The Princess of Prophecy

by Aria Cunningham

  "You must be cleansed," the priest insisted, pushing him towards the lake. Paris resisted the urge to push back. Meryatum would take him to Helen soon enough. For what other reason would the priest have brought him here? He removed his tunic and sandals and walked into the cool waters.

  Two pastophoroi joined him. They pressed him under the surface, rubbing him down with sandstones. For a moment, he nearly panicked. The priests were stronger than they looked and, with little effort, could hold him down until breath escaped him. There were less obvious ways of killing him, however, if that was what they wished. An assassin who employed poison was not likely to show his hand so readily. With reluctance, Paris unclenched his muscles and let the priests do their duty. By the time they finished, he was pink, his new skin raw and highly sensitive to the chill wind that stirred from the east.

  Water dripped from his hair and down his back. He was offered no towel, nor was his clothing returned to him. Paris sighed, frustrated at himself for expecting anything different. He shook himself dry like a mongrel, trying to preserve what little dignity he had left. Not waiting for permission, he pushed through his pastophoroi chaperones and back to the temple where he could get some answers.

  Meryatum was waiting for him, standing beside a blazing bonfire at the alabaster altar. The man was tall for an Egyptian, but when Paris ascended the altar, the high priest was forced to look up. An eddy of mist swirled around them, cutting them off from the dozen other priests standing vigil.

  "Where is Helen?" Paris strove for a respectful tone, a difficult endeavor as the pulling in his veins increased. "Is she safe?"

  "That depends on you." The high priest frowned, studying him like a man puzzling out a riddle. "Are you the man she claims or are the omens true? The Gods are conflicted."

  Were they? Or was that what Meryatum wished him to believe? Empowered with the symbols of his office and in view of the House of Re, the high priest was in his element. Standing naked before the man, Paris felt nothing more than a puppet, his strings manipulated by a master magician.

  "I know who I am." He grit his teeth, sick of the pretense. "As do the Gods. I have made my peace with them."

  Meryatum looked unconvinced. "Be that as it may," he shook his head, "Amun-Re will be the final judge." The fire crackled behind him, sizzling as a branch crumbled to ash. Paris took an involuntary step back. Meryatum was silhouetted by the angry red flames, the priest seemingly imbued with their fiery power. "Our paths did not cross without reason, Alexandros of the House of Priam. Amun-Re brought you, and your foreign beauty, to Egypt. He wishes to show you something, and I am unsure you will survive the viewing."

  There were few things on this earth that struck Paris with fear. He learned long ago that reality held worse dangers than the panicked imaginings of the mind. Yet hearing the tremor in Meryatum's booming voice, he could not help but look to the temple, and the mysteries it hid, with trepidation.

  "Has Helen gone in?"

  "She has."

  He squared his shoulders. "Then so will I."

  Meryatum waved over another priest, picking up a small vial the man held on a cushion. "If you are to behold the Great God, you will have to embrace your true nature. Your soul must be laid bare. You will see as the Gods see."

  Drugs. At least one thing was consistent amongst the religious practitioners of the world. He nodded and prayed that the effects would not be permanent.

  "I warn you, this will not be pleasant." The high priest pulled out the glass stopper filled with a small measure of green liquid.

  "I can handle it," he said with more confidence than he felt. Just the sight of the unfamiliar substance made Paris' already sensitive skin itch.

  Meryatum motioned forward two pastophoroi and Paris was seized from behind. They pinned his arms behind his back, raising his head with a grip on his hair.

  "What are you doing?" He flexed against their tight hold.

  Meryatum did not answer. He loomed over Paris as the remaining priests lifted their voices in a light hymn, a strangely celebratory song despite the prophet's ominous warnings. He raised the dropper over Paris' face and released a single drop in each eye.

  Paris screamed. He had never experienced such intense pain in his life. The drugs seeped through his eyes, seeming to ignite his very skull. The world burned in liquid white pain, and he fell to his knees, still locked in the priests' hold.

  "What have you done to me?" he yelled between sharp gasps. When the pain did not abate, a new terror took hold of him. What had he done with Helen?

  "You lying bastard!" He heaved against his captors, fighting to get back on his feet. "You are going to kill her. Like you tried to do with me. And Glaucus..."

  His blood pounded in his veins like a war drum and Paris found a strength inside him he had never known existed. He swung his right arm, dislodging one priest. Though his vision had not returned, he heard the man stumble across the altar and scream as he landed in the fire. Another shove sent the other priest to the ground and out into the courtyard.

  He was a fool for coming to Egypt. A fool for trusting the good will of the temple. When would he learn? They were all murdering bastards who only cared for their own self-importance. "Where are you?" he shouted, his arms spread out before him, sweeping around to find the high priest.

  Something changed. A black blur emerged in the white cloud of his vision. The song of the pastophoroi rose to a new level, their chanting building with intensity. In the midst of that noise came a new sound, one much closer to Paris. That black blur took form, and he knew the high priest stood over him.

  "Awake, O Mighty God. Awake Re, and vanquish your enemies." A piercing light stabbed at Paris' eyes from the tip of Meryatum's staff, and he covered his head to shield from it. "Draw out Chaos so that he may be banished in your Light."

  Protective spells. As the world slowly took form around Meryatum and his awesome presence, Paris realized those spells were not for him, but against him.

  A resounding boom echoed throughout the courtyard and a cold draft wafted across Paris' legs. He spun to see what new danger the priest had conjured and was met only with blackness. The cold, empty black of the void.

  "Go now!" Meryatum commanded, his powerful voice seemingly inside Paris' mind. "Go and seek out your destruction." He planted his hands on Paris' shoulders and shoved him into the temple.

  Meryatum trembled as the priests slid the bolt on the temple doors into place. He had been prepared to face the wrath of the Trojan but had not expected such strength. Fueled with righteous anger, the prince had the power of ten men, a small token of what he might be capable. Meryatum suspected the prince kept those forces hidden, even from himself.

  Penanukis stepped up on the altar beside him, the second prophet as disturbed by the Trojan's raw display as he. "Are you sure it was wise to give him the night flower? He could kill her you know."

  He could, and the guilt of the princess' death would lie entirely at Meryatum's feet. "I had no choice."

  The decision to move forward with this plan had not come lightly. Meryatum baited Chaos in hopes that the Gods would reveal their purpose in the shadow-haunted man. If the Trojan was what the omens decreed, Helen would pay for it with her life.

  "If he kills her, it is the will of Re. The root of dark tidings will be revealed, and we can restore balance."

  He raised his torch, beckoning the other priests to follow him to the observation chambers. There was no more he could do but wait. Paris and Helen's future rested with the Gods now.

  And what if she is right? An unbearable guilt weighted down Meryatum's heavy steps. Can a man overcome his fate and become something more? Or had he sentenced Helen to an early death by the man she loved?

  Scylax hurried down the palace corridor keeping to shadows as best he could. The hour was growing late. The insufferable Trojan guards had kept him preoccupied long after the prince had left with priests, plying him for details about their nonexistent escape plan. His skills had
been stretched thin trying to find suitable answers.

  Why had the high priest picked tonight to change his mind? He was so close to securing Paris and Helen that he could almost hear his daughters' laughter. The Gods mocked him, showing once again how they unjustly favored the noble kind.

  He pressed himself flat against the wall as another guard completed his rounds, the metal-tipped butt of his staff beating a stucco rhythm as he passed. It was sheer desperation that forced Scylax to move through the palace so openly. He hoped Taharqa was right about this man.

  The temple taking possession of the prince was the worst possible scenario for Scylax. If they killed the princess in their ridiculous ritual, the queen would blame Scylax for failure and take Heliodora's life. If Helen and Paris both lived, they'd no longer need to flee the capital. Seti would fill their empty larders and they'd be back on the high seas to Troy. His mission would be delayed, and the queen would blame Scylax for failure and take Heliodora's life. The sands of the hourglass had run out. He needed access to the fugitive pair, a feat of considerable undertaking considering the fortress that now held them.

  Two guards stood vigil outside the chancellor's door. Sell-swords by the look of them: one a Nubian as dark as Etruscan soil and the other the deep brown of a Hyksos tribal man. It seemed Bay did not place his protection in the hands of the Egyptian military. Scylax lowered his guard a bit, which meant he was a tad less lethal than a coiled asp. He stepped out of the shadows, and the guards tensed uncomfortably, stunned by his silent approach.

  "What do you want, slave?" the Nubian sneered at him, brandishing his sword.

  "I have a message for Chancellor Bay." He held his ground. It was a rarity for a slave to show a fraction of courage. He hoped it was enough to peak their interest. He did not relish the idea of leaving a trail of bodies in his wake to get to the man.

  The guard grimaced and sheathed his blade. "Follow me."

  The chancellor's chambers were dimly lit. A few oil lamps burned in niches along the wall, the rancid smoke from their wicks adding to the claustrophobic feeling of the room. Bay sat at a large desk covered with scrolls. He didn't bother lifting his head from his letters as Scylax crossed the room.

  Bloody arrogant fool. A man could lose his head being so careless. This was the turncoat Taharqa said he could trust?

  "What do you want?"

  "I bear a message for you from my Trojan master." Scylax waited for Bay's full attention, but the scratching of his quill continued on uninterrupted.

  "Get on with it."

  "He said to tell you the springs in Ugarit are fair if you can survive the storms."

  The quill dropped. Bay finally turned away from his documents, his beady black eyes narrowing as he stroked the thin hairs on his chin. "It is fortunate we are not in Ugarit. The land of eternal sunshine is a far better place to call home."

  "Indeed."

  "That will be all, Nobati. You may return to your post."

  The Nubian guard bowed stiffly at the waist and left the room. It wasn't until the door clicked shut that Bay finally rose to his feet to inspect him.

  "You show too much pride for a meshwesh slave," Bay purred, stalking around him in a circle like a buzzard spying a meal.

  Scylax grimaced. Why were the weakest men always oblivious when they faced real danger? "And you show too much ambition for a trumped up overseer with eyes on the throne."

  Bay stopped in his tracks, a vicious snarl curling his lips. "I could have you killed for uttering such lies."

  "You could try." Scylax did not need to raise his voice for the threat to resonate with the puerile man.

  Bay backed up toward his desk, his eyes darting to the door, realizing too late the folly of dismissing his guard. "Who are you?"

  "Who I am is of no consequence. What I know, however, could be of great value to you."

  Bay stopped to consider, shifting from fear to suspicion with alarming ease. "I am listening," he said after a lengthy pause, his fingers again finding purchase on his beard.

  Scylax almost walked out the door. Joining forces with a court toady... it was enough to make him question his soul. Bay was the sort of creature who would sell his own children for the right price, and Scylax was handing him a prince of the rarest caliber, one who valued the life of his servants over his own. The sour taste of bile crept up his throat.

  "I will sing you my song once I am satisfied that you can meet my terms." He pulled free the dagger strapped against his thigh and proceeded to pick his nails with it. The gesture was not lost on Bay.

  The arrangement was simple, and mutually beneficial to both parties. Bay readily agreed. He still lacked appreciation, however, for what would happen to him if he thought to double-cross Scylax. In the end, the deal was struck, and Scylax walked back to the Trojan quarters feeling more bound by his agreement with Bay than the collar around his throat.

  Dora would forgive him for these crimes he was forced to do in Clytemnestra's service. For the girls, she would understand. Or so he lied to himself as he waited through the long night for the prince to return.

  Chapter 30

  The Swamps of Creation

  SHE WAS ENVELOPED in darkness, its crushing weight pressing Helen to the temple floor where she lay for moments beyond counting. Her senses grew dull; she could not taste, smell or feel. There was only the black emptiness, a plane of reality that existed solely in her mind.

  And in that world, she was not alone. Helen was a child again, hiding under the furs in her father's tent. Clytemnestra was near. Her twin was not a separate entity, but a part of herself. They shared the same thoughts, the same emotions, and tonight, as the cries of death and battle raged on outside, the only emotion they felt was fear.

  Helen tried to raise an arm, fighting for control of her body, to seek some escape. She did not want these memories. They had been banished to a dark corner of her mind where they could never resurface again. In the cavernous night of Re's temple, however, there were no boundaries, and those memories surrounded her.

  Hands latched on to her legs, pulling her from her nest of safety. Those meaty palms, sticky with the blood of her fallen people, bound her hand and foot. She was hoisted over her assailant's horse like nothing more than a sack of potatoes, and they rode off into the night.

  Don't look. Don't see. He doesn't exist.

  The older Helen could squint her eyes and pretend the events that followed were but a dream, but the child had no such luxury. She twisted and looked up at her captor.

  No stars shone in the sky, as though the Gods designed to aid the thief with supernatural stealth. His features were obscured in darkness, a black substance that seemed to swallow what little light surrounded it. Twin fires stared down on her where his eyes should be, like hollow furnaces ablaze. He seemed a daemon of the underworld come to snatch her away.

  No!

  Helen pressed up on her elbows, a surprising anger fueling her body. She reached up to his face, her hands—no longer bound—twisted like claws, and raked the blackness away. It fell in thick tar-like goblets until his face was revealed underneath.

  It was Agamemnon.

  She tore at him again, his flesh falling away as though sculpted of clay, only to reveal Menelaus beneath.

  You cannot hide from me! I will see your face. She ripped at him again, desperate to see the villain who had begun her tortured existence, careless how deep she would have to dig. Her fingers struck something solid. She wiped away the debris and chunky remains of flesh and bone, to reveal the visage beneath. It shone with the burnt-red glow of polished bronze.

  The face was her own.

  No, it was Clytemnestra's. Helen stretched out her hands to feel for herself, her fingertips tracing the high cheekbones and sculpted brow. The cool flesh radiated evil, and the dark glint of her ice-cold eyes were those of a madman. It couldn't be her sister...

  Is it me?

  Was this some darker side of herself she had never dared to acknowledge? The
Helen that might have been had she followed Clytemnestra's ways? She removed her hand with a hiss, a deep revulsion twisting her gut. On impulse, she swung her arm, striking the creature across the head. They both tumbled to the ground, the impact absorbed by a dark cloud hanging low over the earth.

  Not me. You cannot claim me. Not ever.

  She pummeled the creature with fists and feet, each strike breaking loose a bundle of fear that lodged itself into her heart. When the last blow fell, the captor vanished, dissolving into a swirl of smoke.

  Helen's chest heaved, drawing in precious air. What am I doing? She spun in a circle, the black fog making it impossible to see farther than ten feet ahead. This doesn't exist. I am in Egypt, in the temple. She kept that thought firmly in her mind and slowly the stone walls of the temple took shape around her.

  She stood in a forest of stone. There was no other way to describe the hall filled with towering columns. A hundred pillars stretched seventy five feet into the air, each one shaped like a marsh reed, complete with a blossoming lotus for its capital. Windows high up on the walls showered moonlight across the hall, the shafts of light cutting through the gloom.

  Helen touched the pillar nearest her, a colossal column the width of four men standing abreast. Every inch of it was covered in hieroglyphs with pictures of the Gods leading their chosen ones through the afterlife. As her fingers traced the rigid surface, her vision dimmed, and her precious hold on reality slipped.

  A mysterious light filled the room, and Helen saw at midnight as she would at midday. The walls erupted in activity and color, and the figures of the past, carved in such painstaking detail, broke loose from their stone prisons and marched free around her.

  A God stood before her. He bore the body of a man, some eight feet tall, and the head of a jackal. His ink black eyes gleamed with power, never blinking. It was Anubis, Protector of the Dead, the God who escorted dead souls to judgement. Helen should have been terrified, but strangely she was not. When he offered his hand, she took it, letting the God lead her through the temple.