Somewhere between Earth and Everyland Helen opened her eyes. She had been through the process of viewing the memories she’d inherited from the River Lethe enough times to know when she was doing it again. And she was doing it again.
Except, this time, when she woke with Paris’ naked body tangled up with hers, she didn’t watch the scene like a ghostly third person in the room. She felt as if it was happening to her. And of all the memories she’d relived, this one hurt the most.
It was the night that Troy fell.
Helen joine
d the memory as Paris was slipping into a deep sleep shortly after they had made love for the last time. She felt his body grow heavy, his joints slacken, and watched his calloused hand curl up into a fist. She desperately wanted to stay, hold him, and watch him as he watched his dreams pass behind his eyelids. But she couldn’t. She had made arrangements with Odysseus and needed to sneak out as soon as possible to do his wretched bidding.
She’d already done all her crying for Paris. The only thing left now was to protect their daughter and make sure that something of Paris was left when it was over.
Odysseus had convinced her slowly. He’d explained that immortals could not fight mortals to the death. Hecate, the only Titan more powerful than Zeus, forbade it. But this technicality didn’t stand in the gods’ way. They were remarkably good at making it so the demigods wanted to kill each other off, anyway. Over the years she’d watched as hero after hero fell in single combat, each of them goaded on by his father-god, and she saw that Odysseus must be right.
Helen understood now that the gods were purposely perpetuating the war, and she agreed that unless one side won soon all of the demigods would be exterminated. Which, as Odysseus had pointed out, was exactly what the gods wanted, and not only for the show. Aphrodite had told Helen that the gods loved to watch and place bets on whose offspring would defeat whose. But what the gods really wanted was for the greatest threat to their power to be eliminated.
The Fates had openly decreed that the gods would fall at the hands of their children. Cassandra had made the nearly unintelligible prophecy about Houses, or bloodlines that didn’t even exist yet, and of the “children overthrowing their parents” ten years ago, at the very start of the war. They had all heard it, gods and demigods alike. But in this case, the gods had the edge. Only the gods knew that Cassandra was telling the truth. The demigods thought Cassandra was crazy.
Helen knew she wasn’t. Her sister, Aphrodite, had told her about Apollo’s curse. As the war was starting, Cassandra had refused Apollo’s amorous advances and he had cursed her to always prophesy correctly but never to be believed. Helen couldn’t think of a more torturous curse—to always know what horrors the future held, but never to be able to steer the ones you love away from destruction.
Helen had watched over the years as Cassandra screamed at her family. She’d tried to tell them that Helen would betray them all and let the city fall, but no one believed her. The more she screamed, the crazier she’d seemed. And as the gods laughed, more and more demigods died.
But Cassandra was right. Helen was going to betray her family. She was going to let the Greeks into Troy, and they were going to burn it to the ground.
She felt her husband’s head slip off her shoulder as he tumbled from her arms into Morpheus’, and she knew this was her only chance. She edged her hips out from under his, and slid unnoticed out of bed when he rolled over onto his side.
She knew he was going to die.
She nearly woke him, desperate to tell him everything.
She thought of their daughter and knew that Paris couldn’t be saved. That was the deal she’d made with Odysseus—all of Troy for her daughter’s life.
It was a steep price to pay, but not an entirely selfish one. The Greeks didn’t believe her when she’d tried to reason with them. They refused to end their pursuit of the little girl who might or might not be the Tyrant. Helen had tried to tell them that if Atlanta died, all love in the world would die with her. They saw her pleas as a mother’s desperate attempt to save her only child, but that wasn’t entirely it. If Atlanta died, the Face would die with her, and Aphrodite would punish them all.
Helen’s love for Paris and the rest of his family, no matter how deep, could not compare with that. She just hoped that Odysseus managed his side of it. If he didn’t imprison the gods as he promised he could, then all of this would be for nothing. They would simply wait a generation or two and start another war to kill off all the demigods. Strangely, Helen trusted Odysseus with this. She’d heard his plan and, as crazy as it sounded, she knew him well enough to know that if there were ever anyone who could find a way to trick the gods, it would be him.
Helen leaned down over her husband and ran her lips lightly across his bare shoulder in good-bye. Maybe, someday, she would find him by the River Styx. There, they could wash all their hateful memories away, and walk into a new life together, a life that didn’t have the dirty paw prints of a dozen gods and a dozen kings marring it.
Such a beautiful thought. Helen vowed that she would live a hundred lives of hardship for one life—one real life—with Paris. They could be shepherds, just as they had dreamed once when they had met at the great lighthouse long ago. She’d be anything, really, a shopkeeper, or a farmer, whatever, as long as they were allowed to live their lives and love each other freely. She dressed quickly, imagining herself tending a shop somewhere by the sea, hoping that someday this dream would come true.
It was still early, an hour or two past sunset, as Helen stole out of the palace, taking her usual route down to the kitchens. As she crept through the herb garden on her way to the wall she saw Aeneas climbing the hill to the temple of the Oracle. Helen paused. No one visited the Oracle anymore, unless they were summoned. What did Cassandra want with Aeneas on this night . . . the night, Helen wondered?
She couldn’t follow him just now, but she realized it was a stroke of luck that he was distracted. Out of all of them, Aeneas did not feel the influence of the cestus. He was Aphrodite’s son, and could not be swayed. This was more than luck, she realized. Again, Helen had the sinking feeling that she was just a pawn of the Fates. Aeneas was the one, the only one, who could give her trouble accomplishing her goal, and the Oracle herself had stepped in to remove him from his post on the wall. It was fated, then. Troy was doomed.
In another moment, Helen was climbing the steps up to the turret. The soldiers manning that station parted and bowed to her. Helen looked over the side of the wall, down at the large wooden horse that the Greeks had left on the beach.
“Bring it in,” she ordered.
“Princess, may I speak?” asked the commander. Helen hated being called that, but as this was technically her title here in Troy she had no choice but to submit to it. She nodded her assent for the soldier to continue. “General Aeneas has ordered us to leave the horse. He thinks it’s a trick.”
“How can it be a trick?” she asked innocently. “The Greeks have gone. Sailed away. Troy has won the war.”
The men looked at each other, not knowing what to do. A young soldier, who probably didn’t remember much before the war, spoke in a wavering voice, “Excuse me, Princess. But my cousin’s nurse said her husband, the fisherman, saw all the Greek ships massed just up the beach.”
“Well, I’m sure your cousin’s nurse’s husband the fisherman knows much more about politics and warfare than I,” Helen said jauntily, and the rest of the soldiers laughed while the young man blushed and looked at his feet. “But I think it’s safe to assume that the giant wooden horse is an offering to Poseidon. The Greeks are trying to buy safe passage across the sea. If we take the horse, then we take away their offering, and maybe Poseidon will smash a few Greek ships before they make it home. What say you to that?”
Most of the men cheered at Helen’s rousing tone, but a few still looked apprehensive. Time was running short, and she knew she had no choice. As Helen used the cestus to influence the last of the soldiers, she felt true hatred for the first time. And it was for herself.
“Bring it in,” she repeated, and all the men on the wall rushed with dazed faces and blank eyes to fulfill her orders.