The Princess of Prophecy

by Aria Cunningham

  Paris was on the verge of saying yes. He opened his mouth, the guilt of forsaking his comrade writ large on his face.

  A heavy knock came from the chamber doors, the thunderous pounding reverberating throughout the room. Paris shot a quick look to his Trojan guards and they immediately flanked him, their casual stance belied by the speed in which they moved. The prince turned to him, any trace of his earlier vulnerability gone. "Jason, will you see to that?"

  Scylax almost cried out his frustration. He couldn't afford another delay. The queen had been explicit about the cost of failure. He had these few precious days to do as she commanded while no kingdom interfered. If he failed, Heliodora would pay the price.

  The knocking continued, and Paris was waiting. Scylax had no choice but to comply. Buckling his shoulders, he scurried to the door in the manner of a frightened slave.

  Paris waited anxiously as Jason opened his chamber doors. His feet itched to be gone from this place, but he had promised Helen these last few days to secure the ritual, and he would not rob her of that chance.

  Every minute they remained he felt more and more like bait dangled before the mouths of those who wished to consume him. The fact that he had no inkling who those forces might be, frustrated him to no end. How can one fight an enemy who did not show his face?

  Jason stepped back from the door, the servant surprisingly speechless. His shock should have warned Paris what was to follow. Meryatum stepped into the room, a half-dozen of his pastophoroi trailing behind him.

  Paris rose to his feet, a deep dread gripping his heart. "Glaucus? Is he...?"

  "No." The high priest crossed the room to him, stopping just out of his reach. "Your man recovers in the House of Ails. The last I saw of him, he was conscious and asking after you."

  Paris took a deep, shuddering breath, releasing a tension he had not realized he carried. He had told Jason that Glaucus was family, but the captain was much more than that. He was friend and father, the most loyal companion a disgraced prince could hope to find. That he might die trying to protect him stirred more guilt than Paris knew how to bear.

  "I must see him." He raced to the door. He did not make it past the priest, however. Meryatum clasped his arm with an iron grip.

  "He must wait. I have come to speak with you about Helen."

  Paris' earlier dread paled before the icy bite of terror he experienced now. "What about Helen? Is she all right?" He unconsciously clung to the priest, gripping the man with greater force than the priest had him.

  The pastophoroi muttered in alarm at his behavior, a few looking over their shoulders as though to call for help. Meryatum, however, was less concerned. The high priest stared at the offending hand until Paris released him.

  "The princess will face the Gods tonight. They will judge her soul on the scales of ma'at, and if she is found lacking, she will not return to the realm of the living." He spoke that dire possibility without an ounce of emotion.

  Paris's blood ran cold. He never, in his wildest imaginings, thought the Egyptian temple to be a danger. A purification ritual was a simple matter, a procedure the high priest had probably presided over a thousand times. Death was never a possibility.

  I should never have brought her here. This whole visit has been a colossal mistake. He decided then and there to take Jason's offer. Helen would be heartbroken, but she would understand. He would not risk losing her for the privilege to love her with divine permission.

  "Cease your preparations. She will not participate."

  "Helen has already agreed. It is too late to stop the ritual. By now, she is in the House of Re." Meryatum stood firm, his face a mask of indifference. "And where she goes, so must you."

  The pastophoroi broke out into grumbles again, clearly at odds with the high priest's decision. Brygos and Ariston formed ranks behind him, hands gripped on their swords. Even Jason looked deeply distressed. He motioned secretly to Paris from the door, urging caution.

  "You want me to undergo purification?" The request was beyond suspicious, especially after the deadly stakes the priest had just declared. "Why?"

  Meryatum cast a single glare at his priests to silence them. "Your fates are linked. Do not deny it!"

  "I... don't." Paris' protests died on his lips. His soul was bound to Helen's, and he was exhausted from his efforts to hide that. A strange relief flowed through him hearing another acknowledge that as fact.

  "The Gods may have blessed the princess, but they have shown you no such favor," Meryatum simmered with disapproval. "She goes before them, not to purify herself, but to challenge the omens against you, to prove you righteous. She risks her life for yours." He directed his anger squarely at Paris, shaking with the effort to control himself. "Will you do no less?"

  Paris could not tell if he was more touched than he was shocked. Helen, you precious, crazy fool... He could not fathom the faith she placed in him, nor the courage she continued to show in his defense. In some small measure, he understood Meryatum's anger. He was unworthy of her sacrifice.

  "May I have a moment to consider?"

  Meryatum nodded and withdrew a respectable distance as Paris turned to his guards.

  "You cannot be considering this!" Brygos spoke in a heated whisper.

  "It could be a trap," Dexios quietly agreed. "They could kill you both, or keep you captive behind that fortress of stone."

  And what of Mycenae? Glaucus' responsible voice lectured him despite his absence. What of the danger it presents to Troy? We have a responsibility to warn the king.

  Paris had sworn an oath to king and country, but he had also sworn an oath to Helen. He promised to follow her to the ends of the earth, and if this was the path she chose to take, he would go, regardless of his misgivings.

  "I know the dangers," he tried to console them, sounding more confident than he felt. "If I am not back by the time the sun sets again, find Glaucus and get out of Egypt." Brygos tried to protest, but Paris silenced his guard. "That's an order. Jason knows the way. Work with him and get back to Troy. Make sure my father knows everything that happened. Everything." He did not envy the man who must hold that conversation in his stead.

  He turned back to Meryatum, the unblinking man studying him as though he were an aberrant piece of a puzzle. "I will go with you," he told the priest, a cold vein of fury burning inside him at this manipulation. "Not because of your threats, nor out of fear for your Gods, but because it is what she would wish. I do this for Helen."

  The declaration meant little, there was nothing he could do if this man wanted him dead, but he felt stronger for saying it, nonetheless. Meryatum nodded as if he expected nothing less. The pastophoroi filed out the door with Paris at their center.

  For Helen, he pledged to himself, and prepared at long last to face the Immortals who had cursed him.

  Chapter 29

  Sacrifices to the Gods

  HELEN PULLED THE hood of her cloak over her head as the pastophoroi led her to the temple gates. Six priests marched in step around her, the fiery brands they held aloft gleaming off their hairless heads. Her heart hammered against her ribs when they came to collect her from the harem, each man, like a stone-cut statue, frowning down on her in mute disapproval. Not one word had they uttered in the long walk from the palace to the temple. Nor did they give hint or gesture that might shed light on the deadly ritual she had committed herself to.

  Courage, she coached herself. Her heart's desire awaited after this test of spirit. For Paris, she could endure. Yet every step she took increased the angst-filled hollow within her, and courage seemed an empty hope for a young girl in an alien world.

  They passed the outer pylons, entering the dark walkway that led into the temple complex. Over the past week, she had been permitted no further than the courtyard on the other side, the last boundary of the profane world before entering into the sacred. Tonight she would pass into the inner sanctum itself, a place only priests of the highest order were permitted to approach.

  Mo
onlight bathed over her as she stepped into the court, the silver glow reflecting off the sand-swept floor like the facets on a jewel. The vibrant colors of the inner walls and second pylons were a muted grey now, as though all life in the House of Re had retreated with him into the netherworld. Helen pulled her cloak tightly around her, a chill running through her that came not from the air.

  The pastophoroi led onwards. An alabaster altar sat before the temple doors, square and tapered inwards, a micro replication of the temple itself. Penanukis awaited them, one hand held forward, barring the priests further entry.

  "I will take her from here." He dismissed the others and motioned Helen to follow him.

  As Second Prophet, Penanukis was Meryatum's second in command. He wore the same archaic robes as the other priests, with a single amulet draped around his neck to signify his office. Helen had had several occasions to get the know the man better, none of which had impressed her. He considered any intrusion into the peaceful world of temple life as unwelcome, and watched those of greater authority than he with hawkish eyes. He reminded her of the nobles in Mycenae, eager to tear down those around them so they might seem taller.

  "The First Prophet has decreed that you will complete the full induction tonight." He walked the temple perimeter on soundless feet, leading her down the covered walkway to the priests' private quarters. "The one our acolytes perform when they are raised to pastophoroi." His nasal tone declared his resentment loud and clear. "Why is that so?"

  "I don't know," she answered honestly. Helen had no idea why Meryatum insisted she endure the lengthy ritual. She had no desire to become a 'Pure One', but if the high priest deemed it necessary, she was not going to argue.

  "He has taken special efforts for you, Princess." Penanukis grimaced, the first mar on his otherwise still face. "No foreigner has ever been inducted to the Mysteries. You owe him a great debt."

  A greater one than you can ever know. To no longer be bond to Menelaus and his brother was a freedom she could not fathom. A tingle ran through her spine at the thought that moment could be near.

  The priest opened a wooden door to a preparation chamber, the room a scant fifty feet from the temple proper. Inside, the candlelit room boasted a single stool and a table holding bowls filled with water, powders, and ointments. She stepped into the room and stood lamely by the stool, unsure what was expected of her.

  Penanukis shut the door behind him, a hint of anticipation gleaming in his eyes as he held a candle high to inspect her. "Remove your clothes."

  "What?" She backed away from him, stumbling against the stool. "Why?"

  "You must be cleansed, the filth of this world removed." He rolled his eyes, his tone that of an impatient elder speaking to a child. "You go into the God's world as one newly born. Now remove your clothes."

  Where was Meryatum? Why did Penanukis bring her to this tiny room where they were alone? Helen's mind screamed at her to run. The four walls of the windowless room seemed to close in around her.

  Courage, she tried to buoy her spirits again, this is not Greece. He is not Agamemnon.

  Helen lifted her chin, forcing her daemons to keep at bay. She had nothing to fear from this man. The priests were celibate. She removed her cloak then pulled her dress up over her head, doing her best to ignore the hunger reflecting back from Penanukis' eyes. Standing naked before him, she imagined this discomfort as her first trial. If the sins of her past were to be absolved, then fear of the flesh was the first item she'd sacrifice on that altar.

  "I see." He lowered his candle and picked up a bowl of clear water, approaching her. "Perhaps Meryatum's favor is no mystery after all." He dipped a cloth of wool into the bowl, and began to bathe her. He pressed the sodden rag to her thighs, his fingers squeezing her tender flesh as he sluiced away the dirty water. The bathing continued for long, agonizing minutes. She tried to pretend this was any other bath, that the hands cupping her breasts were Aethra's. She closed her eyes, retreating into her mind.

  I am not afraid of this man. Nor any other man. Her body was no longer a toy for others to abuse. Those words became a mantra she repeated to herself over and over again. She was not the gentle calf forever a victim to her powerful masters. She could be the lioness. She could take back the power she had given over to them.

  Helen opened her eyes, a dark fury burning inside her with that promise. She did not strike the priest, but her bearing said all the words she elected not to speak.

  Touch me, you cretin, if you dare.

  Penanukis froze, his hand suspended above her chest. "That should be enough." He put the bowl down with a shaky hand, picking up another filled with the light green powder of henna. Mixing water into the bowl to create a paste, he approached her with a wooden stylus in hand.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Markings..." He motioned to her body, his nervous gesture responding to the command in her tone. "For protection. So the Gods will recognize you as one of their servants."

  She nodded, letting him proceed. Cowing the man was a small victory, but one she desperately needed, especially if she would prove herself strong enough to face the Gods.

  Penanukis was a masterful artist. Over the next two hours, he painstakingly painted intricate patterns over her body, the henna fading to a rich orange-red, the color of banked coals. The Eye of Horus was drawn on each arm. Over her chest went the winged solar disk of Re. Many others she did not recognize covered her belly and legs. By the time he was finished, her body resembled the temple walls, every inch below her neck covered with protective spells. Written, so the priest told her, in the magical language of the Gods.

  She wrapped her cloak around her shoulders as they prepared to leave, wondering about the one spot he had left untouched: the oblong section directly over her heart. If the designs were meant as armor, then the priest had left her most vulnerable spot exposed.

  A breeze had picked up from the east, carrying with it a low hanging mist. The moonlit clouds swirled as she stepped through it, making the air itself seem to breathe and vibrate. The altar before the temple was now lit, the flames carving out a section of color in the pale-blue night. Standing before that flame was the High Priest of Re.

  Meryatum was resplendent in his ceremonial robes. He held the staff of his office: a wooden rod equal in height to his tall frame, its golden solar-disk headpiece complete with a crystal center. It reflected both the light from above and below, pulsing like the north star, guiding her toward him.

  Helen stepped up to the altar, her mind ablaze. She wanted to ask him so many questions. Where had he been? The solemn cast to his face, however, told her to remain quiet. He was in communion with his Gods. Now was not the time for idle tongues. She let her cloak drop to the stone beneath her feet and lowered her head.

  Meryatum reached for a tray held out by his pastophoroi, lifting a jewel-encrusted censor. He shook it, sprinkling water over her head, as his resonate voice rang out across the courtyard. "Helen, Daughter of Sparta. You set forth into the realm of the Gods so you might be reborn an innocent to this world. But to live again, you needs first must die. You must pass into the netherworld and welcome the embrace of Nun's soothing waters. Inside this temple, the enemies of ma'at will seek to destroy you. If your heart is pure, if your destiny is great, you will prevail."

  He lifted a stylus, one forged of electrum, the tip a finer edge than the wooden instrument used by Penanukis before. With it he drew a cartouche over her heart, sculpting the hieroglyph of a grey heron, the bennu bird, the spirit of Re himself.

  "The Gods test those they have chosen for great purpose. In meeting their challenge, we prove ourselves worthy of that honor."

  Again he turned to his priest, this time to procure a chalice of incredible beauty, the work of a master goldsmith. Bloodstones as large as eggs lined the cup, the gems glinting from the bonfire like fiery daemon eyes. He pressed the chalice to her lips and she drank deeply, the bitter tonic burning her throat as she swallowed.

  "Go
now, Daughter of Sparta, Beloved of Aphrodite, Chosen of Mnevis. Go now and face what was, what is and what will come, not in fear, but with courage. Prove yourself worthy of their divine protection."

  The dulling of her senses was almost instantaneous. Meryatum's rigid face began to blur, and she could not feel the stone beneath her feet. She would have fallen to the ground if she had not formed a solid image in her mind of remaining upright. Still, Meryatum had to hold her arm to guide her across the courtyard to the temple doors.

  Strength and Honor. Her father's voice echoed across the distance in her mind. Spartans always faced their fate with an unconquerable spirit. She let that heritage fill her.

  The doors of the temple swung open as if by some mysterious force. A mist billowed out as though trying to escape the yawning abyss inside.

  Courage, strength, and honor...

  She cast one last look at Meryatum, releasing his arm. The priest's face was pinched with concern, but he let her go, nonetheless. Taking a deep breath, she stepped into the temple.

  Paris entered the temple complex, his mind awash with misgivings. His entire life he had avoided the company of religious zealots, and now he was willingly placing himself in their hands. It had been easy to discount the mad ravings of Aesacus, his father's seer who had a thirst for power unmatched by any holy man in the Old World. But if the Egyptian prophet saw the same darkness in him...? Paris could not help but worry it was true, and so he walked to the temple in silence, his steps weighted with the pall of the condemned mounting the execution block.

  His pastophoroi guards led him to the sacred lake, the brilliant canopy of stars reflecting in its still waters. That plane of water seemed a window between worlds, one above and one below. They ordered him to strip and wade into the lake.

  He hesitated, scanning the surrounding buildings for any sign of activity. "Where is Helen?" He felt a tugging at his veins, an urge he had come to associate with her when she was in distress. He turned back toward the temple, knowing somehow she was near.