The Princess of Prophecy

by Aria Cunningham

  The hypostyle hall melted away like a sheet of papyrus curling from the heat of a candle. Behind this plane existed another: the realm of the Gods. Hand in hand with Anubis, she stepped through the embers into it.

  The Hall of Judgement was the most dazzling display of grandeur Helen had ever seen. A hundred kneeling supplicants lined the walkway to a throne, their voices lifted in songs of praise. On a raised dais sat Osiris, the God of the Dead, his body completely wrapped in linen like the mummified Egyptian dead. His two wives, sisters of fierce beauty and strength, stood quietly behind him, each one with a hand upon his shoulders.

  Before the throne rested an enormous golden scale. Had Helen been a child, she could have easily sat on one of the weighted platforms. No child would play with this toy, however, for a beast with the haunch of a wolf and head of a crocodile guarded it. Its central pillar was formed in the shape of an ankh, and its crossbeam and chains were inverted raised arms, the Egyptian symbol of ka, the spirit. Anubis drew her to it, and Helen knew her moment of judgement had come.

  A loud crash echoed throughout the temple. It seemed a distant thing, scarcely noticeable in this divine world, but the supplicants' song wavered, leaving Helen to wonder what had caused it. After a moment's hesitation, they began the song again, renewing their efforts with powerful notes that strummed at her soul, lulling her into a peaceful acceptance. Whatever happened in that other place no longer mattered.

  She stepped before the scale and was greeted by another God, Thoth, God of Scribes, Arbiter of Justice, Keeper of the Mysteries, and He of the Ibis Head. He held an ostrich feather of pure white in his right hand, one of such singular beauty Helen had to avert her eyes. He placed it on the scale and it stood upright, balancing on point.

  The feather of ma'at. Helen gaped in awe. Ma'at, a symbol of truth, order, and all that is fair and good in the world. Her life would be measured against that cosmic ideal. Helen's pulse raced. She had tried to live an honorable life, but would her deeds be enough to erase the sin she and Paris had committed?

  Thoth held her arms, lowering the tip of his thin beak until it touched her lips, forcing her mouth to open. She gazed in wonder into the God's eyes. Like Anubis', they were black as the depths of Hades, but in Thoth sparkled the light of a million stars, his eyes a hidden window to the cosmos. She was clay in his hands, enthralled by the majesty before her.

  He spoke. It was a single word, one Helen could not fathom, but in it rumbled the power of a thousand volcanoes. Her chest constricted and a sharp pain stabbed through her heart. Helpless, she trembled as that burning pain rose up through her esophagus and emerged as a brilliant white light from her mouth. Thoth guided that glowing orb to the scale.

  The balance tipped with the new weight, teetering up and down in a haphazard fashion. Anubis made small adjustments along the cross arm, as Thoth stood by, quill and scroll in hand. The supplicants had ceased their hymns, every eye riveted to the pronouncement soon to follow. Even Osiris and his wives leaned forward in anticipation.

  A thunderous boom rang out, shaking the foundation stones of the divine hall. Helen spun around to see its cause, but there was no one near. It pounded again with demonstrative force, ripping at the very fabric of this realm. Tiles crashed down from the ceiling, and the stone bricks of the wall began to crumble. Beyond, Helen was given a glimpse back to the temple and was stunned to see herself lying prostrate on the ground, her back leaning against a pillar.

  The Gods rushed to the opening, blocking her view. Their efforts to mend the rift were too slow, and another shockwave rang out, making the floor leap up and knocking Helen from her feet. The scale crashed down around her, breaking into pieces. She covered her head with her arms and watched in silent alarm as the feather of ma'at drifted down before her eyes.

  What is happening? Panic coursed through her veins. What calamitous events transpired, events of such greatness they shook the world of the Gods? Helen trembled on the ground, a growing fear that this destruction was in some way her fault. It pursued her, and there was no place of safety, no realm where she could escape it.

  A cloud of dust settled from another blow. As it dissipated, Thoth stepped forward, his strong hand helping Helen to her feet. In his other, he held the luminous orb filled with her life-force. It pulsated with each successive blow to the chamber. She looked to the God in confusion.

  He spoke again, a word too beautiful, too powerful, for Helen to comprehend, and the orb flattened and grew in size until it was the height and width of a burly man. Through its milky haze, she could just make out the placid waters of the Great Sea on the other side. Thoth had created a doorway, a portal between worlds.

  He leaned into her, pressing his finger to the cartouche on her chest, the markings of the bennu. Her heart ignited from a warmth within. This fire seared through her bones, painful yet powerful, and she could scarcely breathe. Her body instantly began to change, shrinking down into the form of the elegant bird. Her legs elongated into stalks, her arms into powerful grey wings, and she was filled with an overwhelming urge to fly.

  The walls of the chamber cascaded around them. Without a second thought, Helen spread her wings and launched through the portal.

  The last thing she heard before the chamber disappeared was a mournful cry of someone calling her name.

  Paris fell hard on the temple floor, skinning his hands and knees. His hazy vision took on greater focus, and with it came a dire realization. Luring him to the temple had been a trap, and he had walked right into it.

  He spun to the doors just as they slammed shut behind him, the bolts of his stone prison locking into place. "Why are you doing this? I've done you no wrong!" he screamed at the priests on the other side. He pounded on the metal panels, knowing his efforts were futile, but he could not stop. His insides burned with the poison they had injected in him. It demanded a release, and so he pounded and pounded, slamming his fists against the doors until his arms ached.

  When there was no response, a morbid realization leeched the strength from his body. This was no house of the Gods. It was a tomb, and Helen and he were going to die in here. Slumping against the wall, he slid to the floor.

  "HELEN!"

  He screamed until his lungs heaved for air. Then he screamed for her again. Where was she? In the mad burning of his mind, she became a phantom, a muse, a tender vision of love that did not exist, an illusion that taunted him with what could never be.

  Focus! He forced his mind to obey. Pushing himself off the ground, he lurched to his feet. Helen was near, he could feel it. He just had to find her.

  He entered the hypostyle hall, the silhouettes of a hundred pillars towering over him. In his pain-induced haze those stone reeds actually seemed to grow, their roots embedded in the low hanging mist that ebbed and flowed around his feet. He waded through that mist, his legs sluicing through the insubstantial material as though it were bog water and the tiled floor the spongy soil of the marshlands. Each step was considerably harder than the next.

  Stop it! He screamed in his head. They gave you drugs. None of this is real. You have to get to Helen.

  He took a deep breath, but his vision did not alter. Soon even the sounds of the marsh grew around him: the chatter of birds, the chirp of insects, and bats... Suddenly they were all around him, wings slapping against his head, their high pitched squeals piercing his ears.

  Focus on your breath. It was a concentration exercise Paris had learned in his time with the Amorite clans of Canaan. Breathe and count to ten. Exhale and count to ten. Repeat. Slowly his hallucinations began to waver and the room took form. He collapsed to the ground, whispering a prayer of thanks to the nomadic priests for their tutelage. They had once been slaves of Egypt. Perhaps they too had discovered its usefulness while combating the toxins of their former masters.

  Sweat dripped from his body with his efforts, and yet an unnatural chill coursed through Paris' body. Was this the touch of Death? Had Thanatos finally come to claim him, the Egyptian
priests succeeding where Apollo's servants had failed? He easily could have fallen into that deep sleep had something more powerful not compelled him onward.

  The cry came from the belly of the temple, into the black depths, far beyond the reach of moonlight from the clerestory windows. It continued with long heartbreaking agony. A cry of a soul splitting apart. That voice was more familiar to Paris than his own. Even through his drug-addled senses, he knew he was not imagining it.

  Helen was in danger... and with his last breath, he'd destroy anything keeping them apart.

  Chapter 31

  The Phoenix Takes Flight

  HELEN SOARED OVER the great watery expanse of Nun, the liquid mass stretching as far as her keen eyes could see. Not a ripple marred its perfect surface. No current stirred its depths, yet it brimmed with energy as though all of life pulsed within.

  She banked low, the tip of her wing trailing along its surface. With a few powerful strokes, she increased her speed, luxuriating in the utter freedom of her new body. Up ahead, the sun rose, its rays crawling over the horizon and turning the primordial waters into liquid gold. It soaked into Helen's feathers, seeping into her hollow bones.

  Those rays were pure ambrosia, the nectar of the Gods. Basking in its warmth, Helen knew she belonged to it. The Light of Life, the solar fire that beat back the dark... it was what she was named for, it was the source of power that made the world of men possible. Her journey through the temple thus far had given vision to her past and present. But this... this was her future: an endless expanse of possibility, the freedom to fly wherever her heart could carry her, and the blessing of the Gods to give her speed.

  The sun advanced across the sky. A tiny speck on the horizon rushed toward her with great speed, forming an enormous landmass. She reversed her stroke, arcing back from the city that sprang up from its soil, a rising acropolis of marble and gold surrounded on three sides by water.

  From on high, she could see the city and all its glory. Elegant architecture of granite and marble competed for beauty and strength, a blend of Old World classicism and Western experimentation. Down wide avenues, ox-driven carts hauled goods to market, supporting a thriving industry of commerce. Everywhere was peace and prosperity. This was Troy, the city of her dreams. Her future home.

  She folded her wings, landing gracefully atop its thick, defensive walls, a barrier so formidable it must surely have been constructed by giants. Inside the inner city, a hundred thousand people went about their business. Children played in the streets, the chimes of their laughter echoing up the acropolis to Helen. There was happiness here, happiness and security. She ruffled her feathers, the sun soaking into her and the Golden City alike.

  As she watched, a tent city sprung up in the plains outside the defensive walls. Shepherds brought in their flocks, and merchants unloaded their ships from port. As the seasons flowed, their tents were struck, and the plains emptied, only to be filled again at a later date.

  To Helen, time sped by, the sun rising and setting in the space of a single blink of her eye. The tent city no longer disbanded. Their numbers multiplied like the cascading flow of ants spilling out of their earthen home. Tents crumbled and were replaced with mud brick structures. Soon it spread as far south as the meandering banks of the Scamander River, and to the very shores of the Great Sea.

  And the noise... it drowned out the pleasant sounds and charm of the city of old. It was too fast; there were too many people. Their golden towers grew until they blacked out the sun. Helen ducked her head into her wing, trying to shield herself, but she could not escape what lay inside her.

  Cut off from the sun, a fire ignited within her. It licked at her fingertips. It sparked from her eyes. She dared not move in fear that it might escape her, but believing she could control it was folly. The heat dripped from her feathers, scattering over the city like molten raindrops of fire. It poured from her heart, as endless as it was painful.

  She lifted her head and screeched out a mournful cry, begging the Gods to show mercy. This future did not have to be. There must be something that could be done. She cried again, calling to Zeus, to Amun-Re, to any deity who would listen. Still Troy ignited in flame, the screams of a thousand children laying bare her soul.

  When she thought she could feel no more, an exquisite pain surged inside her and her heart exploded. An incandescent light poured out of her, rising in brilliance, crushing everything in its path.

  The world burned, as her soul burned, as it would continue to burn. And she was powerless to stop it.

  Paris stumbled into a narrow corridor, leaving the expansive hypostyle hall behind. With every step he took, the walls blurred, the painted lines on their surface glowing from some mysterious force and burning streaks across his mind. He kept his hands stretched out before him.

  In the darkness, his hallucinations intensified. Phantoms with burning red eyes barred his way. He struck at them, his hands sailing through their ghostly forms to no affect.

  Focus. But his prized self-discipline was tapering off. He could not tell what was real or imagined. Paris banged into unlit braziers. He hit his head against a stone pillar. One fist crashed through a specter and into the wooden hull of a ceremonial barque, the sacred vessel used to transport the God's idol during cult processions. Pain laced through his arm as he pulled his hand free. Blood dripped from where thick splinters had pierced his skin, the sharp sting momentarily clearing his mind.

  Another scream rang out.

  "HELEN!" he shouted into the darkness, his desperate cry bouncing off the stone walls, but she did not answer.

  There was a light up ahead. It was dim, no more than a single candle at best, but in this abyss, it was as brilliant as a bonfire. A hundred feet away, Paris could just make out the borders of a door. A long ramp led up to that small aperture, forcing him to crouch as he entered.

  The air was thicker on the other side, stale. He stretched out his hands. One step to his left and he reached the wall. One to his right found its partner. The ceiling also tapered in, nearly scraping his head. Paris cringed away from it, feeling the mountain of stone that surrounded him. His pulse quickened, and he realized at last where he stood. He was in the inner sanctum, the naos, the deepest point of the temple, and before him was the gilded shrine of the God himself.

  The craftsmanship was breathtaking. The wooden slats of the coffin-shaped box were embellished with golden filigree. Its double doors where folded open, revealing the Holy of Holies inside, a golden statue of Amun-Re in human form, the twin feathers of ma'at protruding over his head. A single, long-burning candle sat before the idol, its solitary light dancing over the unforgiving face of the God. Paris fell to his knees before it.

  Something lay in his way: the crumpled body of a woman. With a strangled gasp, he rolled over Helen's slacken form, her vacant eyes staring off into oblivion.

  She was dead. Her skin was grey, the pallor of a corpse that robbed her cheeks of warmth. He had been too late.

  "NO!" he cried, a man possessed. He cradled her limp form to his chest and something broke inside of him.

  And he screamed with a terrible rage.

  The wails of Trojans dying had dampened to a whisper. Crouched into a ball in the city's smoldering embers, Helen cried silently with them, feeling their aching loss. A guilt-ridden sob tore through her. She lacked the power to save them.

  Every fiber of her being decried that belief as false. It was as though she were missing some vital element, some piece of her soul that would help her triumph over this tragedy. She waited for the end, shivering in her emptiness.

  The earth shook, as it had in the Hall of Judgement. A tiny flame of hope kindled in her breast. Help was coming. She gazed off into the distance, the acrid smoke of burning rubble stinging her eyes, and saw him.

  He walked through the destruction, a flaming torch in human form. Stone melted before him, timbers crumbled to ash. Nothing could bar his way. He knelt beside her and lifted her into his arms.


  "Paris..." She collapsed into his chest with a cry of relief. It was too late, the world could not be saved, but at least they could spend their last moments together.

  His presence soothed her, his flames rejuvenating her wilted limbs. His heat was not the painful ruin of the lost city, but the warmth of Amun-Re's light. It was love, and hope, and the promise of a new beginning.

  But something was different. The fire leapt off him like curling tendrils, soaking into her skin, linking them body and soul. Her feathers ignited as he dissolved into flame, dissolving into her. He was in her heart and mind, a ball of awareness that penetrated her. It was a merging of the sort she'd only heard tale of in legend, the fire uniting them while burning away their mortal shell.

  Her grey heron ceased to be. In its place rose an eagle bearing the colors of Troy and Sparta, a red-gold bird of fire that death could not touch. A raptor imbued with the living spirit of the sun, a creature the world had never seen before... a phoenix.

  With a mournful cry, the phoenix launched into the air, souring over the desolation with a few powerful strokes. It flew into the heavens turning south by east to the Old World and beyond. Everywhere was in ruin. There was no kingdom left standing, no nation of man unscathed.

  To the west the phoenix flew, over the plains of Thrace and to the Grecian isles and mainland. They too spewed forth the black smoke of destruction, the foul stench of human rot filling the air as it was purged from the world.

  Like a bolt set loose from a bow, the phoenix shot forth again. Further west it flew, to the very edge of the known world, the Western Wilds.

  Here, it folded its wings, dropping like a rock to the charred branches of a fig tree. Below, small shoots of green poked through a layer of ash where the tree's roots spidered across the topsoil, spreading in every direction.