Outrun the Wind

by Elizabeth Tammi

  “Shall I bring you to the servants’ quarters?” he asks.

  I blink. My family was never quite wealthy enough to have servants, but we’d certainly never served anyone besides ourselves, either. I swallow back a wave of annoyance. “Oh, yes. Right.”

  He leads me down a winding path framed by olive trees, leading to a long and low building between the stables and the main palace.

  The night here doesn’t quite feel like the darkness I’ve grown accustomed to from Artemis’s Hunt—the stars here are bright and visible, and the moon’s light looks as warm as the sun’s. Perhaps there are worse banishments. I jog to catch up with the man.

  “Sorry, what’s your name?”

  “Phelix,” he answers, without turning around. We walk in silence for another few steps, our sandals pressing the rich dirt. He glances over at me. “Yours?”

  “Kahina.”

  He nods once, and I wonder what he’ll do when he finds out I’m not his king’s messenger. Hopefully I’ll be long gone before he returns. I glance at Phelix’s profile—something about the firm set of his jaw makes the back of my neck tingle. Something doesn’t feel quite right, but I guess there’s nothing much about this situation that is.

  My feet fall heavier onto the earth with every step, and it seems like a mile until we finally reach the servants’ quarters. Phelix opens a wide door into a surprisingly well-furnished expanse of rooms. Corridors snake out on either side of me as I enter, and I see private rooms lining them all. A common lounge area makes up the middle with deep-purple sofas and a couple of pumps for water.

  But Phelix seems unimpressed. With a jerk of his head, he takes me down the hallway to our left. I try to inconspicuously peer into rooms as I follow him, but almost all of them are empty. I see a few other women, but most of them are asleep already. Phelix stops abruptly and beckons inside an empty room.

  “Here you are,” he says. I nod my thanks, and step inside. I set my meager satchel down on the cot, making sure my knife is hidden deep within it, and make a quick inspection of my surroundings. The walls are bare and plain, and the cot is just as colorless. But there’s a wool blanket and a thick pallet beneath me, which is more than I’ve had in quite some time, so I’m not complaining. A small table holds a ceramic bowl for washing, and there’s a basket beneath it that I assume is for storing clothes.

  Phelix stays respectfully out of the room, though he leans casually on the doorframe. I can tell he’s exhausted—the skin underneath his eyes is dark and sagging, and his gaze is almost vacant. He’d been so enthused just minutes ago that I find the shift jarring. Part of me wants to ask if he’s all right, but he straightens and tells me to be up and in the kitchens by dawn tomorrow. He evidently assumes that I’m one of Iasus’s servants, and I can’t give up the role yet.

  With one last nod of his head, he vanishes from my doorway. There’s only a dull red curtain to separate my room from the hallway, and I pull it as tight as I can. I turn around, breathing deeply.

  Find my brother’s temple. Artemis’s voice, the final reminder she gave to me before sending me away, seems to fill the empty space. Restore what was mine. What is mine.

  As long as I can figure that out before Phelix’s king returns, I’ll be fine. My neck still tingles, but I do my best to ignore it. I blow out the candle and feel my way back to the cot, where I peel back the blanket and sink onto the pallet.

  It’s not particularly soft, but I’m tired enough that it’s better than a cloud. I close my eyes, and for once, fall into a dreamless sleep.

  My body must know the dawn, because my eyes open as light begins to chase out the darkness of the quarters. There aren’t any tunics for me, so I straighten out the one I slept in and hope I look passable. A group of women are walking down the end of the hallway, and I try to catch up to them. They step outside, and when I follow, I stagger a moment.

  I’d never known the sky to be so big. It’s a melting pool of pinks and yellows, and the crispness of the air feels sharp in my lungs. Dew clings to the grass and wildflowers, and birds flit between trees.

  It takes a few moments for me to remember the reason I’m even here. I take a quick inventory of the sprawling fields around us, but as far as I can tell, there’s no obvious temple. I let out a breath, and realize the other servants are far ahead of me.

  I curse, and jog to catch up. My quest can wait, but it’ll be over the second they realize I’m not who they believe I am. They enter the palace without pause or fear, and I slip in through the heavy doors behind them. The palace has clearly been constructed to accentuate its home; an open courtyard lies straight ahead, and plenty of windows adorn the walls of the astoundingly large rooms on either side of me. A long table stretches to my right with a modest but impressive chandelier hanging above it.

  The women are already through the courtyard, leaving me behind again. Maybe they didn’t see me. I walk briskly into the sun-stained courtyard, passing a large well in the center. The kitchens are between the courtyard and the dining hall, in an open building full of enormous kettles, olive and grape presses, and ovens built into the walls.

  Finally, one of the women turns back and notices as I rush into the kitchens. Without her saying a word, I know she’s in charge. She wears the same plain, ratted tunics the rest of the women have. Her brown hair is shot through with streaks of gray, and she fixes me with dark, inquisitive eyes.

  I see her form a quick evaluation of me: my dirty tunic, hastily tied black hair, and puzzled expression. What she deduces, I can’t tell. She smiles slightly, but her features are still schooled in vague, professional detachment.

  “You must be Kahina,” she says.

  “Yes, madam.”

  She smiles a little wider. “Nora.”

  “Nora,” I say cautiously. The other women have already started working, pulling out dough to knead or pouring jugs of olives into the pressers—but I can tell they’re stealing glances at me. I don’t look like them, and we all know it.

  “Phelix told me you’re Iasus’s messenger,” Nora says, and a strange hope flares in her solemn eyes. “And that they’re to return soon?”

  “Yes.” Now the other women don’t bother to hide their stares. Voices start to swarm the room, but Nora raises a hand and they fall silent. I wish I had any more details: why he’s gone, and who he’s bringing back. But Phelix asked a question of me last night, and I was cursed with an answer and nothing more.

  “Well.” Nora takes an audible breath, and turns around the kitchens, as if examining them for perfection. “We’d better begin a feast, especially if he found her.”

  “Who do you mean?” I ask, before I lose the nerve.

  “His daughter,” Nora answers, eyeing me with unease. She hands me a ladle, and draws out her words as if I’m stupid. “Atalanta. Who else?”

  “Atalanta?”

  My voice squeaks through the room as the ladle clatters to the stone floor. Nora blinks at me. My skin grows fiery, a thousand tiny flames tearing across my spine. The fringes of my vision grow dim, but I can’t afford to draw any more attention to myself than I already have. I heave one haggard inhale and swear to keep it together until I can get out of here. Nora points from me to one of the kettles. I lean down and snatch up the ladle, and ignore the women’s stares as I walk to the kettle. Another woman has already started a fire beneath it. Mysterious brown broth is just starting to bubble. I stick the ladle in and stir it. I figure that’s the safest thing to do, since my mind still ceaselessly repeats Nora’s voice—Atalanta, Atalanta.

  I risk a glance at Nora, and the other women, who are all dutifully distracted by their tasks. My stomach churns. What kind of sick coincidence is this? I stir ferociously. The rational part of me realizes that this is likely no coincidence at all. Hot liquid scalds my wrist, and I bite back a scream. I turn back to the kettle, which is now overflowing, the sides seeping with
broth. Nora curses, walking over and pulling me to my feet with an iron grip. Other women rush to remove the kettle from the fire, and Nora glares at me.

  Finally, she demands, “Did you ever cook in Iasus’s camp?”

  I don’t have to lie. “No.”

  She sighs, letting my arm go. “What did you do, then?”

  “I . . .” The women all stare at me, and my cheeks flush. I need to get out of here, and thankfully, I remember the low-

  lying stables on the other side of the property. “Took care of the horses.”

  She shrugs in exasperation, and I realize just how many wrinkles line her face. “Call for Phelix,” Nora mutters to a younger girl by the stoves. She nods dutifully, and bounces out of the kitchens. Nora turns back to me, and frowns. “Hopefully you won’t screw that up.”

  With Nora’s vote of confidence, Phelix arrives outside the kitchens shortly after. His brows are raised as I meet him, and he shakes his head.

  “Oh, Kahina,” he muses. His eyes are almost bright with amusement, so different from the vacancy I thought I’d seen last night. “Already making an impression, I see.”

  In the daylight, I can see Phelix clearly—his hair is a dull, muted shade of bronze, and reaches almost to his shoulders. Nora ducks her head outside the kitchens, and reaches for Phelix’s face—she smudges away a streak of dirt, and he bats her away.

  “Ma,” he mutters.

  She lets out a huff, and gives me one last once-over before returning to the warmth of the ovens and kettles.

  Ma?

  My mouth goes dry. Before I can ponder on that, he starts walking toward the stables in long, quick strides. I stumble to catch up. In truth, I have a fair amount of experience with horses, between my time as a huntress and those my mother owned. She’d named her favorite horse Aura—the breeze—for her swift pace and gentle manner. Something swells in my throat, and I swallow roughly.

  “So where were you before joining up with my father? You weren’t in Arkadia before,” Phelix says. He casts a sidelong glance at me. “Ethiopia?”

  “Corinth, actually.”

  He nods. Phelix isn’t wrong though; Ethiopia was my mother’s homeland, before she met my merchant father, before she left with him across the sea to Greece. Bitterness aches in me again.

  I try to focus on the rich smell of the earth beneath me and the sweetness of the sunshine washing over everything. Phelix’s eyes are closed to the sun as he breathes in deeply; it’s a trick I sometimes use when I need to stay grounded. I wonder if he’s doing the same thing.

  “Was your father also with King Iasus on this mission?” I ask, remembering the first part of his question. Phelix tenses. Silence reigns for so long that I wonder if I should pretend I hadn’t asked.

  The sharp scent of the stables becomes stronger as the path winds around the other side of the palace, and we cross a few rolling hills in silence. I hear the horses’ soft and restless noises as Phelix bounds ahead, throwing aside the loose wooden doors. I follow him inside, the beams of sunlight catching swirling dust and bits of hay. Phelix grabs two shovels from against the wall and hands one to me.

  He grins. “You’re going to regret you ever left the kitchens.”

  I make myself return his smile, though this is clearly a ploy to move on from my question. I start shoveling the horse waste. My mother’s voice echoes through my memory: creating one pile will make it more manageable. After a couple minutes, I realize Phelix hasn’t helped.

  He leans against the wall with a surprisingly vulnerable expression, distant but inquisitive. “Do you think she’ll be able to save us? My sister—the princess, I mean.”

  “I did not get to speak with Atalanta . . . personally,” I stammer through gritted teeth. Technically not lying. My brain muddles through the visions of her, gold hair flashing through shadow, and it takes me a moment to process Phelix’s sentence.

  I stick my shovel into the manure hard. I close my eyes tight. “Your sister?”

  Phelix stares at nowhere in particular, his eyes roaming over the rotting, wooden planks of the stables and the light that cuts between them. His fingers twitch an anxious pattern, and then it makes sense. The familiarity of his eyes, the strong jaw, and his long limbs remind me of the girl I’d hoped to never see again. Dread pools in my stomach.

  He glances at me briefly, and a flicker of shame crosses over his features. “I’m assuming Iasus didn’t tell you.” I force myself to look as innocently naïve as I can. I’m shoveling manure with the king’s son? Atalanta has a brother?

  “But . . . Nora is your mother?” I ask. Phelix nods and stares at the ground. I let out a slow exhale, trying to slow my pulse. Of course, Artemis sent me to the most complicated polis in all of Greece. Bastard sons aren’t anything excessively scandalous, but these dynamics are dangerous and complicated, and I need simple and easy. I need safe. I remember the first part of Phelix’s question.

  “And what do you mean ‘save’?”

  He raises a confused eyebrow at me. I guess if I’m supposed to be his father’s messenger, I should already know. I bite my lip—I’m falling out of my role already.

  “Aside from the olives, we haven’t pulled a decent harvest in years.” Phelix speaks in a slow, stilted voice. “Some of the farmers think we’re cursed. I think he just can’t do it on his own. No wife, with Clymene gone. No marriageable descendants, so no real alliances.” He pauses, with a bitter smile. “Until he heard she was still alive.”

  I nod, pretending to follow his words, all while suppressing a quickly rising panic. Clymene. Clymene must’ve been Iasus’s wife, but Phelix looks older than Atalanta. I fight the urge to raise my eyebrows. This family is nothing like my own.

  “Are you not a marriageable descendant?” I lean my shovel back against the wall. Clearly, we won’t be getting much work done.

  His smile drops away, and his face hardens. I’m almost sorry I asked. “I’m not,” he says firmly. “Do you imagine a bastard gets many marriage propositions?”

  My mouth goes dry. I cut my gaze from his. Thankfully, he keeps talking before the silence grows too maddening.

  “The crops have been failing for years now. Our influence drops further every season. Even if my father resorted to finding me a wife, I wouldn’t go through with it. He’s known that for a very long time.”

  “How’s that?” I lean my back against the wall.

  “Simple.” He gives me a wry smile. “There’s only one girl I want to marry.”

  “That doesn’t seem like such a bad reason.”

  “Doesn’t matter if it’s good. She left me anyway,” Phelix laughs, and I before I can decide if I should be concerned or laughing too, he continues. “And no one else wants me, and my father . . .”

  He shakes his head, his mouth still open with words unsaid. I blink, half expecting him to tell me he’s joking. Phelix met me yesterday, and I’m not sure if his honesty is refreshing or terrifying. He meets my gaze dead-on with his eyebrows raised, daring me to speak.

  I wring my hands. “I’m sure that’s not true.”

  “You met him, Kahina.” He shrugs once. “So don’t lie to me.”

  It’s a little late for that, I think. He doesn’t look upset—just resigned, maybe. I want to ask him about Arkadia’s temple to Apollo, but I can’t think of a single other thing to say that could follow what he’s just told me. Instead, I grasp my shovel again, and return to the task at hand. He joins me after a few moments. Sunlight streaks through the panels of the barn, and his dull hair burns golden where the lines fall. His body language shuts me out entirely, despite all the truths he told. I study where the light hits Phelix’s hair.

  I swallow roughly, and resolve to focus on the unsavory task of cleaning the stables. Tonight I will find the temple, and I will return it to Lady Artemis’s rightful ownership. I have to leave this place soon, be
fore Phelix’s sister returns.

  I cannot see her again.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Atalanta

  Three weeks later, I’ve collected a small fortune for myself. I carve out a living with my name and fists alone. The deserted alleyway I work out of becomes a beast as feral and self-serving as the busiest streets of Delphi. I’d told my first audience that it would be one per day; soon enough, one became ten. These men—and a fair number of women—are quite willing to gamble for me.

  My face is more bruise than skin, and my right eye’s a bit swollen, but my pack is heavy with riches. I’m able to find a room at one of Delphi’s best inns. The owner saw the golden knife strapped to my belt and offered to take it instead of my money. It might’ve been smarter to hand it over and save my coins, but I couldn’t even consider it. The knife is just another part of me now. A reminder.

  I graze my hand across the hilt as I walk, a grounding gesture that I must’ve picked up on my trek to Delphi. Or rather, my escape from Calydon.

  In the midday heat, the city echoes with a hundred languages and overflows with colors from fabrics, spices, and pottery from every corner of the world. It’s an exhilarating suffocation compared to the quiet forests that have been my home until now. I avoid eye contact with the merchants and shopkeepers, who shout promises of fortune and prestige as I pass. I especially avoid the cloaked priests and swaying women, shouting fragmented prophecies and predictions. Today, I’m not here for actresses.

  I fix my gaze straight ahead, at the towering columns that cast a shadow over the square in front of them. The coins in my bag grow heavier with each step, and my pace slows. The Temple of Apollo is certainly the tallest building I’ve seen in my life; as I get closer, my own reflection ripples in the polished marble.

  A long line already spills down the front steps of the temple: men of every age and status and origin meshed together. One closes his eyes, muttering silent words to himself. Most talk loudly to one another, with offerings of varying degrees in their arms. I see amphoras of wine and olive oil, deer pelts, and even livestock pulled along by ropes.