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boys’ family. She stabled her horse and then they ate a quiet dinner of olives and rabbit stew before retiring to straw mattresses in the next room. A straw mattress wasn’t the best, but Klea was so tired after her long ride today, not to mention taking those two river gods the day before, that she fell asleep in seconds.
    It couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes later that the door slammed open, breaking the wooden bar laid across it. The firelight was low, but Klea saw two men come in and grab both boys, each holding a long bronze knife and an elaborate, feathered face mask. She went for her sword, under her mattress as always, but before she could grab it each masked man held a knife to a boy’s throat. Even in the low light, she could see a trickle of blood make its way down to their collarbones, could see the terror on their parents’ faces.
    “Stop,” she said. She held up both hands and stood, wearing nothing more than a short tunic. No armor, no weapons.
    “Come with us,” one hissed.
    “Me?” Klea asked.
    A third man, also wearing a bird mask, came in the door and waited. He held up a length of rope, pulled it tight between his hands. “Over here,” he said.
    Every inch of Klea itched to pick up her sword and lay waste to these feathery assholes, but she knew they’d probably kill at least one of the boys before she could get them all. She wasn’t dead yet. There was still time, and this way, the teenagers could live. She walked to the third man and held out her hands, and he tied them together tightly, in front of her, held onto the rope, and led her out of the cottage. The other two men released the boys and followed them, closing the door.
    “Where are we going?” Klea demanded. She was barefoot and the night was chilly.
    No one answered her.
    They walked out of the village, down the dirt path, and into the foothills. There was a full moon, so she could see the vague shapes of the things they passed—trees, hillsides, a burnt shell of an old house—but couldn’t see very well where they were going, until they rounded a corner and a big black surface, like flat black glass, emerged. A lake.
    Shit, thought Klea. Are they going to drown me?
    Instead they led her around the shore until she could see firelight that grew closer and closer, and when they were nearly there, she saw what it was: a amphitheater, small, stone, that seated maybe two hundred people, lit by rows of torches. The audience wore small, simple masks over their eyes and noses. Two more men in bird masks waited on the stage.
    The masks were enormous, and looked like they might have been made from an entire bird. They covered each man’s entire head, feathers fanned around the eyes, but the men were all nearly naked from the neck down. Each wore leather briefs and sandals of some sort, and they were all tan and toned, muscles rippling as the men on stage walked to take the rope she was leashed to. All together there were four men, with four differently colored masks: brown, blue, red, and black.
    As she drew closer, the crowd went silent and everyone watched her through their leather masks. She could have heard a pin drop as the man in the black mask came forward, took her rope, and led her onto the small stone stage, where she stood, in the middle, only a thin tunic between her and the cold night, between her and the eyes of the hundred men watching. The stage was about four feet off the ground, the front of it ringed with torches, making it harder to see the men who watched her, but bringing the masked men into a sharp, flickering focus.
    The man in the black mask paced behind her. The others had melted away, off to the side. Klea didn’t like him being behind her, but she didn’t like feeling as though her back was being watched, either. The whole thing made her nervous.
    “This is Heraklea!” the man in the black mask suddenly bellowed, still pacing around the stage. “She is the daughter of Zeus and a mortal