Free Hippolyta and the Curse of the Amazons by Jane Yolen Page A

stupid, boastful, overindulged little boy playing a prank. “Go away,” she said sullenly, moving back from the door.
    “What?” He seemed genuinely shocked.
    “I said—” and she spoke slowly over her shoulder as if talking to a tiny child—“go … a … way.”
    There was a pause. Then Tithonus said, “You’re really not very nice, are you?”
    Hippolyta sighed. “No, I’m not. I’m not nice. I’m a barbarian—remember? And I need my sleep. So go away.” She found the small pile of dirty straw that served as her bed and sat down.
    “No. I don’t want to. I want to ask you a question,” the boy said. “About my mother.” He no longer sounded so pleased with himself. In fact he sounded as if he were on the edge of pleading. “The queen of the Amazons.”
    Hippolyta looked up sharply. She could not see his face at the grille. He was too short for that. “How do you know—”
    “Father told me. Tonight. I’d always wondered …” His voice was now a small boy’s, light, uncertain.
    Sighing, Hippolyta stood and went back to the door and stared through the grille. For a long moment she looked down at him. In the torchlight, his hair was darker, almost brown. There was a shadowy smudge under one eye.
    “Her name is Queen Otrere,” she said at last. “She’s my mother too.”
    “Then,” he said slowly, “we’re family.”
    She shook her head. “No, we’re not. I left my family back in Themiscyra. My mother and sisters. Your family is here.”
    “But we share—”
    “Blood. We share blood. That’s all. Now go away. Or get me out of here.” There, she’d said it. Without whining or pleading.
    “I brought you a pastry,” he said. His skinny arm reached up and into the grille. There was a dark circular something in his hand.
    Hippolyta hesitated to take anything from a son of Laomedon, but it was too tempting. She snatched the honeyed pastry from his fingers before he had a chance of pulling it away.
    “You must be very hungry, sister,” he said.
    “I’ve been hungrier,” she replied. “And don’t call me sister !” She ran a finger across her lips to wipe up the rest of the honey, then sucked greedily on the finger like baby Podarces on the wineskin teat.
    “Don’t bother to thank me,” he said, now sullen. The shadows only deepened the pout on his face.
    “You came here to ask a favor of me, boy. I’ve asked you for nothing.” Hippolyta drew back a bit from the grille. Except, she thought, to get me out of here or go away. Neither of which he’s done.
    “You should thank people when they’re kind to you.”
    She moved forward again and leaned right up against the bars. “Kind would be a soft bed and a clean bath. Kind would be somewhere away from here. I’ll thank you when you set me free.”
    He backed away a step, then moved forward again. “Our father won’t allow it.”
    She shivered. “ Your father, not mine.” But she wondered.
    Tithonus was silent.
    “Your father doesn’t care if our mother lives or dies,” Hippolyta said. “I asked him to help her, and he laughed. Then he threw me in here.”
    “He’s—it’s … hard work being king. He doesn’t have time for everybody.” Tithonus’ face got a pinched, closed look.
    Hippolyta laughed. “Ha! Not even time for his son’s mother.” Then she realized that he had sounded sad, almost apologetic. Suddenly she understood. In a quieter voice she added, “So he’s got no time for you, either, eh?”
    “That’s not true!” Even in the flickering torchlight she could see him flush. His chest was heaving. “Dares—Dares says that things are hard. We’re surrounded by enemies and—” He shut his lips together as if he’d admitted too much. “I just wanted to know about her. About Queen Otrere.”
    “What do you want to know?”
    The boy leaned forward, whispered eagerly, “What does she look like?”
    Hippolyta backed away for a moment, thinking. The father was out of her reach, but not the