The Princess of Prophecy

by Aria Cunningham

Once, twice, three times it circled on its perch until new leaves burst forth, the branches entwining to form a nest. At its center were two mewling chicks.

  Death had placed its shroud over the world, but it could not conquer all. Here, on the outskirts, there were signs of life.

  The phoenix cried, an arousing call filled with defiance, its pitch so perfect the sky shattered from its shockwave. The vision faltered, pieces of the world falling away like shards of glass until there was nothing left.

  Nothing but a black abyss. A world without light.

  Chapter 32

  Rising From the Ashes

  PARIS OPENED HIS eyes as the vision broke, a deep shudder convulsing his body. He was back in the temple, Helen secure in his arms. His awareness of her bled out of his mind as the aches and pains of his physical body returned.

  What had happened?

  The last thing he remembered was rolling Helen's limp body over. As he lifted her into his arms, the world shifted.

  The things he saw... what he experienced... there were no words to describe it. Was it real, or just a hallucination?

  Helen stirred in his arms, and Paris pulled her in closer, crying out in relief. He clung to her with a desperate strength, kissing her fiercely. She had been dead. He had felt her die, just as he felt life stir in her again. It was a miracle...

  Helen moaned as her body slowly wakened. The past few hours had been the most surreal moments of her life. After the phoenix vision had broken, she had drifted in a haze, trapped between worlds, her physical body refusing to function.

  And then there was Paris, no longer in her mind, but beside her. His kiss had been a beacon of light in the void, an anchor that pulled her from the shadow realm and back into the waking world.

  How he had found her was a miracle she did not question. Some part of Paris was always present with her, and now she finally understood why. The combining of their spirits, the unification of their souls, was a thing of beauty even the Gods would envy.

  She wove her arms around his neck, pressing her lips to his, tasting his salty tears as she kissed him. His body shook as he crushed her to his chest with a sob.

  Was he crying?

  "Paris?" She cupped his face gently between her hands, pulling back to gaze into his eyes. The light of the single candle was dim, but it was enough to see all that she needed: a soul-shattering love that went beyond words.

  With a soft moan, she fell toward him, pulled by a force she could not deny. And, as he kissed her back, a desperate longing overtook her. A longing to reunite that which the Gods had separated. She gave herself to him then, body and soul, just as Aphrodite had foretold.

  Paris was beside himself in that moment. All he could think, see, feel and smell was Helen. She was alive and in his arms, so soft and yielding. Nothing else in the world mattered. His fingers locked around her back and he crushed her to him, his mouth pressed to hers with a hunger he did not know how to control.

  A million warning bells rang out in Paris' mind, but they were insignificant flea bites compared to the roaring demand building in his blood. With a guttural groan, he pulled her onto his lap, guiding his body into hers. They melded into one other, her moans in perfect rhythm with his own.

  Helen cried out as he filled her. She pressed against him harder, taking him in deeper, every stroke reigniting the bonding she had felt in her vision. That blissful fulfillment was so close, yet frustratingly out of reach.

  He slid an arm under her leg and flipped her over to her back. The cold stone of the temple floor did little to dampen her ardor, and she pulled Paris to her, wrapping her legs around his hips. As he entered her again, chest to chest, face to face, she could not tell where her flesh ended and his began.

  For Paris, their intimate embrace was sweet agony. The lingering effect of the priest's drugs was still clouding his mind, heightening his sensations tenfold. The memory of her cold and lifeless body was still too fresh to be forgotten. As was the devastating loss and blinding rage it had evoked. With every powerful thrust, his body ached for her with a desperation that shocked him. A mounting pressure was building within him, as though his body was no longer capable of containing everything he was feeling inside.

  "It's all right," she whispered into his ear and kissed his cheeks, wiping away tears he did not realize he had shed. "I'm right here, Paris. I won't leave you. I promise."

  He stared into her love-filled eyes, choking back a strangled sob. Not once in his life had anyone shown him even a fraction of the affection Helen freely gave. He loved this woman beyond reason. If he was destined to be persecuted for the rest of his life for that sin, so be it.

  He kissed her tenderly. No matter what future the Gods had planned for them, he was never leaving her side again.

  "What are they doing?"

  Penanukis was not alone in his outrage. Meryatum had allowed five other pastophoroi to watch the ritual in the observation chamber, and he alone was the only man to remain silent.

  Blasphemy. That was the answer to the second prophet's question. The Trojan and his Spartan lover committed blasphemy, soiling the inner chamber with their intimate embrace.

  Meryatum silenced his underlings, and watched the lovers joining, mesmerized. They were witness to something more than the carnal pleasure of the flesh. Something ancient...

  It was called the Sacred Marriage, a celebration of the creation of the world, the blending of the male and female fertile forces. The Gods mated through their human counterparts, and though it was forbidden in Amun-Re's temple, Egypt had once taken part in the archaic practice.

  Meryatum's skin tingled as he tried to understand the significance of seeing it enacted tonight. It was difficult to clear his mind. The same spores he had given to Helen burned in two braziers of their hidden chamber. The vapors held only a fraction of the hallucinatory force of the infusion she had ingested, but it was enough to help him enter the world of the Gods, as a spectator if not a participant.

  Other prophets claimed to 'share' visions with the anointed, but few truly did. Meryatum was unique in that ability. When a candidate was in acute emotional distress, he could pick up on their emphatic experience, and 'see' as they saw.

  As he did with Helen. She wore her emotions about her like a second skin. Watching her commune with the Gods was like watching a masterful dance, but despite the beauteous soul the woman possessed, it did not change the doom that followed in her wake.

  She and the Trojan were a spark that would ignite the world. There was no doubt in his mind that the Gods had alerted Meryatum to their danger so he could act. They could not be allowed to leave Egypt...

  "Will you do nothing?" Penanukis had worked himself into a fit, his rabid behavior infecting the others. Meryatum found himself facing five alarmed priests.

  "Mind your tongue!" he growled at the insolent man. "I am First Prophet, High Priest of Re! I will decide their fate, not you."

  Penanukis smoothed his robes, a look of embarrassment on his pinched face for having been chastised before the others. Once he was satisfied the man was subdued, Meryatum turned back to the pair.

  Confusion ruled his thoughts. The couple embraced in the dark, blissfully ignorant of the eyes that watched them. In that ignorance they revealed a part of themselves that normally remained hidden: the raw power of their affections for one another. Meryatum was humbled by the display. Was the Trojan nothing more than a man seeking love in a less-forgiving world? A chill ran through him as he remembered his first teachings in the House of Life:

  "Nothing is more dangerous than the man who is unjustly wronged. The Gods unite in his defense, to right the world in alignment of ma'at."

  There was a danger on the horizon, one Meryatum feared Egypt might not survive, but was the Trojan truly its source? He needed time to seek that answer before condemning the man to death.

  He spun back to his pastophoroi, a harsh glare for each man who'd dare defy him. "Keep them here. Say no word to them save I will be back when
the sun rises." He wished there was more time. Their world hung in the balance, and he had only a few short hours to contemplate. "They are not to be harmed or let outside the temple gates. Do you understand me?"

  Penanukis nodded, and the others followed suit. With all in agreement, Meryatum left the temple for the palace making all due haste. It was time to share his concerns with the royal family. With their help, he prayed he could make the right decision in time.

  Helen and Paris took their time in the inner sanctum, savoring the intimate moment the temple had secured for them. For a while, Helen could pretend the outside world did not exist, nor the host of problems that awaited them. Wrapped securely in her lover's arms, she allowed herself the simple peace she always felt in Paris' company.

  But they could not stay in the those cold and dark halls forever, and when she felt strong enough, Paris led her through the temple and back to the main entrance.

  A pair of priests were waiting for them just outside the doors. Penanukis she recognized, and he watched her with a blank face. The other pastophoroi held out two linen robes, his gaze held firmly at eye level.

  "Where is the high priest?" Paris asked, tying the belt tightly about his waist.

  "He did not say," Penanukis frowned, a sharp look of disapproval oozing from the man, one Paris remembered all-too-well before entering the temple. "You are to remain in the temple complex. He will come collect you at sunrise."

  "Did he say no more?"

  But the priests were already gone, moving off toward their private quarters without further word. Paris watched them go with a sigh. Their stonewall behavior did not surprise him. Although the ritual was complete, it was clear that their ordeal with the temple officials was not over.

  He took Helen's hand in his and gave it a tug. "Let's get some fresh air." He led her away from the temple towards the sacred lake, eager to leave the confining walls of that stone tomb behind.

  On sight of its still waters, Helen cried out in joy and immediately doffed her robes to take a swim. He almost joined her, the sheen of sweat from his exertions in the temple had left him sticky, but he waited on the shore, savoring the sight of her floating through the reflection of a million stars. The water glistened on her skin, and she shone like a celestial event. Helen was more beautiful to him than any Goddess, real or imagined.

  "Do you feel... different?" he asked when she climbed out of the water. He wanted to say cleansed, but after what they had experienced, scoured would have been a more appropriate word. He felt purified in the way a new layer of skin was pure when the old had been ripped away. He had been made raw and vulnerable in the process.

  "I do feel different." Helen pulled her robe back on and sat down next to him, leaning into the spot on his chest where his steady heartbeat thundered in her ear.

  She was amazed at the clarity the ritual had awakened in her. Her fears had not gone away, but now they were the right fears, not the distant phantoms of her past life. If her visions were true, then there were many dangers ahead, and not just for her and Paris, but for everyone. They sat for a time watching the stars travel across the sky before she found the courage to speak of it.

  "Was it real?"

  Paris shook his head, unsure how to answer. He was both hopeful and terrified what they had experienced was real. Troy in ashes... it was everything the temple had blamed him for since his birth. But his bonding with Helen—he had never felt more complete than in those moments of soaring over the world with her.

  Honesty was a cruel mistress, however, and he opted to tell Helen the truth, no matter how unpleasant. "It was a hallucination," he sighed. "They dosed us with drugs. That is why we saw what we most feared."

  Helen sat up, perplexed. "That is not all I saw." She tucked a strand of his wavy brown hair behind his ear, letting her fingertips trail down his chin. Paris had saved her. When all hope was lost, one defender still stood, and he carried her away to a new beginning. Where so many others had failed her, Paris alone remained true. She pulled his face to hers, kissing him tenderly.

  "We shouldn't." He tensed, looking nervously over his shoulder and pulling her hands away from him. "The Egyptians are superstitious. I've seen them castrate men for less."

  The distress on his face made her laugh and she smiled sweetly at her lover. "Alexandros of Troy, ever the diplomat." His regal name rolled off her tongue with a formality she reserved for great halls. Nefertari was right. Had the laws of inheritance been different in the North, Paris would have made the best of kings. There was a subtle wisdom and strength of spirit in him that Helen had not witnessed since leaving Sparta, a nobility that came from character, not blood.

  The uncomfortable look he returned begged to differ.

  "What's wrong?"

  "Alexandros is the name of a king."

  Paris sighed as thoughts of Troy invaded their stolen moment of peace. "Alaksandu, King of Wilusa, to be specific, a lifelong friend of my father." Helen's questioning eyes prodded him to continue. "Priam hoped that naming me after a powerful king would strike fear into the court and keep me from harm." The crooked twist on his face spoke of how well that had turned out. "It was a role I was meant to play, the regal son, but no matter how well I played it, I never won their respect."

  And I never will. He looked at his beloved, understanding now how little those courtiers mattered. He took a deep breath, marshaling his courage for the first act of defiance he had ever dared against the crown. "I will not ask the same of you."

  Helen stiffened with surprise. "What are you saying?"

  "I won't ask you to play the victim before my father's court." Paris continued, knowing in his gut this was the right course forward. He was through allowing the people who believed the worst of him to dictate his life. "I will not pretend that I do not love you. Neither will I hide from the consequences of our actions. You are no victim, and neither am I. When we enter Troy, it will be together."

  Her tender smile was all the answer he needed. He pulled Helen to him, kissing her passionately, heedless of the danger that earlier gave him pause.

  Helen's heart leapt in her chest. She nearly cried with relief. After everything they had experienced in Egypt, the deception in court and the trials of the temple, she had known denying her love for Paris was wrong. To hear him say the same was like the sweet song of the Nereides. She laughed with a joy she had not felt since they had first left Greece.

  Paris joined her laugh, a stray thought filling it with genuine mirth, of how strenuously Glaucus advised against this rash behavior. Perhaps, had they held to the original plan, they would have gained a strategic advantage in court, but in doing so, he would have lost something far more precious. Paris tightened his arms around his princess, vowing to never let her go.

  His captain was right in one aspect, however. When they returned to Troy, Helen would not be his lover.

  "Marry me," he said impulsively.

  "...That's impossible."

  "I don't care." He swallowed his misgivings and continued on, "I don't want anyone to ever doubt my commitment to you. You are my destiny, and I'm not ashamed of who I am, not anymore. Let the others say what they will. Marry me, Helen."

  Helen rose to her knees. If her heart had wings, they were beating wildly within her. Was it possible? "A million times, yes." She pulled him into a passionate embrace, kissing him deeply.

  Paris kissed her back with force. This was reckless, rash, yet he had never been more certain of anything in his life. This was right.

  "But how?" Helen struggled to catch her breath. "Where?"

  His pulse raced at the innocent question. "As soon as we return to our ship," he promised with a husky voice. "Glaucus can officiate, if he is well enough."

  That seemed an eternity for Helen. After all they had been through, she could not imagine any oath that would bind them stronger than the experience they had just shared. In her heart she was already bound to Paris. He had claimed her before all the Gods. It was time for the Kings o
f Men to recognize they belonged together as well.

  "Then I will be yours, Trojan." She stole another kiss from him, feeling his body tense with the same passion coursing through her. "In this life and the next. No man will ever come between us again."

  Chapter 33

  The Envoy

  AGAMEMNON SAT ON his throne twirling his heavy scepter in his hands. He longed for a skull to crack with it. Of the forty kings and princes who swore Tyndareus' oath, four stood in his hall. He had heard no word from the others, and their silence was as telling as open defiance.

  Oath-breakers and cowards. They will squander this opportunity squabbling over petty nonsense.

  Agamemnon had long ago realized his brother kings lacked the vision to see the true greatness of their peoples. Greece was every bit as powerful as Troy. More so, when taking into account the the Men of the West's cunning and ability to survive. But so long as the Hellas remained fractured, they would never rise to their true potential.

  Heat coursed through Agamemnon's veins. He would unite the West, and when he proved their empire to be amongst the greatest in the world, the unbelievers would bless his name.

  Agapenor, King of Arcadia and Agamemnon's neighbor to the west was the newest arrival to the capital. His chest was as wide as the brown bears that roamed his countryside, and his hair as coarse. He was a strong ally for Mycenae, but even he had taken three weeks to answer Agamemnon's call.

  "He waited until my husband and his brother were called away." Clytemnestra regaled the visiting monarch with the circumstances of the Trojan's crime. With each retelling, she seemed to suffer the loss of her sister more. Already the common folk repeated her tale, demanding the throne act to reclaim their favored princess.

  The baseborn do not stomach this slight, yet my brother kings linger.

  He painted a regal frown on his visage, nodding along as Clytemnestra continued her tale. The heady aroma of war was making him dizzy. Though he longed to take to the field, now was the time for patience. Greece had never been given such an opportunity to prove her destiny—and he his.