by R. D. Brady
“You’re going to skip breakfast, aren’t you?” Adorna said.
Helen grinned. “You know what father is like if he waits too long.”
Adorna fished a peach from her pocket. “Here.” She tossed it to Helen, who caught it with one hand.
“You’re the best,” Helen said, taking a bite.
Adorna snorted, but Helen caught the smile she was trying to hide.
Then Helen was sprinting out of the room and down the hall. In other kingdoms, the sight of the heir to the throne running full out down the marble halls might have been a spectacle, but in Sparta, no one even blinked.
The citadel of Sparta was a square building with long halls that surrounded a large courtyard. The halls were unadorned—in Sparta, money was not wasted on artwork; instead it was put into fortifications and crops—but Helen loved every single stone. As she reached the entrance to the courtyard, she vaulted over a basket left unattended and landed with a smile. The courtyard with its groves of fruit trees and large untouched green spaces always made her smile.
“Helen.”
She turned toward her parents. Her mother’s red hair shone even brighter in the morning light, and her violet eyes, which Helen’s brothers shared, twinkled. Helen’s father stood straight and tall, still strong due to his regular sparring matches with his men, all of whom he still could beat—except for her brothers. His hair was dark, as were his skin and eyes. As she had done many times before, Helen wondered how she had come to bear so little resemblance to him.
As she jogged over to them, King Tyndareus said, “We need to speak with you.”
“So I hear,” Helen planted a kiss on her mother’s cheek.
“Good morning, my dear.” Leda's smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.
Uh-oh.
“Yes, well,” Tyndareus huffed, not meeting Helen’s gaze. “I have bestowed upon you a great honor.”
Helen glanced back and forth between her parents. “And what honor might that be?”
Tyndareus kept his gaze above Helen’s head. “You are reaching a marriageable age. In fact, at sixteen, you are older than most married women. That is your mother’s doing. If it had been up to me, I would have had you married off years ago. Your sister has been wed for two years now.”
Helen’s lips tightened at the mention of her sister’s marriage.
“Dear,” Leda said quietly.
Tyndareus looked at her, then at Helen. “Right. Well, be that as it may, it is now time for you to marry. Your husband will be the king of Sparta—the greatest country to ever exist. No mere man can take that role.”
Helen nodded. “I have thought about that. And I believe Achilles will make an excellent king.”
Tyndareus frowned. “Achilles? He brings no men, no kingdom, no power to the match. Besides—he is just a boy.” He shook his head. “No. I will choose your husband.”
Helen’s mouth fell open. “You will choose?”
Tyndareus nodded. “Yes. I am going to hold a tournament. The leaders of all the greatest kingdoms will attend. They will pay handsomely for the ability to marry you.”
“But—”
“Helen, marriage is about politics, not love.”
“But—”
“No.” Tyndareus glared down at her, his face turning red. Her father always hated whenever anyone disagreed with him. And it only made him dig his heels in more. “This is your duty. If you disobey me on this, you will be cast out. No family, no home, no Sparta.”
Leda’s eyes grew wide. “Tyndareus, no.”
“Yes,” he barked, before turning once again to Helen. “You have received much independence, daughter. But in this, you have no choice. It is your duty to Sparta. And you will do your duty. The tournament will commence in six months’ time.”
With that, Tyndareus strode from the courtyard.
Helen whirled on her mother. “He can’t be serious.”
“He is, my dear. And there is something else we need to speak about.”
Helen backed away, shaking her head. “How could you allow this?”
Leda reached out her hand. “There is a great deal at stake right now. Not just for you, but all of Sparta. I have put off telling you this to give you a chance at a life unencumbered, but now—”
“I don’t want to hear this.” A vision of her life ruled by someone else flashing through Helen’s mind. A husband chosen through a competition? Like she was some sort of prize! She felt ill.
“Helen, you must listen to me.”
Helen shook her head at her mother. Here was the woman who had told her to honor strength and compassion above all things. The woman who told her she was the warden of her own future.
The woman who was now selling her off to the highest bidder.
“No, I think I’ve heard enough,” Helen said.
Chapter 8
Helen ran out of the courtyard, through the busy kitchens, and out into the horse training area. A few people called out to her but she only gave them a quick nod before hurrying on. And she just wished everyone would disappear and leave her alone.
She felt betrayed, adrift. Why had they raised her to be independent if for one of the most important decisions of her life they were going to allow her no say? They couldn't actually think she'd go along with marrying someone she did not know, someone she did not choose. Then she pictured her father's face and knew he would do exactly that. But how could she allow it? Especially when she already knew who she was going to spend her life with.
She pulled open the stable door. The long path between the twenty stalls lay open, with only three horses in view. The rest were out being trained, and her hopes dimmed, realizing he might be out as well. “Achilles?” she called, her heart pounding in her chest.
Achilles appeared at the end of the long line of stalls, a rake in his hand. Helen’s whole body thrilled at the sight of him. Already taller than anyone else in the kingdom, Achilles placed the rake against a stall and strode toward her. He was wearing only a leather skirt, and his well-defined chest was sweaty from raking the stalls. His blue eyes searched her for injury, and she could tell the moment he knew she was physically unharmed. He reached for her, his hand running over her short hair. “Helen? What’s wrong?”
She threw her arms around him, not caring who saw. “My father—he’s going to arrange my marriage.”
“What? To who?”
Helen looked up at him, her heart aching at the sight of the face that haunted her every moment. “I don’t know. It’s to be a contest. The winner will be my husband.”
He smiled then, the cockiness she loved returning to his face. “Then I will win. Helen, the only man who stands a chance of beating me is Pollux, and I’m pretty sure he won’t be competing.”
Helen shook her head. “You cannot compete. You do not have a kingdom.”
“What does that matter?”
Tears trailed down Helen’s cheeks. “My father is looking to strengthen our kingdom. He will not let me marry you.”
“I will speak—”
“I already have.” Helen remembered her father’s rage when she had said she wanted to marry Achilles. “He said he—he would disown me. That I would be banished, never to see my family again, never to see Sparta again.”
Achilles looked down at her. “He would never do that.”
“He would. I am the heir. For ages, Spartan heirs have married rulers of other kingdoms. I have known since I was a child that this was my role. I thought I had accepted it. But now that it is here, now that I have you, I cannot—” She broke off, tears choking her voice.
“Helen of Sparta, no matter what happens, you are mine and I am yours. Do you hear me? You are mine and I am yours.”
Helen looked up at him and knew the truth in his words. Ever since she had met Achilles, she had been more alive than she had ever been before. The world had more color, more emotion, and it was all because of him. He was the other half of her soul. Nothing would change that. Nothing could.
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She reached up and touched his cheek. “You are mine and I am yours.”
Achilles stared into her eyes before lowering his mouth to hers. The kiss started off tender, aching with emotion, but soon it turned heated. Helen placed her hands on his warm flesh. His stomach muscles twitched at her touch as he pushed her back against the wall of the stables.
“Achilles,” she moaned.
He trailed kisses down her neck. “You are mine, Helen.”
“Always and forever,” she murmured, her whole body alive. She slipped her hands lower, and he stilled.
“Helen?”
“You are my all, Achilles,” she whispered.
He groaned and pulled her closer. “And you are mine.”
Chapter 9
Helen lay with her head upon Achilles’s bare chest, content to listen to the beating of his heart. They had moved into a stall, where Achilles had laid a blanket over the hay and found another to cover them. Helen would have been happy to stay here forever. He was hers and she was his. That would not change. Their bond was unbreakable.
Achilles leaned down and kissed her on the forehead. “How are you?”
She smiled, snuggling in deeper, loving the feel of him next to her. “Perfect.”
“Yes, you are.”
Outside the stall, footsteps approached. Achilles and Helen went still.
“When will they arrive?” a voice asked.
“Within the hour,” a second voice replied. “The entire town was destroyed. There are precious few left, mostly children.”
“Damn the gods. What did Hefgih ever do to them?”
“It must have been a grave insult to rain such destruction.”
The voices faded as the footsteps passed by.
Helen looked at Achilles, not needing to say a word. Another town had been destroyed by the “gods.” And right on the heels of the attack on Minochus. Damn them. What I wouldn’t give for a way to make them pay.
Helen sat up. “I need to go. They will need my help with the refugees.”
Achilles reached up, cupped the back of her head, and pulled her back to him for a long kiss. Helen wanted nothing more than to turn her back on her duty and stay with him. But the refugees came first.
“I will speak with your father,” Achilles said.
Helen shook her head. “No. We will do it together, once the refugees have been settled.”
Achilles searched her face. “You’re sure?”
Helen nodded. There was nothing she wanted more in this world than Achilles. She would just have to make her father see that he was the one she needed to rule Sparta. Her father would understand. He would have to.
“Together,” she promised.
Chapter 10
Mycenae, Greece
Agamemnon, king of Mycenae, stood on the royal dais. The throne room was a tribute to his power. Trophies from his hunts lined the walls, and the treasures he’d gathered on his many trips around the world were displayed for all to see.
A man of my greatness should not have to deal with a man of no consequence. He stared down at the sniveling coward of a man before him. Disgusting. He nodded to the guards. “Take him. Then find his family.”
The man flung himself to the floor. “No, King Agamemnon, I am loyal to you and only you. Please. I only took the bread because my son was hungry.”
“Then you should be pleased. When he is dead, he will no longer want for food.”
Agamemnon’s guards yanked the man up by his shoulders.
“No. Please,” the man begged as he was dragged off.
Agamemnon dismissed the man from his mind before his cries had even died away.
Menelaus entered the room from the small doorway behind the throne. He nodded down the hall to where the man had been dragged. “What was with all the yelling?”
“Nothing,” replied Agamemnon. “A small household matter.”
Menelaus' concerned gaze shifted to the hallway,
"It is nothing brother," Agamemnon assured him. "Now, I have news."
"I have news as well. But you first."
The king studied his brother, amazed again at the differences between the two of them. Menelaus was tall and muscular, with hazel eyes, dark hair, and skin constantly bronzed by the sun. His arms were well toned from training and war. Agamemnon’s skin, by contrast, had an olive tone, and he had put on some weight in the last few years, resulting in a double chin. But the king knew he was the greatest fighter to have ever lived; he didn’t need to prove it on a regular basis, like Menelaus. Besides, Agamemnon’s intelligence far outweighed any of his other attributes. And that intelligence had just led him to a plan that would guarantee that the rest of the world would recognize his brilliance for what it was: godliness.
“Have you heard the news from Sparta?” asked the king.
Menelaus frowned. “Sparta? No, I’ve been in the yard training all day.”
Of course you have. Agamemnon smiled. “Well, it is good news. Tyndareus has decided it is time for Helen to marry. In six months’ time, he will be holding a competition to find her mate.”
Menelaus raised an eyebrow. “Tyndareus is letting a competition determine Helen’s husband? What I wouldn’t give to have seen how she took that news.”
Agamemnon frowned. “Why should that matter?”
“Do you remember Helen?”
Agamemnon and Menelaus had spent a year in Sparta—a year during which Agamemnon’s uncle and cousin had stolen his kingdom from him. Tyndareus had helped Agamemnon wrestle back control. It was then that Agamemnon observed the strength of the Spartans’ fighting force—they were as fearsome a group of warriors as any he had seen. Even their women. And Agamemnon knew he needed the Spartan force under his rule.
But Helen… she had done nothing but rub him the wrong way. She was an uppity brat. Agamemnon had seen nothing in the young queen to love, save her status. That he had wanted—and had requested.
But Tyndareus had not agreed to his request, and Agamemnon still boiled at Tyndareus’s response. He had suggested Helen and Agamemnon's personalities would not suit, as if the personality of a woman was a concern. Then Tyndareus had offered Clytemnestra instead.
Agamemnon had swallowed his anger and accepted the offer. It was important to maintain the link to Sparta. But if Menelaus were to marry Helen, that would bring Sparta under his control—including its powerful army.
“I’m sure she has changed,” Agamemnon said. “After all, look at Clytemnestra.” Agamemnon and Clytemnestra had now been married for two years, and she had already borne him two sons. It had taken a little time to beat the Sparta out of her, but now she jumped whenever he spoke. She could not do enough to please him.
Menelaus frowned. “Helen and Clytemnestra may be twins, but they were never very much alike. Clytemnestra was always the softer of the two.”
Frustration welled up in Agamemnon. Why were they wasting time talking about women’s personalities? A woman’s personality was the least critical factor in a wife. “Regardless, Helen is now on the marriage mart. And she would be an excellent bride for you.”
Menelaus shook his head slowly. “She loves Achilles. She won’t agree to marry anyone else.”
“She’s a woman. She doesn’t get a choice.”
“You’ve never really understood her,” said Menelaus. “Helen is not like other women. She does what she wants, not what men tell her to do. And Achilles is the man in her heart. He has been for years. She will not agree to marry someone else, not while there is a chance she could marry him.”
Agamemnon studied his brother. There was something in Menelaus’s voice when he spoke about Helen. And Agamemnon remembered catching his brother staring after Helen on more than one occasion when they were in Sparta. “You love her.”
Menelaus shook his head again, but the truth was plain for anyone to see. “No. I barely know her.”
Agamemnon snorted. “Brother, if she is the one you desire, I will throw all my power into mak
ing sure that a match is made.”
Hope sprang across Menelaus’s face, but then his face fell. “I do not know if I can attend. An uprising is imminent in Thrace, and I expect to be leaving in a few weeks’ time. I have promised my support. It is what I was coming to tell you. I expect it will not be easily settled.”
Agamemnon threw an arm around Menelaus’s shoulder. “Have no fear, brother. I will go to Sparta in your stead. And I promise, Helen will be your wife. Along with all she brings with her.”
“Thank you, brother. You always look out for me.”
Agamemnon smiled. “Of course. That’s what family is for, isn’t it? Now go bathe. Your smell rivals a pig’s.”
Menelaus laughed. “You’ve smelled worse.”
“Not today.” He pushed Menelaus toward the door. “Go.”
“All right, all right. I’ll just stop in first and see if Clytemnestra is all right.”
“Why wouldn’t she be?”
“The birth was particularly tough on her this time. She’s barely eating.”
Agamemnon waved him away. “Fine. I’ll see you at dinner.”
As Menelaus disappeared down the hall, Agamemnon frowned. He had forgotten about the relationship between Achilles and Helen. That could be a stumbling block to his plans. And plans he had. Because he was not about to let the might of the Spartan army fall under the banner of any other house but his own.
An idea began to take root in the back of his mind. Achilles was more than he seemed; even Achilles didn’t know all that was within him. But that power of his, while useful in a fight, could also be danger to those around him. If Agamemnon could make sure that King Tyndareus saw that…
He turned to his guard. “Find me Claudius.”
Chapter 11
At the north end of the citadel, the preparations for the refugees were well under way. Helen had jumped into the chaos, helping erect tents and create bedding. She organized the food area and added extra guards to make the refugees feel safe.