She clears her throat once. The sun has nearly disappeared, leaving us in the faintest of light. “Coincidence.”
“Thief.”
Her jaw, impossibly, clenches more. I take a step closer to her. Atalanta’s eyes look almost black in the dimness, but I can see them rapidly studying my face. Faint recognition makes her lips part, and I wait for her to figure it out.
“I knew I’d seen you before,” she whispers. I tilt my head, waiting for her to continue. I hadn’t realized quite how close I’d stepped, but I’m not backing down. “You’re a huntress of Artemis, aren’t you?”
I nod, but the voice of truth rings out hollow. “I was. And plan to be again.”
She raises one eyebrow, but when she glances down at my other knife, darkness clouds her eyes again.
I lean closer to her, and do my best to make my voice lower than hers had been. “And now you’re probably realizing why I have the other half of these twin knives.”
“Y-you . . .”
I take an unhealthy amount of gratification in the look of horror that transforms her features. I know she’s figured it out, but I wonder if I should still spell it out for her. I kind of really want to. But before I can make sure she knows that it was only my knife and my aim that saved her, she throws her arms around me. My arms freeze at their sides. Atalanta is considerably larger than me—she’s got quite a few inches over me in height, and muscles cord every part of her body. She lets go of me just as quick. Slowly, I shake my arms out.
“You threw that knife,” she murmurs, looking at me in astonishment. It makes me uncomfortable.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I blink. Of all the things I’d expect her to ask . . . that wasn’t it. My mouth hangs open, and not even the prophetic voice inside of me can come up with anything. I shrug. “I’m not sure.”
“Well, thank you,” she says.
I keep my face unchanged, determined not to let whatever act she’s playing get in the way of what she’s done.
“You’ve lied about this at every turn,” I tell her evenly. With each word, a pressing weight seems to fall away. Here are the words I’d dreamt and concocted a million times—awake and in sleep—incarnated into glorious life. I take a step away from her, and prepare my final blow. “And that’s what killed him.”
I brace myself for her to wrangle me to the ground. Hit me, slap me, something. I don’t care—it will have been worth it just to speak those words. Instead, tears fill the corners of her eyes; they come quick and flooding. My satisfaction dims.
“I know,” she says quietly. Atalanta wipes at her eyes. “I know.”
“It cost me too,” I say, because I feel like I have to—not necessarily because I want to hurt her, strangely. She glances at me almost nervously.
“You said you were a huntress,” she realizes. “What happened?”
I tell her my side. At least, starting from me throwing one of my knives. Artemis would’ve been so proud of the aim and strength in that throw, except for the fact that it killed her creation. I explain how Meleager’s father had forgotten to thank Artemis—a deadly sin with this ridiculous pantheon—and the punishment she’d made her boar wreak onto Calydon. We’d tracked the boar to ensure its safety, but I’d been soft. Seeing the beast about to kill another person resulted in one instant of damning compassion.
As I talk, I try to keep my voice as level as I can. Atalanta eventually leans back on a column, and so do I—we’ve been in here long past sunset. Part of me wonders if Phelix is looking for us. When I mention Artemis’s task for me, and how Hippomenes had wormed his way out of her wrath, her face twists with disgust. I can still feel that familiar anger inflating within me, but it never quite seems to break the surface.
“‘Restore what was mine,’” Atalanta says, repeating Artemis’s demand. She starts to pace the length of the temple, her steps forcing echoes against the marble. “Like . . . change it from Apollo’s to hers?”
“Back to hers.”
“And then you’ll be able to rejoin?”
I nod. “Artemis told me she’d be able to sense it. And then she’ll send my friends Isidora and Nikoleta back for me.”
“I’ll help you.”
Atalanta says it softly, and she stops pacing. My heart seems to stop as well. I can barely see her outline in the darkness.
“What—”
“This is my fault,” Atalanta says. “You said it yourself.”
With one decisive movement, she props up the carving of Artemis against the brazier. Through the dark, I know she’s staring at me, waiting for me to say something. I stare at her through the shadows, my eyes stinging from tears. I’m not sure what brought them: relief, fear, or something in between. Maybe it’s dangerous to trust her—she’s already lied about so much. But if she’s serious about feeling remorse, about helping me? Having someone on my side for once might be nice.
“All right,” I say slowly. “But only if you actually start trying in your etiquette lessons. I don’t want your father suspicious of me.”
I don’t add that I’d like to see her scraps of civilized behavior come to resemble something passable in time for coronation. It would be a shame if she was embarrassed in front of all those suitors. A shame for Arkadia, I mean.
“I will.” Her voice sounds steady and sure, though I can’t see her.
“And one more thing,” I add, now that she’s in too deep. “You can’t tell your brother. Phelix is the one who made this into Apollo’s temple.”
Silence.
“What?”
“Some girl left him, so he got mad at the goddess of young girls and changed her temple. Typical male behavior.”
“Oh. Okay.” Atalanta heaves a sigh. Her footsteps grow louder as she moves closer to me. Softly, she reaches out and grabs my wrist—her vision must be far more accustomed to the darkness than mine. “Let’s go back, Kahina.”
I notice that this time she doesn’t call it home.
I don’t mind that Atalanta is late for our next three sessions. She makes up for it by focusing on them tenfold. Besides, I like being able to lounge alone in her ridiculously extravagant suite, away from the cold and away from servants and away from her. But she’s still somehow very present in these rooms—there’s dried wildflowers scattered on the tops of her table, and a poorly folded tunic at the foot of her bed. A few pairs of forgotten sandals lay discarded along the wall. Even now, in the thick of winter, she prefers to go barefoot.
I know where she is. Her father would care, but I don’t. It’s my job to train her, not rein her in. I kick off my sandals and lie on the thick coverlets of her bed; it’s so much more comfortable than my pallet back in the quarters. I want to slip underneath them, but that would be overstepping even more than I am now.
I rub my arms to bring heat into them. When it rains now, the droplets turn to flurries of frost. It’s a beautiful sight, but a deadly one, and I have no idea how Atalanta bears to be outside for a second longer than she has to. I wish I could bundle Phelix up and bring him into the house and out of the stables.
The softness and warmth of Atalanta’s bed envelops me, and I close my eyes as the thoughts crowd in. I exhale, and imagine them blowing away like dust in a strong breeze. That’s my mistake. By now, I should know my mind is never empty.
“You have shown promise,” the Pythia explained. “It will pass on to you next. I will prepare you.”
Her voice sounded practiced and incomplete—not quite a product of its own person. It’s as if she meant to say something entirely different, but couldn’t choose the words. Kahina leaned forward, the tri-legged stool beneath her wobbling precariously. But still, there was nothing to discern. The girl before her was veiled in cloth so thick that her features were all but invisible, and her voice, though powerful, was too muffled to pin down an age.
Kahina was used to the fumes by now. She was used to the darkness and the strange words that came to her when questioned. When the Pythia urged her to inhale more deeply, she did. Not because she wanted to, but because he was always there behind her. Arms crossed, leaning back, his blond hair still bright in the depths of his temple. Kahina thought the Pythia might be scared of him, too.
“Breathe more deeply,” the Pythia said. Her voice hardly sounded human. “It will help you channel the knowledge.”
Kahina shook her head slightly. She didn’t know how to comprehend any of this, and she couldn’t think of her cousin Hippomenes without a blinding, white-hot rage consuming her. Her year here—was it more? Less?—had been hell. Becoming Pythia would amplify everything. She couldn’t. She knew she couldn’t.
“Come on, Kahina,” the Pythia urged again. She reached out to grab Kahina’s wrist. In contrast to Kahina’s skin, her arm was starkly pale in the green mist pouring out of the fault line between them. Kahina flinched, but the grip was as strong as iron.
Kahina leaned forward, heart pounding out of her chest. They were in the deepest chambers of Apollo’s temple, sitting across the fault line of Mount Parnassos on precarious stools. Sickening green mist spouted from the crack beneath them, and with every inhale, the voices lingering in the back of Kahina’s mind seemed to sharpen, to louden.
A coldness crept inside her mind. Kahina screamed—not from pain, but fear. She felt, even then, the presence of something more within her. She wanted it out.
From the darkest corner of the room, another priestess strode over and grabbed Kahina’s arms, pulling her away from the Pythia. Kahina’s training for the day was complete. The girl’s grip on her arm was firm, but didn’t hurt. Quickly, the girl looked to her—or at least, Kahina thought she did, through her veil.
“Do you want to leave?” the girl asked.
Kahina’s breath caught. The mist throughout the cavern was so intense she could barely see, but through the priestess’s veil, she swore she saw the glint of an unnervingly dark pair of eyes.
Slowly, Kahina nodded as she was pulled along. Her eyes flicked over to Apollo, but he seemed not to have heard the exchange. But the priestess was not leading Kahina out. She simply led her back to her room: a modest unit with dripping candles, a silk sofa, and no windows.
Kahina watched the priestess leave, numbness freezing out her confused hope, until she was certain she’d imagined the whole thing.
I wake in a cold sweat, amplified by the brisk air entering from the open window. I wince, pushing myself onto my elbows. Atalanta sits on her wooden bench, staring at the gray sky outdoors. She must hear me, because her head is turned by the time I sit up, watching me intently. It’s a bit disturbing how her eyes match the sky precisely.
“Glad someone’s awake,” she says drily.
“Glad someone showed up,” I fire back. She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. The soles of Atalanta’s feet are caked in dirt, and her shins are splattered in it. “What’s going to happen to me when your father catches you out there running?”
She shrugs. “You’re smart. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”
I bristle, not sure if she’s serious or joking. Either way, I’m hurt at how she can shove off responsibility and repercussions so easily.
“I’m hungry,” she complains. “Will you see if Nora’s made breakfast yet?”
“You ran through breakfast, princess.” I heave myself out of her bed. It feels doubly wrong to be in it while she’s watching me. “You ran through most of the day.”
Atalanta shrugs again. “I missed it.”
I know she’s telling the truth. I watch her sometimes. Only from the windows, and when I’m sure she won’t see me. She was more correct than I possibly could have imagined—she is fast. Faster than thought. Undeterred by the cold, she runs like the boar is still pressing in on her, just a step behind. Her legs pump until the motion is too quick for my eyes to fully register. It’s incredible.
“I’ll go ask Nora,” I mutter. She doesn’t thank me, of course. She rarely does. It’s my job. I trot down the stairs, figuring I can snag a few grapes for myself while I’m at it. I walk past the empty dining table; this and the huge dancing room beside it are a constant reminder of the coronation pressing closer with each day.
I push the swinging doors into the kitchen open. Iasus is standing just behind Nora, helping her hoist trays of bread out of the oven. She’s laughing at something he said, but they both stop abruptly as they notice me.
“Sorry,” I begin, catching myself in the doorway. They leap apart, and I keep my head down as I walk past them. Iasus is in here more than most kings probably are, but it’s still jarring to see him so candid among his workers . . . or maybe just Nora. That is one good thing about Iasus—he has no slaves. Just workers, who are paid and housed and fed. A part of me swells with pride in this, while the same part realizes this could be why Arkadia falls short to all its neighbors in wealth. “Just wondering if you’d set aside Atalanta’s breakfast this morning?” Iasus fixes me with a gaze halfway between a glare and a smile. I swallow. “She, uh, slept in a little late.”
Nora glances from me to Iasus, and barely manages to get the words out. She sets the bread down, still steaming and enticing, onto the counter. “I, uh, decided to give her share to Phelix when you never showed to get them.”
Get them? I think, gritting my teeth. For her? My face heats up. That easily, the blame has shifted to me.
“I hadn’t thought to do that,” I make myself say.
Both Iasus and Nora’s eyes narrow slightly, but more out of confusion than judgment. I’m starting to realize they are quite similar, where it counts. After a beat, Nora starts looking around the kitchens, calling out to the other women and opening cabinets. Her movements turn near-frantic as she tries to assemble a respectable plate of food. Iasus looks down, and I do the same. The truth is here, made worse by a hard winter. There’s bread steaming in front of us, made for tonight, but besides that?
Five minutes later, I’m handed a wooden plate with a cold slab of dried meat, a browning apple, and one handful of mostly shriveled grapes. Nora doesn’t meet my eyes as she gives it to me. I can tell that it hurts her. “Tell the princess to show up to breakfast on time,” she murmurs. “It’s the proper thing for nobility.”
I pretend not to notice the way her voice shakes. With whispered thanks, I quickly leave the kitchens and bound up the stairs, eager to leave. For them, I’m sure coronation can’t come soon enough.
I hand Atalanta the plate, and she accepts it with a brief, “Thank you.”
Clearing my throat, I tell her, “We should start dancing lessons today. For your coronation.”
She stares up at me, the apple frozen halfway to her lips. This is the first time I’ve really initiated anything with her, so she nods, somewhat confusedly. “Okay.” All I can think of is Iasus’s ducked head and Nora’s tight lips. Besides, the sooner Atalanta gets married and shipped off to some other kingdom, the sooner I’ll have more time for figuring out how to restore Artemis’s temple. No matter how earnest she is about helping me, I know this task was designed for me alone.
“If there’s time after,” she asks. “Can we go back to the horses?”
This has become a habit of ours—we sneak off after our attempts at fixing Artemis’s temple, and our lessons, of course, and go to see Phelix and the horses in the stables. Even with the dull ache the winter air brings, it’s still probably the one thing we both enjoy doing. At least, it’s the one thing we can do together that doesn’t end in th
e passive insults and poorly concealed glares that I’d hoped would dissolve after our confrontation. She still keeps her half of my pair of knives. I don’t want it back as much as I thought it would—it feels very much like hers now, for better or worse.
I blink, remembering her question, and nod. She smiles, and pushes a grape into her mouth. “Then I’ll do whatever dance you ask.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Atalanta
There are a lot of things I could blame: the horses, the racetrack, or maybe even my brother. They distracted us. They cut into our practice time.
In truth, I’m starting to realize I might be, simply put, the worst dancer in Greece. Over the past month, we’d squeezed in a few basic lessons between our more pressing matters, like the political relationships between Sparta and Crete and Argos, and all the other names I’m already forgetting. I would gladly take that over this. The servant women stand around me in a large circle and they weave through each other with raised hands. They’re all doing a poor job at not laughing at me, but not as bad as Kahina.
She sits at the dining table next to Nora and my frowning father. The chandelier above them is lit with a few meager candles. After another few measures of bright lyre music, I notice my father glance to Kahina. He jerks his head toward me, and the message is clear. Fix her.
I sigh, but do a good job at concealing it. I know why he’s upset—if this is how it’s going to be at the coronation, the suitors won’t just reject me, even though that’s secretly what I want. They’ll make Arkadia the laughingstock of Greece. Kahina stands up and moves into the circle of dancers with ease, still holding back her laughter.
I’m amazed the lyre player can keep his fingers from shaking on the golden strings. His melody is pure daylight in the middle of a bleak night, and something surges within me. A wild wistfulness for something I can’t name. I’m almost dizzy as we all rotate and twirl underneath the chandelier. I meet Kahina’s eyes across the circle, and she looks halfway torn between hilarity and humiliation as she exaggerates her movements to help lead me. The music is loud enough to cover my laughter, though I’m amazed at how effortlessly she glides through the room. I move toward her in time with the rhythm, until I grasp both her hands and attempt to follow her through the correct movements. She won’t quite meet my gaze.
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