The Princess of Prophecy

by Aria Cunningham

  Slowly, her tears ceased, and Helen leaned on his shoulder, her body drained of energy. As her breathing returned to normal, he held her close, amazed at her courage in the face of such depravity.

  "You don't have to worry about them any more." His arms tightened around her with that promise. "You will never fall back into their hands. That life is behind you, I promise."

  "I... I know," came her shaken reply.

  Paris grimaced, regretting the additional pain he knew he must inflict upon her. "We are very close to that new beginning. But, as much as I want to declare my love for you before my king," his voice cracked and he paused, swallowing his misgivings before continuing on. "It is too dangerous. I... am disgraced. To the Trojan court, everything I touch is tainted."

  Helen moved to protest.

  "No, hear me out." He waved her off. "It is madness to deny the truth. I am cursed, an ill-favored son of Troy. If you enter the realm as my lover... if the nobles suspect I persuaded you to abandon your husband... my shame will become yours." Paris shook involuntarily, horrified at that thought. "I cannot do that to you."

  Helen froze, her hand half-outstretched to Paris, his heartfelt sorrow infecting her. The guilt of their flight from Greece lay heavily on his soul. It conflicted with the duty he owed to Troy and his king. In that tangled web, where did love factor in? She lowered her head, the ball of hope that resided in her chest quietly snuffing out. She could not place a greater burden on his shoulders.

  "What would you have me do?"

  "I need you to trust me." He sighed heavily, his face marked with sadness. "Where we go now, our enemies are ahead of us, not behind. They fight with whisper and shadows, weapons that cannot be defeated by bravery alone. If we let anger or fear dictate our actions, what safety we could hope for in Troy will be lost. We must not play into Agamemnon's hand."

  "I understand." Helen cursed her naivety. The childish hope she harbored for a future of love and acceptance in Troy was but a tale for the bards. In the real world, there was no song honoring a woman who forsook her vows. Helen would go to Troy a refugee and sing a tale of woe, and in doing so, curse herself to forever be Agamemnon's victim, a stigma she knew now she would never escape.

  "I'm sorry it has to be this way," Paris added, hating that he must ask this of her. Helen deserved better than this—she deserved better than him. But if he was to protect her, he had to do it the only way he knew how. "This is for the best. For both of us."

  Helen nodded, her hand shaking as she accepted his help up from the grass. If not for the cry in her heart, his words would seem like wisdom. Paris was so capable and brave. He risked the wrath of kings on her behalf.

  She could not help but wonder, when would he do the same for himself?

  They walked back to the ship some time later, neither Helen nor Paris electing to speak. For the first time since they met, Paris felt a wedge growing between them, a shadow of duty that threatened to keep them apart. When they reached the cliffside, Glaucus had already returned, a similar gloom hanging over his host of men.

  "What is it?" Paris rushed to his captain's side, fearing the worst. But one glance down to the rocky cove below showed the galley still at anchor. Glaucus' ire came from another source.

  "A small herd of goats and a few roots tough enough to break teeth." He nodded back to their meager haul. "With the winds blowing from the east, we'll starve before we make berth at a safe harbor in Canaan. Paris, I implore you. Be reasonable."

  A peal of thunder broke out overhead as a dark cloud crossed over the sun. The hair rose on Paris' neck. The Gods mock me...

  "We'll resupply at a military fort along the delta. No one will know you are there," Glaucus promised, using Paris' stunned silence as a chance to argue his case. "I will deal with the overseer. We'll resupply and wait until the trade winds turn and take us back to Troy."

  What Glaucus promised was no simple feat. That voyage would entail a dangerous delay, and if they were discovered, every skill Paris possessed as a diplomat would be required to see them through. Even though he new there was no other option, he still hesitated.

  "Where are we going?" Helen came to his side, slipping her hand into his. Looking into her careworn face, knowing the dangers she had survived and how bravely she had faced them, he knew he could do no less.

  "To Egypt." The words stuck in his throat. A quick glance to Glaucus confirmed the relief that admission imparted to his captain.

  Egypt, the land of the eternal sun. The one place Paris hoped to avoid at all costs.

  Chapter 8

  The Watcher of the Winds

  SCYLAX STOOD AT the bow of his ship staring out over the empty waters of the Aegean. Some evil sprite lent his quarry speed. He had worked his crew near to death to catch up with the Trojan galley, and right when he caught sight of the wooden beast, it disappeared.

  The Gods were punishing him, he decided. Scylax had chosen Mycenae to start his new life, believing the power of the Greek capital would render it immune to the many wars of conquest that frequently set the countryside in flames. But that bitch of a queen had dug him out of his den, forcing him back into the dark underworld he had helped to create.

  Scylax glared at the pathetic crew the queen had provided him, his hand inching toward the whip at his belt. He longed to make those lazy dogs fear him more than sore muscles. They groaned like babies, taxed by the swift journey to Crete. When Scylax discovered they had missed their quarry in Dius by mere hours, he set an even harsher pace. Every day that the Spartan princess eluded his grasp was another day the queen held his family in ransom. He'd beat them all bloody if it brought him home quicker.

  The pacemaker set a steady beat on his drum, and the oarsmen threw their backs into their work, flinching away from Scylax' ice cold gaze. He unclenched his hand. He was a fool to expect anything of worth from this motley crew. They were no Brothers of the Sword, but desperate men taking whatever work they could attain. In the days to come, they would be as useless to him as the vermin that prowled the lower deck. No matter how much he longed to strike out, beating these men would bring him no closer to his quarry.

  He took a deep and measured breath, remembering Dora's lessons on how to quell his temper. He was in control. Scylax. Not the violent titan of his past.

  He saw the terror in his wife's eyes when he accepted this charge. Dora feared he would become the monster that he once was back when they first met. He shared her fear. A blinding rage beckoned to him. It was the familiar embrace of an old lover. That Scylax was an agent of death, a man who would think little of ripping a queen's spine from her throat. When Clytemnestra threatened his children, he briefly considered that action, but Scylax knew, in taking the bloody path, he'd lose Heliodora forever, and her gentle love was the only reason he still lived.

  Yet, in doing the queen's bidding, he was nevertheless on the path for blood. This time, however, only one man need die. Scylax went over the queen's description of the Trojan prince again, each detail given equal weight. It was important to know your prey, how they thought. That advantage meant Scylax could anticipate the prince's moves, and given time, lie in wait.

  Only a coward kidnaps a married woman while her husband is away. His thoughts turned again to Dora, alone in Mycenae. If anyone dared to touch her...

  Scylax grit his teeth as a red haze clouded his sight. Dora would have to forgive him for this murder. The Trojan had earned his death.

  A gust of wind stirred from the north, raising the hairs along Scylax' neck. With it came the heavy scent of earth that spoke of summer squalls. A lifetime at sea had taught him to read the winds, and these zephyrs were blowing them to the southern continent.

  I can't go back there... Bile rose in his throat. He had agreed to run down the Trojan galley, to return the princess to Greece and no more. There had been no mention of Egypt. The queen could not ask him to return to that pit of deceit.

  But she wasn't asking...

  A return to Egypt meant facin
g his past. It meant inviting daemons long buried to take root. Could he face that temptation and return again?

  Scylax swallowed his misgivings, the bile burning the tender flesh of his throat. For Dora he'd descend into Hades itself. If Egypt was where the Trojan prince thought to hide, so be it. The cloak of darkness would not avail him. No amount of tricks would turn Scylax off course.

  "Baradas!" he shouted to his helmsman. "South by southeast. Everyone is on double-shifts until we see the southern continent." He ignored the pathetic groans from his oarsmen at the announcement, a grim determination taking root inside him. He'd hear no objection to the task that lay before him.

  When the Trojans entered the Two Lands, Scylax would be waiting for them.

  Part Two:

  In the Two Lands

  THE BATTLE OF KADESH

  SINCE THE DAWN of civilization, the holy lands of Canaanite and Syria have been the source of constant warfare. In the twilight years of the Late Bronze Age, these fertile lands were contested property between the mighty empires of Egypt and Hatti. Satrapies were won and lost in their never ending tug-of-war of power.

  A short time before the birth of Helen and Paris, an historic battle was fought on the plains of Kadesh. Rameses the Great, the second of his name, fought bravely against a Hittite host twice his army's size. In the end, neither king could claim victory, and both monarchs lost their appetite to rule a ruinous land destabilized by their bloody campaigns.

  A truce was called. And with the ratification of the Treaty of Kadesh, Egypt and Hatti—the mortal enemy of Troy—formed the world's first peace treaty, a feat so momentous it was immortalized on the walls of Karnak and the annals of Hattusa. A princess of Hatti was wed to the Pharaoh, and thus the pact was sealed in blood as well as stone.

  Rameses ruled in Egypt for another 50 years. While none would question the rule of their God-King while he still drew breath, many factions in Egypt detested calling their once great enemy, "friend". They whispered that this alliance of empires was in truth a desperate attempt to preserve the legacy of a failed king, of a Pharaoh so weak he let slip the slaves of Israel and conceded lands once held by their ancestors—lands won by the blood of Egypt.

  By the time of Rameses' death, these factions had taken root in the royal household. Pharaoh had sired countless children with his numerous wives and concubines, many of whom he outlived. While tradition held that the crown prince would ascend the high seat, there were many contenders vying for power. In the aftermath of Rameses' death, brother turned on brother, and neighboring kingdoms pecked away at Egypt's borders. Danger was ever-mounting.

  In those troubling times, it was not the sons of Pharaoh who posed the greatest threat to Egypt, but a princess of mixed Hittite and Egyptian heritage, a princess with ambitions to become Pharaoh herself. Twosret, Daughter of Re, Lady of Ta-merit, Twosret of Mut... a woman as devious as she was cunning.

  A woman who would destroy her family's dynasty.

  Chapter 9

  The Delta

  THE NORTHERN ZEPHYRS blew relentlessly off the Great Sea the week following the Trojan's departure from Crete. Just when Paris thought they neared the Egyptian coast, the winds would shift, pushing their galley off-course and losing the distance they had gained the day prior. To the Trojan prince, it seemed the Gods were in flux, as undecided as he about their destination.

  On the fifth day, just after sunrise, the lowlands of the Egyptian delta came into view. The marshland, dense and green, was surrounded by yellow desert sands on both sides. Any manner of danger could hide in the blind channels that flowed from the Nile into the sea. Danger or not, that was their destination.

  "Trim the sail," Glaucus barked out to his bosun, and a team of sailors set to work on the rigging. As soon as land came in sight, the captain had taken point position at the helm. He navigated the ship around wooden beams jutting out of the water. Those timbers were not the branches of flooded trees but masts from a vast ship graveyard, the forsaken vessels run aground on the treacherous sandbars lining the coast. Only an experienced helmsman could read the correct path to the reach the delta. It was as much of a deterrent for a sea invasion as having an army stationed at Egypt's border.

  Paris ran a hand through his salt-crusted hair. He hoped his paranoias were just that. But knowing the Two Lands as he did, it was best to approach the Egyptian shores with caution.

  "Have you thought through what you are going to tell them?" Paris asked again.

  "As little as possible." Glaucus unconsciously gripped the hilt of his sword. "Just enough to get to the trading post along the delta. If you stay below deck where no one can recognize you, I should be able to handle the rest."

  They had agreed to continue the subterfuge they adopted in Crete. Complicated questions arose with the presence of a royal diplomat... questions and obligations they both wished to avoid. Glaucus insisted Paris stay out of sight. Due to the lengthy time he had spent in the Two Lands, there were good odds he would be recognized by a local governor or vizier. Trojan merchants restocking their larders, however, would pose no great interest.

  "You've told the men to deny this is a royal ship?"

  "Only fifty times." The captain grunted. "No one will betray your presence." He seemed almost eager to prove that fact.

  Glaucus was strangely in favor of this detour. When Paris pressed, the gruff man simply stated that he was a soldier and soldiers preferred offense to pretense. When Glaucus refused to elaborate, Paris could only guess it had something to do with Helen. The captain watched over her as assiduously as he did his prince.

  He looked across the ship to the bow where Helen was replacing Iamus' bandages. After their sojourn on the Cretan isle, she had taken responsibility for the soldier's care. Iamus was back on his feet within a day and insisted on taking his turn at watch, although anything more rigorous was still beyond him.

  Helen raised her head and smiled at him. Over the past week that smile had grown more brilliant, as though she meant to pack in a lifetime of affection before they reached Troy's golden shores. Each day was more precious than the last, a stolen moment of happiness they were both desperate to preserve. He wished it could last forever. She practically radiated with joy.

  Her mood also infected the crew, many of whom seemed to think this visit to the Two Lands was simply another adventure to notch in their belts. That left only Paris to worry about what lay ahead, and his tongue had grown more acidic the closer they ranged to the southern continent.

  He excused himself from the helm and joined her at the bow. Helen had just finished placing a salve on Iamus' welts, a mix of honey, dittany, date juice and goat brains. It smelled terrible. Paris was grateful when she placed fresh bandages over the mess.

  "Don't touch it this time," she warned the soldier, tying the linen in pace. Iamus grunted under the tight knot, but made his promise with little complaint. When he caught sight of Paris, he hastily pulled his tunic back on, his eyes darting nervously.

  "Your Grace." He looked like he wanted to say more, but clamped his mouth shut.

  "Go on with it." Helen prodded the man, poking him none-too-gently in his tender back.

  "I was wondering—" he looked to Helen for reassurance, "hoping... you would let me return to your royal guard."

  Paris was unprepared for that question. He paused, considering the man before him. There was remorse in his eyes, but was it enough? When Helen told the crew that in the eyes of the Gods Iamus' crime was wiped away by his punishment, it seemed a viable prospect. But could he trust Iamus not to fail him again?

  "We'll discuss that when we get back to Troy." He shook his head, still uncertain. "Rest up, Iamus. You'll need your strength."

  "Yes, I will. Thank you, My Prince." He quickly rose to his feet and shuffled away, his walk one of a man who still assumed his guilt.

  "Did you put him up to that?" Paris turned back to Helen. She was watching him intently, an unspoken question in her narrowed eyes.

  "No
. I merely encouraged him when he asked if it were possible. Every man deserves a chance to redeem himself." She crossed to his side and took his hand in hers. "Does that sound so unreasonable?"

  The ship banked hard to starboard, turning into a channel of the delta. They were quickly surrounded by towering reeds that blocked out the horizon. The rumble of waves crashing against the hull, that steady sound Paris had become so familiar with over the past two weeks, faded away. A new hum took its place, this one of marshland insects and songs of frog and heron. With the cool ocean breeze gone, the humidity of the swamp soaked into his bones. The change came suddenly, as if they crossed an invisible barrier, and once on the the other side, there was no mistaking that the land was as ancient as it was unchangeable. This was the feel of the Egypt he remembered.

  "Paris?" Helen tightened her grip on his hand, a crease of worry on her lovely face as she stared into the marshland. "Are you sure this is the right decision?"

  "Absolutely." He squeezed her hand back, a surge of guilt flooding him. His pensive mood had not gone unnoticed, and while a foray into Egypt unnerved him, the last thing he wanted was to scare her. "I'm sorry if I've worried you. I like to be prepared when I go into a new land. Ideally, I'd send in scouts, assess the atmosphere of the capital before entering." He grimaced, knowing he was still saying too much. "Forgive me, Helen. Glaucus is right. I am paranoid. Egypt is not as bad as I make it out to be. In some ways, it truly is an advanced culture, one that far surpasses any other in the world."

  She tucked a strand of hair out of his face and cast him a gracious smile, one those rare smiles that she shared only with him. "Really?" She settled in against his chest, finding the nook in his arm that seemed to fit her shape perfectly. "Tell me more."