“Then I suppose you and your sister will wish to continue your journey now.” Polemos spoke directly to Tithonus, but somehow Hippolyta felt he was really addressing her. She was reluctant to answer. He knew too much already.
“Tithonus!” she said sharply. “We’re going.”
Polemos looked to where Hippolyta’s horse was darting about, still spooked by the experience of battle. He let out two sharp whistles, and the animal came running up to him as though it had known him all its life. He stroked its flank with a brawny hand, gently calming it.
“In time he could become a fine war horse, if you treat him well,” he said. This time he addressed Hippolyta directly.
“I’ve had him only a couple of weeks,” Hippolyta said. “I got him from—”
Before she could finish the sentence, she realized for the first time that Polemos was wearing a bronze armlet decorated with a dragon, just like the one the old man at the river had worn.
“I got him from an old man,” she said carefully. “He wore an armlet just like that.” She pointed to the Lycian’s left arm.
“They’re common enough,” said Polemos with a shrug.
Too convenient, she thought. And too humble by half. She remembered how skillfully Polemos had thrown the javelin.
“Are you a pupil of his?” she asked suspiciously.
Polemos laughed. “Perhaps I am. If so, I’ve learned many things in his company. Among them was never to make a man my enemy if he would be my friend. Hate is a poor motive for battle. It is better to fight in defense of the helpless and the innocent.” He cast a meaningful glance at Tithonus.
Hippolyta was sure the man knew far more than he was saying, but when she opened her mouth to speak again, he waved her questions aside impatiently.
“Once the rest of the Kethites make a stop, they’re going to wonder why this chariot hasn’t caught up,” he said. “And those two you knocked out will be waking up shortly. What do you suppose they’ll have to say to their friends?”
“Then I didn’t kill them?” Hippolyta asked. The awful knot in her stomach began to unravel.
“No, but for some time they’re going to wish you had,” Polemos said. “First their heads are going to ache like the inside of a volcano. And then they’re going to remember that a girl beat them, and their pride will feel as hot as their heads. I’ll tie them tight and hide them where their friends won’t find them easily. Then my countryman and I will take that chariot back to Lycia.” He nodded in the direction of the empty Kethite chariot.
“What about us?” Tithonus asked. “Where should we go?”
“Through the rocks and into the hills,” Polemos replied.
“Through the rocks?” Hippolyta was puzzled. She’d been certain that the rocks hid nothing more than a shallow cave.
“You’ll find a fine trail,” Polemos said, “though the way through is too narrow for the Kethites to follow, except on foot. Keep always to the left, and no trouble will come to you, even in the dark. You do know left from right?”
They both nodded.
“Good,” Polemos said. “When you come out again, you’ll see a range of mountains. Look for the one with the double peak. Go toward it, and you’ll find what you’re looking for.”
“How do you know what we’re looking for?” Hippolyta asked, once again suspicious.
“Surely you seek your ancestral home. Why else would a young Amazon wander so far, with none of her sisters accompanying her?” said Polemos. “Now go, while there’s still time.”
In spite of her suspicions, the urgent command in his voice jolted Hippolyta into action. She climbed onto the horse and pulled Tithonus up behind her.
“Good luck,” Tithonus called to the two Lycians.
“And to you, young prince,” called out Polemos. The wounded Lycian waved feebly.
“May the gods …” Hippolyta began softly. It felt strange speaking to any men, let alone two she would normally have considered her worst foes. But Polemos’ words—about never making a man an enemy if he would be a friend—suddenly repeated in her head.
“May the gods give you safety as well,” she said. Then she kicked the horse lightly with her heel.
“Make your battles few and choose them well,” Polemos called after them. “Then fight with all your heart.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
FARTHER ALONG THE ROAD
THEY THREADED THROUGH THE dark cave passages with a single torch made from a broken tree limb wrapped with the Lycian’s torn cloak. It gave a feeble light that flickered and flickered, ever threatening to go out.
Tithonus talked of nothing but Polemos. “Did you see how he appeared from nowhere to save us? Do you think I could learn to throw the javelin with such skill? How do you suppose he knew so much about this country? He must be a very famous warrior back in Lycia.” He went on and on without needing any encouragement from Hippolyta—or getting any.
At last she snapped at him, “I beat two of the Kethites by myself. I don’t hear you talking about what a great warrior I am.”
“You were very brave,” said Tithonus, abashed. “It’s just that, well—”
“That I’m a girl?” Hippolyta suggested. “A mere woman? You think I should be busy in the kitchen or weaving a tapestry or prettying myself with makeup and jewels?”
“I didn’t say that,” mumbled Tithonus, fidgeting behind her uncomfortably. “It’s just that men already do enough fighting. If all the women became warriors as well, there would be nothing but fighting all over the world. It would go on and on until everybody was dead.”
“Then let the men give up their weapons and leave the fighting to the women,” said Hippolyta. “Try that idea on your father.”
“If I ever see him again,” Tithonus said, sighing wearily. He put his head against her back.
Just as he spoke, the torch gave a final sputtering bit of light and went out. The cave was suddenly as black as a tomb.
“If I ever see anything again,” Tithonus whispered fearfully.
“Don’t worry. You’ll be at home with your family again,” Hippolyta said. Even as she spoke, she hated herself for the half lie.
“I hope so,” he whispered.
But Hippolyta suddenly understood. All of Tithonus’ talking had helped him keep his spirits up. But now that they were in the pitch black, he’d run out of both conversation and courage. Now he was only a little boy in the dark.
And he was afraid.
So am I, she admitted as she tried to see something—anything—in all that black.
She dismounted.
“What are you doing?” Tithonus cried. “Don’t leave me, Hippolyta.”
“I’m not leaving,” she said. “But I’m going to have to lead the horse so it doesn’t knock itself out walking into stone. I’ll keep a hand on the cave wall, and that way we’ll know which way we’re going.”
“All right.” Tithonus didn’t sound convinced. “But why can’t I walk with you?”
“Because you’ll be safer on the horse,” she said.
Her hand trailed along the wall, which surprised her by being both cold and damp. At the first real crossroads, the horse started naturally to the right.
“Left!” Tithonus cried. “Polemos said we have to go left.”
Hippolyta yanked the reins leftward, and the horse reluctantly obeyed. But as they passed by the passage on the right, Hippolyta saw hundreds of bright spots, like eyes, winking at her. She shuddered, hoping that Tithonus hadn’t seen them.
“Left it is,” she said. “Good thinking, Tithonus.”
“Thanks,” he answered. There was a bit of lift in his voice.
Lucky he can’t see how hard I’m hugging the left wall, Hippolyta thought, or he wouldn’t he so happy.