Excited chatter greets me when I walk into the Diodorus household. The day has passed, and Nyx’s night has risen, making me shiver as I cross beneath the painted doorway.
My adoptive parents exclaim when they see me, waving around chalices overflowing with wine.
“Where have you been?” my mother, Révna, demands, rushing past the roaring hearth to fold me into her arms.
“Leave the poor girl alone. She must have been preparing.” Ephor Apidanos Diodorus is suddenly behind her. As one of Sparta’s longest-reigning magistrates, my father has perfected the art of masking his expression. I’ve never been able to read his face.
My mother’s arms are thin and comforting. I lean into her embrace just a little bit more than I normally would. The goddess of luck must have been shrouding all of our shoulders when Ligeia brought my brothers and me to Sparta. Had we ended up at any other household, our lives would be so different.
“Preparing for what?” I ask.
Révna’s arms drop as a collection of surprised and confused faces turn to me from over the flames of the hearth. Alkaios has come for dinner, as he does most nights, with his wife and twin sons. Ligeia’s carrying a tray of fruit and cheeses. My handmaid lowers the tray, letting me pluck a handful of feta. Pyrrhus stands behind her, mid-reach for the grapes, with a bewildered expression.
“You didn’t hear?” he asks. He’s grinning now, a contagious smile I want to return with every fiber of my being, but he could only be referring to one thing.
“Obviously not.” I cross my arms.
Pyrrhus can barely contain himself. “There will be an agon. Tomorrow.”
“Another? I feel like there’s a new one every other day.” I reach for another piece of cheese to avoid my brothers’ gazes. They can always tell when I’m lying.
Pyrrhus’s chest puffs out. “To be among Helen’s personal guard. They announced it just after you left the arena this morning.”
“You left?” Alkaios’s eyes see too much. “We usually have to drag you away.”
Since my dance with death, I’ve been preparing for my next tangle with the goddess of night.
“Do you realize what this means, Daphne?” Pyrrhus asks, grinning.
I shake my head. “Another excuse for Spartan men to postulate like a bunch of peacocks?”
He shakes me hard enough to rattle my teeth. “This is my chance at redemption.”
“Wha-what?” I blink.
“This is how I get my honor back,” he says, dropping his voice low with a furtive glance around us. “No one will care that I am the Deserter of Carneia if I win this title.”
Joy blooms inside me, warm and fierce. This is exactly what Pyrrhus needs to remove the dark mantle shrouding his future. His reputation has decidedly soured since that fated festival last year. Despite me salvaging our family’s honor, many still resent him for failing to show up to the race. Some whisper that he did it on purpose and that he sought to bring ill-fortune to the armies.
“Only one can win, though.” Ligeia’s good eye is on my face, missing nothing, her other clouded and gazing far away.
That joy sputters as quickly as it rose. The gods want me to win the agon as well, which would mean not only stealing that victory from Pyrrhus, but also his chance at redemption.
“Will you enter the competition, too?” he asks.
I blink. In another lifetime, I would never steal this from my brother. I wouldn’t even think of it. But the gods commanded me, and the fate of Queen Helen—and all of Sparta—could be at risk. All our fates decided by this single agon.
“And let you sweep the floor with me in front of all of Sparta? Never.” I squeeze his arm and force a smile. “Tyche favors you.”
His eyes shutter, darkening. “I don’t need the gods to help me win.”
Pyrrhus turns, prattling with Alkaios about what he can expect tomorrow, how he’s been practicing every night for a chance like this.
It truly is the opportunity he’s been training endlessly for. He’s carved himself into one of the greatest soldiers Sparta will ever see—if the kingdom will ever forgive him enough to recognize that.
Not only will I have to try to steal this victory from him, despite everything he’s done to earn it, I might not even be successful. He might wallop me into the earth and spit in my face for even trying.
My stomach churns. I couldn’t eat, even if I wanted to.
But I know I should force myself to despite the queasiness rising in my belly. My hand passes over the feta and instead reaches for the plain bread. Ligeia’s brows rise. Damn Olympus, she really misses nothing.
With no desire to field her questions, I leave my family to their excitement.
I don’t choose to sleep in the garden, night after night, simply because my body rejects the comforts of my bed. Rather, my body craves the god who once laid on the earth beside me.
The specter of Apollo’s warmth harangues me, dragging my thoughts back to him and his secrets, Zeus and his power, and finally Nyx and her wrath. Fear curls in my belly, threatening to make me sick.
I fight sleep for as long as I can, going over dory swings and battle formations. I can fight it for only so long. Nyx’s claws pull me into the deep throes of nightmares as surely as the beast Cetus pulls great ships into the dark depths of the sea.
The giant stone stands of the gymnasion arc into the sky around me, filled to bursting with Spartans. They thump their feet and pound their chests, screaming and yelling until their throats must burn, all to support their friends and kin.
Dawn has barely spilled across the sky, and already hopeful competitors crowd the pitch of grass and sand. All of them I recognize from my training and, I’m glad to see, quite a few women are among them. From raised seats in the center of the stands, the entire royal family has come to watch.
Helen, beautiful as ever, wears a long red chiton, and gold silk is braided into her chestnut hair. Beside her, Menelaus glares down at the competitors, wearing Mycenaean gray. To Helen’s left are her twin brothers, Pollux and Castor. I wonder if Castor can recognize me from where he sits as the Mothakes who stole his victory last Carneia.
“Mothakes, Mothakes, Mothakes!” they cheer, thumping their seats in rhythm as I stride across the grass toward the growing crowd.
Catching the stag, though with Artemis’s divine intervention, seems to have won me a lot of favor.
I move to Pyrrhus’s side, cheeks burning. I don’t think he’s noticed me yet, his focus on the other men walking toward the line of competitors, some looking like they would rather disappear under a rock, and others preening more than peacocks. He shifts on his feet, gaze sweeping in my direction. My breath catches and he stiffens.
A maelstrom of emotions flash across his face. A hollow ringing fills my ears as a tic forms in his jaw. I offer him a close-lipped smile, everything screaming in me to run for the stands. If he wins this competition, maybe we could work together to protect Helen during the conclave.
His face shifts, a reflection of a deer in his eyes.
No, I will not draw him further into the games of the gods.
A trumpeting of horns precedes the herald striding across the grass. We turn along with the other competitors to face him.
“Sister,” Pyrrhus says from the corner of his mouth. “Why are you here?”
To protect Helen at the behest of the gods you despise.
“To make you look better when I inevitably lose,” I lie between my teeth.
I’ve been doing a lot of lying to the people I love most, lately.
“How uncharacteristically pessimistic of you.” He looks over me, frowning. “You said you wouldn’t enter in the agon.”
I cannot meet his gaze. Instead, I look to the crowd, waving my arms and grinning. The crowd roars anew, many standing and cheering.
“Looks like they already have a favorite,” Lykou says, striding up to us.
He offers me a warm smile, our spat yesterday forgiven but not forgotten. He told me that he, too, still feels the horrors of last summer inflicted upon him. That he can still taste the blood of Minos’s soldiers.
I take his hand, giving it a firm squeeze. “Here to beat Pyr and me senseless?”
“You, perhaps.” He laughs. “But I’ve seen how hard your brother has been training these last few months.” He nods to Pyrrhus. “We might come to regret this in the morning.”
I already do.
The kerykes climbs atop the wooden dais, the red cloak stretching behind him. The herald’s skin is weathered and scarred from years of service to Sparta. I and about fifty other competitors await instruction. We don’t have to wait long before his words echo throughout the enormous stadium. His booming voice is the reason he was chosen to be the kerykes.
“Spartans,” he roars and receives a cheer from the stands in response. “Are you ready to test your mettle? To put your strength and courage to the test? Only the greatest among you is worthy to protect our anassa.”
Another roar soars through the audience, so loud they must hear it all the way in Crete. Spartans are a people born and bred for battle, and they live for very few things more than an agon.
“First we will test your precision,” he goes on, “and only twenty of you will move on.”
A frown creases between my brows as I consider what the test will be. Likely something to challenge our skills with a spear or bows.
“Next, we will test your strength. Only ten of you will advance.”
I purse my lips. So, something that will pair us off. A duel of sorts. I’m somewhat rusty as of late with a knife, finding myself unable to pick them up after that fateful night with Minos and the sons of Ares.
A shiver wracks my spine as an image of their faces flashes before my eyes. Of their claws reaching for me and of Theseus’s death. We’d been so close to succeeding, only to have my friend’s life stolen at the brink of victory.
Lykou squeezes my hand hard enough to drag me back to the present.
“And last, we will test your courage.”
The cheers around the stadium must be heard all the way up in Olympus now, Spartans roaring for all to hear just how courageous our people are.
The kerykes waves an arm to the end of the stadium. Behind the herald, Spartiates raise ten golden hoops into the air at varying heights. Some are larger than a horse, while others are no wider than my fist.
Next, servants come forward bearing stands of spears. We accept the weapons and march in perfect unison toward the red line painted across the grass, standing in a single-file line with Pyrrhus before me and Lykou after.
We need no instruction. The first, unlucky competitor strides forward. He stands thirty yards from the first hoop and, without taking aim, throws. To the surprise of no one, it goes wide. Growling, he marches to the next, and then the next, before missing all of the hoops. I cluck my tongue. What a fool.
The other competitors fare much better. We’re raised with the dory, the weapon of choice for many Spartans. The spear’s reach is longer than the sword, the wood heavy and thick enough to shatter most metal. For many soldiers, the dory is a mere extension of their arm.
When it’s Pyrrhus’s turn, he proves as much. His aim is true and finds the center of every single hoop. The applause he receives is still begrudging. He’ll have to do more to earn Sparta’s respect—and forgiveness.
I’m next. I walk stiffly to the line and heft my spear. The wood is lighter than the ones used for duels and the bronze butt is removed. I balance it in my hand and stop at the marker for the first hoop. It’s the widest of the bunch but also the farthest. They would never make this too easy. I reach the spear back as far as I’m able. The muscles in my arm are clenched and my other hand points toward my target.
The cheers are nearly deafening, almost impossible to ignore. I take a deep breath, focusing on the dark center of the golden hoop. The breeze makes it sway.
On my exhale, I let the spear soar. It flies across the space and through the hoop, tip planting firmly in the grass beyond. The next eight hoops are much of the same, each finding their target with easy precision. The sun has risen just beyond the field, making it harder and harder to aim.
With my tenth dory, I reach back, left hand pointing to the center of the smallest hoop a nearly impossible distance of forty yards away.
The last time I fought with a dory, it found its target in Nyx’s heart. Her shadows reached for me, blurring the edges of my vision. They coiled through the air, my spear flying straight through them.
The white dory, Praxidikai, as Apollo named it, pierces her chest. Victory surges through me in a great rush. The ringing in my ears is snuffed as a smile curls her lips. Nyx rips the spear from her body without so much as a grimace and, as easily as if a mere splinter, snaps it in two.
A shudder quakes my shoulders just as I throw.
The spear glances off the edge of the hoop.
A groan echoes around the stadium. Cursing under my breath, I return to my place among the other competitors. Luckily, only Pyrrhus has a perfect score so far, but ten others have similar scores to mine, and there are still five more to go. At least I have the goddess Tyche’s favor right now.
I advance to the next round by the barest of margins. I imagine the gods watching from atop Olympus and cursing my foolishness. I will have to forget Nyx and the horrors she inflicted if I’m to succeed. The memories will only get in the way. I shake my head, thoughts of Apollo and his family eddying around.
Ten circles are drawn in white chalk around the arena. The kerykes commands us to stand in a line. Hands behind our backs and shoulders straight, none of us react as he marches up and down, examining the competitors. I bite the inside of my cheek but command my face to show no expression, praying to Olympus that I’m not paired off against Pyrrhus.
The herald stops at my feet, looking me up and down with a disdainful expression. No doubt he resents that a Mothakes is allowed to compete, despite the love the public has shown me after last summer.
His pale eyes flick to my brother and his lips curl upward. Sweat drips down my spine. His eyes turn to my right, and he grins even wider. He dances for a moment, surprisingly light-footed despite his immense size.
“You two.” He points to someone down the line from me. “The far corner.”
He’s paired me off with the largest man in all of Sparta. Leandros stands a good two heads higher than me, his shoulders twice as wide. The muscles in his arms and legs are likely strong enough to crack my skull wide open. I’ve seen him knock a man unconscious with a single punch.
With a smile so sweet it could choke, I turn back to the kerykes. His grin vanishes. The fool has no idea I’ve taken down creatures twice Leandros’s size and walked away.
Without looking back, I march to the waiting duel circle. Leandros follows, footsteps so heavy I swear the ground shakes. The air is ripe with heady anticipation as we face each other from either side of the circle. The big oaf doesn’t bother to move into position. He stands, rigid and wide, staring me down through his long, oily black hair.
The Minotaur lurks in the shadows of my mind, a great dark beast made of shadows. His rancid breath makes my stomach churn.
“He’s dead,” I whisper to myself, shaking my head. “I killed him last summer.”
The reminder fills me with at least a semblance of calm. With a swift breath, I bend my knees and raise my fists, turning sideways so that Leandros can see as little of me as possible.
“First blood spilled decides the winners. No cheats,” the herald calls. “No dirty tricks. Win with strength and dignity, Spartans.”
A warm breeze stirs the air, scented with lavender, cedarwood, and the sea. The gods watch.
A salphinx echoes across the arena. The horn’s call hasn’t even ended before I leap across the space.
Leandros charges me. I duck to avoid his swing and his fist sings through the air above my head. I’m sliding across the sand right between his legs.
It would be a cowardly move to kick him in the most sensitive place, but I’m half tempted.
He spins around, faster than should be possible for a man his size. I duck again beneath his punch and ram my fist into the tender skin of his armpit. Leandros howls, turning. I stumble backward to avoid his kick. Rolling across the sand, I pounce to my feet.
He’s considering me now. I hop from foot to foot, never stopping as I do the same for him. The sun beats down on us, crisping my already tan shoulders. I could play dirty and throw sand in his face, but I have something better in mind.
I sprint toward him again. When he swings for me this time, I grab his arm as it soars past. It flings me to the other side of the circle. He turns, squinting in the light of the glaring sun. When he swings toward me again, he completely misses. I’m already around him. He turns, but the sand catches his feet and he falls to his knees. My own knee cracks his nose, spraying his blood across the sand.
Raucous screams echo throughout the arena. Grinning widely, I hold my arms aloft. Their rumble grows ever louder.
“Mothakes! Mothakes! Mothakes!”
For the first time in my life, I’m not ashamed of the title. For the first time in my life, it fills me with pride.