by R. D. Brady
Barnabus nodded, understanding in his eyes.
Helen stepped onto the balcony. She glanced toward the roof and shook her head. “He is always so difficult,” she muttered.
All the torches on this side of the palace had been darkened, no doubt at the command of Proteus, and a careful look around told Helen no one was nearby. Staring upward, she called on the wind. A strong gust pushed at her propelling her up and over the next balcony. As she guided the wind to take her toward the roof, a tingle ran over her skin—almost as strong as the one she felt near Achilles.
When she landed atop the palace, a shadow separated from the dark near a small glass structure. “I see you have gotten more graceful with your landings,” Proteus said.
Helen smiled. “I have had a great deal of practice.”
“So I have heard.” Proteus smiled, his teeth bright in the moonlight.
“It is good to see you,” Helen said.
Proteus bowed slightly. “And you as well, ring bearer. It has been too long.”
“Yes.” Helen thought of the last time she saw Proteus—at her mother’s deathbed.
“She is missed,” Proteus said softly.
“Yes, she is.”
Proteus had been a close friend of her mother’s—although even that did not express the depth of the relationship between the two of them. Her mother had called Proteus “brother,” and he was viewed as part of their family. He and Barnabus had not only been constant visitors when Helen was a child, they had once stayed for two full years. And when Proteus left, Barnabus stayed on even longer, training with Helen and her brothers for another few years. Barnabus was another brother to Helen, a son to Leda.
And after Helen’s mother died, Proteus had taken Helen under his wing and shown her what the ring would allow her to do. He was also gifted, although she could not command him to do her will.
He and Barnabus led the hunt for Zeus and his men in this part of the world. It was that hunt that had kept them from Sparta’s lands since Helen’s marriage—which was, no doubt, what kept Paris from learning of their closeness.
“Now, what is going on, Helen? You can’t expect me to believe that ridiculousness you spoke downstairs.”
Helen sighed. When she had heard they were heading to Pharos, she had felt both happy and anxious. She knew Proteus would either help her—or seal her children’s fate. “There is much happening. But you must trust that what I do, I do because it is the right thing.”
Proteus stepped forward, searching her face. “Perhaps the right thing for someone, but that someone is not you, is it?”
Helen said nothing.
“I do not understand how Paris of Troy, that sniveling child, could hold something so strongly against you that you would turn your back on your husband, your people.”
“There are some things more important.”
“There must be,” Proteus said quietly. "Tell me Helen. You know I will keep your confidence."
Helen looked up at Proteus. She knew he would stay silent if she asked. And she needed someone else to run her thoughts off. She took a deep breath. "Paris stopped at Sparta, saying his ship was damaged." She told him the whole story, leaving nothing out.
"That letch," Proteus growled when Helen finished. "How dare he? I will rip him—"
"No, Proteus, no. Not until I can find a way to protect the children."
"Do your brothers know? Or Menelaus?"
"No, I could not leave a note."
"I will get word to them."
Helen shook her head. "No. If they knew, they would act rashly and I fear there is more going on here. We must wait."
Proteus sighed deeply looking up at the night sky before turning back to Helen. “We have been through much, you and I.”
Helen nodded. “You have taught me much.”
Proteus studied her closely. “If you are asking me to going along with this, I will. But if you need my help—”
Helen gave a bitter laugh. “I wish I could ask you for it. But I can’t—not yet.”
“I could have him and his men killed. We could make it look like they were lost at sea.”
Helen shook her head. On board the ship, she had come to a sobering conclusion. “I wish it were that simple,” she said. “Paris is simple. But what is surrounding me is not. Someone else is pulling his strings.”
Proteus considered. “You have made a great deal of trouble for Zeus. Do you think he could be behind this?”
“That is my guess. But we still have no idea who he is. All we know is he is a Fallen and that he seems to be able to be in two places at once. Have you found out anything more about him?”
“No. I continue to search, as does Barnabus, but we have no solid leads.”
“And I don’t see how Zeus benefits by me being disgraced and Troy being at war.”
“Perhaps he wants you sidelined.”
“Then why not just kill me? It would be a more permanent solution.” Helen sighed. “Maybe it’s not Zeus. Maybe something else is at work. But until I learn what is behind all of this, I must go along with this farce. And if you care for me at all, you will do the same.”
“You have had my trust since I first met you. You are your mother’s daughter in every way. So if this is what you need of me, then I give it willingly. I only wish that you would ask more of me.”
“I am glad you said that, because there is one thing more I need you to do.” She slipped the ring off her finger. “Give this to Castor and Pollux. No one else, only them.”
Proteus frowned. “But you are stronger with it.”
“Yes, but I cannot wear it out in the open, and I cannot risk taking it to Troy. Give it to my brothers. They will know what to do.”
Gently he took the ring from her hand. “You don’t ask enough.”
A lump formed in her throat. “One day I may have to ask more. But today, this is what I need.”
“And it will be done. I will send it with Barnabus, and no one will know he has it.”
Helen felt relief that the ring at least would be safe. “Thank you.”
“You are welcome. But I think there may be one more thing you need.” He held his arms wide.
Helen walked into them, her breath catching as Proteus’s arms wrapped around her. Tears rolled down her cheeks and she felt the strength of her old mentor, knowing that, at least at this particular moment, she was safe and protected.
Chapter 43
The island of Rhodes, Greece
Having received word about Helen, Achilles could think of nothing else. Needing to escape the noise and heat, he stepped out of the tavern, but even the cool night air did not calm the racing of his mind.
He looked toward the peak of Attavyros in the distance, and before he knew it he was running flat out, blurring in the night air. Anyone who saw him would think he was nothing more than a wind. He reached the peak too soon. He stood on it and stared at the valley below. A few fires burned, letting him know people were there, but he could hear no sound. He looked up to the skies.
Ever since he was a child, Achilles had known he was different. He had always been larger, taller, stronger, faster, tougher than any of the children. His wounds had healed quickly. He could not be bested in a fight. It had made him unstoppable. And it had made him arrogant. Everything had been his for the taking. Everything he wanted, he received.
Until Helen.
She had denied him. But even as she did, he knew what was in her heart. He knew what she felt for him.
After that, he had thrown himself into battle after battle, trying to erase her from his mind. But thoughts of her only grew stronger. The only thing time was able to erase was his anger. And when his anger subsided, he realized he had been the fool. She had a duty, and he had asked her to turn her back on it.
He shook his head. That would be like her asking him to never fight again. To swear off fighting for the rest of his days. To turn his back on Patroclus. That was what he had asked of Helen—not understand
ing that duty was who she was. Who she would always be.
He had stayed away all these years in part to keep from torturing himself, but mostly out of respect for her choice.
And now that choice had been taken from her.
He knew, deep in his soul, that Helen had not gone to Troy willingly. She would never turn away from Sparta. She would never turn from her children.
Now the question was, what was Achilles going to do about it?
Chapter 44
Achilles spent the entire night debating whether to join the fight in Troy. In the end, he could not banish the image of Helen—Helen in trouble—from his mind. So when dawn broke, he had his men prepare for war.
It took three days to gather the supplies they would need. In that time, the memories of his time with Helen had haunted him. He had built a wall against her these long years, but learning she was in trouble had brought that wall down, and now the memories wouldn’t be contained. They were painful, but they also brought him warmth. She had loved him; he did not doubt that.
By the fourth day they were ready to depart for Troy. Just before leaving, he received word that the Greek armies were mobilizing to advance on Troy as well. He’d been only slightly surprised to hear that it would be Agamemnon and not Menelaus leading the effort. Agamemnon—the king of men. But Achilles had met him before that. He had met him in Sparta, when he had nothing but a claim to a throne.
The king of men had not impressed him back then. He preyed on people’s weaknesses. Or at least tried to, Achilles thought with a smile. He knew Agamemnon had asked for Helen’s hand, in part to spite Achilles, but also to gain power. But Tyndareus had turned him down. Instead, he’d offered Clytemnestra.
Achilles shook his head with a sigh. If the rumors were true, that union had not turned out well for Clytemnestra.
The wind shifted and the smell of the horses drifted toward him, reminding him of when he first met her. She had been only twelve and he had been fourteen. The years slipped away as he revisited the moment that had changed his life forever.
The familiar smell of the stable filled Achilles’s nose, making him smile. He grabbed a bale of hay, carried it down to the last stall, and opened the door, the bale on one shoulder. “Careful, Midnight,” he said to the black stallion.
Midnight shook her head in response, and Achilles grinned at the haughtiness in the gesture. She was a beautiful horse and fast. She was entitled to her haughtiness.
He lowered the hay. “All right, enjoy,” he said before stepping out, careful to lock the door behind him.
“Achilles,” Chiron called from the opposite side of the stable.
Chiron, Achilles’s teacher, was a master horseman, sought after by powerful men all over the globe. In fact, there were stories that he was part horse, his knowledge was so great. It was Chiron who had originally brought Achilles with him to Sparta, when King Tyndareus called for him to help with his new horses. It had been three months since they had arrived here, and Achilles now knew why Chiron had brought him. The Spartans fought with a passion he had never seen, and Achilles loved every minute he was allowed to train with the men.
Achilles walked over to Chiron, trying not to look reluctant. He was hoping Chiron didn’t have more work for him, because Castor and Pollux had said he could join them in the training yard as soon as he finished up, and he had been looking forward to it. The very first time he met Castor, he’d known this was someone with the same abilities as himself. Their first fight had been exhilarating; he didn’t even have to hold back. And neither did Castor. He grinned just thinking about it.
He wiped the grin off his face as he walked up to Chiron. “Yes?”
“Are all the stables cleaned out?”
“Yes.”
“The horses fed and given fresh water?”
“Yes.”
“And have you completed your lessons for the day?”
“Yes.” Achilles tried not to smile in anticipation of his teacher’s next words.
“Very well. You may go.”
With a whoop, Achilles ran for the exit.
“Achilles.” Chiron’s voice was sharp, halting Achilles. Chiron walked to Achilles’s side. “Do not let anyone see your abilities.”
“I know.”
Chiron looked down at him and raised an eyebrow. “Really? Then care to tell me why Sabian said that a strong wind came along and ripped his sword right out of his hand earlier this morning?”
Achilles grinned. “Like he said—it was a really strong wind.”
Chiron sighed. “Achilles, your abilities are a gift from the gods. But they will mark you for trouble if you do not keep them hidden.”
“Let trouble come. I am not afraid.”
“You should be. Because the trouble that comes for you will come for anyone around you. You need to take care of them as well. And we are guests here. Do not bring any problems for King Tyndareus.”
Achilles let out a deep sigh. “Fine.”
Chiron shook his head. “Go on.”
As Achilles headed out of the stable, his joy ebbed. Chiron was always warning him not to let anyone see his abilities. He could run faster, hit harder, and fight better than anyone he knew—even Castor—and he was supposed to hide all that? For now that was all right. But one day, he was sure, everyone would know his name.
Three boys a little older than Achilles came running from the opposite direction, jostling Achilles as they passed. “Hey!” Achilles yelled. But the boys ignored him, continuing around the side of the barn. “Get him!” one of the boys yelled.
Get whom? Curious, Achilles followed them. He hadn’t seen them chasing anyone.
The boys were running toward some trees when Achilles heard the unmistakable yelp of a dog up ahead of them. His eyes narrowed, and he sprinted for the boys. “What are—”
But he was cut off as another boy, not with the group, appeared out of nowhere. This new boy flew at the group, landed a kick to one of the other boys’ groins, and followed it with a knee to the face.
Only then did Achilles realize the new boy wasn’t a boy at all, but a girl with short blond hair.
Tossing the first boy aside, the girl turned toward a second boy who was running at her, throwing a punch. She nimbly slipped the punch, slapping the underside of his elbow with her palm, and slammed her other hand down on the topside of his wrist. The boy’s elbow broke, and even as he screamed, she kicked out his leg.
The third boy backed away from her with his hands up and eyes wide. “I—I didn’t mean nothing,” he stammered.
The girl turned to Achilles, her blue eyes on fire, her cheeks flush with color. “What about you?” she demanded.
Achilles put up his hands as well. “I’m not with them. I just came to see what they were doing.”
“Terrorizing someone who should be left in peace,” she said, turning away from him. She wasn’t going after him, but she was trusting him enough to give him her back. She approached a bush just inside the trees, her attention on something underneath it.
The first boy, the one the girl had kneed in the groin, still lay on the ground, but he reached for a stick, his eyes full of hate. Achilles walked over and kicked the boy in the head before he could get to his feet. The boy was knocked out cold.
The girl looked up, and Achilles shrugged. “One of them passed out.” He looked at the scared boy and the boy with the broken elbow. “You should get him some help.”
The two boys, one holding his broken arm to his chest, managed to lift the unconscious boy between them and hurry him away. Achilles kept himself between the girl and the boys as they left.
Finally he turned to see what had the girl’s attention.
An old dog, with spots of fur missing, lay underneath the bush, one paw held up. Achilles sucked in a breath. He hated to see animals in pain. A sudden anger at the boys washed over him, but he kept it contained. His anger could spill over at times, but Chiron had been helping him gain control.
The
girl looked up at him. Eyes that had been full of passion were now filled with tears. “I think her paw is broken.”
Achilles knelt down next to the poor animal. “What can we do?”
The girl wiped away a tear that slipped past her long dark lashes. “I can take her to Adorna. She’ll help. I need to get something to carry her in.”
“I can carry her.” Careful not to jostle the injured leg, he lifted the dog into his arms.
The girl hovered next to him, biting her lower lip. “Is she too heavy?”
“She weighs nothing. Lead on. What is your name?”
“Helen.”
Achilles blinked in surprise—the king’s daughter? That was not the name he’d been expecting. He had heard that the princess and the queen had been on a trip with her mother and had arrived home just last night. And here she was, her royal highness fighting with rabble over a dog—and fighting very well at that.
“I’m Achilles,” he said.
She looked into his eyes, and for a moment Achilles was lost in the beauty standing before him.
“Thank you, Achilles,” she said softly. She began to walk, and Achilles followed her, knowing that somehow his whole life had just changed.
The memory of that first meeting flowed through Achilles’s mind as the wind tugged at his hair and his tunic. Helen had been a force of nature from the start. And the two of them together… he had thought they were unstoppable.
Until Helen stopped them.
He bit down on that old resentment. It had taken him years to understand why she had made the decision she had. He had been young, foolish, without duty or honor. Helen had had both. She’d had no choice in what was to come, but she had faced it. And she had made Sparta stronger because of it.
Now he was supposed to believe that Helen had walked away from all of that? No, he couldn’t. Something was amiss. His Helen would never turn her back on duty.
She’s not your Helen. Not anymore, a voice whispered in the back of his mind.
He knew the voice spoke the truth—and the same time, it didn’t. Helen was queen of Sparta, and she belonged to Sparta and Menelaus. But part of her, he knew, would always be his—the same way he would always be hers. Time and distance didn’t change that. Some facts were as immutable as the mountains.