I gather my chiton and push myself out into the night. The moon is full, and it washes the fields in a silvery glow. The palace looks ethereal in its light, cold and climbing into the sky. The kitchens stretch into it, a long and low building growing out of the courtyard. I trace my fingers along the coarse, wooden wall as I walk closer to the palace.
My hardest task is yet to come; I have to tell her. The servant quarters look small and warm and familiar just across the silver fields. There are so many places, suddenly, that I want to say goodbye to. Knots in my stomach form, and my pace falters. My fingers still touch the walls of the kitchens, though the palace is so close now. I’m nervous. Terrified.
I tap my fingers on the wall. There’s something . . . different about this fear. Nothing’s felt safe or right since this afternoon, when eyes straight out of my nightmares raked across me. I bite my lip and, with resolve, walk faster toward the palace. I’ll tell Atalanta. I’ll go back to the quarters.
And then I’ll wake up here for the last time.
I let my fingers fall from the wall, nerves clenching my stomach and fists into painful bunches. It’s hard to hear anything over a sudden roar of blood in my ears; it’s the only excuse I can offer when a pair of too-strong hands clutch my shoulders, spinning me around. My neck aches at the sudden motion, and I jerk instinctively back into the wall.
Stupidly, my first feeling is of relief—it’s not Hippomenes. The sensation does not last long. “You’re so beautiful tonight,” Zosimos whispers, the scent of watery wine swarming between us. He is far too close—his hands rest casually on my waist, but the sluggish accent to his speech and his unfocused eyes do little to slow my racing heart.
But I was made for far bigger monsters than this.
Without speaking, I lay my hands over his and push down from my core. My limbs are not particularly strong—not like Nikoleta or Atalanta’s—but I know I am stronger than Zosimos would ever give me credit for.
“Excuse me,” I snap. So much for a meaningful last night. I avoid his strange, cold eyes, and take a decisive step toward the side. His hands slam down on the walls on either side of me, trapping me between him.
“You danced beautifully, too,” he continues. I grit my teeth. Weeks of suitors staring at no one but Atalanta, and now, on my last night—this? Bitter laughter chokes out of me, and I move again—harder this time. His hands stay firm. “The way you danced with the princess?” He exhales appreciatively, and every muscle in my body primes for attack. “So tantalizing—”
“Get. Away. From. Me.”
“So you can get her to join us?” His words slur together, the ends chasing the beginnings, but the alcohol has done nothing to deter the sheer strength in his muscled arms. He laughs, and my stomach curdles when I try to imagine the things he must have done or dreamt about doing to Atalanta. “Delightful.”
The smallest tendril of panic begins to thread its way through me. I feel almost primal energy flood my veins, and I brace myself to fight—
—but faster than thought, he’s on the floor. Zosimos lets out a cry of surprise as Atalanta hurls into him, taking him down easily. His head makes a sickening sound as he thuds down on the tiled pathway, and Atalanta straddles his torso, throwing punches again and again and again, before clamping her hands around his neck.
He’s conscious, but won’t be for long.
It takes another few seconds for me to fully register that she’s here—here—and I think I say her name. But she doesn’t seem to hear me.
“Don’t you touch her,” she growls, the sound far more animal than human. This time, I’m sure I speak her name. Abruptly, she lets him go, jumping to her feet. She still wears the long, purple dress and golden laurel crown she reluctantly donned for dinner. Her gray eyes bolt to mine, flashing like unhinged and chaotic thunderstorms. “Are you hurt?”
I shake my head quickly, my heart racing no less than it had before she arrived. Zosimos is still on the floor, writhing and rubbing his neck, groaning. Evidently, this is not quite what he’d dreamt having her on top of him to be like.
“Atalanta,” I murmur.
She stares at me incredulously. Then, Atalanta grabs both my hands, pulling me into her. “You’re okay,” she whispers into my neck. Adrenaline still floods me, and my body is still tensed for a fight. Slowly but steadily, the feeling floods out like a broken dam. Too soon, Atalanta draws back, leading me away from him. Zosimos is bloodied, but still breathing.
I glare at him as we pass. I can’t fathom that he would’ve tried to—I push the thought away. Atalanta kicks him again for good measure. Her hand still clutches mine, and I hold on to her too, afraid to loosen my grip for even a moment.
We say nothing as we approach the palace. I know, without her speaking, that we are going back to her rooms. Fine by me—I don’t wish to walk alone again among these suitors. She leads me through the courtyard. The water in the fountains is liquid moonlight. I steal a final glance at the jewel-adorned sky before we enter the great hall for the second time this night.
It’s frozen in time. Empty and void of torchlight and guests, the room looks surprisingly small—in every sense of the word. The silence is a part of the hall, woven into every tapestry and climbing into the soaring ceiling. Iasus must be long retired to bed by now.
I manage to hold Atalanta’s hand more loosely, but I’m not letting go until I must. We take the stairs quickly, though no one seems to be around to see us. I hope Nora doesn’t come looking for me in the quarters—I have a feeling I won’t be back. The hall looks even smaller from up here, where the railings reach all the way across the second floor, giving us our own private observatory of the house below.
It looks even more abandoned and silent from above. I know the way to Atalanta’s suite by heart, but still allow her to lead us into them. She lets go of my hand to shut the door behind us.
The sound of the lock sliding shut is harmonious. Atalanta turns back to me, closing the distance between us. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
I exhale, and it comes out far more shakily than I thought it would. “Physically? Yes. You got there just in time—though I’m sure I could have handled him.”
She allows the smallest of smiles. “But you shouldn’t have had to,” she says. She brushes past me, and sits at the edge of her bed.
I walk toward the window and push aside thick cotton drapes. The night is dark, but I can see the shape of the mountains by the way they pattern the base of the horizon, eating up the stars. Tell her now. The words swim together. I lean back against her windowsill, rolling the words over again and again in my head—he’s come for me. I need to leave, Atalanta. Please, find a way to win these games for yourself.
But I keep staring at the mountains. Atalanta exhales, and I hear her bed shift and groan under her weight as she slides under the covers.
“Sleep, Kahina,” she whispers. I don’t bother arguing about going back to the quarters. Mostly because even if I should, I don’t want to. I consent silently and unbuckle my sandals, letting my hair loose from its haphazard bun. I run my fingers through it as best I can as I walk to the couch in her adjoining room.
But as I pass her bed, I hear her inhale once. Sharp and short. Loud enough to make me stop. “Sleep—here,” she rushes. “If you want, I mean. I would—I would feel better knowing you were safe.”
“Safe?” I laugh, and it’s too high and too shrill, but what else am I supposed to do with all these sudden nerves? They’re not the dark, trapping nerves though; these are freer, lighter, but bursting with caution nonetheless.
“As safe as an escaped oracle can be,” Atalanta whispers. I hear her hands smooth back the covers beside her. I can barely see anything in the room, but I drop my sandals where I stand. Tell her, Kahina. I shove the thought aside and trod over to the other side of her bed. Hands trembling, I reach to peel back the blankets and slowly slide m
yself inside—careful to stay strictly on my side, not touching her at all.
Her warmth still seeps through the whole bed. I don’t exhale for at least thirty seconds. My eyes are glued open, staring straight up, and I hear the bed shift again as Atalanta turns over on her side to face me.
“Kahina,” she says, her voice low. I allow myself to turn my face toward her. I feel the side of her leg press into mine. This bed is enormous, more than enough room for us both. We don’t have to touch. But we do. The silver in her eyes shimmers in the faint wash of moonlight from the window. “I will not lose to him.”
“I know,” I whisper.
She turns again, so her back faces me. Only now can I find the strength to close my eyes. I fall dreamlessly asleep to the sound of her breath, constant as waves breaking into shore.
When I wake, it is far too bright and far too warm. My eyelids glow pink, and I lean my weight sluggishly toward the warmth of—
My eyes slam open. She’s not here. My veins turn from fire to ice in an instant, and I shove myself into a sitting position. Through the open window, I already hear the bustle of suitors and spectators gathering by the track. No, no, no. I need to be there for her when she races against Zosimos.
But a quick glance around the room tells me she’s long gone—her sandals are absent, as is the short tunic she uses for running. Stupid girl. Why did she let me sleep in? Did she assume I’d wake on my own? Did she not want me to see Zosimos after last night?
Something else feels different. I look to my left; the bed is still slightly indented with her shape. I run my hands over the covers, and feel the barest traces of warmth still there. I reach for her pillows, and toss them aside.
All my breath leaves me at once. It’s gone. The golden blade. She always kept hers under her pillow, and now it’s gone. Why would Atalanta take it? I frantically feel under my pillow, then all the covers and underneath the bed.
Panic and shock claw their way up my throat.
Her knife isn’t here.
By the next time I inhale, I’m halfway out the door. I exhale as I tear down the steps. The sun bursts through from the windows and courtyard, and the house is painfully empty. The kitchens are silent. It looks far eerier than it had last night in the dark.
I break into a run once I reach the courtyard, feeling the smooth stones give way to thin grass under my feet. The crowd is the biggest yet—I can see that even from yards and yards away. My heart races faster than I can run, but I still keep pushing forward. The only relief is that no one’s cheering, which means she hasn’t started the race yet.
Yet.
My lungs burn, despite the air’s warmth, and now I wish I’d trained more with her when I’d had the chance. Too slowly, the figures in the distance gain definition and detail. I pour every ounce of speed I can gather into my legs, wondering how Atalanta has done this for so many weeks. And likes it.
Over the shoulders of the men beside the track, I see Ophelos raise his hand. No, no, no. I run faster than I imagined possible. Like always, Phelix leans against the trunk of the old oak by the south end of the track. Isidora and Nikoleta are with him, their packs already ready on their backs. Phelix looks almost laughably bored, even as Ophelos’s hand comes down in a blur. I swear I can hear it.
They turn to me, and I slam to a halt, my chest rising and falling too fast.
“Kahina?” Phelix asks.
Atalanta has given Zosimos an enormous head start. Her hands are empty, flashing at her sides with every careful stride. Zosimos looks terrible—the reds and blues and purples of his bruises are visible even from where I stand, even as he runs fast. Stupidly, he glances over his shoulder every few seconds, to see just how close Atalanta’s gotten.
He shouldn’t be able to do that.
Nikoleta moves to stand beside me. “She’s going slow,” she murmurs.
She’s going slow. It’s undeniable. A different source of fear clogs me. Is she going to lose? To him?
“Why is she—” I start, until she rounds the bend. Now she’s facing us. Zosimos is still considerably further ahead, close enough to the finish line that the suitors’ cheering has turned almost hostile.
It’s her face that tells me. Not her left hand, sneaking inside the front fold of her tunic and wrapping itself around the glinting gold I could recognize anywhere. It’s her cold eyes, her taut jaw, her cruel sneer.
“Oh my gods,” Phelix whispers. I’m glad they see it, too. Atalanta nimbly untucks her blade from inside her tunic, and the crowd falls silent. I hold my breath. What are you doing, Atalanta? What are you doing?
If Zosimos notices anything amiss, he doesn’t show it. Now that victory is just steps away, he focuses all his attention forward, even allowing the faintest of smiles to dance across his thin lips.
I clutch at Nikoleta’s arm. Isidora moves closer to me, in the corner of my vision. Phelix pushes ahead, getting as close to the track as he can—I think he shouts her name, but I can’t hear anything. The blade cuts through the air, hurtled with unforgiving strength. It finds its home in Zosimos’s back. I don’t hear him scream. He staggers, and drops of startling red fall into the dirt just before he does.
Zosimos lands in a heap at Atalanta’s feet, her blade of gold sticking up from his back. Red seeps everywhere. Oh, gods. Is he alive? He lays unmoving. Atalanta kicks him over with her foot, so the blade in his back digs deeper. I close my eyes and hear Isidora exhale. If he was alive, he’s not anymore.
I hear the cheers of the crowd return full force, louder than ever before. When I dare to open my eyes again, Atalanta is alone on the track, standing above Zosimos’s bloodied body, her face ashen and empty. Wearily, she turns her gaze up to her father’s. I follow and see the same overwhelming terror and confusion that I feel written across his face. Nora’s eyes narrow, and as she examines the hysterical crowd, I know she realizes it too—the audience’s own bloodthirsty interests are the only thing saving Atalanta from certain slaughter.
It is the first time I am grateful for the suitors. Phelix’s jaw is open wide. He turns back to us, crestfallen and perplexed all at once. Tears spill onto his cheeks: from shock, horror, or a combination of the two. I need to tell him why she did it, but I am not wholly certain myself. I realize I’m still clenching Nikoleta’s arm. I meet her eyes. “What just happened?”
“You’re asking me?” she scoffs.
Isidora leans into us, her amber eyes stealing the sun’s light. “What—exactly—happened when you told her last night, Kahina?”
I look back over the track. Atalanta holds her father’s gaze as a group of men rush onto the track, taking away Zosimos’s body. I blanch—his eyes are still open, only slightly less unsettling than they’d been last night. “He tried to hurt me,” I say slowly.
As if she feels my gaze, Atalanta turns to look at me. Her expression never changes. “To rape me, I think. She—she got him off me. And this morning, her knife was missing.” I exhale shakily. What will they do to her? “I came as fast as I could.”
“Where is he?” Nikoleta growls, her eyes roaming over the crowd. “Where’s Hippomenes?”
“Below the king,” I whisper. I hadn’t seen him until I’d known where to look. Nikoleta looks first to me, suspiciously.
She examines me carefully, exchanges an indecipherable glance with Isidora, then glances up to him. He cheers alongside a few other men, laughing and joking like old friends. But his eyes land on Atalanta with deadly intent. Iasus’s smile is the most fake it’s ever been, as he tries desperately to go along with the crowd. To make it all seem like a plan. A show.
He leans over to Nora, and she nods. I watch as she shoves her way down the benches and walks onto the track. This spurs me to action. I let go of Nikoleta, and run over to her. Atalanta doesn’t need any servants to create a barrier for her today—the blood stains do the work far better. I wonder if a
nyone even wants to marry her at this point, or if they only stay to see a stroke of magic, of entertainment, or whatever word they want to use to mislabel this.
I’m by her side just seconds before Nora. I can’t read her expression at all, and that bothers me more than the red dirt around us. Her hands shake slightly, and I reach for one. Nora grabs her by both shoulders, and saying nothing, pushes her toward the palace.
I let go of her hand, but follow quickly behind. The crowd cheers as we traverse the fields. When I glance behind me, I try to silently apologize to Nikoleta and Isidora. I see Iasus attempting to subtly leave the audience, warding off questions and exclamations as best he can. My stomach pits at the thought of what he might say or do to his daughter. She killed a man. A darker fear splinters through me. Will she be killed in return?
Just beneath him, Hippomenes has stopped smiling. He watches us as we leave, and as much as I want to believe he’s staring at Atalanta, my intuition is rarely wrong. She and I are not so separate after all, and if he wants one of us, he will have to take the other.
I turn back around and jog to catch up with Nora’s furious pace.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Atalanta
Nora makes me and Kahina sit down next to each other at the dining table, just as we did on my first day here. Neither of us have spoken. There are a million words crammed at the base of my throat, dying to be spoken or screamed, but not here. Not with Nora lingering by the front doors for my father.
I did what had to be done.
He won’t touch anyone anymore.
But that doesn’t stop my hands from trembling wildly. There’s no remorse. No fear tucked anywhere in my soul. Nora slips outside, probably to calm Father before he storms in and kills me on the spot.
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