Horses of Fire by A. D. Rhine EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
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- Author: A. D. Rhine
- Language: English
- Genre: Ancient Historical Fiction
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ANDROMACHE
THE BOY I S lost.
And so is his mother. I can tell with one glance.
With a warrior this young, there is only ever one reason for such a clean
spear wound. A neat hole right between the shoulder blades. Slowly, I roll
the stiff corpse back onto the stone slab until he lies face up, eyes
unblinking. Across the room, I meet his mother’s raw, wild gaze. Her hands
fidget anxiously.
There is no hiding what I’ve seen. She knows that I know.
The primal wail that follows is like no sound I’ve heard, and yet I’ve
listened to a million variations of the same tune. Every mother’s cry of
lament is her own. As unrepeatable as each new life she carries. Only this
woman’s groans speak of a secret.
A song of betrayal. Of cowardice. Shame.
I take a step back from the washing slab, letting the wet cloth in my
hand hit the floor with a soppy splat.
“Please, Harsa Andromache. I beg you.”
The mother throws herself at my feet, arms wrapped around my calves.
She thrusts the rag back into my hand, closing my fingers before returning
unceremoniously to her seat at the other end of the slab. There she presses
her tearstained cheeks against the soldier’s feet. The part of him farthest
from the light that once filled her boy’s eyes.
For that is what he is. A boy. Large for his age but younger than a
soldier should be. I may not have sons, but I have washed enough of them
to know what fifteen summers looks like. This child is at least a year shy of
the minimum age for serving in Troy’s army. Not that most captains care to
check so long as he can carry his shield upright.
“He wanted to follow his father and brothers. For Prince Hector. He
was . . . too strong . . . I, I couldn’t stop him.” The woman’s explanation
unravels into sobs. “I’ve given a husband and two sons for Troy already.
Will you deprive me of my youngest even in the afterlife?”
My throat tightens. I open my hand. The flax-colored cloth is now pink
in most places, a rusty red in others. No one in Troy, not even Hector,
expects me to cover myself in blood that stains my nail beds brown. But
that is exactly why I do it.
I want to get my hands dirty.
When I muster enough courage to look into the eyes of the desperate,
childless widow again, I see that she is far from old. Despite her tears, the
firm line of her mouth says she would do anything to guarantee her son’s
safe passage across the Great River.
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