“Ready,” she cried.
Then they were off at a gallop toward Themiscyra, the royal capital, as fast as their hardy little mountain pony could go.
CHAPTER TWO
THE QUEEN
ALL HIPPOLYTA COULD SEE of Aella was the dust her horse had kicked up speeding back home.
She turned and looked behind her. Almost at the edge of sight were Molpadia and, farther behind her, another figure, presumably the girl Molpadia had been hunting with.
“Will we get there soon? Will Mother be all right? Will …” Antiope’s questions filled Hippolyta’s ears.
“I know nothing,” Hippolyta called over her shoulder. “No more than you do. Now be quiet.”
Soon the gleam of the River Thermodon was visible ahead, like a long, shiny-skinned adder winding its way north to the dark waters of the Euxine Sea.
On the banks of the river stood the capital of Themiscyra, a quiet settlement of wooden lodges, cabins, and storehouses that had the slightly ramshackle air of a temporary encampment. Hippolyta knew that long ago the Amazons, like their Scythian ancestors, had traveled from place to place, living off the land. But finally they had settled here, close to the running waters.
To Hippolyta, however, Themiscyra was home, the only place she wanted to be.
As soon as she and Antiope dismounted and led the pony through the gate of the wooden palisade and past a row of merchants’ stalls, she could hear the buzz of voices filling the street. It was not the usual, happy sound of women at work. Hippolyta was sure it was like the sharp pick-buzz of angry insects. She couldn’t quite make out what people were saying.
About halfway into the city, they came upon a knot of women debating vigorously and clogging the way.
“Not another?” one gray-haired merchant was saying.
“It’s the will of Artemis,” answered another.
“What’s to be done? What’s to be done?” The same question was suddenly in a dozen mouths.
“The queen will know” came the answer from a weaver, her hands full of cloth. “She will do what is right.”
“What is right? Or what is best?” That was the merchant.
“I trust the queen,” the weaver said again.
Hippolyta pushed them aside. “Let us through.”
But when the merchant cried to her, “What says Queen Otrere, princess? What says your mother?” Hippolyta glared at her.
“We know nothing,” she answered. “Nor can we find out if you don’t let us go to her.”
Silently the women made a path for the two girls, and about fifty feet farther in, they reached the courtyard of the royal palace.
Like the other buildings, it was built of wood but reinforced with slate and sandstone. Normally Hippolyta’s heart lifted whenever she came home. But this time it was as if a heavy gray mist hung over the turreted roof.
Hippolyta gratefully handed a servant girl the pony’s reins, and her weapons as well. Then she and Antiope went over to Aella. “What is it?” Hippolyta asked. “What’s happened?”
“Hush,” Aella said. “We can’t speak of it here. Inside, quickly. But don’t run. Walk like princesses. Like Amazons. Heads high. Show no fear. You are daughters of Otrere.”
Hippolyta squared her shoulders and saw out of the corner of her eye that her little sister did the same. Then, following Aella, they went into the palace, into a danger they did not yet understand.
The mood inside the palace was subdued, as if everyone was afraid to speak openly. Aella led them straight to the queen’s bedchamber. A pair of armed guards, black hair bound up in warrior’s knots, flanked the closed door.
“Asteria? Philippis?” Antiope said, but they didn’t answer, and that was odd because she was a great favorite with the guards.
“Come,” Hippolyta said, taking her by the hand.
Silently the guards opened the doors, and they went in.
Queen Otrere was propped up in her bed. The old priestess Demonassa, who also acted as a midwife, was standing at the bedside in long gray robes that were now stained with birth blood. Seated at the bed foot was Hippolyta’s younger sister Melanippe, who was just two years older than little Antiope.
Melanippe looked up and sighed. “Thank the goddess you’re here, sisters.” She stood and came over to them. “When I sent for Orithya, she refused to come.”
“Orithya.” Hippolyta spoke her older sister’s name as if it burned her mouth. These days Orithya spent more time with the warrior queen Valasca, who commanded the army in times of war, than she did with her own mother. Hippolyta was furious with Orithya. Family should come first.
“That Orithya would not answer your call is no surprise.” Hippolyta added, “I no longer consider her a sister. The blood runs thin in her. She belongs to Valasca just as if she came shooting out between that old hawk’s legs fully armored.”
Antiope spotted her mother and saw what she was holding in her arms—unbound and naked. Rushing forward with a great grin, Antiope cried out, “The baby! She’s here at last.”
“The baby,” Hippolyta said, looking over at the bed. Suddenly she realized what all the people outside had been talking about. The child hadn’t been swaddled yet, and even from this far away, she could see it was a boy, the second such her mother had borne. The first had been nine years earlier, right after Melanippe, a year before Antiope.
Hippolyta remembered that day well. She’d been four years old, which was old enough to love the infant and old enough to understand that it could never remain in Themiscyra. Boys were not welcome in Amazon society, and they were given away to passing strangers. Except for the firstborn boy born to a queen: He was always returned to his father.
But not the second.
Hippolyta knew Amazon history. Every girl her age was well versed in it: Long ago in the city of Arimaspa, the Amazon women had been part of the Scythian race. They’d lived with men and cared for their sons. But a pair of arrogant princes had brought ruin to the people by stealing gold belonging to the gods. In turn the gods rained destruction down on Arimaspa.
The goddess Artemis had saved them, leading the women away from that cursed place one moonless night. They spent years looking for the right place to establish a community of women, free of all kings, princes, and husbands, a community dedicated to the goddess.
Artemis decreed that all sons born to the women from then on were to be sent away before their first birthdays. However, there was a special rule for the Amazon queens. They would be allowed only one live son, for it had been foretold by Artemis’ brother, the god Apollo, that if a second son born to a queen were allowed to grow to manhood, he would be the cause of the death of the Amazon race. It was why the priestesses and midwives supplied the queens with special herbs and potions that almost always guaranteed a girl child.
Almost.
But not always.
Antiope was playing with the baby’s little fingers and singing softly to him, oblivious.
“You know what this means?” Melanippe whispered, twisting a finger through her brown curls.
Hippolyta nodded. Then she went over to the bed and took her mother’s weakly offered hand. “I’m so sorry, Mother,” she said, her voice tearing as if on a splinter of wood. “I know how hard this will be on you.”
There was a spark of determination in Otrere’s eyes, a spark that lent strength to her pale face. Her voice was amazingly firm. “I can’t do what is expected, Hippolyta,” she said. “Not having carried this child below my heart. You must be prepared for the worst.”
Confused, Hippolyta let her mother’s hand drop. “I don’t understand. What do you mean, you can’t do it? Artemis requires it. A second son must be sacrificed upon Artemis’ altar. It’s the price we pay for the goddess’s protection. It’s our pact with her. In this life an Amazon does what she must. How often have you told me so?”