Outrun the Wind

by Elizabeth Tammi

  “You’re horrible at this, you know,” she tells me.

  I tighten my grip on her hands, and grin. “I could kill you with my eyes closed.”

  A sharp laugh escapes her, and when she looks to me, I fall still. The dance is forgotten for a moment, everyone moving but us. Her lips finally curl into an amused smile, and suddenly, the room feels almost suffocatingly hot. We rush back into the dance, and the moment is forgotten.

  When the last trill of the lyre fades into the air, the girls all exhale and clap loudly, calling for more. I see my father stand, his face kind but worried. “That’s enough for tonight, ladies. At tomorrow’s estate dinner we will dance again! It’s excellent preparation. I’m sure Greece will be most impressed with your talents.”

  Kahina keeps her head down the whole time. A bitter rush of shame pools in my stomach. The servants begin to file out, chatter still rising through the air. It’s coming soon. I can’t wait! Won’t it be magnificent? I move after them, wanting nothing more than to get back to the racetrack. But before I take even three steps, Kahina’s hand lunges out and grabs my forearm tight. I yank my head back to her, but her eyes are locked on my father. His face is no longer kind.

  We stand like this until the doors finally shut, the echo soft and final across the hall. Her fingers loosen, and I turn around, standing by her side. Father beckons us forward with his hand, weathered with age and work.

  He takes his seat at the head of the table, and Nora takes the seat beside him without blinking. Kahina and I slowly approach, and she sits at the seat beside Nora. I take the one next to Father. It feels a little like the day I first arrived, almost a month ago now. I glance at Kahina, her dark eyes locked on some invisible spot on the table. Something feels changed, and I’m not sure what.

  Father says nothing for a while, staring down the table. It’s so long that the end is shrouded in darkness. I wonder if he’s imagining it at coronation, every seat teeming with suitors—with potential power and prestige and money. There’s a few dishes still strewn across the surface, and Nora busies herself with stacking them.

  Father clears his throat. “There will be progress, or there will be no dancing at coronation.”

  I study my hands. My knuckles are interlocked like a tapestry. I glance over, and Kahina’s are the same. It’s her voice that comes first. “Yes, sir.”

  “Kahina. I had hoped you would make more progress with her.” As if I’m not sitting beside him. “I’ll admit she improved when you were there helping her, but still.”

  He’s right about that. The strains of the song ring invisibly through the air, the heat returns. I blink, and try to focus.

  Kahina clears her throat, clearly annoyed. “I’ll work on it with her more. Sir.”

  He nods, and I’m surprised by the rush of relief that floods me. There’s this lingering, constant fear that at any moment, Kahina will earn back her spot with Artemis, and leave this place—leave me—without a backward glance. But she’ll stay. At least for a little. I can’t do this alone, even though I know it’s selfish and wrong and terrible of me to wish for it, because she wants to leave.

  “Have you gone over the logistics of the coronation with her?” he continues.

  I watch as Kahina’s knuckles whiten. She clears her throat again. “Yes. But you could ask your daughter.”

  Warmth seeps through my core. Father’s eyes widen slightly. The plates in Nora’s hands clatter. He interlaces his fingers, and clears his throat again. “My apologies. After so long alone, I am not yet used to having her”—he winces, and finally meets my eyes—“to having you back with me.”

  “It’s all right,” I say softly. He trekked through the whole Peloponnese to find me, after all. “And yes, she told me the suitors will arrive soon, and I’m to choose the one I, uh . . . love.” It’s hard to spit the words out. I can see Meleager’s silhouette lurking in the shadows behind Kahina and Nora.

  Nora clucks her tongue. “That would be nice, eh?”

  Father glances at Nora so briefly I wonder if I imagined it. He quickly looks back to us, his eyes almost apologetic. “That would be nice, Atalanta, and I do hope it happens. Your mother—”

  He cuts off abruptly, and I lean forward. A shock of curiosity tears through me. “My mother what?”

  But he just shakes his head. “This marriage must also be one of strategy, my daughter. Be sure to listen to all the suitors, and keep careful track of what they have to offer. Might I advise you to strongly consider Zosimos of Mantineia? He lives just on the other side of the northern mountains and has ample resources.”

  The shadows descend fast and dark, encompassing all the light in the hall. At least, in my head they do—because suddenly I am fifteen again. Trees tear past me as I run, and run, and run, and now I know that I will be the fastest girl in Greece. In the world. I am the fastest—I have to be.

  “Atalanta?”

  Kahina’s voice pushes through the dark. I blink hard, and refocus on my father.

  “Zosimos?” I nearly choke on the word, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He continues on, unfazed.

  Through my periphery, I see Kahina lean slightly over the table. “Anyone from Delphi?”

  I frown at her. Kahina’ voice—usually calm or passionate or melodious—is too loud, too urgent.

  “I believe there were a few. I’d have to look back and find the names though,” Nora says. “Why?”

  “Oh,” Kahina says, her voice an octave too high. “I just hear they’re doing, ah, quite well for themselves. Lots of money.”

  Bitterness swells within me. It’s the truth. They’re filthy rich off their oracles and priestesses and games. Father nods thoughtfully, but moves on to list other lands and other men who might prove worthy. Her question is soon forgotten to them, but it’s all I can think of. That, and Zosimos. If he’s there, I . . .

  I’ll what? Panic deafens me, and I clutch my stomach, twisting the fabric of my tunic as hard as I can. I could run from here, but then I would be back to before, back on my own. That didn’t go so well in Delphi. This is my only chance at home—at family. I try to breathe. There’s plenty of suitors on the list. He is only one of them. I don’t have to say yes. Maybe I don’t have to say yes to any of them.

  Kahina frowns slightly, as if she can sense my panic. She clears her throat, and turns back to my father and stands with a gracious nod. “I believe it’s getting quite late. I plan to rise early tomorrow to engage in very focused training in the arts of dance and etiquette, so I should rest. Good night, King Iasus. Nora.”

  They say their goodbyes, and I curtsy slightly as I rise. On shaking feet, I follow her out of the dining room. But she continues walking straight out of the palace, back to her room, completely at ease, without so much as glancing back at me.

  Disappointment slowly pushes out my lingering panic. I’d been stupid to think she was rescuing me. I go out the opposite exit, through the courtyard. I’m greeted by gusts of cold that get less bitter with every passing night. The wind brushes past me, freezing the cold sweat that I hadn’t noticed broke out along the back of my neck.

  Clearly, she doesn’t want to be here. And I made a promise to her that I intend to fulfill. I walk alone through the black night.

  Apollo’s temple feels strange and foreign in the dark. It’s strange to be here—at the sun god’s temple—so late. The small rows of columns and the dim embers of the brazier are familiar enough, given the few times I’ve been here since that night I finally learned that the knife strapped to my hip was Kahina’s. Is Kahina’s, I suppose, but I’m not sure if she’d even want it back after everything. This is the first time I’ve been here alone, without her. I realize that’s why it feels strange. It’s not the darkness—it’s her absence.

  Restore what was mine.

  Even in my head, I hear Kahina’s bitterness swell as she reminds me of her task.
In a sense, I understand why Artemis needs her to prove her loyalty—Kahina did, admittedly, slay the goddess’s creation. I’m a little surprised she didn’t kill Kahina on the spot. But she did it to save me. My stomach roils, as it always does when I think about that. I try to picture Kahina, crouched in the thick Calydonian bushes, throwing one of her knives with that impeccable aim and impressive strength. I can easily imagine that. She seems intimidatingly good at everything, dancing and weaponry alike. But when I try to imagine why she threw it, I come up with nothing.

  The fact still stands that she did it, and I am forever in her debt. If Artemis wants this temple to be hers again, I’ll do whatever it takes. I’d burn it to the ground, if it wasn’t made of stone. I circle the temple for what feels like the thousandth time, trying to find any weakness that I can use to destroy it. Moonlight catches the marble.

  This place is unburnable. Unbreakable. What was Phelix thinking? Even if I manage to help Kahina ruin Apollo’s temple, how do we restore it to become Artemis’s? Nothing about this task seems simple—or possible. I have little regard for the Olympians lately, and though I am proud, I am not stupid. I sink to my knees, cringing as the cold marble hits my skin. I lock my eyes on the dim brazier, and hope that praying to Artemis in her brother’s temple won’t disintegrate me on the spot.

  I should never have pursued your boar, Lady Artemis. Punish me if you must. But Kahina didn’t act out of disloyalty to you, she only . . .

  I’m not sure how to finish the sentence.

  You’re lucky to have her as a huntress. One other thing. Don’t let Zosimos come back for me. You’re the goddess of maidens, so please—understand. He can’t have me. He can never have me.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Kahina

  I wake before dawn. I know I dreamt of something—there’s the lingering memory of the scent of sulfur, and green still tints my vision. Gasping, I heave myself into a sitting position, bracing my head between my legs and trying to remember how to breathe.

  When the sky shows the first hint of life, I dress faster than I ever have before, and practically run to the track. Being with Atalanta makes it easy to forget everything else. Her presence, for better and mostly worse, is all-encompassing. The sky is barely gray, the air still biting. I jog behind the palace, lungs burning.

  I cross my arms as I walk past the courtyard, the mostly grown-over racing track spreading out in an enormous oval before me. There’s a few lines of seats carved into a slope of hill behind the track, but the whole thing feels more like a memory. A reminder of Arkadia’s long-gone glory. But watching Atalanta’s bare feet pound against the firm earth, slowly stomping the weeds away, I know this land’s story is not over.

  Her legs are more movement than flesh. I know she notices me. Her eyes, narrowed and deadly focused, flick to me for half a second as she passes me. She’s gone so quickly that I have to whip my head to the side just to follow her motion. Her breath comes out in fast spurts that turn to mist in the brisk dawn. It doesn’t look like she plans on stopping anytime soon, so I walk over to the stone seats built into the hillside and sit.

  I watch her until the sun makes its final push off the horizon. The light reflects off her skin, slick with sweat and paler than when I first saw her—the punishment of a long winter and days of etiquette and dinners, not fighting and traveling. She finally stops, her breaths turning to gasps. Atalanta braces both her hands on the back of her head, arching her back to expand her lungs to let in air. I stand, my backside sore from the stone seat. She walks over to me, chest heaving. Her cheeks are bright pink.

  “Glad to see you’ve risen early to engage in the arts of dancing and etiquette, my princess,” I observe. She shoots me a glare, and I wait for her to fire back like she always does. But she sets her jaw firm, and stares at the ground. Her feet are covered in dirt, splatters of soil reaching up the back of her calves. Atalanta’s still breathing hard, and I watch her chest rise and fall, rise and fall—

  I jerk my gaze away. What am I doing?

  “Are you okay?” I blurt. I cross my arms and stare at the ground.

  “I . . . um.” She sounds confused. “I’m not sure.”

  “Coronation?” I ask, looking up to see her nod. I point triumphantly at her. “I knew it! I knew you were upset.”

  “Congratulations,” she says drily. With that, she turns on her heel. I reach out and grab her elbow, though she’s still facing away from me. She freezes, and I do the same, feeling betrayed by my own limbs. I quickly let go.

  “No, it—it’s okay. I’d rather stay here. Outside,” I ramble. “You can keep . . . training. We’ll tell your father we spent all day in your room, just poring over the list and strategizing over which suitor will suit you best.”

  To my relief, she cracks a reluctant smile. “Thanks.” It actually, for once, doesn’t sound completely sarcastic.

  But a worry pricks the back of my mind. “But, about that list—” Before I can finish, another voice shouts across the racetrack.

  “Hey!” Phelix yells, jogging across the track and waving his arms for our attention, even though it’s just me and her out here. We wave back, a bit perplexed. He runs like a distressed puppy. In his hands is a crinkled sheet of parchment. He finally reaches us, too worn out to speak. Atalanta quickly grabs the parchment from him, then frowns, seeming to remember the fact that she can’t read.

  Her face is already flushed, and it deepens. Wordlessly, she hands it to me. Phelix grins and Atalanta stares at me as I scan the writing. The script is effusive and elegantly penned, cordially accepting the invitation to come bid for Atalanta’s hand. It’s signed by Zosimos of Mantineia—the same man Iasus mentioned last night. I swallow hard, dread pooling in my stomach.

  “Well?” Phelix exclaims. He jerks his head toward Atalanta. “Go on, tell her! It’s the first one!”

  I swallow again, and take my time folding the letter, the parchment smooth and weathered under my fingers.

  “First of what?” Atalanta asks. I look up to her, and her eyes are clouded with worry.

  “The first acceptance of Arkadia’s invitation,” I answer slowly. “Zosimos has been the first to agree to come.”

  Phelix’s face is still split in a smile. “This is great news, Atalanta! If Zosimos is coming, then many others will too.”

  “Yes,” Atalanta whispers, after a beat. “Great.” And with that, she walks back to the track. I sigh, and Phelix’s smile vanishes.

  “Atalanta,” I call after her. “Come on.” But I don’t know what I mean by that. To stand up to her father? To submit to his will for the greater good? She hasn’t even looked back.

  She halts, and her fists clench. Her head whips back to Phelix, her braid lashing her shoulders. “There’s an armory here, no? There must be.” She stares hard at Phelix. “Show me.”

  I step between them. “Um, no,” I say. “Do not show her the weapons.”

  She rolls her eyes. “I’m not going to kill you, Kahina. I just want . . . I don’t know. To train? To feel like myself again?” She spits the words out almost casually, but the look on her face is still grave and uncertain.

  I stare back at Phelix, and concede a nod. He blinks twice, and I wonder if he feels any guilt that his marriage could never help save Arkadia. Now the pressure’s all on his sister. Or maybe it wouldn’t have mattered either way, since the heartbreak of his first love still lingers. Wordlessly, he points to a shed tucked behind the far side of the palace. Atalanta stalks toward it. Phelix raises his eyebrows at me, like he already knows I’ll follow. I roll my eyes, but run to catch up with her.

  “What is your problem?” I snap.

  She flings open the shed’s door. The wood is partially rotten, and the smell of mildew drifts over us. There’s barely enough room for one person, but she strides inside and grabs hold of my arm. Atalanta ducks her head down to mine—even after so many
weeks, her height still surprises me.

  “I know Zosimos.”

  Her face is hard—tight and fierce with some pain I don’t understand. My mouth falls open, and now I see why she’d looked so distant when her father spoke of him yesterday.

  “Atalanta—”

  She inhales hard, a soft whine escaping from her. But before I can think of a reply, she shakes her head once and exhales. Atalanta starts heaving bows and javelins into my arms. I brace my knees against the unexpected weight, still staring at her tight face. She takes a handful of arrows from a woven basket, and I watch her instinctively reach behind her shoulder to the quiver that’s lying in a forgotten heap in the corner of her suite. She moves past me, and after a moment, I follow her.

  A gathering of clouds has shifted in front of the sun, making Arkadia fade into mute colors. Phelix sits on the overgrown seats built into the small hillside, his elbows propped up on the row above him. He straightens when he sees Atalanta’s expression as she stalks past him onto the racetrack. Phelix looks to me, but all I can do is shrug. He’s her brother. He should be the one who knows how to walk up to her—what to say, what to do.

  But it’s me who walks to her. The clouds finally shift away, and the sun beats down relentlessly. The air is still cold, but it’s bearable with the light streaming down. Atalanta’s hair turns from straw to gold. She turns to me, ice in her eyes, and hefts her bow. “Watch this.” The arrow fires with the same speed and strength she shows while running, and it thuds neatly into the trunk of an olive tree at least fifty feet away from us. She looks at me, as if expecting praise. So I won’t give it to her.