Chapter 56
Atalanta
Cold winter light drifted through the slatted boards of the stable. I raked the rough brush along Kastana’s coat, and she
leaned against me gratefully, her breath steaming in the freezing air.
I rode her every day, though Schoenus’s men trailed me once we passed the city gates to ensure that I did not try to escape.
I was allowed physical exercise and seized it greedily, since it was the one breath of freedom permitted to me.
More than a year had passed since the race with the Argive. There had been many more challengers since, all unsuccessful.
I remembered their last moments with a shudder. Not all the losers died as cleanly as the Argive; some begged for mercy, others
cursed me, and a few declared I must have cheated.
But challengers kept coming, petty kings and chieftains who wanted to distinguish themselves. The suitors brought treasure,
and none of them lived to reclaim it. Schoenus felt his prestige—and his coffers—swell with each death.
Meanwhile, I felt the blood on my hands soak in more deeply.
Medea once told me of a miraculous animal from the far south that had a horse’s body, a snake’s neck, and the spots of a leopard.
It was called the giraffe. Though she had seen pictures in books from Egypt, she had never seen one in real life, she claimed,
because they died in captivity. A giraffe could not exist in a cage.
I sympathized. My own cage had certainly grown unbearable.
Medea. The thought of her brought a rush of fond sorrow. I had a better understanding now of why she’d chosen to marry Jason
on Phaeacia. She had been trapped, as I was now, by the rules of a game she had never chosen to play. What a bittersweet consolation,
to be united with her in our shared experiences.
The fact that I’d received no letters despite her promise grieved me, but possibly my father Schoenus had fed them to the
fire. My heart ached to think of the flames devouring the curls of Medea’s beautiful handwriting. What a comfort it would
be to hold something she’d held, to feel the barest touch of her skin.
There was no way to ask my father if he’d intercepted my correspondence, since he would no longer meet me face-to-face after
a recent incident in which I’d nearly put a well-aimed spear through his eye. Now, the only communication I received was a
barked command through a locked door, an order to ready myself for a race upon the following morning.
Kastana whickered, then pointed her ears forward. I followed the line of her gaze and saw someone standing at the stable door.
It was not until they swept into a dramatic bow that I recognized Melanion, the messenger. A flicker of annoyance; Melanion
was the one who’d led me into this trap in the first place.
“Hello, dear Atalanta,” Melanion said, sleek and quicksilver as ever. “I shall be your opponent in the race tomorrow.”
My heart sank. Don’t, I wanted to say. Don’t make me wield the sword against you, dancing sunbeam. Instead, I simply grunted acknowledgment and continued to brush Kastana.
“I have a gift for you,” Melanion declared. “Catch!”
My sharp reflexes took command. Dropping the brush, I caught the object—a yellow-skinned apple, the kind I liked best. I turned
it over, marveling. Such apples were out of season and not easily obtainable. Where had Melanion gotten it?
It was nothing like Schoenus’s elaborate bribes, calculated to keep me tranquil; this was something I actually wanted. I was seized with the sudden desire to sink my teeth into the sweet flesh of the apple, to feel its juices on my tongue.
None of the other suitors had ever been interested in what I liked or disliked. I was curious about this lithe stranger, with
their fantastic gestures and sparkling eyes. But I was also suspicious.
“What do you want?” I rasped, my voice grown hoarse from disuse.
“Well, I’d still like to marry you, if you’d have me,” Melanion said, leaning on a post and tilting their head with a little
smile. “I haven’t had the chance to see you at all recently—your father keeps you too busy with those dratted races, I suppose—and
I hoped you’d reconsidered. Even if I am, unfortunately, a terrible archer.”
I gave a short, sharp laugh. “Not many men would admit such weakness.”
Melanion shrugged. “Well, I am not really a man. Not a woman either. My parents named me Melaneus, but the name did not suit,
so Melanion I became. I am the strength of my spear arm and the swiftness of my feet; I am the curls of my hair and the lilt
of my voice. I am simply myself, Melanion. As you are simply Atalanta.”
I stared at Melanion. As I did, something long frozen in my heart began to stir, like a seed germinating underground.
Melanion drifted closer on light feet, their every gesture like a dancer’s, laden with grace and hidden meaning. They reached
out a hand and stroked Kastana’s neck, glancing at me through lowered lashes. This was the closest we had ever been. I could
almost feel the warmth of Melanion’s body, masculine strength coupled with feminine delicacy. Both and neither at once.
“I understand you,” Melanion said. They spoke with deadly seriousness, all playfulness set aside.
“You are like me, standing between the human world and the wilderness, just as I do between the male and the female. And I think you see me for what I am too. Besides, my father also pressures me to marry, so why don’t we give him what he wants and then do whatever we like? ”
Melanion shot me a toothy grin, and I considered. The idea was appealing: defiance through obedience, a way out of my cage.
A way to remain myself in a hostile world.
But it would not be so easy. And I could not stop thinking about Melanion’s slender neck exposed, a sword flashing in the
sun.
“Go home!” I cried, making a sweeping gesture with one hand for emphasis. “Don’t race tomorrow. Go home, and never utter the
name of Atalanta of Arcadia again, not in all the days you live. It doesn’t matter how fast you are, I will still win.”
“But do you have to?” Melanion asked, eyes glittering.
“What?”
“Do you have to win?”
I frowned. “If my father believes I lost the race deliberately, he will rain down punishment upon both our heads.”
“Oh, that isn’t what I mean,” Melanion replied. “We cannot be so obvious. I will give you a choice, and you may run after
it if you like, or not. I entrust myself to you, Atalanta.” They drifted out of the stable on light feet.
The memory of their smile lingered, inspiring a fuzzy warmth in my chest. I wanted to see that smile, I realized, through
both sunrises and sunsets.
Kastana and I looked at each other. She snorted and pawed the ground with a hoof, as if to say, What are you waiting for? She had not even tried to bite Melanion at any point during this conversation, I realized, though she regularly terrorized
the stable boys. I cut the yellow apple in half with my knife and shared it with her, reflecting on the situation.
Melanion understood me, and I was beginning to understand them. I didn’t know if I could love Melanion—if I could open my heart to love after all I had been through—but I discovered that I liked them. I liked them quite a lot.
A path out of darkness unfurled before me. The seed in my chest began to sprout and flower.