by Kyla Stone
My father curls his lip. “There are dozens of kings in that barbarian land. They breed princes like dogs.”
“I am King Aegeus’s only son and heir,” the Athenian says. “I am also the son of Poseidon, the god you call Earth-Shaker.”
Some in the crowd gasp. My breath catches in my throat. It’s a strange alchemy of the gods that allows a mortal to be fathered by both man and god. But it’s happened before. There’s no doubt this Athenian is the son of a king, maybe even a god. The boy’s lineage is evident in every noble line of his body.
This king of Athens sent his own son as a tribute. Even my father would never stoop to such a depraved and vulgar action. These Athenians truly are barbarians. Still, no one deserves such a fate as theirs.
“And why would your father send his only heir?” my father asks gruffly. “It isn’t required. Surely even curs have more care for their whelps than this.”
The Athenian lifts his chin. “I am called Theseus. And I volunteered.”
“So, it is true,” my mother murmurs beside me. Her black snake hisses, so close that its forked tongue tastes my arm. I recoil and move closer to Phaedra.
My sister’s eyes brighten. “I’ve heard father’s advisers speak of this prince. He is cousin to Heracles!” Even Cretan poets tell tales of the exploits of the great hero Heracles. “How handsome he is.”
I close my eyes for a moment, blocking out the ship, the crowded wharf, the hot sun. I think of the monster roaming the darkness of the Labyrinth built deep in the rock beneath our feet. My fingers tighten around the gold ring. The sting of pain keeps me present. “They’re all beautiful. It doesn’t help them in the end.”
“This is how Crete treats her enemies.” My father spreads his arms toward the tributes, his eyes flashing. They shrink back, but the soldiers prod them forward. “This is how we punish anyone who would threaten a hair on a Cretan’s head.”
“Athens has been punished enough,” Theseus declares, unafraid and uncowed. “You anger the gods.”
“We’ll see how your gods feel,” my father says, folding his hands in front of his gold-embroidered kilt, “when you are in the Labyrinth, being torn limb from limb.”
The Athenian jerks his chin, a muscle twitching in his jaw. “I am prince Theseus, blessed by Poseidon—”
“Be silent!” my father snarls. The Athenian angers him. I can see it in his eyes, in the tight lines bracketing his mouth, but he restrains his rage in front of the nobles and lesser kings. He can’t allow a barbarian brute to provoke a mighty king. “King Minos does not deign to argue with his dogs. Take these savages—”
“Offerings,” the high priestess interjects in her simpering voice.
My father bares his teeth. “Take these offerings to the palace.”
The crowd around us cheers. The people line both sides of the street leading from the wharf into the city, smiling and laughing and throwing flowers along the road. The Athenians will journey through the city, winding up the hill to the palace, where they will be held under guard until the ceremony of sacrifice in two days.
Above the city, the majestic palace of Knossos rises with its colonnade of crimson pillars, pennants flapping brightly. It crowns the hill, spilling terrace upon terrace, tier upon tier, balcony upon balcony, all adorned with red tapered columns ringed with blue. Over the tallest roof, great golden horns pierce the sky.
The island of Crete is the epicenter of the world; my father’s palace in Knossos is its crown.
The high priestess gestures to the guards, who herd the tributes off the dock. They shuffle toward us, most hanging their heads, several weeping into their hands. Only a few dare to walk with their chins high, meeting the gazes of king and peasant alike in defiance.
Guilt and relief tangle in my gut. My duty is finished for now.
I’m searching the crowd for Tarina when one of the tributes stumbles against me, knocking my gold ring from my hands. It clatters to the dock and rolls into the water.
Phaedra gasps. “Father should whip him for that.”
The boy’s face crumples. “I—I’m sorry.”
Instinctively, I reach out and lift him to his feet. He’s beautiful, his face plump, his curls silken, his eyes the pale gray of the sky after a heavy rain. He cannot be more than twelve summers.
“No,” I say quickly, a tightness in my chest. “It’s only a ring.”
“It’s not,” Phaedra insists. “That ring carries the royal insignia of Knossos. If father—”
Theseus strides forward. “I’ll retrieve it.”
Without hesitating or even pausing to strip off his tunic, Theseus dives off the wharf into the water. The waves close over his golden head. The soldiers shout in alarm, drawing their swords and gesturing with their spears.
Phaedra gapes in horror. “Don’t let them kill him!”
“Wait!” I yell, lifting my hands. “Please. Give him a chance to retrieve the ring.”
My father, who strode ahead, turns back, scowling, his retinue of servants and advisers crowding around him. Disobedience of a tribute warrants instant death, but this one is a favorite of Phaedra’s, the daughter he coddles for her beauty and charm, unlike me. He nods magnanimously. “The princess has taken a shine to this one.”
One of the soldiers twists his mouth in a sneer. The sharp gaze of the high priestess bores into me. Heat creeps up my neck, warming my cheeks. Phaedra spoke first, but it’s me they blame.
I watch the water, shutting out their hard gazes, a dark sense of foreboding settling over me. The surface shimmers, still and unbroken. Beyond the crescent of the bustling harbor, white-capped waves crash against jagged rocks, the sun sparkling in the froth. Several tiny white sails wink in the distance.
I don’t know this Athenian barbarian. And yet, I don’t want him to die.
Several heartbeats pass. I hold my breath.
Theseus bursts out of the sea with a gasp, a spray of water glimmering like jewels around him. He leaps onto the dock and stands before me, dripping wet yet somehow still princely, his white tunic clinging to his skin, outlining his chiseled chest and stomach. Despite myself, my own stomach constricts, wild and fluttering.
The guard to my left steps forward, but my father lifts his hand to stop him. Theseus pays no attention. He turns to me and glances down at the scar branding my chest before his gaze travels slowly back up to my face. Every inch of my skin is suddenly burning. He presses the ring into my hand. “For you, princess, wise and brave.”
Beads of water cling to his tousled, golden hair, glittering like a crown. His eyes are a dazzling azure, dark as the sea before an incoming storm. I do not doubt that he is the son of Poseidon, god of sea and quaking earth.
I can’t tear my gaze away.
What is he doing here? Why did he come to this place to die? How could anyone choose this? Doesn’t he know what awaits him, immortal lineage or no?
Trepidation coils in my gut as the soldiers lead the tributes away. Something is different this time. Something to do with Theseus.
A dark and terrible feeling stirs within me—maybe a portent.
Maybe a warning.
Chapter Two
The crowd roars as I step into the arena.
My bare toes sink into the raked black sand, the sun beating down on my head. I breathe deeply, the air heady with the rich, earthy scent of the cattle stalls beneath the arena.
I tighten the linen strips wrapped around my hands and swing my long, linen-bound braid over my shoulder. I wear no gold beads or royal jewels, only a simple white loincloth and a narrow band of linen wrapping my chest.
The king-bull waits for me, and I for him.
The monster roars far beneath us, but the crowd is so loud, hardly anyone hears it. But I do. I always hear him, even in my dreams.
The high priestess stands and claps her hands. The wooden doors at the opposite end of the arena crank open.
Six men lead the magnificent beast into the arena, dyed-crimson ropes loope
d around his neck. His rich chestnut hide gleams with incensed oil, his muscles thick and corded, his shoulders immense. His glorious horns are painted red, tipped with gold, and unblunted.
The king-bull bellows, already furious. He rakes the black sand with his hooves, snorting in indignation. The handlers drop the ropes and scramble for safety.
I search the stands one last time for my family. The center court of the palace complex is a large oval open to the sky. A ring of cushioned benches of staggered heights surrounds the arena, specially built by my father’s inventor, Daedalus.
My mother and father sit in our royal box between two red pillars, waiting impatiently. A dozen guards flank either side of them, along with servants and slaves waiting with pitchers of wine and platters of figs and cheese.
My sister Phaedra sits between them in her usual, favored position. There used to be two more seats. One for my younger brother, who never once sat in the royal box, and one for my older brother, Prince Androgeus, who would be king—if he still lived.
My father leans toward Mijararos, listening intently as his adviser whispers something in his ear. My mother gestures for a slave to bring her another slab of bread slathered in honey, absently fingering one of her snakes. They do not watch me. They aren’t paying attention.
And why should they? They’ve never bothered before. I blink the sudden stinging from my eye.
Mijararos turns and stares straight down at me. He’s a thin, stoop-shouldered man with a hooked nose and watery eyes. The overseer of the royal horses and cattle, he’s one of the richest men in Knossos. And father to Jadikira, the boy killed at the stables so long ago.
My scar burns, pulsing with the heat of Mijararos’s unflinching gaze. The man’s eyes smolder with long-stoked resentment, disgust, and loathing.
My brother murdered his son. It doesn’t matter to him that I’m a victim as well. I survived. His son didn’t.
I look away, this time finding the tributes. They’re sitting in seats of honor at the rim of the center court. They deserve honor—the same way we honor the king-bull for his offering—before we kill him.
What do they think of this spectacle? Or are they only thinking of their own impending deaths? Theseus smiles at me, beautiful but sharp as a blade.
The crowd roars in delight. This will be a great offering, sure to invoke the goddess’s blessing upon this season’s crops. I’m not concerned with crops, blessings and goddesses, or the pleasure of the crowd—with anything but the murderous beast sharing the sand with me.
Everything fades away but the fear and my iron determination to defeat it.
There is the bull and there is me.
Only one of us will walk away victorious.
Tarina and four other dancers weave around the bull, spinning into spectacular leaps and dives. They run and roll and flip as they lead the bull in a dizzying dance.
The others can dance with me as long as they do not touch him. They distract him while I perform my acrobatic feats upon his back and flanks. But only for a time.
The last dance is mine, and mine alone.
The king-bull catches sight of me. With a roar, he charges, thundering closer, closer, eating the distance with terrible speed. It seems impossible that a beast this large can move so swiftly, but he is no mortal creature. This is the king-bull, the chosen one of the goddess, making him both god and beast.
I leap into a handspring, diving out of the way. The king-bull’s horns slice through the air where I stood only a heartbeat before. The sharp edge of one horn snags my forearm as he passes.
Pain slices through my arm, blood splattering the sand. It is a small gash, two finger-lengths long. With a grimace, I wipe the blood on my loincloth and focus on my task.
I wait until he’s turned his attention to Tarina or one of the others. Then I rush him. I spring, vaulting up over his hindquarters and twisting in midair, spinning out of reach of his slashing horns. The creature whirls, roaring in impotent rage.
He shakes his head, trailing streams of saliva. Again and again, he gathers his strength and charges. Again and again, I spin and tumble over his heaving sides, dodging his deadly horns, rolling and spinning out of reach.
Move for move, he turns with me, never taking his enraged gaze off me for a moment. I’m the one who dares to touch him, who dares to challenge his power. He wants me.
The hot sun saps my strength. My arm burns, sand caking my wound. My legs tremble from the exertion. I wipe my damp palms against my loincloth. They come away streaked with red.
A stride away, Tarina meets my gaze, her brow furrowed in concern. She gives the smallest shake of her head, her way of telling me I can still quit, that there is no shame in it.
But she’s wrong. There’s great shame in it. The moment my father, King Minos, drunk at a banquet of nobles and dignitaries, declared that his own daughter would dance with the king-bull, my fate was sealed. How could I publicly refuse him—even if I wanted to?
The king offered me a gift, a chance to redeem myself in the eyes of the court, the entire kingdom. Those who conquer the bulls are champions and heroes, honored among Cretans—even the slaves. Even a princess shadowed by scandal and shame.
I risk a glance at the stands, meeting my father’s gaze. His face is impassive, his eyes hard as flint. He is watching and waiting. For the second time in my unremarkable, unsatisfactory life, I have his full attention.
Fear grips me, claws at my throat, chokes off my breath, but I can’t let it rule me. Here like nowhere else, I can charge into it. I can face it head-on. I can defeat it.
I nod my head, giving the signal to the other dancers. They back away slowly and stand along the wall, spectators now, leaving me alone in the center of the ring.
Alone with the king-bull.
A profound hush settles over the crowd. It’s one thing to run at an animal from the side or behind. But to harness the courage to face the lethal horns of a charging bull is a divine gift. To stand unafraid is the mark of true strength and purity, true devotion.
I am afraid. But still, I stand.
Braying in fury, the king-bull wheels to face me.
My next move is incredibly dangerous. Known as the Leap of Faith, only the most talented, experienced dancers have ever attempted it. A misplaced hand, a slightly crooked landing, a fleeting lapse in focus—in only a blink, it can all go horribly wrong.
I know to wait until I feel his hot breath, until I see myself reflected in the depths of his eyes. I must spring up, grab the golden horns, and allow the king-bull to launch me skyward with the fierce plunge and toss of his head. I’ll fly up and over the flashing horns, tuck into a flip, and handspring off his spine before landing gracefully on solid ground.
The king-bull’s great head drops low. His sides heave like enormous bellows, foamy spittle soaks his muzzle, and blood trickles from his snout. He is exhausted and hurting, like I am.
But he is a king. He will never surrender.
I am a princess of Crete. Neither will I.
He paws the earth, gathering his strength for one last charge. He lowers his horns, the tips gleaming wicked and sharp.
My heart hammers in my chest. My mouth goes dry. Every sound fades but for the bull’s thunderous hooves pummeling the sand.
You’re going to fail…
I shove the thought from my mind, blink the sweat from my eyes.
You aren’t good enough. You’ll never be good enough.
The king-bull charges. He comes swiftly as a bolt of lightning, all thundering hooves, slashing horns, murderous rage.
You’re unworthy.
The beast hurtles across the sand, plunging toward me.
You’re going to die, just like you should have that day…
The terrible images flash before my eyes—a twisted, grotesque shape, blood in the grass, blood on my hands, blood drenching the body.
Terror pins me to the sand.
Frozen, I watch in horror as my own death comes for me, treache
rous and terrible.
Mother goddess, forgive me.
A blur of movement flashes out of the corner of my eye. Something crashes into me, knocking me aside. I stagger and fall hard to my knees. I manage to curl into a ball, cringing and terrified as I wait for the dagger of pain, the death blow.
It never comes.
The crowd moans. I open my eyes and suck in my breath, stumbling to my feet, every muscle aching, screaming with pain. I crane my neck, searching frantically for the king-bull.
What happened? Where is he? How am I not dead?
And then I see him. The bull trainers are already on the other side of the arena, cornering the enraged king-bull with rope nets.
Two dancers run toward the wooden doors. Between them, they carry a body, limp and unmoving. A wicked gash across the girl’s stomach spills blood over the sand in scarlet ribbons.
Tarina.
Chapter Three
The bull handlers rush Tarina to the training room and lay her on a cot in the corner. I sprint after them, desperate tears stinging my eyes. How could she do this? The foolish girl threw herself in front of the king-bull. She defied the sacred will of the goddess to save my life.
I’ve barely elbowed my way into the training room when a royal guard seizes my arm. “Your father demands your presence in the throne room.”
My stomach shrivels with dread at the thought of his rage. But I can’t deal with that. Not yet. “Tarina—my slave—is wounded. Fetch a royal physician for her.”
The guard sniffs. “King Minos doesn’t waste the precious time and energy of a physician on a slave.”
“She’s a bull-dancer!”
“Then she serves the will of the goddess, whether she lives or dies.”
“She will live!” Tears scald my throat. It cannot be any other way. I turn to the guard and thrust out my arm, revealing the jagged cut. “I need a royal physician to tend to my wounds before I present myself before the king.”
The guard hesitates, his eyes narrowed.
