“You’re very fast, Nikoleta,” Isidora muses. “But she’s something else entirely.”
The daughter of Ares makes a rude noise. “I might beat her.”
This morning’s race was an easy win, something weighed down only by the impossible growth of visiting spectators and the cold assessment from Zosimos’s eyes as Atalanta barreled down the track. Every step over the finish line brings us one day closer to that reckoning—Zosimos versus Atalanta. My stomach weaves in and over itself, a loom of anxiety. I don’t register that she’s walking toward us until the girls beside me suddenly tense.
Atalanta comes to a cautious halt before us, her chest silently heaving from the extra strain she’s been putting on herself in preparation for her biggest race yet. I wait for some snarky remark or casual greeting to come from my lips, or hers, but silence reigns. Love like that, I remember. My chest is a shallow, breakable thing.
Isidora and Nikoleta keep their heads ducked demurely and make hasty excuses to leave us alone. My arm darts out to Nikoleta, bidding her not to make me be with Atalanta alone, but she easily slips out of my grip. She and Isidora huddle close and walk in sync from the track, into the brightening light. Atalanta’s neck catches the light as she turns to watch them go.
I’m fairly certain she’s figured out who they are, but I explain anyway. “Huntresses of Artemis, Nikoleta and Isidora.”
She turns sharply to me. “They’ve come for you?”
I nod, a bit taken aback by the urgency in her voice. Atalanta falters for a moment, before taking the seat beside me. We look out over the track, which has become well-paved and defined by now. A product of my mind, her legs, and both of our ridiculous dreams.
“It actually worked.” Through my periphery, I see her turn to me. “Will you go back to the Hunt?”
“I don’t know,” I whisper. My mind is far from my own dilemma, even though it shouldn’t be. “Will you lose to Zosimos?”
Half her mouth lifts in a grim smile. “What do you think?” She stares at me until her mouth sets into a straight line, and the gray in her eyes clouds over with worry. “My father won’t let it go.”
Before I know what I’m doing, my hand bolts out and latches onto her knee. We both tense. “Don’t.” Her gaze is locked on my hand. I don’t move it. For all her wildness, Atalanta is still too new to this—to a home, a family—and it’s making her vulnerable. She might make herself lose. She might actually make herself lose. And if I’m gone, who will stop her? “Don’t lose to him, Atalanta.”
“Of course I won’t,” she snaps. Her tone is angry, but relief floods my chest, even though she’s right—she’d sooner slaughter him. Gently, she removes my hand and stands, crossing her arms as she examines the track. “I thought I would scare them all away. But more men arrive every day.”
My fists clench. I want to stand up and go to her, but I stay sitting, scared of everything. “I want you to be happy,” I tell her, and I’m surprised at how easy it is to say. How true the words roll off my tongue.
“Do you?”
I frown up at her. “Yes.”
The lines creasing her forehead slowly ease, and I realize she was testing the truth of my words. Reassured, she grants me a small, quivering smile. My chest tightens. I should tell her I need to leave here.
“Atalanta—”
“I’m going to practice more,” she interrupts. Her voice manages to sound brittle and thick at the same time. “If you’ll excuse me.”
I close my eyes and breathe in once. Open and exhale. I should tell her that it will all work out. I should tell her that I want to stay. I should tell her how I feel, except I’m not even sure myself.
Instead, I nod. She walks to the track, and I walk away, the sound of her feet pounding against the track persisting all the way.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
KAHINA
The next morning, Nikoleta and Isidora wave me over from the side of the benches. They huddle under the shade of a sprawling olive tree.
“Kahina!” Isidora smiles. Her amber eyes are slightly unfocused, not quite making contact with mine. She seems to be scanning the crowd, but she squeezes my arm once, and I return her grin. “I assume Princess Atalanta will win again today?”
“You assume correctly,” I reply. For once, it makes no difference if it’s me or Delphi speaking. Nikoleta studies Atalanta intently, analyzing every preparation she makes for the race. Her dark eyes roam over her figure with purely logical resolve. Nikoleta’s dull hair is pulled back in a simple ponytail that falls straight down her back in a rigid, purposeful way.
I barely register when the race starts. Atalanta explodes down the track, quickly overtaking her suitor despite his head start. It feels like a memory. The crowd screams louder than usual, until I realize it’s because the crowd is larger than usual. I scan the expanded rows, my head swimming.
“More arrived at dawn,” Nikoleta says quietly, like she’s read my thoughts. I nod silently. My fingers tremble as the cheering rises to a crescendo, and Atalanta darts across the finish line. Her face looks almost bored. Isidora and Nikoleta join the applause, and they’re obviously impressed.
“That’s insane,” Isidora yells over the noise. Her eyes are wide with shock. “That’s insane.”
“Are you sure she’s not a demigoddess?” Nikoleta asks.
“She’s not.” Something like pride swells within me. I bite away a smile. “She’s just, well, insane.”
Atalanta shoves her way back to the palace aggressively, and the suitors laugh at the fierceness of her features. The men who have been here the longest know better than to follow and keep the new ones back. But they smile so jovially that it’s clear they still don’t fear her. None of them seem to—at least, not until they’re lined up on the track in front of her.
Part of me wants to follow her. I don’t know what she does after these races, but the smarter part of me figures she wants to be alone. I make myself stand perfectly still as she walks briskly away from the track, and the sun brings out beads of sweat along the back of my neck as the suitors begrudgingly retreat to their tents. When only a few remain, I turn to Nikoleta and Isidora, preparing for their pointed stares and pleas for me to leave.
But they aren’t even looking at me. Nikoleta’s eyeing the track, and Isidora’s looking at her with a conspiratorial grin.
“Oh, go on,” I sigh. Relief swarms through me, even though I figure it’s just delaying the inevitable. The huntresses make a mad dash for the track. I smile as they start bolting across the dirt, though Isidora wisely decides not to bother seriously racing Nikoleta.
Just when I consider joining them, someone beside me says, “They’re pretty fast.”
I jump, and Phelix ducks his head apologetically. “Sorry,” he murmurs. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“It’s all right.” I stare at him, and my mouth goes dry. Sometimes, in the right light, it’s captivating to see his and Atalanta’s shared features. Though, they don’t really extend past the surface; Phelix is gentle where Atalanta is brash. Phelix has open hands and a bleeding heart. His sister has clenched fists stained with blood.
He frowns the longer I stare at him. Birdsong and the girls’ laughter mingle together, washing Arkadia in a very false semblance of calm. We glance over to the track, where Isidora and Nikoleta tear off their headdresses as they keep sprinting down the track. I practice the lie I’d come up with so Phelix won’t ask any questions. Servant girls from Calydon, servant girls from Calydon—
But Phelix makes a strangled noise, like he’s been punched straight in the throat. I turn back to him. He’s gone remarkably pale.
“Ah,” I say uneasily, following his gaze. “Servant girls from . . . Calydon. They raise them pretty athletic up there.” He starts shaking his head, the sun’s light rippling through his hair. His lips shape silent words that I can’t deciph
er. I grab his shoulder hard, and make him look at me.
“What is it?” I whisper.
“It’s her,” he chokes. Phelix’s gaze is iron-solid, focused straight on one of the girls tilting her head up to the sun, long curls spilling down her back. The one I thought I’d known well. The one, I realize, who had told Artemis not to send me to this place, Arkadia—her home. My mind bends as the two universes intersect.
Phelix says her name like a prayer. “Isidora.”
My hands fly to my mouth. Phelix’s breaths come loud and heaving. Before I can anticipate what he’ll do, he runs to her. His voice pierces the wind. “Isidora!”
She wheels around just before he comes crashing into her, that long-roaming ship pulling into harbor. Isidora’s face falls, more sad than surprised, and she catches him at arm’s length. For a moment they stay frozen, arms intertwined, staring at one another helplessly, straddling elation and bitterness.
Nikoleta gapes at me, and I blink back a surprising wave of tears. These are two people I’ve known separately but entirely. Or maybe, as they lean their foreheads against each other, I realize I haven’t known them at all. Nikoleta’s calm stature veers into dangerous levels of expression. She slowly walks away from them, but they’ve already returned deep within the world of their own making.
Selfishly, I want to walk to them—I want to hear the words that Phelix’s been dreaming of saying to her for years. I want to know why she left Arkadia. Isidora clutches onto him, and I can hear the charged tone of his voice across the field—but not enough to discern anything. Nikoleta reaches my side. We cross our arms and stare at them until finally Phelix looks to me, holding up a finger. I nod, not sure if he’s asking permission or telling me they need space. But they move together away from the palace, into the ring of forest that surrounds the central palace grounds.
Nikoleta and I exchange nervous glances, but then I see her eyes lock on something behind me. Nerves churn in my stomach as I turn around, but it’s Atalanta, finally emerging from her suite. I let out an enormous breath. Atalanta’s hair is still pulled back in a tight braid, and the white fabric of her short tunic stands out starkly from her deeply tanned legs. She hasn’t bothered to wear her sandals.
She walks toward me, and it feels like a dream—everything soft and slow and golden. Atalanta doesn’t falter in her forward stride, but I can see the exact moment she notices me. Her eyebrows draw slightly closer, and the side of her mouth quirks upward. I raise a hand in feeble greeting, keenly aware of Nikoleta’s eyes on me the whole time. Atalanta nods, then turns her gaze over to the tree line. I watch her eyes follow Phelix and Isidora’s figures. The lines of her face harden again by the time she reaches us.
I don’t want her to ask anything, and I do my best to convey that with my eyes. I clear my throat, and jerk my head toward Nikoleta. Atalanta straightens and examines her with obvious respect.
“You must be the daughter of Ares,” she says, her voice overly formal, just as we’d practiced in etiquette. Nikoleta nods once, giving her a generous half-smile. She’s just about as tall as Atalanta. I feel a second, lesser wave of that strange worlds-colliding disbelief again.
“Nikoleta wants to race you!” I blurt. They glance to me, mildly panic-stricken. This is probably an obvious ploy to keep their minds off the strange relationship between Isidora and Phelix, but it’s not a complete lie; Nikoleta had mentioned yesterday that she wondered if she could beat Atalanta. She is the daughter of the god of war, after all. Nikoleta stands a good chance. She gives an awkward shrug to Atalanta.
“All right,” Atalanta says slowly. She smirks. “As long as it’s not for my hand in marriage.”
“Of course not,” Nikoleta laughs. “Just pride.”
Both my and Atalanta’s eyebrows launch up. This just got interesting—she’s hit Atalanta in her weakest spot. Soon, they’re lined up side-by-side at a crudely drawn starting line. Nikoleta and Atalanta look startlingly interchangeable in several ways: the firm brows, the vicious eyes, and those massive, powerful thighs that carry the strength they’re both famed for. They crouch low and steady, nearly vibrating with the preparation for insurmountable speed. A few suitors have taken notice, and they glance over with increasing frequency. I pay them no mind. At least, I try not to.
Atalanta swivels her head back toward me. “Well? A countdown, please?”
I shout, “Three—two—one!”
It’s unlike any of the races against the suitors. Immediately, I recognize Atalanta’s extreme wisdom in not offering Nikoleta a head start. Though Atalanta runs with the grace and swiftness of an animal—a lioness after trembling prey—Nikoleta moves with the practiced strength and intelligence required of Sparta’s most renowned warriors. For the first time, I genuinely don’t know who will win. I nearly collapse my lungs with encouraging screams to no particular recipient. With a feral grin, Nikoleta turns slightly toward her small, gathering audience as she rounds the final lap, and it may be the only thing that keeps her from beating Atalanta. In her millisecond of distraction, Atalanta extends her last strides, and flings herself across the finish line. Nikoleta crashes over after her less than a heartbeat later.
The opponents walk a lap around the track, laughing breathlessly with their hands extended behind their heads to open their lungs for more air. I let out a tired breath—I think I had more than a slight fear of Atalanta losing, even if it were just for practice. I jog to meet them at the track.
There’s no foliage to shield us as I walk alongside Atalanta and Nikoleta, whose breaths still come fast and heaving. The sun pours over us relentlessly. But they still laugh and taunt each other, and any imagined tension is long gone.
“That,” Atalanta pants, “was the only time I’ve ever felt fear.”
Nikoleta smirks, and concedes a shrug. “I still wasn’t fast enough for you, princess.”
Atalanta waves her hand in dismissal. Humble, jovial, and cordial? Perhaps my etiquette lessons didn’t fly completely over her head. I imagine Atalanta coming back to the Hunt with us, and I can almost believe it might work. Nikoleta and Isidora would be thrilled, certainly. Atalanta might be content. But I can’t bear even the thought.
To mix these two worlds any more than they already are would be infinitely painful—a world of endless dawns, where what I want and fear and can never have all impose themselves upon each other, persisting into every sunset.
But what if it could save her?
We circle the track as the two racers catch their breath. I watch the trees half-heartedly, wondering if I’ll catch a glimpse of Isidora and Phelix. I’m sure Nikoleta and Atalanta are bursting with questions to ask, but they’re not answers we have a right to know.
And if my eyes and head hadn’t been so distracted, maybe I would’ve been ready when I heard his voice.
“You almost got married this afternoon, princess.”
In the time it takes him to finish his sentence, I have relived every moment in Delphi a thousand times over.
Atalanta starts to snort a dismissive laugh, like she gives to all her suitors, but it doesn’t take long for her to recognize his voice. All three of us stop in our tracks and turn to face the man standing at the back edge of the track. My eyes fall helplessly over my cousin. Nikoleta’s hands reach for the weapons she left by the benches before she raced. Atalanta goes deathly still, rage painted across her face in ugly brushstrokes.
Our Lady thinks Apollo might know where you are, Isidora had told me. I should have listened.
Hippomenes stands several paces ahead of us, and he lets his gaze slide over us once. His eyes are greener than the sea he knows so well. Without speaking another word, he smiles brightly at us each in turn. And then he continues his stroll, sauntering casually from us. My ears ring and a surprising rush of territorial rage seizes me; I know I can’t let him just do this, or be here, so I hike up my chiton and start—
But then Atalanta and Nikoleta catch my arms. My throat feels raw, though I don’t remember screaming anything. It’s pointless for me to struggle against them. I go limp, and they quickly half-carry me to the benches. Nikoleta watches his receding figure with apprehension. I think one of them says my name, but I can’t focus.
I’d been excellent at forgetting about him in Arkadia. And now I recall every line and edge of his face, the slope of his shoulders, the way he walks slightly off-kilter anytime he’s off his ship. I cannot choose what is possible to forget.
“It’s him,” I manage, my weight pouring into Atalanta. Her eyes are storming, and she glances to Nikoleta. I fold over myself, bracing myself up by my wrists. I dig my fingers into the Arkadian soil. I’m here, I’m here, I’m here.
But so is he.
My mind screams for me to run, fast and far, but my heart beats sluggishly. My legs are dead weight. The sunlight is too bright and intense, and I feel my neck dampen with sweat. I’m still freezing.
“Kahina,” Atalanta tries again. Her voice cuts through the murkiness a bit more every time she repeats my name. If she can be coherent, after all he’s done to her, then I need to be, too. Nikoleta finally kneels down next to me. He must have disappeared into the suitors’ tents.
I stare at my hands, half-submerged in the dirt. Nikoleta carefully grabs underneath my chin, pulling my head gently up. Her eyes are so dark, even darker than mine, and the concern in them makes my breath come a bit easier. Atalanta leans closer still. She and Nikoleta crowd my vision. It’s better than seeing the stretching white fabric of the tents in the distance.
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