A cold wedge of doubt works its way into my stomach. I hesitate on the cobblestones, wondering if the line is worth the wait. The priestess here is probably a scam, I know, but this is the center of Delphi. This temple is what brings people from every land to the same, perpetual line—waiting to hear words of comfort, wisdom, and truth. Delphi is the center of the universe, and this temple is the center of Delphi.
And I have many questions.
“Young lady?”
As usual, I’m the only female in the vicinity, so I turn to the voice. None of the men in line seem to hear the other girl, standing halfway behind a column, her face torn in half by shadow and light. She nods to me, and I glance once behind me.
The girl nods again. She’s maybe a year or two younger than me, but her eyes are lined in thick, black kohl. They’re dark and piercing, and I know they’re pointed straight at me. It’s a bit unnerving, but it roils up the curiosity in my gut. The ache to understand.
I walk as discreetly as I can, but before I can reach the girl, she’s already turned away from me and prances into a dark side corridor. I follow as quickly as I can, glancing behind me. Dim torches line the walls, and though I can see the light of outdoors, the temple seems to dispose of it.
A sulfur-like scent hovers in the air, mixed with sickening perfumes and mildew. Ahead of me, the girl vanishes into a room on her left. Warily, I follow her and come to a halt. The absence of movement makes me realize just how fast my heart pounds.
The girl is not alone. Another girl—heavily veiled, and swaying slightly—sits atop a tri-legged stool. The room is even darker than the hallways, but a strange green mist billows up from the floor. The Pythia, I realize. The only priestess allowed on this type of stool is Apollo’s most sacred and most powerful servant. It costs the most to hear her words. I glance over my shoulder to find the girl who led me here, but she’s gone.
I squint, and move closer to the Pythia.
“My priestess told me you were here,” she says. I twitch slightly, surprised to hear her a voice so young, and almost bright.
“You know who I am?” I’m not sure if I should kneel.
The Pythia tilts her head. “A blonde huntress, fighting to survive on the streets? Undaunted by the continual challenges of men?”
My bruises seem to sting more. I don’t always win, after all. The Pythia seems to take my silence as some sort of answer.
“Like it or not, Atalanta, you have a reputation. Not just here. Did you think you could fight alongside the prince of Calydon—the only female to have ever done so—and not have your name known?”
I consider her words. Reputation. Something in me thrills, and though the Pythia speaks her words gravely, I don’t find them disappointing.
“Let it be known,” I say. I get the sense that she smiles, though it’s impossible to tell through the veil and darkness.
“Now,” she says, her voice taking on a theatrical edge. I glance again at the door, wondering if I should leave. “Something brought you here.”
A million questions rush through my mind.
The Pythia extends her hands, palm-up, above the green mist. “Ask your question.”
“Just one?” My voice sounds rough, almost demanding, sending a clashing echo over the stone. For once, the Pythia doesn’t reply. I sigh, running through all the questions that keep me fighting and keep my eyes wide open at night. The questions that brought me here.
How could Hippomenes kill Meleager?
Did Meleager truly care for me?
How could the man who raised me become a monster?
In the end, I find it surprisingly easy to compress them into one question. I inhale once, and fix my eyes into the jade-colored smoke.
“Will all men only hurt me?”
Silence reigns for a few seconds. Then the Pythia inhales deeply, the sound crawling across my skin. Some of the mist enters her mouth. Her spine goes ramrod straight, and she tells me, “Bind yourself to one, and you will surely lose your identity.”
I hold my breath, waiting for her to continue. Eventually, her figure relaxes, and it’s clear that she’s finished.
“Like . . . marriage, you mean?” I ask.
The Pythia shrugs. “That is all the god told me.”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. The last thing I need is another god against me, especially Artemis’s brother. I reach into my bag to fetch coins, but the Pythia waves me off. I wish I could see her—through the darkness, the mist, the veil. But I can sense my audience is over.
I don’t have much time to consider the oracle’s words when I emerge from the temple. The sunlight is a disorienting thing, and by the time my eyes adjust, Kadmos’s dark, lanky figure stands before me, his brown eyes narrowed in a cautious way.
My hand grazes the knife’s hilt again. Kadmos unofficially took over the monetary aspects of my fights within a few days of their invention. He and I developed a wary interdependence, but in the weeks I’ve known him, even after the most dangerous, painful fights, I haven’t seen him look quite this unsettled.
“Another challenger?” I prompt him. We’ve never really discussed anything else. The sun is far lower than I thought it would be, but Delphi’s crowds still throng around us.
“Sort of,” Kadmos says. He leans in, as if to study the hue of my eyes. “I’d better let you see for yourself.”
Despite my absence, the audience in my alleyway is thick and noisy, blocking my view of anything beyond them. Kadmos keeps his distance, always walking a few paces behind me. I clear my throat, and the people fall to a hush. They part for me, and I shoulder my way through. The man—my challenger—comes into clearer focus, and when I finally break free of the crowds, my limbs go numb.
I know this man.
His eyes widen when he sees me, their gray color an exact match to my own. I look up to a man with a weathered, but kind, face. His hair falls nearly to his shoulders. Where it hasn’t grayed, the strands are golden-bronze. In all my life, in all of Greece, I have only seen one other person with blond hair like that—myself.
“Oh,” the man exhales. His eyes are locked on my face, and I feel my throat go dry. “So it’s true.”
“Atalanta,” Kadmos says quietly behind me. “This is King Iasus, of Arkadia.”
I don’t recognize the man’s name, but I’m fairly certain I’ve heard the name Arkadia before. Everything in me pulsates with a sense of belonging to this stranger in front of me. Iasus lets out a laugh, but it sounds almost like a cry.
“I’d heard stories,” he whispers. “A girl of seventeen with storm-cloud eyes and golden hair.”
My mouth hangs open, and I can’t think of a single word to say.
“Seventeen,” he says again. The rest of the world fades away. “The number of years since I lost you.”
“Lost?”
“Atalanta.” He emphasizes every syllable. “I never got the chance to give you a name, before you were gone. I . . . I believe you are my daughter.”
For the first time in my life, I think I might actually faint. I back myself against the wall, and let it support me. I keep staring at Iasus, finding more and more similarities on every curve of his face.
I was raised by hunters. They were all I knew, all I first remember. And their leader, Stolos, had loved to tell me the story of how he’d found me—suckled and raised by an enormous bear. I always liked that story, and pretended it was the truth. They raised me, and taught me everything they knew.
Until I’d grown too old. Too much of a woman, maybe.
I shove the thought aside. I’d never known my parents, who they were or where they were or why I wasn’t with them. And truthfully, I hadn’t considered it much. I learned early on that blood doesn’t make a family.
But I know that Iasus is my father. The truth of it is written all over him. My eyes water, out of
something between shock and relief.
Tentatively, he touches my shoulder. His gray eyes crinkle. “Let me take you home.”
Home.
My mind reels, but I don’t flinch away from his touch. I drink him in again—his sad eyes and tall build. He’s offering me a home, and suddenly, the finest inn of Delphi seems like a rotting cave. If I follow Iasus, I wouldn’t have to take on strangers and endure constant pain just to make a living. I wouldn’t have to be what the Pythia thought I was: a girl fighting for survival on the streets. I could belong somewhere. I could be someone.
I still don’t quite believe it, but I lay my hand across his and study how they look entwined.
And I nod.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Kahina
I underestimated my desire to sleep.
Despite my every intention to get to the shrine Artemis had told me about, sheer exhaustion knocked me out after dinner. I’d purposefully taken my bowl of stew to the farthest corner of the kitchen, hoping to avoid the questions and eliminate more attention. Then Phelix had gone and sat down across from me, nodding to me wordlessly and quietly sipping at his stew.
Every glance at him breeds fresh anxiety. I tried to think of anything to say to him, but I couldn’t look at him without remembering his sister. He seemed content with silence. Or used to it, at least. I left dinner after I downed my bowl—still hungry, but too exhausted from my trek here and the sick familiarity of his features to stay any longer.
But I woke with the dawn, my stomach tense from a delightful combination of dread, hunger, and anxiety. No one else had woken up yet, and I’d ventured outside our quarters and into the sprawling courtyards and pathways behind the palace.
It took longer than I’d hoped to find this place. I finally found it after cutting through the countless rows of olive trees on the western fields—most of them shriveling or dead. Across another field, the faintest glimmer of marble had caught my eye, and now I’m certain that this is definitely Apollo’s. This is the type of temple that might fit in seamlessly among the opulent structures of his city, Delphi. I grit my teeth at the memories it dredges up.
It’s small (for a temple, at least) with only two rows of columns that reach just a foot or two past my head. In the center, a brazier holds still-warm embers. This is not a ceremonial temple—someone visits here. Often. I wrap my arms around myself, steeling my mind to just focus on the task at hand. Not Atalanta. And certainly not the fact that I’m standing inside a temple to the god I’m trying to hide from.
Still, my whole body feels aligned to this temple. The so-called gift the god gave me in Delphi calls out to this temple, but I shove it aside as best I can and push both my hands against the nearest column. I shove hard.
It doesn’t budge. A sharp stab of panic cuts into my stomach. I close my eyes and do my best to remember the instructions the goddess gave me.
Lady Artemis told me this was once hers. I just need to make it hers again, and then she’ll know I’m on her side, and maybe Apollo’s power might weaken somehow. At least, it seems manageable enough if I keep phrasing it all that way.
And how exactly can I make it hers?
I walk down its length, studying every curve with my hands and eyes. But the question remains, filling the empty, soaring spaces between the columns and above the barely burning brazier at the altar. This was not the simple fix Artemis had led me to believe; this isn’t a matter of removing a statue or putting out a flame. The marble surrounding me is thick and impenetrable.
It gleams white from the outside, sunlight glinting painfully off every inch of it. In here, the shadows make the whole space gray and chilly. This time, when the panic surges up, tears join it.
I’m only here because of Atalanta. This is all her fault, and now the goddess has sent me to the very place she’s about to return to. Had Artemis known this would happen? Atalanta is the only reason Artemis doubts my loyalty. And it’s her twin, Apollo, who governs prophecies and the future. I feel stretched between these two absurd siblings, caught and woven into their nets. If it were anything less than my safety at stake, I’d be back in Corinth tomorrow. But I know what awaits me outside of Arkadia now—my cousin, and whatever other minions the god Apollo deems necessary to secure the return of his oracle. My tears burn hot.
“I guess you found it, huh?”
I jolt, my shoulder ramming into one of the pillars. These damn things are like a forest. As if my thoughts summoned him, Atalanta’s brother ducks slightly as he enters the temple. His eyes drift around the hollow space, like he sees something in the emptiness.
“Phelix,” I breathe, smoothing my skirts. “I’m so sorry, I’ll get back to—”
“No, no!” he rushes. Phelix finally meets my gaze. The skin around his eyes crinkles, and I wonder if he can tell I’ve been crying. “I think you might be the only person besides my father who even knows this place exists.”
“It’s not exactly easy to find,” I admit. There are other shrines and smaller temples closer to the main paths between Iasus’s palace and the central villages of Arkadia, but Phelix is right—Apollo’s almost seems like it doesn’t want to be discovered. “Was it your father who made this?”
Translation: Who built this creepy, isolated thing?
Phelix smiles wryly, walking past me to the brazier. His sandaled feet make tiny echoes. He blows on the embers until they burst into a small flame.
“His wife, Clymene, made a shrine before they got married.” Phelix still stares into his fire, and I trace anxious patterns into the column beside me. “To Artemis, you know.”
I nod. It’s a common thing throughout Greece for girls about to marry to honor Artemis, goddess of maidenhood, with offerings from their childhood, or just thank her for their youth before they become a wife. I’ve never quite decided if I think that’s nice or sad.
“This doesn’t look like it belongs to Artemis,” I say slowly. “Or like a shrine.”
Phelix glances at me over his shoulder, considers me for a moment, then turns back around.
“Care to elaborate?” I ask, daring a step forward. I hear him sigh, but he doesn’t sound angry. But he doesn’t turn back around either.
“When she left me,” Phelix says, but his voice catches. I realize he must mean the girl he mentioned earlier. “I needed something, anything, to get her off my mind, to make her understand how I felt . . . and Artemis, she was easy enough to blame. I was spiteful. I know—”
“Hold on,” I interrupt. Now I’m positive my own heartbeat echoes against the marble. I stare at the back of Phelix’s neck, my mind unraveling bit by bit. “You built this?”
I watch him nod. I unload a bucket of silent curses at his back, something I’d never do if it were anyone else’s temple but Apollo’s. Maybe this is a mistake—maybe Artemis didn’t understand. But I have no way of asking that, no way of knowing where she and Nikoleta and Isidora are or how to get back.
I take a wincing, deep breath, and reply with, “Hmm.”
The low noise of a shepherd’s horn rolls across the valley outside. With that, Phelix turns around, his face splotchy and pale. His eyes widen, and he turns to me with a panicked smile.
He lifts one finger up. “That is why I was looking for you, Kahina. More scouts arrived, and it’s just like you said. My sister is home.”
Phelix catches my hand as he runs past me, and I hold tight as he drags me behind him. Artemis keeps her huntresses athletic, but Phelix is far taller and stronger than I am. I half-jog, half-skid along behind him, and I think I leave my mind somewhere back in the temple.
Is it too late to run back? Will she recognize me?
A small caravan makes its way down from the hills, a handful of guards on horseback preceding and following a covered wagon. Phelix finally slows to a jog, then stops in front of the palace steps. I find it a little weird that the Arkadi
ans who hover around, awaiting their princess’s arrival, barely acknowledge their own king’s son. But I’m mostly busy trying not to throw up.
I glance beside me and realize all of the servants are making their way out of the kitchens and house, their faces alight with a fierce love I can hardly comprehend. Nora surges out front, a smile shifting her wrinkled features into unexpected beauty. I glance beside me, and Phelix’s eyes overflow with hope. I focus on him as the caravan crawls closer; it’s easier than staring at the wagon I know contains her.
Finally, Phelix glances down at me and whispers, “They’re here.”
I notice the king’s smile first; as Iasus’s horse approaches, I see his face brighten as he takes in the staff of his household. He seems kind—warm, even. Iasus greets his people by name and hops off a large, white mare, though his eyes glance off and over his son. My stomach churns.
Iasus is drenched in the afternoon sun, and the men he’s traveled with disembark and go to greet their families and the servants waiting with open arms and faces. I watch carefully as the king strides to the back of his caravan, where the heavily guarded wagon awaits. I’m not sure why his daughter would possibly need their protection. She could probably kill them with her eyes closed. But to my credit, she wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t thrown that knife. I consider, with no small amount of bitterness, that neither would I.
Phelix pushes closer to get a better look. I follow him, led on by traitorous curiosity. A tingling sensation seeps from my neck into my entire body as Iasus’s weathered hands grasp the door. I almost shout for him to stop. I freeze where I am, instinctively reaching beside me to stop Phelix. The door opens, and I realize why the guards are there.
They are not there to keep her hidden. They are not here to protect her. They are here to protect others from her. In one solid and swift movement, Iasus’s daughter steps out of the wagon, and fixes all of Arkadia with a feral gaze. The sunlight sets her golden hair agleam almost instantly.
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