The Colt of the Clouds Read online

  Dedication

  To Orion, named after the stars—K. G.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  The Katasterismoi: A Constellation Guide to the Horses of the Sky

  About This Guide

  Pegasus

  Diokles

  Ismene

  Nikomedes

  Kerauno

  Hali, Skotos, Khruse

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  In a cave thick with shadows, in the deepest depths of Mount Olympus, she sat restlessly on her throne, her wings wrapped around her. It was not yet night, and for her this meant a chance to sleep. But she couldn’t. Something was bothering her.

  Someone was bothering her.

  He stood before her and bowed, humbly. They were all humble before her—all the other gods and goddesses—for she had been there long before they were even born. Why, she had birthed the gods—at least, a good many of them.

  “Help me,” he pleaded.

  “Why should I help you?” she replied.

  “Because . . .” He reached into his chiton, shimmering like an abalone shell, and pulled out a feather, presenting it to her. It was long and silver and bright as a star. A feather from Pegasus, the first winged horse, who had long since retired to the night sky as one of her constellations. “Because of this.”

  She took the feather thoughtfully. She imagined them all, how dazzling her cloak would be, far brighter than her daughter’s. And though she had vowed never to work for anyone but herself, she surprised herself with her answer.

  “So be it,” she said.

  One

  Above the rolling fields of Thessaly, clouds wisped across the sky like horses’ tails. In the distance, toward Mount Olympus, Pippa could see darker, thicker ones gathering, but she didn’t pay them any attention, too focused on the task at hand.

  She hoisted another rock to fill in the hole in the pasture wall, wiping her hands on her chiton. She knew she shouldn’t dirty it, but sometimes she forgot. It’s why she preferred a short tunic rather than this chiton or the fancy embroidered peplos that Helena liked her to wear.

  “You don’t have to help me with this,” said Bas, wiping sweat from his brow. The sun was still shining, despite the hint of a coming storm.

  “I want to,” Pippa said. It was this or lessons. Helena, Bas’s mother, was waiting for her to continue with their weaving before she had to oversee supper preparations. Pippa would rather lift a thousand rocks than twist and tangle her fingers in yarn. She wished she were better at it like Bas’s sisters, or at least liked it better. But she didn’t. And that made things worse.

  “Well, we’re almost done anyway,” said Bas, then added ruefully, “until the next time.”

  The wild horses had broken the fence more than once now to get to the old stables, unused except for storing surplus hay. Pippa didn’t really mind. She liked the wild horses that streaked free across the sun-washed hills of Thessaly, their bodies small and sturdy, their manes and tails tangled with twigs and leaves.

  She had seen them only a handful of times when she was out riding with her horse, Zephyr, but was pleased whenever she did. They didn’t have wings like Zeph once had, yet they were special too, and carried themselves with the same pride.

  “Feral horses, not wild,” Bas’s father liked to correct. “They ran away from a farm like mine, years and years ago.”

  But to Pippa, they were wild—wild and free.

  “Done,” declared Bas, putting the last piece of rubble in place.

  The fence looked taller than before, stretching seemingly without end along the rolling pasture. In the distance, Pippa could see Zeph grazing, his silvery-white tail swishing rhythmically. Farther away were the other horses. They liked to keep their distance from Zeph, although so far he had caused no problems, not even with the mares. Beyond the horses was the oikos, the house, its sunbaked brick glowing golden in the afternoon light.

  Pippa glanced at Bas and understood his proud smile.

  After she had returned with him from the race on Mount Olympus and had seen it all for the first time—the pastures, the stables, the grand house with its courtyard big enough to enclose an olive tree—she knew at once how wealthy Bas’s family must be. Only the wealthy, the hoi aristoi, could afford horses. Suddenly, she had been afraid to meet his family. Would they really want to take in a foundling like her, especially one with a horse to feed as well?

  “I have plenty of sisters. What’s one more?” Bas had said reassuringly. “My family will love you. You have a way with horses.”

  She did have a way with horses. But people were more of a puzzle. Bas was one of her two true friends, along with Sophia, who had won the Winged Horse Race and now lived on Mount Olympus with the gods.

  Still, Pippa needn’t have worried. Bas had been right; his family had welcomed her with open arms. To them, she wasn’t a foundling, she was a rider, chosen by Aphrodite, the goddess of love. And Zeph—he was a winged horse. Even without his wings, he was instantly a legend. So everything was fine. At least, at first. . . .

  Bas ran his hand through his dark hair. “I should find my father and tell him we’re done.” He paused. “Are you coming?”

  “In a bit,” said Pippa, gazing fondly back at Zeph.

  Bas gave her a reproachful look. “You’re thinking of riding, aren’t you?”

  Pippa shook her head.

  But, of course, that’s exactly what she was thinking.

  The moment Bas was out of sight, Pippa hurried to the stables to pocket some figs. They were Zeph’s favorite. If she was quick, she and Zeph could be back before the storm. Helena wouldn’t have time to notice that Pippa was gone.

  When she reached Zeph out in the pasture, he was as eager as she. His silver tail was lifted high and seemed to float in the wind. His forelock stuck up too, like a tiny horn, and she smoothed it down. She hadn’t brought a saddlecloth or reins. With Zeph, she didn’t need any.

  Quickly, she vaulted onto his back, a move that took strength but had become second nature for Pippa. Then they were off.

  They rode past the fields of olive trees and barley that grew green and gold beside the river. Past the vineyards, where the grapevines were just beginning to bud. Past the other farmhouses that glowed with the last slips of sun. Soon they entered the small town and the agora, the marketplace, where lyre music filled the air and servants and slaves haggled with traders and stallholders over the price of cheese and olives, eggs and bread. Children scurried by—laughing, rolling hoops with sticks, and pulling each other in toy chariots—but when they saw Pippa and Zeph, they stopped to stare and whisper. Everyone in town knew about her and Zephyr, the winged horse without wings.

  In the center of town, on a rise, Pippa could see the temple built to honor Zeus, king of the gods, although none but the oracles and priests could go there. Soon, she’d passed through the town and was back into the countryside,
the cobblestone road turning to dirt.

  The sun warmed her cheeks, and she breathed in the sweet, fresh smell of river and earth, horse and hay. Nearby, the water lapped at the river’s banks. The gentle clip-clop of Zeph’s hooves and lullaby swish of his tail made Pippa beam with pleasure. There was nothing she wouldn’t do for him.

  She pressed her legs into his sides, coaxing him to gallop quickly by the hut of the old crone Leda, who watched everything with the acuity of Argus, the many-eyed giant. If Leda saw Pippa pass, she would no doubt report to Helena as soon as she could. There were lots of old women in the village, but none as grouchy as Leda. No one knew much about her, except to stay away. Although she loved to poke into other people’s business, she kept her own past as hidden as her hair beneath her himation, the woolen cloak that she never left the house without.

  Before long they came to a fork in the path. One way led to the next town, the other toward the hills.

  “To the hills,” Pippa decided aloud. She had spent many an hour exploring the forests in this area, and the way to the hills was prettiest.

  She knew she should head back, but the sooner she returned, the sooner the lessons began. Missing a lesson meant more weaving and spinning the next day. There was no avoiding it.

  She tightened her grip on Zeph’s mane. He snorted, and his shoulders shuddered in a strange way that only his did. Often Pippa wondered if he was still trying to flex his wings. She had watched him carefully those first few weeks after he had lost them to see how much he missed flying. But even now he seemed, two years later, to be happy.

  But was she?

  Before she had a chance to think further on this, the ground shook and a loud crack filled the air. Thunder.

  Pippa glanced at the sky. The thick, dark clouds were directly overhead now, so it almost felt like night but starless. Again thunder cracked, this time so loud it made Pippa jump. Zeph froze, his ears pricked.

  When the thunder was this mighty, Zeus had to be near. Pippa searched the sky for a lightning bolt, for a flash of wing or hoof. But there was nothing. No sign of Zeus, or his winged steed, Ajax, the winner of the most recent Winged Horse Race.

  Pippa sighed, as Zeph, his ears still on the alert, continued along the path to the meadows of blossoms and stones. She would love to see a winged horse again. All she had was a single feather she’d kept from Zeph’s wings. She had gotten the idea from Zeus, who kept a feather from Pegasus, his first winged steed, pinned on his cloak.

  It seemed so long ago now since the race. She wasn’t sure if Zeph missed flying, but she did.

  It was a secret she told no one, not even Bas. He wouldn’t understand. He hadn’t wanted to stay on Mount Olympus. He had missed his family too much. Besides, there was nothing she could do about how she felt. She and Bas had been banished from the mountain, from the winged horses. That was their punishment for having cheated, switching horses on the morning of the race.

  And there was no hope of her being chosen for the Winged Horse Race again, since not only was she banished but also the race occurred only once every hundred years. Maybe her daughter—no, granddaughter . . . But that meant Pippa would have to marry, and then she’d spend even more time weaving and cooking and washing, all the things that women were supposed to do. All the things she had never learned because she had no mother. She bit her lip. This was the reason for the lessons from Helena. Bas had lessons too, only his were with a tutor who taught him how to read and write.

  Pippa could just imagine her friend Sophia being outraged at the difference. Sophia loved books and studying more than anything. Now that she was a demigoddess on Mount Olympus, she could take part in lessons with boys. She could teach boys, for that matter.

  Sometimes Pippa wondered if all Bas’s sisters really were as pleased with their places in life as they made out to be. If they weren’t, they didn’t share it with her. She certainly knew that Astrea, the youngest, loved horses almost as much as she did and was often found playing in the stables, much to Helena’s dismay.

  Pippa sighed and stuck her hand in the pocket of her peplos, touching her coin, the only thing she had left from her parents. They’d abandoned her when she was a baby. For a long time, Pippa had thought the coin—silver with a winged horse on it—was an obolos, a coin that was given to those left for dead, as fare for safe passage into the Underworld. But Aphrodite, who had been Pippa’s patron during the race, had confirmed that it wasn’t. It was a symbol of good luck; it meant she was loved. It was also a reminder that she was different. She should have insisted that Aphrodite find out more about her parents. Why had they abandoned her? But you couldn’t insist upon anything when it came to the gods and goddesses. They did as they pleased.

  Like now. What was Zeus up to?

  The clouds roiled overhead, more turbulent than she’d ever seen. As the first few drops of rain fell, they tingled on her skin, making it prickle.

  Strange, thought Pippa.

  She stuck out her tongue to taste the droplets, only to snap it back in at once. This wasn’t ordinary rain. It was salty!

  Two

  The rain poured down harder—great big drops—pooling and puddling, soaking Pippa’s hair and dripping from Zeph’s mane. Pippa tested it again, licking the water from her hand, just to make sure. Salty!

  Storms didn’t make salty rain. Something was wrong. She shivered and looked up at the sky again, trying to spot Zeus. But there was no sign of him, only huge black clouds that looked like bruises in the sky.

  “Come on, Zeph. Time to go home,” Pippa said, tugging on his mane.

  But Zeph wouldn’t move. His ears were pricked and his muscles taut.

  “Come on,” Pippa urged again. But instead of turning back toward the stables, he did the opposite, stepping forward, his ears swiveling this way and that, as though he could hear something she couldn’t.

  “No, Zeph,” said Pippa, this time pressing her legs into his sides.

  But her horse wouldn’t listen. He took another step along the path.

  Boom! The sound split the air and set the ground shaking with a force that felt more like an earthquake than thunder. Zeph reared, and Pippa tipped backward.

  “Whoa!” she cried, pressing her body forward and frantically wrapping her arms around his neck.

  When Zeph came down on all four feet, he took off, bolting along the path, his hooves churning the flooded earth to mud, and it took all Pippa’s strength just to hang on. Her body slipped against his in the rain, and she could barely see as the salty drops drilled her eyes. He galloped so fast he seemed almost to hover, as though he had found his wings again.

  The path twisted along the riverside, and soon the meadows turned to trees. Zeph sped between the pines and laurels, their branches trembling from the force of the deluge.

  “Stop!” Pippa cried, but Zeph was like a different horse, a wild one who wouldn’t listen to her, who didn’t even know her.

  Pippa knew he wasn’t perfect. He was an easily distracted horse. That was why he was named after a zephyr, a breeze, because, as a winged horse, he had often darted and dallied like one. But he had never moved in such a determined, driven way, except perhaps during the race itself.

  The branches flew by overhead, nearly knocking her off his back.

  Enough was enough! She had to stop him.

  She pulled back as hard as she could on his mane, but Zeph only shot forward faster, and this time Pippa couldn’t keep her hold. She slid off, tumbling to the earth. She curled her body and landed on her side. Thump! Luckily, the muddy ground softened her fall.

  Instantly, she sprang up. Zeph was already a silvery speck, streaking through the trees, blurred by the pouring rain.

  “ZEPH!” she shouted. She ran after him, leaping over branches and roots of trees. The forest was dark and empty, as though the storm had frightened all the animals—the birds and boars and many others—into hiding.

  Another boom of thunder shook the sky, and again the ground quaked. Pip
pa clutched a tree branch to keep her footing. A storm didn’t cause earthquakes or salty rain. This was the gods expressing their anger. But at whom? She prayed to Aphrodite to keep her and Zeph safe.

  Pippa was soaked now, her hair dripping into her eyes, her chiton sticking to her body. “Zeph! Zeph!” she cried. She listened but could hear only the pounding of the rain.

  “ZEPH!” she cried again.

  Was that a distant whinny?

  She pressed on, through the trees, in the mud.

  She heard the sound once more. It was a whinny. High-pitched and desperate.

  Was he hurt?

  “ZEPH!” she cried, her voice wobbling.

  She ran even faster, slipping and falling and slipping again. Until, at last, the trees opened up and she emerged into a clearing.

  Zeph!

  Pippa let out a huge sigh of relief. She had found him! He wasn’t hurt. There he circled, his coat slick with rain, in front of an old temple.

  Pippa had heard of this old temple to Zeus, but she had never seen it, despite her many outings through the hills. The new one had been built long before she came to Thessaly.

  Once, the temple might have been impressive and imposing, but now it looked anything but. Vines and moss grew between thickly between the columns. The roots of an oak tree had pushed up the stone steps, causing them to crumble. Gold and silver paint was peeling from the walls. And, worse, a column had collapsed inward on part of the roof, creating a mountain of white rubble. The damage looked recent, perhaps even caused by the storm.

  Zeph paced and pawed, whinnying frantically.

  All of a sudden, Pippa knew why.

  From inside the temple, another horse whinnied back.

  Three

  Pippa’s breath caught in her throat.

  She stepped closer, until she was beside Zeph. She couldn’t see the strange horse fully through the rubble and the relentless rain. Only a flash of silver mane and tail. A wild horse—it had to be! It must have been seeking shelter inside when the temple collapsed. Surely it could push its way through the vines on the other side. Unless it was trapped.