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.

“Hmm,” I muse. “Not bad.”

She arches an eyebrow, and her grin grows cruel. The next instant, a second bow is primed. Atalanta exhales once, steadily, and closes an eye. The arrow bursts forth and imbeds itself in the tree a few feet behind the last one. I struggle to think of a way to insult that, so I stay silent.

She glances to me thoughtfully, and slings the bow across her back. “You’re the only one who has never feared me.” I suppose it isn’t bragging if she’s telling the truth. “Do you think many suitors will actually come?”

“Yes,” I say cautiously, my blood still surging through my veins. The road leading to the house is empty and still. I don’t want to imagine it a few weeks from now. “You’re a legend.” I suppose it isn’t praising if I’m telling the truth. “Do you want them to?”

“I want to help my home.” She glances at Phelix, too far away to hear. He nods appreciatively toward the arrows sticking out of the trees. “My family.”

I cross my arms. “Do you want them to come?”

Atalanta follows my gaze, and stares out at the paths reaching into the mountains and the lands beyond. She never answers.

Phelix still stares in awe at his sister and the embedded trees. He sits alone, accompanied by hundreds of ghosts of Arkadia’s past. A faint sense of recognition—or inspiration, maybe—takes root in the back of my mind. Atalanta’s silence still reigns over the track. Wind rakes through the tall shoots of grass, dry and golden. Only in the far distance can I see any other sign of life; the Arkadians tend frequently and morosely to the failing crops. The soil beneath my feet has none of the richness I was accustomed to in Corinth. I remember the savagery in Atalanta’s eyes when she told me, truthfully—you’re the only one who has never feared me.

And that’s how the idea begins.

A couple weeks later, Nora’s hands shake as she pours the few remaining drops of wine for libation. I watch as the dark liquid drops into the painted bowl we use for sacrifices, and listen numbly as she praises Zeus and Aphrodite, asking for their blessings when coronation begins. The last of the wine splashes onto the bottom, and I silently add my own prayer to Artemis. Forgive me. My visits to the temple are still frequent, but I’m running out of ideas on how to bring it down. Atalanta’s a strong girl, but she hasn’t had any luck either. I stare at the dark-red splotches and try to believe that our efforts will suffice. Eventually.

Iasus’s head is bowed at the head of the table, and Atalanta watches him and Nora with anxious eyes, her legs bouncing under the table. She braids and unbraids her hair, then braids it again, as she’s been doing for the past few days. Atalanta’s hardly touched her breakfast, which definitely isn’t like her.

My eyes keep trailing back to the front door, like I expect it to burst with suitors any second. They could, I suppose, but I hope they’ll take a more diplomatic approach. My nerves have taken a different path from Atalanta’s; my plate is picked clean. I reach to the middle of the table, only to realize the loaf of bread is gone. I glance up to find Nora watching me. I open my mouth to ask for more, but she cuts me off with a silent shake of her head.

Atalanta must see this, since she seems to shrink further into the back of her chair. Food became even scarcer as stores were put aside in preparation for caravans of suitors. My stomach growls in protest, and I brace both hands across it, praying no one heard.

“Will it be today?” Atalanta asks, her voice small. Her fingers still fumble with her hair. I resist the urge to pin them down.

“Yes,” I murmur. My voice is quiet, and I did not will it. Iasus and Nora look first to each other, then to me. I clear my throat, throwing my shoulders up into a shrug. “I mean, perhaps. Just guessing.”

The king looks to me, exasperation widening his features. He switches his focus to his daughter. His bargaining chip. “Are you ready?”

He doesn’t say it quite like a threat, but a fresh batch of nerves bloom in my chest. Atalanta nods, because what else could she say? She’s out of time. She pushes her chair back, and stands, purposefully rolling her shoulders back so she’s ramrod straight—just how I told her to hold herself weeks ago.

“Then I shall go over last-minute preparations with my handmaiden,” she announces. I bristle at the title, but she raises an eyebrow as she looks down to me. A wave of fear washes over me, and I’m not sure where from. I rise slowly, though I only come up just past her shoulder.

“After you,” I whisper, with a dramatic gesture of my hands. Neither of us laugh. She strides toward the stairs, and we ascend in silence to her suite.

I close the door behind us, leaning against it as she paces the room. It’s funny. It never seemed real until today. She finally decides on unbraiding her hair, and it falls in soft waves down her back. Atalanta suddenly walks quickly over to me, her eyes wide. “Teach me to dance. For real this time.”

I don’t know what to say. She’s unhinged with nerves. She grabs my hands, pulls me forward. I want to tell her so many things, but this isn’t the time. We don’t speak, but I readjust her trembling grip on my hands, and lead her through basic motions over and over again, until her fingers go still. I pause, my heart beating fast. That doesn’t make sense. The dance certainly wasn’t physically taxing, but I feel like I’ve just run a mile.

“Is it awful of me, Kahina?” Atalanta whispers. Her hands still clutch mine. I feel traitorous for holding on. “To sometimes wish I had not been found?”

“No,” I breathe, because I know exactly what she means. “Not at all.”

She closes her eyes and exhales once. Quickly, Atalanta walks over to her bed and falls back onto it. “Were you ever going to ask me?”

I frown. “Ask you what?”

She hoists herself up on one elbow and stares up at me. “Zosimos?” Her voice is gentle and afraid.

“Right.” I remember our strange encounter in the weapons shed, and feel a little guilty about not following up, but I figured she’d tell me when she wanted to. She stares at me intently, so I take the seat beside her on the bed. “So. I’m asking now.”

“I loved the men who raised me.” Her eyes drift to the ceiling. I lean back, letting my back sink into the pallet, and stare up too. “You have to understand that.”

I can. My father had always made it clear that he loved me—and my mother, despite the jokes and stares we’d endured too often. He’d loved me as much as he would have a son, a fact he told me again and again each time that I’d asked him as a child, in a wavering, guilt-laden voice, if he’d rather I was a boy. I believe if Atalanta asked Iasus the same thing, his answer would not be the same. Father was even going to let me inherit his ships; he made sure I could name each rope and read the sea by the time I was ten.

I wonder if the offer still stands. I hope it does, but Corinth feels like a dream these days—an impossible one with Apollo and Hippomenes always in my way. I swallow hard, and nudge Atalanta with my elbow, urging her on.

“It was easier for them when I was a child,” she says. I’m surprised how easy and honest the space between us feels. “It was simple enough when I was young and impressionable, easy to rear me into a warrior. But when I grew up—when it was undeniable that I was a woman, and a marriageable one at that—”

“Things changed?”

“Not with everyone. Most of the men treated me as they always had. But Zosimos . . .” She heaves a breathy, tired sigh. “Almost as soon as I turned fifteen, he was convinced I would be his. In every sense. He told me I had no place in their hunt otherwise, even though I could shoot and fight as well as any of them.”

“That’s how you got your name, then?” Equal in weight. Atalanta seems like a fitting name that they chose for her—but now, with Zosimos, bitterly ironic.

She nods absently. “I couldn’t take his constant advances; they stopped being just verbal.” I fill in the unspoken words. For the first time, the flare of anger that surges up is on Atalanta’s behalf—not because of her. “He was never going to stop. I left.”

“Men are not always kind,” I mutter, which is putting it lightly. Atalanta manages to laugh at that, and a warm feeling spreads across my chest. I glance over to her, and fight the urge to brush away the golden hair curling into her forehead. “We’ll make sure he doesn’t bother you. He’ll be gone soon. I promise.”

She gives me a small smile, and it’s a big victory. “That boar would’ve killed me if you hadn’t been there.” Her grin slowly fades. “Maybe I was never as talented as they said.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I mutter. “You could beat any suitor blindfolded.” She rolls her eyes, but I sit up straight, the idea that’s been brewing in the back of my mind finally solidifying. “I’m not kidding. You could beat them all.”

“So what?” she asks bitterly.

I grin.

Atalanta takes longer than I thought she would to agree. But once she does, her whole body seems to thrill with it. “We’ll need to start immediately,” she says in a rush. “We need to make them want to leave as soon as possible.”

“This might not work,” I concede, though I know there’s no going back now. “This doesn’t exactly solve the whole Arkadia is poor thing.”

“Oh, it will,” she assures me, her eyes as unrelenting as iron.

I scoff. She springs to her feet, and heads for the door, already carried out on the tides of possibility. But Atalanta pauses before she leaves, and turns her head back to me. She hesitates in the doorway, her fingers tracing over the frame. “What made you do it? Save me, I mean. Why—” She clears her throat. “Why?”

I wait for the truth to come to me, but all I see is the boar’s massive, piercing tusks. And a girl dwarfed before it, her arms trembling like the last leaves on a dead tree in winter. There’s that pull—strong enough to make me grab my knife. Strong enough to make me kill Artemis’s monster. But what was it about her? I force myself to look at her, but she doesn’t meet my eyes and I’m glad of it. I wouldn’t know what to do if she did.

“I don’t know.”

I’m fairly certain we both know I’m lying. It’s just that neither of us know the truth. I hold my breath, dreading and hoping that she might stay. But she nods once, and leaves without a backward glance.

By sundown, Arkadia is a different version of itself. The chatter and smiles the servants usually share are replaced with ducked heads and hurried feet. I help where I can, cleaning and decorating the rooms that seem to be holding their breath. The dust is cleared out, and the finest rugs and tapestries adorn every bare piece of floor and wall.

I can hear Nora shouting instructions in the kitchen, and the smell of grilling meat and rising bread fills the air. These delicacies that are hard to come by on a normal day. But this is certainly not a normal day. Someone’s given me a wooden bucket of water and a few rags, and I kneel on the floor beside the dining table and start scrubbing until my arms burn. Every few minutes, I glance at the upstairs railing, wondering if Atalanta will emerge. Several times, I debate abandoning my work. It’s the fear of what I would say to her that keeps me on the ground, soaked up to my elbows.

Phelix walks around the main halls of the house with a torch, spreading the flames to the other torches lined up periodically on the walls. Nora follows him half the time, urging him to hurry. The windows show a burned-away sky, with only a strip of golden light tinging the bottom of the horizon. Everything else is stark-black shadows. My pulse goes mad.

I sit back on my knees, watching as Phelix finishes illuminating the hall. The chaos inside is a palpable thing, and the bucket’s water is full of dirt and grime. Time to refill. I stand, knees aching, and haul the bucket up with me. Phelix hears the water slosh, and glances at me, his eyes anxious with excitement.

I smile back as best I can and push open the front doors. I pour the bucket out on a patch of grass. The air is still a bit too cold for comfort. I sigh shakily. Why am I so nervous? I’m not the one getting married. I scan the woods impatiently. Any day now, Nikoleta and Isidora.

I blink hard when I actually register motion. Hope comes in a flood. A figure astride a horse is silhouetted by the fading sky, but it quickly expands into at least three or four figures. And they’re not female. Behind them, even more begin descending. They’re just shadows, really, too far to discern. My heart is in my throat. I set the bucket down, and run back into the halls and into the kitchens.

“Nora,” I rush. She turns to me from where she’s mixing dough in a bowl, and blows a haggard strand of graying hair from her face. “How many suitors did Iasus invite?”

Now I have her attention. She sets down her mallet, and the other women in the kitchens turn to face me. I swallow hard, but my hands won’t stop shaking. “Just the neighboring lands,” she answers slowly. “Why?”

I point to the nearest window. Nora’s eyes grow sharp with concern as she leans forward, peering outside. She exhales and turns to me in disbelief.

The suitors have arrived, and there are dozens of them.

I’m able to disappear in the chaos that follows. I slip up the stairs as the boisterous sounds of so many men ride up to the gates of the house. From the railing, I watch as servants pour from all the crevices of the house to greet them. They’ll show some of them to spare rooms around the palace, I’m sure, but there are far more here than we anticipated. Some will have to make camp. Fear strikes me. Will we have enough food?

I feel guilty for shoving off the work on the servants’ shoulders, but someone needs me more. I reach to knock on her door, but it swings open before I can. “I can hear them,” she whispers, and she pulls me inside, slamming the door shut behind me. “I don’t know if I can do this. I don’t—”

“Shh,” I say, grabbing her shoulders. I shake her once, trying to get her to look at me. “You can and you will. It’s going to be fine. Just remember our plan.” She nods once, solemnly. “Let’s get you ready.”

For once, her hair is not in a braid. We’ve opted to let it lay loose down her back, with the top strands pulled back. A long chiton of dark purple clings to her figure, and golden bracelets line her arms. Sandals woven of dark leather trap her usually bare feet.

My mouth goes dry as I give her one final inspection. For the first time, I see a princess. A bride-to-be. I don’t trust myself to speak, so I give her a nod. I beckon to the door.

She looks a thousand times more scared than she did while facing the Calydonian Boar. Before she leaves the suite, she turns back to me. “Stay close. Please?”

“Okay,” I whisper. I’m not quite sure if she means because of Zosimos or the whole coronation, but either way, I make sure to stay a step or two behind her as she walks carefully to the edge of the stairs. We hear them loudly now—the laughter and boasting of dozens of men. I peek over the railing to find Iasus, crown gleaming atop his head, throw back his head and laugh exaggeratedly at something one of the men has said. Dread seeps through me. I’m so used to these halls being empty and dim that the light is blinding, the crowd suffocating. There’s so many I can barely see the floor.

Atalanta freezes at the top of the stairs, and I wonder if she’s thinking the same thing—they’re old. They all look to be at least ten years older than us, but some surpass even Iasus. If my legs have gone this weak, I don’t know how Atalanta manages to stand. I force myself to step closer to her, until I can smell the honeysuckle oil we streaked through her hair.

She braves the first step of our descent, and the torchlight reaches up, bathing her in gold. It catches all of her. Her hair’s tone shines forth, and the light glints on the jewelry encasing her. Atalanta’s skin turns to a rich bronze, and I’m not at all surprised to hear the suitors below fall silent.

I can hear her exhale shakily, but she takes another step down, then another, and I follow one behind. Everyone’s eyes are trained on her, including mine. We reach the ground, finally, and the suitors back away respectfully, fanning out in a semicircle before us. The only sound is the heaving breath of a hundred men, hungry for the prize just placed before them. My fists clench, but I’m not sure who I want to fight.

Iasus pushes his way to the front. There is nothing fake about his smile now. Each man in this room has already brought gifts of offering and promises of greatness, and based on their slack jaws and widened eyes, more are sure to follow.

“May I present my daughter, Atalanta,” he says, his voice ringing through the packed room. “Princess of Arkadia.”

The men erupt into applause, each one trying to best his neighbor. Nikoleta once told me that arguments in Sparta are settled based solely on who can yell the loudest. I’d hoped the tradition wouldn’t extend as far north as Arkadia, but here we are. The air quiets at a tediously slow rate.

Nora shoves her way, surprisingly gracefully, through the throngs of men until she reaches Iasus’s side. His eyes brighten when he sees her, and she places an intricately carved bronze circlet in his hands. Metal leaves weave in and out of each other, and dazzling scarlet jewels are placed at intervals along it. Iasus strides to Atalanta, the crowd parting for him.

I glance to Atalanta, expecting to see fear and nerves. But she’s facing the crowd with a calculated ferocity, and just enough of a smirk to keep them hooked on her every move. She switches her gaze to her father as he stands in front of her. As practiced, she bows her head slightly, and he places the circlet on top of her hair. The crowd erupts again, and she smiles cruelly as she raises her head. As far as politics are concerned, she is now recognized as Arkadia’s true princess.

“Well, I think this calls for celebration!” Iasus shouts over the roar. He signals to a group of musicians staged on the platform behind the dining table, where two lone thrones sit. Lyres and flutes war with the men’s cheering, and the servant women come forth out of the kitchens, smiling through their shock. But they seem genuinely happy as they start to move through the room, pairing off with suitors, and twirling through the lighted hall. This was a palace built for entertaining, and it’s finally reached its purpose.

Iasus practically shoves the man beside him toward Atalanta, who takes his hands reluctantly. The smile she’d worn so well crumbles. But a man moves to stand before me, and I half-
heartedly give him my hands. One has to keep up appearances. We move through the room, never quite making eye contact, since we’re both stealing glances at the princess. The music grows deafening. I can’t hear it over the blood rushing through my head.

I try to subtly lead us closer to her, and after another brutal few measures, she finally catches my gaze across the shoulder of her dance partner. Faster than a lightning strike, her face floods with desperation, and I’m already letting go of my partner’s hands. He makes a noise of protest, but I walk away.

“Excuse me,” I say loudly, and Atalanta turns to me, lighting up with mock surprise.

“Oh! Kahina,” she trills. Her voice pierces me—too high and strained. She looks back to the man holding her hands, who looks to be nearly forty. He has dark eyes and long, graying hair. His gaze is inquisitive, bordering on dangerous. My mouth goes dry, and it’s a good thing Atalanta speaks up. “Pardon us.”

She swiftly withdraws her hands from his, and latches onto mine. We move through basic movements, but she struggles to keep up. Something’s wrong. “Thank you,” she whispers.

“Who was that?” I ask, risking a glance behind her. The man still watches her. Watches us.

“That,” Atalanta exhales. Sweat beads at her hairline. “Would be Zosimos.”

“What?” I stop in my tracks, but she pulls me along through the next dance. Her hands are shaking. His gaze on us is a gross, palpable thing that I want to rip off. “I’m not sure why my father seems to like him so much. Must’ve set up a stupid polis somewhere and declared himself its stupid prince.”

I snort a laugh, but there’s really nothing funny about the situation. Not anymore—not when the halls I’ve come to know so well are full of strangers, their eyes all boring into us. We can’t be dancing together for long. Suitors line the wall, staring at us openly. I jerk my head to them, and she nods begrudgingly.

I let go of her hands, and we walk to her eager audience. She smiles cordially at them; there’s about a dozen or so unoccupied with the servant women. “My apologies,” she begins. “I just wanted to get some last-minute dance instruction from Kahina.” She gestures to me, and I nod at the suitors.

“Of course,” one of the men replies. I can tell he’s already had some of the precious wine Nora set out. “You two are doing great.” His eyes slide over to me. “Very graceful. Exotic.”

Atalanta puzzles; she knows she’s heard something amiss, but she can’t place it. But, oh, I certainly can. My foot smashes over his, and he howls in pain. “My apologies,” I say icily. “Guess I’m not so graceful after all.”

His mouth is frozen open, from pain or shock—hopefully both. Atalanta suppresses a grin. I spin on my heel and leave them.

What feels like hours later, the musicians finally stand and bow to the crowd. They beckon to the kitchens, where the dinner is paraded out. My jaw almost hits the floor; this is more food than I’ve seen in my entire few months at Arkadia—platters of brisket, baskets of bread, and trays of honeyed cakes are placed across the long table. For once, every seat is taken. There’s still not enough room, and another hastily assembled wooden table is dragged in from the courtyards for them.

The suitors push and shove to sit as close to the head of the table as they can, though Iasus assures them they will each have their time to make their appeals to the princess throughout the week. My head throbs as the scraping of chairs fills the room. It must be the middle of the night by now.

Atalanta takes her seat after her father sits, who’s beaming brighter than the torches. This must be more than he’d dreamt of. But then Zosimos slides into the seat to Atalanta’s left. I open my mouth to tell him to move, but why would he listen to me? Iasus would fire me on the spot. Atalanta’s fingers drum impatiently on the table. She twists around in her chair and beckons to me. My heart slams, but I approach, much to the confusion of the suitors. She gives a curt smile to her assembly. “I’m sorry. Where is Kahina’s chair?”

“Atalan—”

“Where is it?”

My face burns. I normally sit to her left when we take meals, but that was before . . . this. Iasus glares at us, but then a chair is dragged to Atalanta’s side and she pats it twice. Everyone stares at me. I swear each of my steps echoes through the hall. The hairs on my neck tingle as I carefully sit down, and if it was anyone other than Zosimos beside her, I’d be gone.

After an awkward beat, Iasus tells the suitors to dig in. I grab a slice of bread and immediately shove it in my mouth. Hunger and nerves together do not bode well for ladylike behavior. The man across from Atalanta introduces himself as Lysander from Mycenae. He’s overly eager, but one of the younger men I’ve seen so far. His hair is a mess of chestnut curls, his eyes a muddy green. “Sorry, princess. Who’s this?”

This. I rip the crust of my bread into tiny pieces, wondering if I could get away with throwing them at him. “This is Kahina,” Atalanta answers. Her teeth are clenched. “My closest companion.”

The bread falls from my hands.

“Ah,” he replies, clearly uninterested. “So how have you been adjusting to life in Arkadia?”

Iasus clears his throat. Everyone knows of Atalanta’s dangerous past—the intrigue is probably the reason half the men are here right now. The intrigue is what we’re counting on, if we want to pull this off.

“She has been adjusting very well,” Iasus replies. “She’s picking up on female arts quite quickly.”

“And what makes them female?” Atalanta asks. Her voice is playful, but the suitors all take a sudden interest in their plates.

I bite my lip hard against laughter. With effort, Iasus turns to make conversation with other men around us, ignoring Atalanta’s objection altogether. I feel Zosimos’s stare even without looking at him. I risk a glance to Atalanta and catch her eye. The torchlight ripples like water across her face. We share a brief, conspiratorial smile, but my mind is churning, rebelling against itself. Closest companion.

Through all the evening’s chaos, I’m acutely aware of Phelix’s absence at the table. He hovers in the shadows between the torches, carefully observing—occasionally, he’ll restock wine or food. Several men attempt to speak with Iasus and Atalanta throughout the dinner, and her obvious disinterest is a sharp contrast to Iasus’s exuberant volume and charisma.

She and I chat up a storm at our seats, telling jokes and talking about everything from clothes to horses, just to heighten the gap between us and them. Iasus stabs his brisket with his fork as he watches us. Nora and Phelix hover purposefully through it all, refilling wine or lighting torches—anything that can keep them in the room. Each time I see them, pity worms its way through me. Phelix is Iasus’s son. I’ll probably never understand what’s happened between the three of them. I shouldn’t care—Arkadia is just a temporary stop. Phelix gives us a warm smile when he brings in another amphora of wine. I do my best to return it, but then Zosimos clears his throat beside me, and I go tense. He drums his fingers impatiently across the table, and stares at Iasus, willing him to control his daughter.

But Iasus knows nothing of his daughter, or how to be a father. Not like mine.

When the wine finally drains and the platters of meat are reduced to bones, Atalanta stands up—just like I’d told her to. Iasus looks briefly startled, but he quickly resumes his confident guise. Silence spreads like wildfire. I never knew a table overflowing with men to be quiet, but their eyes dart anxiously among the other suitors and Atalanta. Phelix stands by the kitchen entrance, his eyes locked on his sister.

Atalanta and I share one last look before she scans the table, never making eye contact with a single man. She inhales, and the whole room tenses. Phelix bites his nails as Nora clutches onto a pitcher of wine so hard that I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter.

“You are all here for my hand.” Atalanta’s voice doesn’t shake or tremble or falter, though I’m fairly certain she’s never been in a room with so many people before—let alone people staring at her. Wanting her. “You’ve brought your riches and stories. But there will be no appeals or speeches. There will only be a race.”

“A race?” the crowd whispers, looking among themselves frantically, trying to identify a man who does not exist. Only Zosimos seems to catch on. A faint smile forms on his lips as he sets down his utensils.

“A race.” He raises his eyebrows. “How interesting. Did we expect anything less from our legendary Atalanta?”

Her face tightens at the word our, but she doesn’t even glance his way.

“What do you mean—a race?” Iasus sputters, his face bright red, but the suitors talk so loudly that Atalanta can easily pretend not to have heard him.

“Beginning at dawn one week from tomorrow, one of you will race me per day on the track out back. The price to compete is the riches you have brought. Beat me, and you can keep them . . . and I’ll marry you.” The men turn to each other as if it’s a joke. A few even laugh. They think this will be easy. “Lose, and you must leave by nightfall.”

“Where do we sign up?” someone shouts, and more laughter erupts from around him.

Atalanta inspects her nails. “I’m sure all you smart men can figure that out. Good luck to you all. We will see if you are worthy.”

She smiles in a way that lets each of them know they are not.