CHAPTER 1
I face the bull across the arena. He snorts and lifts his great head, horns gleaming. His powerful muscles ripple beneath his glossy black coat. He paws the sand, already agitated, looking for a fight.
I tighten the linen strips wrapped around my hands. The cuts in my palms have nearly stopped bleeding. I wish I could say I feel no terror, that I challenge the bull like a warrior, as the mother goddess expects, but that would be a lie.
My life is full of lies.
The ground trembles slightly. Tiny grains of sand shift beneath my feet. Far below the palace, the monster roars. I flinch. Instinc‐ tively, my fingers drift to the thick, ropy scar stretching from my armpit to the hollow of my throat.
The others are so used to his roars, they barely notice. The dancers leaning against the wall of the arena beside me don’t look up. The slaves and servants fluffing cushions and sweeping the benches in the stands above me simply murmur a silent prayer to the goddess, warding off evil.
No one looks at me. They wouldn’t dare.
I am Ariadne, princess of Crete. Daughter to a tyrant king and a mad queen. Sister to the monster.
The only survivor of the Minotaur.
But I will not think of that. I cannot allow myself to think of that. Not now.
I signal to the bull handlers across the arena. They unhook the ropes around the great bull’s neck.
I take another step out onto the arena floor to meet him. My bare toes sink into the raked black sand, the sun beating down on my head and shoulders. I breathe deeply, the air heady with the rich, earthy scent of the cattle stalls beneath the arena. The scented oil rubbed into my skin smells of sandalwood and incense.
I swing my long linen-bound black braid over my shoulder. I wear no gold beads or royal jewels; only a simple white loincloth with a narrow band of linen wrapping my chest. This is all I need to show my devotion to the mother goddess, to prove my skills and prowess, to dance with the bulls.
“Are you ready, Ariadne?” Tarina says beside me. Like me, she is small, lean, and lithe, her muscles rippling beneath her olive-toned skin. But there, our similarities end. Framed by an oval face, her nose and thick eyebrows are straight and strong. She looks regal— more a princess than I do, though she is no princess. Tarina is my Egyptian slave.
“As ready as I must be,” I say. We stretch our limbs and watch the bull lumber in circles near the far arena wall, confused and agitated. He hasn’t caught sight of us yet.
“Don’t do it,” she murmurs.
I only grunt. Any other slave would be whipped for even a suggestion of such impudence. But Tarina is not only a slave, not only a fellow bull dancer—she is my friend. My only friend.
For the last two summers, we have trained side by side. She knows the law of the sand as well as I do.
In the arena, the mother goddess recognizes no title, no status, no crown—only devotion. In the arena, we are neither slave nor princess; only dancers whose every move balances on the scales between life and death. And either outcome—triumph or our lifeblood staining the sand—brings glory and worship to the goddess.
Several strides away, our trainer, Suma, leans against the arena wall, watching me. It’s t’s clear from her frown that she also disap‐ proves of my plan for tomorrow. I don’t meet her gaze.
“The leap is too dangerous,” Tarina says. “It’s a foolhardy risk—”
The bull spots us from thirty strides away. He lifts his great head, eyes fixed on me, and snorts angrily.
“You know I must,” I say, tensing.
The bull trots toward us, gaining speed. My body knows what to do, what it has been trained to do.
Tarina and I wait until the last possible second and then spin away in opposite directions. I dig my heels into the sand and turn sharply, facing the bull’s flank. My heartbeat thunders inside my skull like applause. My muscles are loose and ready.
I am strength. I am power.
I sprint at the bull from the side, legs pumping, breathing even. He is distracted by Tarina, who is calling to him, flailing her arms, skipping just out of his reach. I stretch out my hands, crouch, and spring. I handspring over his broad, muscled back.
He rears his head, gouging the air with his horns. But I’ve already anticipated his reaction and adjusted for it. I tuck in my hips and pass over him in a flash, already gone before he whirls, searching but unable to find me, grunting in frustration.
I cartwheel in front of him, drawing his attention—and his horns —toward me. Though they are blunted and wrapped in leather, those horns can still snap a girl’s ribs like twigs.
Tarina dashes up from behind, springs onto his back, and swings up into a handstand. I imagine the empty stands full of the wildly cheering crowd, flower petals raining down upon our heads.
Today is our last training session. Tomorrow is the day our hard work pays off. Tomorrow, the stands will be filled, everyone watching us with bated breath. Every king, prince, dignitary, ambas‐ sador, and noble family on the island of Crete and the lands beyond will be present, including my parents.
I must honor them. I must show them what I can do.
The bull tosses his head with a disgruntled snort. His beady eyes dart around the arena, searching for us, hunting.
Tarina spins away and shouts to the bull, dancing closer, only a few short strides from those horns, those sharp, powerful hooves. He paws the ground, sending clots of black sand spraying through the air. Huffing, he charges.
I gauge my timing.
Wait, wait, wait. Go.
I spring onto the bull’s back and skip across his spine before diving and tucking into a ball, rolling right off his hindquarters. He whirls, enraged, searching for me. He streaks first this way, then that. But he can never quite reach us.
We take turns vaulting over his back, darting in and somersaulting away. We are spinning sunlight, birds in flight, impossible to catch, to capture, to contain. The bull bellows, twisting and charging again and again, vexed and bewildered. He circles, tiring quickly, his sides heaving.
I’m breathing hard, too. My muscles ache. A pain in my side sears like fire. But it feels good. It feels pure. The effort and the focus push out every other thought, every fear and doubt.
It is time. I gesture to Tarina and Suma to step back so I stand alone. Me and the sand and the heat of the sun, me and the ragged burn in my chest, my own panting breath in my ears.
It’s only me and the bull.
Eyes blazing, he gathers his waning strength and charges again. I squat and lift my hands. When he reaches me, I have only a fraction of a second to lunge, grasp his horns, and spring straight at him. He will rear his head, launching me high and bright and spinning into the air.
Named the Leap of Faith, it is an incredibly difficult move. Only the most talented, experienced dancers have ever attempted it. But I have promised my parents, King Minos and Queen Pasiphae, the rulers of all of Crete, that I will do this. My father has already boasted to his nobles of his daughter’s gift. My father, who seldom thinks of me at all, and only with sharp disapproval. But not tomorrow.
The timing must be perfect. My position must be perfect.
My heart hammers in my chest. My mouth goes dry. Every sound fades but for the bull’s thunderous hooves pummeling the sand.
Anxiety clenches my stomach. I’m the slightest bit off center. The bull’s head is too low. If I crouch deeper to grab the horns, I won’t have the balance and foundation to make the leap. It won’t work.
The bull charges, filling my vision.
One of the servants screams. At the last moment, my training kicks in. I dodge and hurl my body to the side. It’s too late. The bull tosses his massive head. One horn scrapes my forearm, knocking me off balance. Fear rips through me, stark and blinding. There’s nothing more dangerous than a fall.
Desperate to escape the churning hooves, I manage to tuck into a roll and tumble out of the way. Sand sprays my face, scratches my eyeballs, coats the inside of my mouth.
The air itself shudders as the bull streaks by less than a hands-width away.
Another dancer—my trainer, Suma—flips in front of the bull, a bright spinning distraction. He roars and lunges for her. Suma darts out of reach, leading the bull safely away.
I scramble to my feet, bruised and undignified but alive, and run toward the arena walls. I gasp for air, more shaken than I want to admit.
In a blink, Tarina is at my side. She grabs my arm and examines it, her eyes narrowed in concern. Blood drips from the wound and splatters the sand. Even with blunted tips, a bull’s horns can stab and gash. It’s a blessing the wound isn’t worse.
I rub my forearm against my loincloth, staining it scarlet. “It’s only a scratch.”
She says nothing about my failure. She knows I already feel it to my core.
“Princess Ariadne!” Suma stalks toward us with all the power and grace of a prowling panther. She is a slim black woman from the Afrikan kingdoms across the sea. A former slave who won her freedom in the arena, she now trains all the dancers in the capital city of Knossos. She is stern and sharp-tongued, but she works herself even harder than she works us. A scowl etches her face. “What were you thinking?” Tarina flinches. I straighten my shoulders. “Practicing. I face the king-bull tomorrow, and—”
“You are not ready to face the king-bull.”
Her words hit me like a slap. “I am. I will be.”
“The king-bull is not like the bulls you have trained with,” Suma says in a strained voice. A sharp wrinkle appears between her eyes.
“He is not given the herbal concoction to make him drowsy and muddled. He is wild and fierce and dangerous.”
I dance with the king-bull tomorrow, on the morning of the second day of the Spring Harvest Festival, a three-day celebration of the goddess, mother of all lesser gods.
There will be singing, dancing, and rituals in the sacred peaks and caves. There will be glorious feats of valor to demonstrate our fealty to the mother goddess, including the divine dance of the king- bull. The celebration culminates with the offering of the Athenian tributes at dusk on the last day.
I lick my lips. My throat is parched. It feels like I haven’t drunk anything in days. “I know, Suma.”
“If you try this foolishness tomorrow, the king-bull will kill you.”
Loyal above all else, Tarina shoots our trainer a furious look. “As long as she doesn’t attempt the Leap of Faith, she’ll be fine.”
“It is not up to you to decide,” I remind her. I am the princess of Crete; Suma does not have the power to deny me.
“You can still change your mind,” Suma says darkly. “There is no shame in it.”
But she is wrong. There is great shame in it. The moment King Minos, drunk at a banquet bursting with nobles and dignitaries, declared that his own daughter would dance with the king-bull, my fate was sealed. How could I publicly refuse him—even if I wanted to?
The king offered me a gift, a chance to redeem myself in the eyes of the court, the entire kingdom. But if I fail this test, I will shame my mother’s house and tarnish the legacy of my father’s illus‐ trious reign. The whole kingdom will know without a shred of doubt what I am—the cursed princess.
“I will do this,” I say with all the conviction I can muster.
Outside, a distant bell rings. The Athenian ship has arrived.
I flinch. The tributes. I’ve been so intent on training, I forgot. I should be down at the docks now, greeting the royal retinue, dressed in my best festival finery, my hair oiled and gleaming, the royal circlet of Crete set upon the crown of my head.
Instead, I am half-naked, bleeding, and caked in sand.
I may be the princess of Crete, but I feel more comfortable with sand between my toes than within polished palace walls. I am more myself wrapped in a loincloth than dressed in flouncing skirts of silk and embroidered silver, a gold circlet upon my brow.
Here, I am free. In my father’s royal court, surrounded by the suspicious, judging gazes of lords and ladies, I’m something else.
I suck in a sharp breath. “I’m late.”
“Very well—” Suma begins, but a commotion at the other end of the arena commands her attention. Her expression darkens. She seizes my arm before I can escape. “Look there, Princess Ariadne. Consider what you’ll face if you go through with this.”
The wooden doors at the other end of the arena crank open. A massive bull charges out, four handlers dragging behind him, their heels skidding in the sand as they attempt to swing double and triple ropes around his enormous neck.
The king-bull. A towering, magnificent beast selected for his strength, size, and noble bearing. His reddish-brown coat gleams like bronze. His eyes glint with intelligence and cunning. No man would dare to blunt his glorious horns.
The king-bull rears back, roaring in rage. The two closest handlers are dragged off their feet. He whips his head, knocking one of the handlers to the ground. Beside me, Tarina gasps.
In a moment, it’s all over: the king-bull’s hooves pummel the fallen man. The other handlers cry out, trying to drag him back by the ropes. Three more men race into the arena with a large rope net between them, waving their arms to draw the beast’s attention.
But the king-bull lunges, his horns scything through the air. Before anyone can stop him, his horns plunge into the man’s chest. Blood spurts onto the hot black sand.
The world around me shimmers, growing dim. Red flashes behind my eyes, my mind filling with the frenetic images of my nightmares—matted, rust-colored fur; snorting, gasping breaths; the dark, panic-wild eyes; the wicked horns hurtling toward me; and finally, the sharp stab of pain, slashing from my neck to my shoulder, shredding through skin and muscle, straight to the bone.
“Princess Ariadne!” Tarina shakes my arm. “Are you well?”
A wave of dizziness floods through me. I stagger, but Suma catches my other arm. She pulls me toward the small side door built into the wall of the arena.
I twist back to look. The man is screaming. The king-bull gouges him again and again. I swallow the acid burning the back of my throat. The man is not yet dead, but he wishes he were.
“Hurry,” Suma says tightly. “We need to go. I did not—I did not wish for you to see that. But you must know.”
I nod, unable for a moment to speak. My throat burns. My stomach lurches, sickened. I touch my scar, bunched across my upper chest like a silver worm.
To brave death and survive a dance with the sacred bull is worship, pure and holy. To dance and die in the arena is a divine sacrifice. Whether we live or die, we serve the mother goddess— though I, as most, prefer to live. Those who live, who conquer the bulls, are champions and heroes, honored among Cretans—even the slaves. Even a princess shadowed by scandal and shame.
I’ve danced with the bulls dozens of times, but never with the king-bull. A beast greater than all others. Stronger, faster, smarter. Deadlier. While anyone can train to become a bull dancer, I alone face the king-bull, for only royal blood may undergo the sacred ceremony.
I must train harder. Longer. It doesn’t matter that the festival is tomorrow. I must do this. To prove to my father and mother that I am worthy.
I will never be my sister—charming, lovely Phaedra, full of grace, beauty, and innate nobility—but I can be something. I can be a bull dancer, touched by the gods. I can be the best bull dancer Crete has ever seen.
Except I’m not. And everyone here knows it.
The doubt has slithered into me. What will happen tomorrow if I can’t shake it?
I follow Tarina to the training room adjacent to the arena. It’s empty, as everyone is out feasting, drinking, and preparing for the festival. I shuck off my soiled loincloth and wipe myself down with a linen cloth.
Tarina quickly dresses me in the resplendent clothing we packed this morning: a flounced, brightly-colored skirt that falls to my ankles, each tier dyed in vibrant saffron yellow, madder red, and Tyrian purple, embroidered in silver thread. I shrug on the short sleeved bodice open to the navel, patterned in bold geometric designs and sewn with shining gold discs.
The fabric is finely spun silk, soft against my skin—if only I were bathed and scented and not still gritty with sand. It’s too late for that now. My heart beats hard in my chest. “We must hurry.”
Tarina brushes sand from my thick black hair, undoing the braid and binding the strands with azure faiance beads. She hands me my gold rings as she strings a necklace about my throat adorned with flattened gold pendant disks. She stands back to assess me, tilting her head in that birdlike way of hers.
She frowns, disappointed as usual. “Your hands,” she murmurs.
I glance at the blood dribbling from the fresh half-moon cuts marring my palms, already scarred and scabbed with a dozen similar marks. Once again, I awakened this morning with blood on my hands.
The nightmare is always the same—blood in my hair, blood streaking my arms, blood filling my mouth. And screaming—a high keening wail mingled with a terrible roar.
I always awake gasping, sweat drenching my sleeping robe, terror clenching my chest, my fingernails piercing the flesh of my palms. The nightmare has stalked me each harvest season since it happened, lurking in the night like a wild beast, a dark shadow always crouched, waiting to devour me.
I wipe my palms on a section of scarlet cloth among my flounced skirts. I close my hands into fists to hide the marks. A cold, dull dread steals over me. “It is nothing.”
“As usual, you do great injury to the truth,” Tarina says with a frustrated sigh. “It is time to go.”
She pauses, leaning in close to clasp my wrist. Concern radiates from her dark eyes. I know she cares. Though she’s but a slave, she is the dearest friend I have. “It is in the goddess’s hands,” she says softly. “I pray she will bless you.”
I raise my chin. “May the goddess bless us both.”
If the goddess does not, by this time tomorrow, I will be dead.
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