The Princess of Prophecy

by Aria Cunningham

  Dexios tossed a grappling hook up the hundred foot cliff, a shower of pebbles trickling down to the deck as barbed tips found purchase in the soil above.

  "We're climbing up there?" Helen's eyes were as wide as saucers. Dexios ascended the rope hand over fist, making the effort seem easy, but it was still a considerable climb.

  Paris almost suggested she stay on the ship. Twenty-five men were going topside, leaving seventy-five to defend the galley if the Greek vessel returned. Helen would be well defended here, yet a nagging feeling told him to not let her out of his sight.

  "We'll pull you up. You'll be safe," he assured her, then took his turn on the climb up the thick rope.

  It felt good to stretch out his muscles. Barely a week on deck and Paris was already feeling the pinch of living in tight quarters. There was scarcely space to walk, let alone get any real exercise. Muscles needed to be set in motion, or, like a blade left to rust, they became fragile from lack of use. Nothing could sap the battle-readiness of a soldier like a long voyage at sea.

  He pulled himself over the ridge, accepting a hand up from his guardsman, and immediately began scouting the perimeter. The landscape of the high plateau was mostly flat and consisted of tall grass and scrub brush like juniper. In the distance a grove of cypress trees blocked out the western vista.

  "Three groups," Glaucus ordered the milling troops. "Dexios, take five men and go north, see if you can find any fresh water. Brygos, do the same but go west. See if there's any decent foraging in that grove." He grabbed the soldier's tunic roughly. "Favor fruit before roots, unless you fancy a bout of scurvy. Understood?"

  Brygos nodded, the soldier smart enough to keep his grumbling under his breath.

  "The rest of you are with me," Glaucus pulled a short spear holstered on his back. He gave the weapon a quick whirl, checking its balance. "String your bows. We're going hunting."

  A pair of broad-shouldered soldiers finished hauling up the repel line with Helen securely tied into a loop on the bottom. Paris made to join her, but Glaucus grabbed his elbow.

  "And what about you?" The captain pulled him aside.

  "We'll head south along the perimeter. Not too far, half a league at most." Paris pulled a shadow clock from the travel pouch tied to his belt. The wooden rod was roughly the length of his hand with a t-shaped raised bar at one end. He held the object flat in his palm and positioned himself in the path of the sun. Its shadow landed halfway down the shaft at the second of four, irregularly-spaced grooves. "We have an early start, but let's return here by one mark past midday."

  "Agreed." Glaucus nodded. He cast a nervous eye to a set of storm clouds gathering on the horizon and then back to the princess. "Don't get too distracted. There's a foul taste in the wind."

  Paris bit back a bitter retort. Of late, his passions were overwhelming reason. Glaucus was more likely concerned with their welfare than in meddling in his personal affairs. And even if he did mean to meddle, as much as Paris was loath to admit it, his personal affairs concerned them all now.

  "I won't. Safe hunting." He slapped Glaucus on the shoulder, then joined Helen on the bluff.

  "I haven't gone climbing since I was a child." She grinned, a flush of exhilaration on her cheeks. "I'd forgotten what it felt like to stand on top of the world." She leaned far over the cliff for a better view, fearless like a she-bear.

  He took her by the hand, leading her along a small game trail, wild goat by the look of the tracks. "Is Sparta a mountain country?"

  "No, we live in the valley plateau, in the shadow of the mountain." Her smile grew with the memory. "I was outside as often as the elements allowed. I loved to explore the wild lands with my brothers." Her face tensed with that divulgence. She seemed strangely confused.

  It was the first time Helen mentioned having brothers. Paris frowned, trying to remember their first meeting, certain he was missing something. When her smile returned, he shrugged it off.

  "It was the same for me. Hector and I spent our boyhood on the slopes of Mount Ida." He paused, remembering those carefree days. Ida was freedom for a prince rejected by the court. In the privacy of its rocky cliffs, Paris was able to reinvent himself, to become the person he wanted to be, not the one the Temple claimed was inevitable.

  Hector had been his constant companion then. Through a multitude of adventures, they challenged each other, influencing the men they would ultimately grow into being. Paris treasured those days.

  "The shepherds will be grazing their herds in the high meadows by now." He turned back to Helen. "And when the summer temperatures thaw the ice caps, the most beautiful waterfalls will cascade down the hills. I'll show it to you, if you want."

  "I'd love that," Helen said, surprised at how much she meant it. So far, the prospect of escaping to Troy had filled her with anxiety. Yet, when Paris spoke, a peaceful smile spread across his face, and she knew it must be a land of many wonders. Despite everything that happened to him, he deeply loved his homeland.

  They continued down the trail, hand in hand, talking of pleasantries—of memories distant past and ones they'd soon form. The scrub brush gave way to grass and wildflowers, the island a canopy of color with brilliant red poppies, yellow-faced daffodils, camomile, iris, and hyacinth. There were even herbs. Helen knelt along the cliffside to collect some dittany, the round and fuzzy little leaves oozing a sweet juice onto her fingers.

  "For Iamus," she explained, wrapping her bundle into a piece of cloth.

  He eyed her suspiciously. "Erondas? Newly weds take that... to, um... increase their ardor."

  Helen laughed. "That's one use for it." She licked her sticky fingers, curious to see if she would feel any amorous side-effects. "It's a powerful healing plant that also dulls pain. Iamus has endured enough for one offense, don't you think?"

  He seemed amused. "Another act of mercy, Princess? One more display and I'll have to declare you a rebel."

  The jest gave her pause. Mercy? Agamemnon thought mercy a weakness in his neighboring rulers. A kind heart was an invitation for other more powerful kings to crush. Her father believed that punishment should equal the crime—an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Justice was black and white. When Tyndareus dealt with men who compromised their honor, he showed no mercy in favor of person or circumstance.

  But Helen didn't feel that way. Her years in Agamemnon's court had shown her the world was not as simple as her father's tutelage had led her to believe. When she answered Paris, it was without any trace of humor. "Mercy can be warranted." Her voice dropped darkly as she reconsidered that thought. "But only for those who deserve it."

  The moment of gaiety had also slipped from Paris. He had the look of a man facing an insurmountable problem. "Helen, we need to talk... about what comes next."

  She tensed, as she had when he first uttered those words on the ship, dreading what would follow. "We do."

  He pulled her off the trail and they sat beneath a lone cypress tree, its wind-sculpted trunk curved in a twisted spiral toward the sun. The thick needles provided decent shade, and they reclined in its shelter.

  Paris took a deep breath, wondering how to start. He wished nothing more than to enjoy a peaceful afternoon with Helen and delight in her pleasant company. But he could not deny the dangers their actions had set into motion. Glaucus was right. There was too much at stake to simply trust to hope. He wanted to believe Priam would take his side and welcome Paris home as he promised, but that safe return depended vitally on what Helen said next.

  "We... I broke the bonds of xenia when I took you from Mycenae. I will have to answer for it when we return to Troy. I will most likely lose my position as Ambassador and what little standing I have with the court." She moved to protest. "It's all right." He cut her off. "I would not have acted if I cared about those trifles. You are the only thing that matters to me now."

  "And I, you. You must know that." She gripped his hands tightly, her deep blue eyes darkening with intensity.

  No one had ever espou
sed such feelings for him before, such devotion. He couldn't shake the feeling, as he did when she denounced his birth omen before the crew, that he didn't deserve that esteem. He could only fail her. But hero or accursed, he had come too far to turn back now. They could not move forward with their eyes shut to the dangers ahead.

  "We are riding the razor's edge of honor," he continued, regretting the next words he knew he must say. "There are many in Troy who believe I have none. They will use any misstep against me, and... unfortunately, that now includes you."

  She bowed her head, a mix of guilt and anger playing out on her face. "What are you saying? Will we not be safe there?"

  "I'm saying we have to be smart. Be prepared for anything, and survive." It bothered him that he had to play the courtiers' sick games. He wished the world rewarded honesty and the forthright, the sort of bravery Helen showed when she spared Iamus, but he had been an ambassador long enough to know that true power dealt in shadows. A man didn't live long if he couldn't see into the dark. "Aligning yourself with me might be a mistake. At least at first."

  Helen pulled away from him, her pale face tense with shock. "What are you saying?"

  "The Oath, Helen." Paris pressed on, hating the pain he saw etched on her face. This was precisely what he told Glaucus he didn't want to happen, but it was too late to worry about hurt feelings. "I know of it, and the soldiers do as well. We cannot keep it secret. I need to know the terms, the exact words they swore at your betrothal."

  Helen took a deep breath, forcing herself to relax. Paris wasn't like the men of her homeland. He didn't crave her for the spoils or glory of her hand. She was no trophy that elevated his standing amongst his fellow brother-at-arms. He loved her without need for benefit, unlike the suitors who came to Sparta so many years ago.

  The memory came vividly to her mind's eye. Her father had thought himself clever to have devised a way to keep the quarrelsome kings and princes from fighting over her hand. An oath to protect her. Little did he know it would forge the bars of her prison. The words they swore were burned into her mind and she repeated them now with little hesitation.

  "Come all who would be my son. Come and swear this sacred oath. To defend and protect he who is chosen like a brother of your blood. Swear to defend him against any wrong done to him in regard to this union. Swear by the blood of this sacrifice and share in the protection of Artemis and Her Almighty Father."

  Paris' mind whirled, trying to find a way out. Any wrong done in regard to this union... that was the linchpin securing Agamemnon's army. If the Greeks came in full force, Priam might reconsider the wisdom of subduing a quarrelsome neighbor. But if Mycenae was forced to stand alone? Troy would scatter Agamemnon's forces to the ends of the earth and teach the insolent king a lesson the West would not soon forget.

  "How many swore?"

  "Forty. Almost every realm in the Hellas." She had once been so proud of that number. Now it filled her with dread.

  "And will they all unite? Can Agamemnon command their loyalty?"

  She nodded. "Their loyalty or their fear. Some who made the vow are already dead by his hand. He would not hesitate to make an example of any others who tried to shirk their obligations."

  "That means his leadership is tenuous at best." It was the barest sliver of hope, but Paris would take it. "We'll need to undermine it further. If you came to Troy seeking sanctuary, not because of me, then no harm was done to Menelaus in regard to your union. The oath will be useless."

  Helen trusted Paris. She did not doubt he was unmatched in his ability to maneuver politics and diplomacy. But denying her love for him felt wrong. It played into the falsehoods about his birth, an injustice Paris seemed all-too-willing to accept. "Agamemnon will come regardless. He hungers for war," she protested. "My leaving is nothing but a convenient fiction of insult. He will find another reason. I don't see the point—"

  "We know that," Paris interrupted her, "but the Trojan High Council will not be so easy to convince. I can't risk the chance they might call his bluff and try to return you to him." He shook his head, his mind made up. "You need to go before the king. Ask for sanctuary. Tell Priam the true nature of Agamemnon and how you have suffered under the fist of Mycenae's king and queen. They will rally to defend you, I know it."

  That was the last thing Helen wanted to speak about, to anyone, let alone the entire Trojan court. "No!"

  "Helen?" Paris reached for her, taken aback by her impassioned response.

  She pulled away, her body shaking uncontrollably. "You promised me we would have a new life. Together." She was having trouble breathing, her agonizing breaths coming in painful hiccups. "But you want me to go before a court filled with strangers—alone—and tell them... tell them—" She couldn't finish the sentence, the idea was so reprehensible to her. She leapt to her feet, desperate for escape. Spinning on her heel, she fled into the meadow.

  The tall grass cut into her bare legs as Helen ran. Blood trickled down from a dozen little cuts. It didn't take long for her feet to falter. The world went in and out of focus. The green blades of the meadow intermixed with a scattering of poppies, the vibrant flower creating an illusion of a sea of red, a sea of blood. It surrounded her. She had nowhere to go where bloodshed would not follow. Helen fell to her knees as a pervasive numbness enveloped her.

  Paris froze, unsure if he should follow after. He finally made up his mind to give pursuit, rising to his feet just as Helen fell from hers. He took his time to reach her side, hoping to give his princess a moment of respite.

  He felt horrible that he caused her such pain. He had a tendency to think clinically, to shut off emotion when considering a course of action. It was how he survived. But Helen was not built like him. Compassion ruled her heart. It was what he loved about her.

  She was also strong. It was easy to forget that she had suffered through a number of atrocities that would have broken a lesser woman. And when he saw her, huddled on the ground and moaning softly as she rocked on her heels, his heart bled. What had those evil parasites done to her? He crouched beside her and pulled her into his arms.

  "Why didn't you just let me die?" she moaned.

  He tightened his arms around her as if to squeeze out those horrible thoughts. "If you die, I die." He shook with that promise. "There is no world for me without you in it. Helen, please. You would not have to say anything you didn't want—"

  "Then don't ask this of me!" she fired back. "Don't make me walk into your kingdom a beggar. Don't make me pretend there is shame in loving you. Do not make me their victim..."

  Her voice broke. Her demons were ripping her apart, festering in her soul. She could not be the person Paris needed while in their shadow. She had to purge those memories and harden herself against this weakness.

  Paris tried to still her trembling. He was not blind, something was deeply wrong with his beloved. Helen was no coward, but it was as though a dark veil had come over her that she could not bear to face. This was not a response to a simple beating. He gathered his courage, knowing he was treading into sensitive territory. "What happened with the queen, Helen? What happened the night we left Mycenae?"

  "Nothing happened." She pushed away from him, hiding her face in her golden locks.

  "But the nightmares—"

  "It's... it's just bad dreams. I have no control over what visits me in my sleep."

  She was lying, her falsetto tone, her posture, every part of her screamed of falsehood. "Just dreams? Does Aethra know of those dreams? Would she say the same thing if I asked?"

  Helen's head snapped up. He wouldn't dare...

  But there was a hard line creasing Paris' brow. She'd seen that stubborn streak in him before. If Paris planted his feet in the sand on this issue, she doubted she could deter him.

  "Why do you press this?" she groaned, her plea sounding desperate even to her own ears. "How often do you turn your head, a shadow of your past haunting your eyes? Do I ask you to disclose its source?"

  His face blanche
d as though she plunged a blade in his gut. "No, you don't. But if you asked, I would tell you."

  And there it was. The challenge had been thrown down. If she evaded him again, the gulf between them would widen. She tried to speak, but her tongue would not move. She thought of Theseus, of Agamemnon... her own sister. The pain, the shame, the guilt of their actions invaded her. She felt unclean.

  It was foolish not to confide in Paris. He probably suspected the truth—of Agamemnon if no one else—but she couldn't help but feel that speaking the words somehow gave the people who had wronged her power. She dropped her head, too ashamed to meet his discerning eyes.

  A small sob escaped her lips. She'd sever her own arm before she'd let it do Paris harm, but here she was—keeping him at a distance. As everyone he'd ever known surely had done. She couldn't stop the tears now. She hiccuped violently, trying hard to stifle those traitorous tears.

  Paris cradled her to his chest. He stroked her long hair, not saying a word as she spent herself crying. When her sobs were no more than soft gasps, he finally released her. "It's not your fault, Helen."

  "But, I-"

  "It's not your fault," he repeated firmly. "It happens... these horrible things happen. But it isn't your fault. The people who do them—the blame lies on their shoulders. Do not carry it for them."

  Paris lifted her chin, his fingers tracing over the nearly faded bruise on her temple. "She abused you, didn't she? More than just this." His eyes were filled with somber understanding.

  Helen hesitated. Leaning into his hand, she nodded, her eyes never leaving his.

  Paris had to mask his own pang of guilt. He should have been there to protect her. He had known there was something amiss that night. He should have trusted his instincts. It was a mistake he would not make twice.

  "And there were others? Agamemnon?"

  She nodded again. He swallowed the ball of bile creeping up his throat and continued. "And the queen... had she ever... before?"

  "Nnnno. She saw us together. I've never seen her so angry. I... I couldn't stop her."

  The queen had seen them together? His blood instantly froze. "I am so sorry, My Love."