The Princess of Prophecy

by Aria Cunningham

  That was not what the mercenary was expecting. His muscles relaxed as he reconsidered the possibility of escaping this encounter with the lives of his loved ones intact. "I have nothing of value for you. That life is behind me. On my honor."

  She laughed again, a bitter sound meant to wound the pride. "Honor? Your honor is held by the highest bidder. Which is what I mean to be. I have a task for you, Soldier. But I'll have your oath now before another word is spoken. Will you continue your anarchy or would you rather have a queen in your debt?" She pinched the child's tender skin for good measure, making the babe cry out in pain.

  "Yes, yes. I'll serve you. Zeus strike me blind if I prove untrue," he swore. "Just put her down."

  Nestra practically dropped the brat. Nothing set her teeth on edge like the piercing cry of a baby. Of her three children, only Iphigenia had been blessedly quiet. The Gods favored her with that lovely child.

  Belos regained his sword, and the family huddled together in the corner of the room. Scylax eventually coerced the child to hush and turned back to her.

  "What is this task you'll have of me?"

  Clytemnestra caught her breath, preparing herself for that first lie. Helen had placed her in a terrible predicament. If Agamemnon found out about her affair with the Trojan prince, of her willing abduction from the capital, he would invent a new method to reap pain and suffering from Nestra's twin. Her life would be forfeit. There was only one way Helen could return to Mycenae and still live.

  "My sister Helen, the Princess, was kidnapped."

  Scylax shared a shocked look with his wife. Helen was well loved by the common folk. This news came as a horrible surprise to the man.

  "The Trojan prince stole her from her rooms two nights past. You are to take a ship and sail after them. Find them and bring my sister back to me."

  It was a simple search and rescue endeavor, a task Scylax was over-qualified to conduct. He turned to Belos, a look of distrust in his eyes. "But why me? Why not the royal armada?"

  "Because they can't be trusted!" Nestra snapped, committed now to this lie. "Someone helped the Trojans escape. I cannot rely on anyone who had contact with their delegation. It has to be you."

  It was a convincing argument. It had won over Belos and the few guards she dared tell of Helen's departure. Scylax glanced at her warily, slowly accepting this pretext, and he began to hammer out the finer details of the quest with her commander. She would equip him with whatever he needed so long as he set sail on the next tide.

  "And what of the king?" the mercenary hesitated, a look of disgust on his sharp features as he mentioned her precious husband. "Should I stop in Knossos to inform him of these events."

  "Tell no one of your mission," Clytemnestra forbade him. "Stop for nothing. Helen's safety is all that matters. You bring her back to me."

  She did not need to see the concern on her commander's face to know she was losing her tenuous grasp on control. But it was too late for half-measures. "Kill the Trojan." She trembled with the heat of that need; it burnt out all reason.

  "The more he suffers, the greater your reward."

  Chapter 4

  Untested Waters

  BARELY A DAY had passed since the Trojan galley cast off from Dius' harbor. Glaucus unfurled the sails, taking advantage of the western zephyrs, but it was a short-lived burst of speed. The sun set, the wind died off, and then he put the oarsmen to work, forcing double-shifts until Dius was well behind them.

  Paris joined his captain at the stern early the next morning, neither man having rested. The interrogations began as soon as Glaucus felt comfortable leaving the helm. The captain insisted on conducting the investigation for their traitor himself, claiming he knew his men better than anyone. If someone tried to lie, he swore he would be able to tell. Thus far, however, no suspects had emerged, and half the crew had been cleared beyond doubt.

  "You should get some rest." Paris tried to relieve the man. It was difficult to tell when Glaucus was tired, he bore his aches without complaint.

  "As should you." Glaucus cast him an equally appraising eye.

  Paris yawned, knowing he must look like the aftermath of a stampede. He stretched out muscles cramped from long hours of standing in the cold night. Most ships travelled by line of sight, requiring a clear view of the coastline to navigate. Only the best mariners could pilot by the stars, and besides Glaucus, Paris was the only one on board who could read the Cosmos. He had taken Glaucus' place sometime past the witching hour.

  "I'll rest when I'm dead." Paris grunted. "Or maybe not even then. It'll depend whether or not I have anyone still alive to haunt." He laughed at the thought. The way his life was shaping up, there would be a long list.

  Glaucus laughed with him. It was good to see the man relax somewhat. He bore too much responsibility on his shoulders, and had taken the presence of a traitor in his crew personally. "There's only one person on this ship who is doing any haunting." Glaucus turned his attention down to the main deck.

  Helen walked amongst the oarsmen, bringing a bladder of water to the thirsty soldiers. She tried to strike a conversation with those who drank, but most of the men were too shy to say more than a few words. She had a way of tying even the most confident man's tongue.

  Paris savored this view of his princess from afar. Glaucus was right. Helen had a face that would haunt him for the remainder of his days. He never thought he could love another human being as much as he did Helen, nor fear her loss more than he did his own life. But the Spartan princess had turned his life upside down from the moment he first spied her in the mist. For her, he'd forsake Honor itself.

  As he watched, Helen eventually gave up her attempts to mingle, a look of frustration on her face. He knew she was making efforts to know his crew better, a task made more difficult because of the ongoing interrogations. The entire crew was on edge, ready for all manner of dangers—both from within as without. Still, he hoped she did not get discouraged. Setting sail for a new life in the company of strangers took courage few could muster. He didn't know where she found the fortitude, but every day she tried just a little bit harder, a fact that made him admire her all the more.

  After a quick stop at the cook station, she joined them at the aft-deck, carrying two wooden bowls filled with a gruel fashioned out of stale bread and a copious amount of their dwindling drinking water. "It isn't much, but it's hot."

  "Thank you." Paris took the meal, trying to appear grateful for the repast although his appetite was nonexistent.

  Glaucus couldn't make it past two mouthfuls. He let the gruel drip from his spoon with an unceremonious plop. "We're not going to make it another week without fresh supplies, let alone all the way to Troy."

  "I know," Paris admitted ruefully. "We'll have to try a port along the southern coastline. Maybe word of our departure hasn't travelled that far."

  But Glaucus wasn't content to let that matter lie, and he picked up the conversation that Paris had been hearing all night. "There are other ports, Paris. Ones not linked by kinship to Greece..."

  "No." His curt reply shook with more force than he intended. "That is not an option."

  "Well, it very well might be." Glaucus glowered back, casting an embarrassed glance to Helen. The captain was always uncomfortable questioning Paris in front of company, but proper or not, Glaucus would not let this matter drop.

  "We are not going to Egypt. Now put it out of your mind."

  Helen tried to ignore their squabbles when they arose, but this last part intrigued her. She turned to Paris, puzzled. "What's wrong with Egypt?" Mycenae's interaction with their southern neighbors had always been friendly. They were a good trade partner. She couldn't imagine formal, sophisticated Egypt would be hostile to a traveling diplomatic ship.

  "Trade in Egypt is controlled by the crown." Paris gave Glaucus a warning glance, making sure the man knew this discussion was not an invitation to alter their plans. "All trade. One does not simply drop anchor and barter for goods. There are strict
formalities that must be observed. Local governors take part. It's complicated..."

  But both Helen and Glaucus were staring at him as if he were paranoid. Paris ran a hand through his hair, trying to find words to describe his concerns. "Egypt was the first kingdom I visited as an ambassador. That was about ten years ago, right after Rameses, the second of his name, died."

  Paris remembered that ill-fated trip as though it were yesterday. "Ozymandias sat his throne for sixty years, and the fallout of his death was like nothing I had ever experienced. It reached every level of society. Brother turned on brother as every man who envied Pharaoh rushed in to grab what influence they could."

  He paused, worried he was letting emotion cloud his reason, but it was difficult to separate the two when discussing the Two Lands. "My trip was meant to be a short mission, a show of respect from one great king for the passing of another. I was scheduled to stay for a fortnight at best. I did not leave for six months."

  Helen's eyes grew wide, some small understanding reflecting on her face. If such a delay happened to them now, their dreams of a future in Troy would be forfeit.

  "Egypt is a dangerous place," Paris pressed on, "unlike any land I've visited. It is steeped in traditions that are mysterious and completely foreign to men of the North. One false move, one accidental insult to their Gods, and we'll find ourselves hopelessly mired into their world." Like quicksand, Egypt would bury them in their never-ending plots and squabbles. With the wrath of Agamemnon that was sure to follow them, he would not risk the uncertain harbors of Egypt, no matter what arguments Glaucus presented.

  "That was ten years ago, Paris," Glaucus persisted. "I'm sure the kingdom has stabilized by now."

  "They can't be trusted." Paris shook his head, unrelenting. There was no other way to interpret the series of mixed messages presented by the Egyptian Empire. "I won't risk taking Helen there, not if there is another option."

  Helen blushed, turning her gaze to the floorboards. This complication was because of her. The crew suffered, Paris suffered, all to keep her safe. And she was impotent to help them. She hated this feeling of utter helplessness.

  "Captain!" Hyllos hailed from the deck. The Trojan trade master approached the helm with a grim face.

  Glaucus exhaled heavily, a dark pall overcoming the man with a swiftness that stunned Helen. "A confession?"

  "Well, not exactly." Hyllos' face pinched tight as he struggled to find his tongue. In the end, words failed him.

  "Then what?" Glaucus growled at the thin man, his lack of sleep making him quick to ire.

  "We have... information. But you need to hear it from the source." Hyllos' gaze darted from the captain to Paris and dropped to the deck. Paris had never seen the man seem so unsure of himself. When he spoke again, his voice was so low Paris had to strain to hear it. "For what it's worth, he came to us."

  "Hades Hounds," the captain cursed, rolling his eyes. "If you will excuse me, Your Grace, I have a traitor to catch." Glaucus dipped into a sharp bow, leaning in close to deliver his next message with a lowered voice. "I'm not done with this conversation."

  "I am," Paris snapped with finality.

  The captain snapped his heels together and joined Hyllos. They were both below deck in four powerful strides. Helen watched them disappear, her earlier frustrations finding a safe target. Someone on this ship had betrayed Paris to her sister. Someone had broken his oath, bringing ruin on the entire Trojan delegation. It sickened her to no end. No Spartan could live with that shame. Any one of her countrymen would have laid down on his sword on principle.

  "You're worrying again."

  She spun back to Paris, burrowing her troubles deep inside. He had enough burdens without her adding to the list. "You mistake me, Trojan." She planted her arms across her chest, a show of mock offense. "I am merely being cautious. You promised me a new life, and I plan to hold you to your word."

  "You'll have it," he promised, lifting her chin for a chaste kiss. Then his voice dropped, all hint of playfulness gone. "All that I have, all that I am, is yours, Helen. Trust me to see you home safely." His kiss led to another, this one deeper.

  Helen's heart leapt in her chest. They were in public—anyone could see. Even now, leagues away from her homeland, she couldn't shake the feeling of disobedience, that the powerful people who ruled her life were watching and waiting to make her pay for this indiscretion.

  But a rebellious fire burned inside her. She squelched the voice in her head that screamed at her lewd behavior—a voice that sounded eerily similar to the sister she left behind. Helen did not care if she acted no better than a bathhouse trollop. She loved this man, body and soul.

  "I trust you, Paris," she whispered fiercely, pressing her lips to his ear.

  Paris had to restrain himself. The power of the emotions she invoked was almost frightening. He didn't know if he believed in other lives or the immortality of the soul, but Helen's touch, the way she said his name, felt like a familiar caress. He had never felt more vulnerable, and yet accepted, in his entire life. With Helen by his side, he had finally found a place he belonged.

  He tickled a sensitive spot on her neck with the day's growth of stubble on his chin, and she squirmed in his arms, giggling. It was a musical note, one that filled him with warmth. He loved the sound of her laughter. They had spent too much of their lives under the thumb of those who reaped sorrow instead of smiles. Gazing into her jewel-blue eyes, the orbs a deeper blue than the finest lapis-lazuli, he vowed silently to make up for those lost years.

  "Your face is made for the bards, My Love."

  Helen closed her eyes and let his touch wash over her. "A pretty face? Is that all it takes to turn your head?" Goosebumps ran down her back. "Prince Paris the Lovelorn... struck dumb by beauty? I thought you Trojans were forged from stronger metal than that."

  He laughed at her jest and tucked a loose strand of golden hair behind her ear. When he touched her temple, she winced and pulled back.

  Paris cursed at his clumsy mistake. He hadn't meant to touch the wound. The bruise, once a deep and angry purple, had faded to a pale brown. He suspected the pain wasn't physical anymore, but a lingering sting, like a poison that couldn't be leeched free. The joy, which a moment before lit up her face, had vanished.

  "Do you want to talk about it?"

  She shook her head and retreated further back into her own space. Although it burned, he swallowed his next question. He had found her bruised and battered on the northern precipice at Mycenae just one step away from ending her life, and he still did not know the reason why. He wanted to respect her privacy—she would share when she was ready—but that unanswered question was a widening crevasse between them, keeping him at arm's length.

  "It doesn't matter. None of that matters," she answered a bit too quickly for it to feel genuine. "It's in the past. I want to talk about the future—our future. Tell me again about Troy?" She forced a smile, a brave attempt to appear cheerful, although it did not touch her eyes.

  Paris sighed, allowing her the deflection. He led her over to the port railing and pointed behind them towards the north-eastern sky just shy of where the morning sun hung low on the horizon. "She's there. The Golden Gates of Troy."

  Helen blinked. "Behind us? Then why are we sailing south?"

  He grinned, amused by her sweet confusion. "This side of the Great Sea is plagued with currents and foul winds. When the winds are wrong, our oarsmen can't match their power. We have to navigate around the perimeter, like water swirling in a bowl, to get back to where we came from. The journey home always takes longer than the ride out."

  Helen stared out into the great expanse of turquoise-blue waters. The journey home... my home. Would it be? It had been so long since she felt she belonged anywhere. She could not help but voice her concerns. "Do you think they will like me?"

  "They will love you."

  He sounded so confident, but Helen wasn't reassured. "And if they don't?" Before the fabled halls of Troy, before the s
ophisticated aristocracy of the Old World, how would a wild and impulsive daughter of Sparta compare?

  Paris followed her gaze to the tiny speck on the horizon where Troy lay. "Then we don't have to stay." It pained him to consider that option, but he was no fool. The likelihood that the Trojan nobility would reject them was far greater than the odds of a warm reception.

  But he could not help but hope. Priam promised him he could stay this time, that he would denounce the omens that had haunted Paris from birth... a promise he had made not knowing Paris would return with another man's wife. The king had instructed him to quell the rebellious Greeks, not provoke them to greater fury.

  Paris quickly played out the interactions he'd had with Agamemnon over his weeklong visit to Mycenae. He was sure he had no alternative but to leave. Agamemnon was searching for a war. No act of diplomacy, whether the silk glove or the fist, was going to stop that. Priam had to understand.

  "They will love you," Paris repeated, knowing the true source of danger in their return. "It's me they might turn away."

  Helen slipped her delicate fingers into his, giving him a reassuring squeeze. "They will love you, too. Once they know the omen is false, they'll see you for who you truly are. As I do."

  He leaned in, pressing his forehead to hers. "It would take a miracle..."

  "Then have faith." There was a firm cast to her face that matched her stubborn core. "The Gods brought us together—for what purpose, I don't know—but there is a purpose, Paris. Trust in that, if nothing else."

  He wished he shared her faith, but he had seen too much of the world to believe blindly. If the Gods were real, they cared little about the havoc they sowed on mankind. In his opinion, the Immortals should be feared, but never trusted.

  Helen's conviction, however, did not waver. He marveled again at the events that brought them together, that a woman of such fortitude and grace would give her heart to him. If miracles were a real phenomena, then Helen's love was certainly one.