He heaves a short sigh, seeming a little more relaxed. It seems neither of his children are whom he wants them to be. I wish I could be that daughter for him. And maybe I can—but not quite on the terms he’s set out. Father nods at me without meeting my eyes. A clear dismissal. I turn from him and climb the stairs slowly, half-hoping he’ll call me back.
My footsteps echo through the silent hall.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Kahina
The next dawn, she wakes me up again to run. And the next. By the third day, I’m already awake when I hear her footsteps, steady and sure. Every day, she runs—impossibly—just a little faster. It’s only now that I realize how sad she must have been before, sitting through lessons and staying inside. Her skin takes on a whole new tone, shining with vitality. There’s always a determined set to her eyes and the memory of a smile across her lips.
Sometimes I run with her, but mostly I watch, shouting encouragement or giving tips when I can. Artemis did make me a competent athlete, and Nikoleta certainly made sure I could outrun and outfight at least the average man. But the suitors here are kings and princes, many of them renowned warriors who have fought many battles and wars. I would be worried if it was anyone but Atalanta racing them.
There are four days left until the races begin. The track is so long and the morning is still so dark that Atalanta nearly disappears when she rounds the opposite bend. She’s never gone for long though.
My spine tingles, and I glance behind me to the woods. No one’s there, but I trust myself enough to look harder. A wild spark of hope that it might be Isidora and Nikoleta flames up, and I realize I haven’t really thought of the Hunt all week. I don’t know if I should feel guilty or proud. I still miss the girls—especially Isidora and Nikoleta—with a persistent, bitter ache. I keep praying to Artemis in the temple. The temple. If I’m not even thinking of it as Apollo’s, that could be a good sign.
But the woods don’t move. Still nothing. I sigh, but put the nervous energy into sweeping down the benches I started on yesterday. Atalanta claimed her first royal privilege by organizing a group to fix up the racing area. She spent all day with Phelix yesterday further defining the track: pulling weeds, packing dirt, and lining up rocks for the boundaries. I did my best to spruce up the spectator areas, but the siblings can be quite distracting when they want to be—roping me into impromptu sprinting competitions and performing dramatic imitations of their father.
Atalanta keeps training well after the sun breaks over the mountaintops, alternating between short sprints and extended running. It’s mesmerizing to watch, really. At this rate, the benches will never be ready.
“Kahina.”
I let out a small yelp, whipping toward the woods. But the voice comes from the other side—it’s Iasus, and Phelix isn’t far behind him. I splay my hands across my beating heart. “I’m sorry. You scared—”
“My apologies,” he says, his eyes following his daughter. Atalanta must notice him, but doesn’t bother stopping. Phelix nods at me in greeting, before trotting down to the track to watch Atalanta. “She’s much faster than I realized.”
I fidget where I stand. I have no idea what to do with my arms. “Yes, sir. She’s quite fast.”
He glances at me, his gray eyes so different from Atalanta’s, even though they’re the same hue. “Have you been out here every morning with her?”
“Yes,” I answer carefully. My tongue feels thick. I get the sense he’s asking me more questions that he’s saying.
“This was not the type of training I had anticipated.”
My shoulders tense. But he only sighs and stares out over the track. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen this used. The suitors seem excited about the whole thing, thank the gods. I’d thought she’d be easily beaten, but now . . .”
“What will you do if she beats them all?”
“I have absolutely no idea. She’s far too old to be a maiden,” He spits out the word like it’s poison. The golden light of morning spills over him, turning him to a bronze statue. “But nobody can beat fate—not even her. Nobody can outrun the wind.”
To appease him, I mutter, “They have all brought excellent gifts and riches. Arkadia will want for nothing.”
He frowns at me, saying nothing. I’ve offended him. Iasus’s gaze darts between me and Atalanta one last time, and he mutters, “I’m not sure what you’ve done with my daughter. But fix it.”
“What I’ve done?” I pause, trying to rein myself in. It doesn’t work. “Sir, this is your daughter—Atalanta. Did you expect a proper princess?”
“I expected gratitude,” he says, crossing his arms. Phelix’s back faces us, but from the way his shoulders tense, close to his ears, I get the feeling he’s heard every word. “I thought she would want to save her home.”
“She does.” I’m a bit taken aback by my own defensiveness. “But she will not set herself on fire to do so. You’ve lost her once—don’t let it happen again.”
I have just enough time to wonder if that was really worth getting forcibly escorted from Arkadia before his mouth becomes a thin, tight line, and he walks abruptly back to the palace. I exhale shakily.
Phelix slowly turns around and approaches me like I’m a spooked horse. He stands beside me for a long moment, the sunlight bringing out the golden tint to his hair. We stand shoulder-to-shoulder, watching his sister tear past us. It’s probably my imagination, but I think my hair blows back from her speed.
Finally, he turns to me. I keep my eyes on Atalanta, rotating an endless cycle around the track. In my periphery, I see him shake his head. “I’d bet anything she can.”
It takes me a moment to process his words. “Can what?”
“You know,” he says. His voice drops, imitating his father’s. “Outrun the wind.”
I snort a laugh, and glance to him. For a moment, I miss those first couple days I got here—when it was just me and him against the rest of Arkadia. It’s easy with Phelix. Sure, things have gotten better with Atalanta, but the space between us is always drowning with unspoken words and conflicting feelings. Her brother has been a constant in this changing world, even if his temple is the very thing I’m supposed to destroy.
“You might be right about that,” I admit. Because looking at her now, how could she not?
“We should get back to fixing this place up, yeah?”
I nod, but I’m remembering his father’s voice. Fix it. There are things about Atalanta that I sometimes wish I could fix. Her lies when I first met her. Her refusal to try wearing her hair or robes in any different way. Her caged, chaotic eyes.
But something had made me save her. Something made me come up with this ridiculous plan. I follow Phelix back to the track, and blink the sun from my eyes. Iasus’s words still ring harshly through my head.
I’m not sure what you’ve done with my daughter.
My throat constricts more, and I quickly busy myself with sweeping the last of the stone benches, watching clouds of memories and dust swirl into the air until they disappear.
The days shrink away too fast to hold on to, and the track is only barely presentable in time for Atalanta’s first race.
Atalanta does not come to my room before dawn. She cannot afford to expend any extra energy before the race. On instinct, I lie awake in the last moments of the night. My ears ache with the silence of an undisturbed world.
I toss aside the coarse blankets when I can’t stand it anymore and I pace over the weathered panels of wood, dragging my hands through my hair until it has some semblance of calm. I’m not nervous, not really. Why should I be? Atalanta could beat any of the men out there, especially Lysander—her first opponent. He’s our age, probably the youngest one racing, and though he has battle experience, Atalanta was raised by blood-stained hands and slept with more weapons than blankets. I can’t remember when I started liking that ab
out her.
I sort through all my tunics until I choose the one I like the best. It’s the faintest shade of yellow, and it hits halfway between my ankles and knees. I take my time adjusting the straps of my sandals. I wonder if Atalanta is doing the same, or if she’s already warming up on the track.
I slip out of my room, and hear the beginnings of movement in the quarters down the halls. The light grows brighter with every step I take. On my way to the kitchens, I take time to study and remember how thick the tree leaves grow here, how new life springs from every corner of the earth. I don’t want to forget this when I leave.
The low-hanging ceilings of the kitchens trap in the warmth of the fires, and I see Nora alone by the ovens, carefully removing a steaming tray from above the embers. I grab a handful of grapes from a bowl on the counter before helping her with the next one. “You’re here early.”
“Couldn’t sleep,” she mutters, and I notice the plum-colored skin beneath her eyes.
“Atalanta will do fine,” I reply, wincing at the blast of heat when I lean down. Nora takes the brunt of the tray’s weight, and I do my best to aid her as she moves it to the counter.
Her dark eyes fix on me, and she hurriedly flattens the strays of my hair that defy gravity. She smiles tightly. “Exactly.”
I thought I’d be showing up early, but the track is packed with people. Suitors and servants alike cram along the entire ellipse of the track, defining it far better than the stones we tried to organize this week. I squeeze into the top row of benches, behind Iasus. He studies me warily, but does not object my place.
Down below, I see Phelix and a few other men hurriedly sweeping the last of the debris off the track as Atalanta and Lysander stand several feet apart, both stretching and entirely within themselves. Lysander closes his eyes and inhales deeply. Atalanta pays him no mind, leaning over to stretch the backs of her thighs. She rolls both her ankles and squares her shoulders. The whole crowd is abuzz, smiles and condescending stares on nearly every man’s face.
I’m not sure why they would want to be so confident in Atalanta’s loss. They won’t receive their prize if Lysander wins. But he won’t, and Atalanta and I both know it. As if she hears my thoughts, she scans the crowd. When she sees me, she grins with one side of her mouth. I laugh. She’s wicked to the core.
My feet tap on the hard stone. Iasus’s features are empty and stiff as he looks over the massive audience. Part of me expected—hoped—that suitors might just leave when they heard the challenge. If not out of fear, then out of shame. Most would never be caught dead racing a girl, but Atalanta? She’s a quest to complete, a riddle to solve, and a foreign land to conquer. Not a girl. To them, at least.
Finally, one of the older servants from around the palace is ushered forward by Atalanta. His name is Ophelos, I think. He cuts a straight line in the dirt with a spear, and Lysander and Atalanta line up next to each other on it. Atalanta takes the outer edge, which means she’ll need to cover more distance, but she’s already volunteered for this spot. The men nearly choked on their laughter.
Lysander looks to Atalanta as they line up, but her gaze is trained straight ahead. Ophelos raises both his hands. I hold my breath. It’s just one lap. Just one lap. His hands come down in a blur, and they’re off.
Their legs kick up so much dust that at first, I can’t tell how it’s going—but I quickly exhale when I see her silhouette pull farther and farther ahead. The cheering of the men falters unsteadily. Before I even blink again, Atalanta has returned to the spot she just left. Her feet skid to a halt, decimating the line. Lysander heaves himself to her side an embarrassing fifteen seconds later. He was fast—really fast—and everyone knows it. The men glance uneasily away from the track. Lysander was the youngest of them. How are they supposed to compare?
No applause sounds, but Atalanta beams brighter than the sun. Lysander’s face is a deep red I can see all the way from up here. Flushed with effort or shame or both, he doesn’t bother looking at Atalanta as he stalks off the track. He’ll go back to his tents and pack everything. No more free feasts for him. I smirk as he leaves, and I can’t tell who starts it, but a slow smattering of applause sounds from down below. At first, I think they’re trying to make Lysander feel better, but everyone is still focused on Atalanta. She stands still and tall, her chest hardly moving. The cheering builds, and I see Iasus sit up taller in my periphery as it grows to a roar.
Atalanta swivels incredulously. They’re screaming her name. Her gaze flicks straight to mine, and I grin back. It’s just like I’d planned. Better than what I’d planned. I have no clue why they applaud—because they’ve been entertained? Because one less competitor stands in their way?
It hardly matters. She could win blindfolded. The sun beats down, turning Arkadia to gold. Atalanta bows her head slightly, then leaves the track, where she’s surrounded by servants who lead her back to the palace, blocking her from swarms of suitors trying to get a closer look.
Slowly, the men disperse back to their camps or rooms, the sound of chatter rising up into the sky. Just wait for tomorrow’s race, someone says. I bet I’ll beat her. I smile to myself. I came up with this. Iasus stands, his face a fusion of surprise and apprehension. “They . . . like it?”
I nod. “They like it.”
“Interesting,” he says. The breeze makes ripples in the purple cloak hanging off his broad shoulders. “But someone will beat her soon enough.”
“I doubt that.” My eyes follow the throng of servants surrounding Atalanta as they disappear into the palace. Even though the race is over, my heart still pounds. “She’s quite fast, sir. Quite.”
“Still. I wouldn’t be surprised.”
I glance to him. There’s an edge to his voice that I can’t place, and the hardness in his eyes churns my stomach to nerves. “Well,” I say, mouth dry. “I would.”
Five more races pass without a hitch. I can hardly remember when life wasn’t the rise and fall of Ophelos’s hands, and the clouds of dust Atalanta outruns every time. Five more men pack their bags and leave Arkadia, and those remaining get more and more invested. In the afternoons, I catch them performing practice sprints down the track.
I should feel relief with every city’s caravan that disappears over the mountains, but their departure brings another fear. Will they tell? I pray their shame wins, but if word spreads through Greece, Atalanta may have to race every day of her life. But honestly, I doubt she would mind that.
Today, on her sixth race, Atalanta isn’t moving to the starting line. My foot taps incessantly on the hard stone, and Iasus’s features carve themselves into a frown. Those lines have set firmer and deeper with every race his daughter wins on his track. But she’s moving away from her opponent. From down by the track, Phelix turns his head up to mine, confusion knitting his eyebrows.
I sigh, and Iasus barely notices as I move past him and down through the benches. Hushed and chaotic conversations bounce around the rows of men. I swallow roughly, upping my pace until I’m at Phelix’s side. He stands underneath the spreading shadow of a massive oak tree on the side of the track, and the dimness is a relief from the blinding sun.
“What is she doing?” he mutters. His fingers tap a perpetual rhythm on his crossed arms. A few of the more enthusiastic men stand along the edges of the track’s ellipse, so we only see a portion of Atalanta’s golden figure between their bodies. Stress wrings my stomach. What is she doing? She never mentioned this. My fingers start to beat out an accompaniment to Phelix’s.
Is she quitting? Fear hits sudden and strong. “Phelix, I’ll be right back.” He makes a noise of protest, but my legs burst into action, and I jog the few yards until I’m right by the track.
The man she’s racing today—I don’t know his name, and it hardly matters—stretches nervously at the line Ophelos raked across the pale dirt. Atalanta leans to either side, several paces behind him, stretching he
r core muscles. A cloud passes over the sun, and her skin and hair lose some of their glow.
“Atalanta,” I hiss. The men beside me glance over, and I do my best to ignore them. She follows my voice, her mouth twisted in a sinister smile. “What exactly are you doing?”
“I got bored.” Terror seeps through my veins like blood. She folds over herself until her head is between her ankles, her golden braid dragging through the dirt. “So, I’m giving him a head start.”
Ophelos and her poor opponent hear this and share a grimace. Thank the gods. She’s not quitting. I return her smile, but I’m scared of how hard I’d fallen for fear, and I wonder why I was even scared to begin with. The enormity of the relief is hard to swallow.
Atalanta’s gaze trains down the track when Ophelos raises his hand apprehensively. The man looks behind him one last time, fear painted plainly across his face. His hair hangs long and stringy to his shoulders. Spartan, maybe. The men laugh and shove each other, pointing out the wide set of his dark eyes, the tensing of his legs. They won’t be laughing when it’s their turn to stare down the lionhearted girl.
I don’t see Ophelos bring his hand down; I keep my eyes on Atalanta. Out of my periphery, I notice Phelix move forward to stand beside me. Even though I know better, little pricks of anxiety spark along my arms. His head start is a long one. If Atalanta loses this, her pride takes all the blame. But within seconds of their beginning strides, the race looks like all the others—she overtakes him laughably fast, and the track turns to a dusty haze against the clean air and fresh growth of Arkadian springtime.
Phelix and I erupt into wild applause and screaming as Atalanta nears the finish line. The race isn’t even a close one, but it’s still a rush to see. The men look equal parts amazed and baffled, as if they haven’t noticed a pattern in these races. They still applaud, which makes me equal parts amazed and baffled. But entertainment is entertainment, and maybe they find a cheap thrill in watching a beautiful woman decimate their ranks one by one.
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