Eternal Spring (A Young Adult Short Story Collection)

by Eternal Spring Anthology

  Blondie elbowed her uncouth friend in the ribs. “Alonna means it’s quite a surprise.”

  Ty chuckled, his eyes drifting back toward Elle like the girl was his anchor. As their gazes locked in reverence, Ty murmured, “More than a surprise. It’s—”

  “A miracle,” Elle breathed. “A true miracle.”

  * * *

  Carey Corp lives in the greater Cincinnati area with her loveable yet out-of-control family. She wrote her first book, a brilliant retelling of Star Wars, at the prodigious age of seven. She harbors a voracious passion (in no consistent order) for mohawks, Italy, musical theater, chocolate, and Jane Austen. Her debut novel for teens, The Halo Chronicles: The Guardian, earned her national recognition as 2010 Golden Heart® finalist for best young adult fiction. For more information, visit her at https://www.careycorp.com/

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  The Princess of Egypt Must Die

  By

  Stephanie Dray

  "Remember that you are a royal princess of Egypt," my mother says, wiping tears from my cheeks.

  "But I'm not the only one," I say, miserably. There is also Lysandra, my half-sister. The source of my tears.

  "You mustn't let Lysandra bully you."

  My mother uses clean linen strips to bandage my bleeding knees, both of which were scraped raw when Lysandra nearly trampled me beneath the hooves of her horse. "She's never punished for it," I complain. "She knows she can do as she pleases just because she is the daughter of the king's chief wife."

  "Not for long," my mother vows. "Soon, I will be first wife here."

  My father's harem is filled with women who wait upon his every whim. He has wives and concubines and even hetaeras like Thais, who sells her favor to the king. But my mother, Berenice, is fast becoming the king's favorite wife.

  My mother is young and clever. Many of the Macedonian lords who have been snubbed by Queen Eurydice now turn to my mother. My mother has allies, beauty, and a keen mind for intrigue. "I swear, Arsinoë, one day I will be the king's first wife. When that happens, I will see that Lysandra is punished for her cruelty. Until then, you must stand up for yourself."

  "How can I? Lysandra is taller than me. She's prettier than me. The king notices her; he gives her a horse just for learning to play the lyre, but I can't have one until I copy all of Plato's writings onto papyrus scrolls."

  "That may be true, but Lysandra isn't smarter than you are, Arsinoë," my mother says. "You must outsmart her. You must make the price for hurting you so steep that she won't want to pay it. You must teach her to expect revenge."

  I bite my lower lip, sniffling all the while. "I don't want revenge."

  "Then what is it that you want, my soft-hearted little fool of a daughter?"

  "I only want us to be sisters," I cry, the sting in my heart sharper than the sting of my bleeding knees.

  "You and Lysandra are not sisters," my mother hisses. "You're rivals. Never forget it."

  My mother is a brilliant peacock in my father's court, but I grow up in shadow. I never learn to stand up for myself against Lysandra. She teases me when I get my first woman's blood. She points at the spreading red stain that ruins my white linen gown. She whispers behind her jeweled hand and her friends laugh. Yet, I do nothing but slink away from the feasting hall in shame.

  I tell myself that when my mother is the king's chief wife, Lysandra will ask my forgiveness. And, struck with a sadness in my heart, I decide that I will forgive her. Then we can be true sisters.

  Unfortunately, that is a far off day. And in the meantime, she tortures me.

  The king never defends me. Sometimes he even forgets my name. Though he is Pharaoh, worshipped as a god, it's as if he can't even see me. I wonder if I'm even truly, alive. Perhaps, I'm only a shade from the underworld who lurks the palace halls.

  Still, when my brother calls to me, I think I wouldn't be able to hear him if I were only a shade.

  Of all the children in the harem, Ptolemy is my only full-blooded brother. He's named after my father. Ptolemy is older and prefers the company of other boys his age, but sometimes he invites me to come to the stables with him.

  Those are the best days of my girlhood.

  After all, horses don't mind that I'm shy. They eat from my hands even if I am a soft-hearted fool. They see me, even if I don't shout. Even if I don't fawn and flatter at court. And so I spend much time in the stables, though I have no horse of my own. Ptolemy lets me ride his horse, though the steed never goes as fast as I want to. I want to gallop in the fields or ride a fast chariot. And one day, after a ride on the banks of the Nile, I dream that I will become Pharaoh.

  I dream that, like the great pyramids, I endure forever.

  Eventually, that dream fades and I tell myself it no longer matters. The day comes, when I am fifteen years old, that I have stopped waiting for anyone to notice me at all.

  And that is the day I meet Cassander.

  I mistake him for a slave boy, when first I see him with the reigns of a sleek black filly in his hands.

  Oh, why do I lie? It is not the young man that I see first. It's the horse.

  With long graceful legs, a powerfully muscled chest and fur as black as night, the horse is a marvel. She is so beautiful that I overcome my shyness to ask the stranger, "What is she called?"

  "Styx," the young man replies. Styx. That is the river between the world of the living and the midnight world of the dead. It's a good name for this horse, because she looks so fierce I would believe she belongs to Hades himself. "She's a gift for Princess Arsinoë of Egypt from my lord, King Lysimachus of Thrace."

  I am so stunned that I cannot believe him. Surely there's some mistake. "A gift for me?"

  "Yes, Princess."

  The filly turns gentle eyes to me. She may be a fierce and dangerous creature, but she longs for love. I know it. And I'm afraid to take her reigns unless she is truly mine. It is this fear that forces me to speak. "I've never met the King of Thrace. To what do I owe this kindness?"

  "It's the first of many such gifts, Princess, in accordance with the terms of your betrothal."

  Betrothal. I am betrothed? This is the first I hear of it. That I'm to be married without my consent or knowledge is so humiliating that I strive not to show the slightest bit of surprise. "Please thank my bridegroom...whoever you are."

  "I'm Cassander," the young man says with a smile.

  The sting of his announcement--that I'm to be married to a stranger--lingers. And makes me silent.

  "I'm named after Alexander's companion."

  "It is a big name for a groom," I finally murmur.

  He shrugs. "It was chosen for me by my father, the King of Thrace."

  In an instant, my shame is compounded. Before me stands a prince! I should have known it. His leather boots are too well-made, the laces wound with golden thread. His tunic is simple homespun, but the cord tied around his waist is ornamented with beads of turquoise and jade. His shy smile isn't what I'd expect from a prince, but his green eyes and handsome face mark him as a Macedonian nobleman.

  I dare to hope. Could this young man be my intended bridegroom? Mortified at having thought him low-born, I want to sink into the ground and disappear. With my cheeks burning, I can do nothing but beg his forgiveness. "I apologize, Prince Cassander. I--I didn't know."

  "Prince?" Now his smile bends with mischief and a sparkle lights his green eyes. "No, that is my brother Agathocles. I'm merely an illegitimate son. One of many."

  Why do I swallow back disappointment? Why should it matter whether or not he is a prince, a groom or a bastard. I've known him for only the space of a few breaths. Yet, for a moment, I wished I was betrothed to him. "So then, I will marry your brother?"

  "You will marry my father," he says, turning my disappointment into despair. "It seems absurd, doesn't it? After all, I'm older than you are."

  "I'm fifteen," I say, straightening my spine, for my tattered pride is the only thing holding me up now.

>   "Then we're of an age. But you're too pretty to be my step-mother."

  He speaks with insolent boldness. In my place, Lysandra would strike him for it. I only veil my face in helpless modesty as his words echo in my mind. He thinks I'm pretty? I've seen my reflection in the polished mirror and worried over the length of my nose. Does he not see the flaws?

  The black filly gives an impatient snort, then nudges against Cassander's shoulder. "Your gift, Princess Arsinoë," he says, holding out the reigns to me.

  When I take the leather straps from Cassander, our fingers brush. I flush. To hide it, I press my cheek against the horse's long neck. Styx smells of the olive oil that has been brushed into her fur to make her gleam. She nickers gently in appreciation of my touch.

  Then Cassander flourishes me a bow. "It seems as if you've made two new friends today."

  I look for my mother in the women's quarters. Instead, I find Lysandra playing a game with one of the slaves. Lysandra's pretty head is bent in concentration as she races her agate stones across the game board. I hope she doesn't look up and notice me. I almost make it round the lotus-capped pillar before I hear Lysandra crow, "There she is! The new Queen of Thrace."

  I should run away before she can tease me. I should run to my mother's arms and ask the meaning of my betrothal. But a boy noticed me today. He may only be a king's bastard. He may only be a stable-hand. Still, he noticed me and said that I was pretty. And so I find the courage to square my shoulders and face my half-sister. "What do you know of it?"

  "I know you're to marry a very old man," Lysandra says.

  "But my bridegroom is a king, isn't he?" I ask, pretending pride I don't feel.

  She laughs, cruelly, letting the dice fall from her hand before moving more agate pieces on the board. "Only the King of Thrace. My husband will one day be the King of Macedonia."

  So then Lysandra is to be married too. She must be miserable inside and afraid to show it.

  "Will we have to leave Egypt?" At fifteen, I'm too old to cry. Nonetheless, I'm blinded by sudden tears. My home is here in Alexandria where the green Nile River flows into the vast blue sea. Here where the hieroglyphics scroll down temple walls. Here where the scent of lotus perfumes the air and the white marbled buildings gleam in the sun. Here, where I dreamed I would be a Pharaoh. "I would rather be Queen of Egypt than any other place."

  Lysandra snorts. "You would. And I don't care if you do. Go be the broodmare of some old man. Call yourself queen of barbarians here or in Thrace. I'm returning to the place our ancestors ruled. To the place from which Alexander the Great conquered the world."

  I realize that I may never see Lysandra again. It should make me gleeful. Instead, it forces the tears to spill over my cheeks. Now, there will never be any chance for us to be sisters. Only rivals, as my mother said.

  Or strangers.

  My mother sweeps into the room wearing light Egyptian garments, the finest linen made anywhere. She sees the tears in my eyes and demands, "What are you doing to my daughter now, Lysandra?"

  "Only telling her about our betrothals," Lysandra replies, with an expression of innocence.

  My mother glares at Lysandra. "Run along. Queen Eurydice is looking for you."

  It is a lie and we all know it. Lysandra's mother and mine are locked in combat for the king's favor. Never would one rely upon the other to carry any message. Nevertheless, Lysandra casually tosses her game pieces on the floor for the slaves to clean up. Then she leaves us alone.

  "You knew of my betrothal?" I ask my mother. "You knew that I was to marry some old man?"

  "Of course I knew," my mother replies, beaming with pride. "You're to marry Lysimachus, the King of Thrace. He was one of Alexander's bodyguards. One of his successors."

  Which means he's old enough to be my father, several times over. "He's a stranger."

  My mother shrugs. "It was the best bargain I could make for you. Egypt needs Thrace for an ally. Your father needs you to assure his alliance. This is an opportunity. It's also an honor, Arsinoë."

  "Not as great an honor as my father shows to Lysandra!"

  My mother strokes my hair. "Is that what you think? Lysandra's husband is only the second son of a king. Lysandra will still be a princess while you become a queen. Be glad that your bridegroom is an old man. I've arranged that you'll be his chief wife. You'll also be younger than any of the other women in your husband's harem--none of them will be able to steal his love away from you before he dies."

  These things I don't want to think about. The scheming at court. The lies and manipulations. The women all currying for favor. One rising in fortune, the other sinking into obscurity. How will I fare in such a nest of vipers? "But Mother, when the King of Thrace dies, I'll be a widow. I'll be alone in a strange place."

  My mother sighs as if I were a very stupid girl. "You'll be wealthy and the mother of son with a claim to Thrace, Macedonia, and Egypt besides. When your husband is dead, you'll have no man to rule over you. And you can eliminate your rivals. That's the best gift I can give you, Arsinoë."

  "But I don't want rivals!" I cry. "I don't even want a husband. I want to live in Egypt, forever."

  "Then you shouldn't have been born a royal princess," my mother snaps. "This is the fate of royal women. To be traded by men in power. Or we become hetaeras like Thais and trade ourselves away. One way or another, Arsinoë, life is a bargain."

  "You're no broodmare, are you?" I ask Styx, petting her withers as we walk side by side. She is eager to get out and away from the stables. The moment the hot sun of Egypt glows upon her glossy flanks, she trots, shaking her long mane as if preening for the other horses. She knows that she's special; she's barely tamed and her wildness calls to me.

  Not waiting for the guards or the grooms that oversee the stables, nor even for the eunuchs who chaperone me, I leap up onto her back.

  Having given her no warning, I'm not surprised when she rears up.

  To stay on her, I squeeze her sides with my thighs. I am reckless. Let her throw me, trample me, I don't care.

  So long as I have this moment.

  Styx whinnies, pawing at the air. Then while the grooms and guards and palace eunuchs shout warnings, she's off like an arrow shot from a bow. I cling to her back, every muscle straining to make her accept me. Behind us, I hear hooves clattering against the stone path as mounted men give chase.

  But I don't want to be saved.

  She gallops past the gardens. There is a low wall facing the ocean and she makes for it. It's her escape. Our escape. Knotting her black mane in my hands like rope, I hold tight, leaning forward to encourage Styx to jump the wall. She's like the wind beneath me, a power that surges up and up and up.

  We land hard but I don't fall. We ride on through loamy soil, which gives way to sand, and Styx never loses her footing. I half hope she'll gallop into the ocean even if we both drown. But at the last moment, she turns from the surf, pounding down the shoreline.

  It's glorious.

  We ride past the agora where merchants do their trading. We ride past bricklayers straining and sweating in the sun to build our library. We ride out the Moon Gate.

  The wind tears the ribbon from my hair, and together, we fly free.

  Thirsty from our long ride, Styx dips her muzzle into the sweet waters of Lake Mareotis. She drinks for a long time while I watch the fishermen in their flat boats pushing their way through the marshy reeds with long poles.

  The sun is low and red in the desert sky when I hear someone call my name.

  Styx is munching on the grass, but her ears prick up in alarm. I think it's one of my father's guards sent to fetch me. Instead, I see the gilded sandals of Cassander.

  "How did you find me?" I ask.

  "I looked for Styx," he says, making his way through the shrubbery. "She has a taste for tall grasses, so I thought she might take you to the lake."

  Picking at the wild grass, I say nothing, which Cassander takes as invitation to sit beside me.


  "I don't want to marry your father," I blurt out. "I don't want to go to Thrace."

  Cassander nods, taking up a handful of pebbles and skipping one across the surface of the lake. "So what do you plan to do then? Jump into one of those reed boats and offer yourself as a wife to a local fisherman?"

  His mockery gives me sharp offense. "I am a royal princess. Do you think I would lower myself?"

  Cassander shrugs. "I'm just a bastard boy; what do I know of royal honor?"

  He skips another stone over the water. To his surprise, this one comes up under a rush of white froth. And a hippo lifts its snout from the water to roar at him.

  "Zeus Almighty!" Cassander shouts, scrambling to his feet.

  The hippo must have slipped past the patch of reeds without our notice. Now it has our full attention. Styx whinnies in sharp fear. I'm the only one who doesn't move, even though I know how truly dangerous a hippopotamus is. This one fixes black eyes on me, rivulets of water streaming down its pinkish grey flesh. It opens its mouth in another roar and shows enormous teeth.

  Then it rushes me.

  "Run!" Cassander cries.

  As the great creature closes in on me, I only close my eyes. I'm too terrified to move, or too resigned to my fate. Perhaps this is no ordinary hippo, but the Egyptian goddess Taweret come to claim me for Egypt forever. I wait for the painful crush of a hippo's jaws. Instead, Cassander's steely grip closes around my wrists and I'm yanked to my feet.

  He's strong and swift. "I said, run!"

  So we run.

  With my horse, we clamber up the bank onto the road, away from the hippo—who, in spite of its blubber could probably catch us if it really tried. We don't speak until we are well away, leaning against the city wall, doubling over from our efforts.

  Styx is still on alert from our narrow escape. She trots in a circle, head high, making her outrage plain.

  I rub the sore spot on my wrists where Cassander's grip left marks. "You saved me."

  "Only by a hair!" His eyes are clouded with anger, his face red with exertion, and he pants like the breath has been stolen from his lungs. "Why didn't you run?"

  "I don't know."