the wall to guard the women against the Myrmidons, you would have had little hope of success in keeping him at bay while we were away. The women and children would have been taken as slaves, Pirithous’s palace sacked, and the horses taken or killed as well. If my king delayed his attack against the centaurs for your sake, as you believe, then we all owe you a debt.”
She fell silent, brushing the moisture from her eyes before it spilled down her cheeks. Melanthos had been loyal to her from the moment she had chosen to defend the Lapiths, for her own character, not only for the sake of his king. She was all the more grateful for it, now, and she knew if she chose to rule in Pirithous’s place, he would support her. Stand at her side and offer her his strength.
Even so, she feared it would not be enough.
“Give the men time to rest and recover, a sevenday, perhaps,” she said. “I will not offer them gold, as Pirithous thought to, for I would rather the centaurs be given the opportunity to flee, but they must be driven from the mountain all the same. With any luck, perhaps they will go all the way south to Phthia.”
“I would not wish that, if you desire them to live,” Theseus said. “But all the same, we will see them gone. Melanthos and I can each lead a small party of men hand-picked for the task. None who desire blood over the safety of the Lapiths themselves.”
“That will leave you with a large number of men, still, to protect the palace and the horses,” Melanthos agreed. “I do not th
ink King Peleus will return, but there are plenty of others who, having heard of our misfortunes, might seek to take advantage, and I would not leave you or Pirithous without defense.”
She lifted her head, meeting both their gazes in turn. “You both have my thanks for everything you have done already. I am sorry to ask more of you.”
“Pirithous is my brother in every way but blood,” Theseus said, offering her a small smile. “I would not turn from him now no matter what he demanded of me. Nor will I abandon his wife. We will always be an ally to the Lapiths.”
“And we Lapiths will not forget what we owe to the King of Athens,” Melanthos said. “If that is all, my queen? I fear I am in desperate need of rest, and there is much to be done tomorrow.”
“Yes, of course,” she said. “Thank you, Melanthos. And thank Pirithous’s men, particularly, on my behalf as well.”
He rose, touching his fist to his brow. “They are proud to serve their queen, my lady. As am I.”
Theseus made no move to rise with him, but watched Melanthos leave before turning his gaze back to her. Too thoughtfully, she felt. Sometimes, she wondered if King Theseus did not see into her very heart.
“The priest offered nothing of help?” he asked, but she was certain he knew the answer already, even before she shook her head. “What guidance did he give?”
“He asked for a bull, a second sacrifice, since Zeus was so unmoved by the first.”
Theseus grunted, his gaze growing distant. “You agreed?”
“I do not see how I could refuse,” she said, rising from the table. “If there is even the smallest hope that Zeus might smile upon us, I must pursue it. But…” She pressed her lips together on the rest of her words, thinking better of them. Theseus had made his feelings clear, after all.
“But what?” he asked.
She forced herself to smile, and presented a different concern instead. “But I am not certain I trust him.”
“He knew the banquet would end in blood,” Theseus said. “He warned us. Is that not proof that he hears the gods?”
“He serves his king, I have no doubt. But I am not so certain he serves his queen as loyally, that is all. And why should he, when I have brought his king nothing but trouble?”
“I will speak with him,” Theseus promised. “If he lies, I will know it. And in the meantime, perhaps I should send for my own physician. Ariston has served me well, and perhaps he will know some potion or invocation that Pirithous’s man does not. At the very least, you will know you can trust him.”
“And the priest?”
Theseus grimaced. “Even I cannot remove a priest of Zeus from his position, or cast him aside without risking some curse of the gods. But if there is anything that can be done for Pirithous, you can be certain I will discover it.”
She gave him a stiff nod, rubbing her wrist. And if the bull did not serve, she would find more worthy blood to spill. Make her own sacrifice, without the priest’s intercession.
It was a queen’s duty, was it not?
Pirithous slept on.
The bull had resulted in the same silence as Aithon’s sacrifice, and the priest had asked again for more. A matched pair of snow white lambs, this time, to be delivered to him on the seventh day after Peleus’s raid. The day Theseus and Melanthos meant to lead their men up the mountain against those centaurs that remained.
Theseus had spoken to the priest, and while he was not wholly convinced, neither did he think he lied outright. “The gods are known for their fickle natures, after all,” he’d told her later, “and it is possible the priest’s vision is simply clouded by their capriciousness, rather than any particular malice or dishonesty.”
She’d accepted his suggestion, for she had no proof that the priest did not serve them properly. Only her knowledge of Aithon’s spirit, and how strange it seemed for the gods to fall so silent, when they had been more than happy to warn them of bloodshed and fire not a sevenday earlier.
“You see treachery where there is none,” Antiope had said. “It is the strain of all this waiting, all your worry for Pirithous and the pain of your decision to sever the bonds between yourself and your people so completely. It would distress Theseus in the same manner if he were made to war upon the people of Troezen, and his grandfather the king. And I cannot imagine bearing arms against my sisters. Even the thought of it rends my heart.”
“May the gods spare you such a fate,” Mia said, for she doubted that even Antiope, strong as she was, would survive it whole.
In body she might triumph, but in spirit, she would be scarred forever. Just as Hippodamia feared she would be, as well. Even for Pirithous—no. The only choice she would have made differently in all of this would have been to keep to her room on the eve of her wedding banquet. Pirithous would have had no reason to doubt her, and perhaps he might have listened to the warning of the priest. Then again, as determined as he had been to bed her, he might have disregarded the warnings with a laugh just as easily as he had with a scowl.
“You are better off sending more sacrifices than fewer,” Antiope said. “It is not as though the gods will resent the gift, and Pirithous can well afford to replace any livestock you give up for his sake. He would not begrudge it. Not when it is given to his father.”
It seemed it was an argument Hippodamia would not win. Not that she desired to. She only wanted Pirithous to wake—and whatever the gods demanded, she would gladly give. If they would only tell her! If the priest could only discover the price!
“Perhaps we appeal to the wrong god,” she said. “Perhaps it is Poseidon who desires our obedience, not Zeus. Surely he takes a special interest in the Lapiths, or their horses would not be half so fine. Were they not bred, too, from the Mares of Magnesia? A gift from Poseidon Horse-Lord, himself?”
“Surely the priest would know if Poseidon was not appeased,” Antiope said.
“I am not so certain.” Hippodamia poured herself a cup of the mint water Pirithous liked so much. She’d dribbled a measure of it down his throat already, along with broth, and smeared his lips with honey. How much good it did him, she did not know. Only that she must continue to try. It had been nearly five days, now, and he still did not stir. “But it might easily account for the silence of Zeus, and I cannot continue to sit here doing nothing, waiting for a priest or a physician to tell me nothing has changed, or worse, that there is no hope at all. Theseus says he does not dare appeal to his father for fear of offending Zeus, but Poseidon is my god, too. Honored above all by the centaurs. It is my right to offer him sacrifice—and I would know I had done everything I could!”
Antiope frowned. “And if it offends Zeus, what then?”
“At least he might send some message, one way or another. At least we might know if he means to abandon his son to death.”
The Amazon’s lips pressed thin, her eyes narrowing. “And what do you intend to offer the Earth Shaker?”
Mia stared into her water cup. “There is no worthier gift than blood.”
But she did not think even an Amazon would understand if she admitted she meant to offer her own.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Hippodamia
The sacrifice of the lambs had provided them with nothing but more silence, though at least this time she’d had the satisfaction of watching the priest sweat with fear and distress when he delivered the news. He had not dared to ask for another victim, not with Theseus and Antiope both scowling beside her.
Melanthos had left already with his party of men, and Theseus had only awaited the outcome of the sacrifice before he followed. Antiope and Glaukos would remain behind as guards and war-leaders, should trouble come in search of them while the other men were gone.
“Ariston will arrive before long,” Theseus said in farewell. “Perhaps there will be something he can do.”
But even he did not look as though he believed it. His forehead was grooved with troubled lines more often than not, and he spent nearly as much time as she did at Pirith
ous’s side during the days, leaving his bedside only reluctantly at night. If Antiope had not been there to draw him away, Hippodamia did not think he would go at all.
Antiope followed her husband from the room, then, to say her own farewells and watch him ride out from the walls. And when they returned successful, and the mountain was safe, Hippodamia would ride out herself, alone, to the shrine of her people. She could not wait any longer. Would not wait, not when Theseus’s words echoed in her ears.
Let us hope your bleeding comes as it ought.
She pressed her hand to her belly, atop her womb. The priest had promised them a fertile marriage. Promised Pirithous his heir. And while it could simply be distress which delayed her woman’s blood, she dared not wait for certainty. Not when Pirithous’s life might depend upon it.
“Are you ill, my queen?” Glaukos asked, startling her from her thoughts. Of course he would come, knowing Antiope had gone to the wall.
She made herself smile and shook her head. “I am only concerned for the men. I cannot stand for more blood to be spilled so soon.”
“You need not fear for them. Melanthos is more than capable, and even the sight of King Theseus is likely to set the centaurs fleeing.” He hesitated for a moment, then met her eyes directly, knowingly. “There will be little fighting on either side, my queen.”
She flushed. “The centaurs have abandoned and betrayed me. It is not for them I worry.”
But saying it aloud did not make it true, and she did not think it fooled Glaukos in the slightest. She did worry for them. She hated herself for the choice she’d made, but what else was there to do? At least Theseus and Melanthos both understood. And they had promised her it would not be a slaughter. They meant only to drive them off. To send them into exile.
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