She had fled this doom in her dreams, but now fate’s claws had seized her, and there was no escape.
No. No, I am wrong, it cannot be true.
But as she stared through her narrow window at the rising moon, Helike knew she was not wrong.
Three moons; three since it was the king’s night.
Since that night, she had not bled with the moon.
I am with child.
The knowledge flowed through her veins, cold as slow poison. The thing she feared above all else had happened: she would bear a child to the King
of Israel. She had done all within her power to avoid this fate, had shamed herself and asked guidance of some of the older women, had followed their counsel. But for all her care, she had failed.
Now she faced her fear clear-eyed.
If it is a boy, I can endure this
. By the laws of the Sword Maids, sons belonged to the father.
And daughters to the mother.
But here in Jerusalem, the laws of men controlled the fate of women. Even girls belonged to the father.
If you bear a girl, she will belong to King Solomon, to do with as he wills.
King Solomon’s daughter would be raised within walls, a pawn and a plaything sacrificed on the altar of royal pride. A slave all her days.
No. My Lady cannot be so cruel.
The moon hung low in the sky, no longer a slim crescent but rounding; in a few more days the moon would rise full. Helike stared at the waxing moon until its silver light filled her eyes and she saw nothing. Nothing but a future as heartless as man’s law. And as she looked into that clear cold light, she knew what she must do.
She slipped from the king’s house unseen, gliding out the great gate as silent as a shadow of the moon. It was the first time she had set her feet beyond the jeweled harem gate since the day she had been paraded before the court as King Solomon’s newest bride, but she knew the way. She had stared from the rooftop often enough, stared into the silver path of the full moon’s light, following its trail over rooftop and city wall, high road and field, to the brilliance moonlight sparked from the Grove.
The Grove of the Morning Star did not house her own goddess. Never would the Lady of Swords consent to be chained to a Grove. But a goddess dwelt there, and all goddesses were sisters. The Lady of the Grove might carry a message to Her sister of Swords. A faint hope, but that small chance was all Helike had to cling to now.
Desperation carried her to the Lady’s Gate; fear halted her there. This was the last step from which she could draw back. Beyond the silver and willow of the Lady’s Gate lay the Grove of the Morning Star, and once she set her feet within the Grove, she would know at last how far she had fallen from her goddess’s grace.
I had no choice
. But Helike knew she lied; there was always a choice, and she had chosen wrongly. Chosen surrender and bondage over honor and freedom.
“Will you enter the Grove, lady?” The priestess’s voice was soft and warm. “All are welcome who come with open hearts.”
She had hesitated too long, and once more the choice was made for her—
No.
Helike summoned courage and faced the priestess squarely. “I would enter, but I do not know if your Lady will welcome one who does not serve Her and who comes with an unquiet heart. I would not trouble Her, save that my need is great.”
Undismayed, the priestess smiled and held out her hands in welcome. “And to whom should one turn in great need, save to one’s Mother? Enter and be welcome.”
She was—had been—a Sword Maiden, dedicated to the pure spare Lady of Swords. Never before had she set foot in the Laughing One’s Grove, and she feared what she might find there. But it was quiet beneath the trees, the soft ground unsullied. With each breath, Helike drew in the fresh green scent of leaves and the darker tang of earth; as she followed the priestess deeper into the Grove, the heady perfume of incense wove itself through the cool air. And with the scent of incense came soft murmurs from the shadows, the sound of pleasure. Helike kept her gaze fixed upon the priestess’s gilded belt, and did not seek the source of those sounds of joy.
At last the priestess stopped. “Here is our Lady,” she said. “Look upon Her, sister, and be comforted.”
Before them Asherah stood broad-hipped and smiling, her hands cupped beneath her breasts, offering to feed both body and spirit. The pale stone of her breasts gleamed, smooth-polished by the touch of many devout hands. Helike could not bring herself to lay her hands upon the statue; she crossed her hands over her breast and bowed.
“I would ask a boon, and I bring a gift,” she said, and offered the necklace she had chosen from those her father had sent in her dowry when he had sold her to King Solomon. Nuggets of amber hung enmeshed in fine gold chains, the amber prisoned in gold just as small strange creatures lay trapped forever within the amber. “Will your Lady find it pleasing?”
The priestess’s eyes widened. “Such a gift could ransom a queen. What would you ask, sister, that you offer so much?”
“I would ask the Laughing One to carry a message to Her sister, the Lady of Swords.” Helike knelt to lay the chained amber at the goddess’s feet; she forced herself to look up into the Lady of Love’s jeweled eyes. “I do not ask for myself—”
But for your daughter
. Carried on the night wind, the words whispered silver music through the olive leaves.
“Yes.” Helike bent her head under the goddess’s gaze, cupped her hands over her rounding belly like a shield. “For my daughter.”
No man saw her return in the cold clear light that preceded dawn. Even after these years trapped within palace walls, within women’s bonds, she still could summon up her hard-won skills.
Those I still possess. All I lack is honor.
That lack clung bitter upon her tongue, poisoned her bones.
But that same lack freed her utterly.
What more can I lose? There is no farther for me to fall; I can act freely, caring for nothing save my daughter’s future. That she be free—that is all I ask.
That was all she dared ask. The Lady of Swords might take pity upon her daughter—but Helike did not hope for mercy for herself.
As I walked through the passageway that led from the Queen’s Gate to the Little Palace, a woman stepped forward from the deeper shadow of one of the cedar columns. Startled, I paused, tense as a deer. But it was only one of my father’s quiet wives; no threat.
“Princess, I must speak with you. I must.” Lady Helike’s words cut the air like blades, glittering and sharp.
I could not imagine what troubled her, or why she wished to speak with me. Still, I smiled, and said, “Speak, then.”
I half-expected her to beg me to intercede with my father on her behalf; others had done so before. So I was unready to hear her say, “You cannot achieve your desire alone, and you must not fail. I can help you. I can. I—”
Cold rain seemed to slide over my skin, into my blood.
Does all Jerusalem know Ahijah’s plot—and mine?
“How do you know this?” I did not waste breath denying or dissembling, for I needed to learn where the weak link lay. I could not afford to have my plans common gossip at the well.
“Three can hold a secret close if two of them are dead. What does it matter who told me? I know. Let me aid you. Please.”
“Why?” I asked. I barely knew the Lady Helike; she was reserved and proud, turned in upon herself like a mirrored bowl. Nothing seemed to give her pleasure, not fine gowns, not jewels, not even rare foods. Yet she had come to me now, her eyes hot and desperate, her hands tense as a beggar’s.
She did not answer but sank to her knees before me. “Princess, I beg of you—”
Seeing her humble herself so chilled me. “Don’t,” I said, stepping back. “Please, Lady Helike, do not—” Then somehow the right words came to my lips. “Rise, someone will see.”
To my relief, Helike stood again at my words; plainly she feared to be seen petitioning me. “If you will not let me help you, Princess, there is nothing left for me.”
“Did I say I would not? But first you must tell me why you think I need anyone’s aid—and why you are so hot to offer me your friendship now, when we have barely spoken a dozen words to each other since you entered my father’s palace.” I slid my arm through hers; her flesh was stiff and cool with despair. “Come, walk with me, show me the flowers in your garden.”
She turned a tragic face to me. “I care nothing for flowers.”
“You should,” I said, “for they hear many secrets.”
She understood then; hope brightened her eyes. “Come then—but nothing planted in my garden grows as it should.”
“Perhaps you have neglected the flowers; that is never wise.” Chatting softly, I walked with her, trying to guess how the Lady Helike had learned my plans to escape from my father’s world.
“Now,” I said when we had reached her own small garden and walked safely alone among lemon trees in painted pots, “tell me what it is you wish—and do not waste my time, or yours, with lies or pretty words. You said you wished to help me—why, and how? And what price do you set upon your aid?”
Lady Helike stopped and looked at me straitly, her eyes cool as winter stone. “You seek to challenge the prophet Ahijah; that is a dangerous game. If you succeed—”
A chill slid into my bones. “How do you know this?”
She smiled, a wry curve of her mouth. “Women here talk; eunuchs talk even more. And men talk most of all. I listen.”
“Say you are right.” I plucked a lemon flower from the nearest tree. “If I succeed?”
“If you succeed, you will be gone. You will be free of this palace, of these stone walls.”
Startled by the bitterness beneath her words, I said, “You are not happy here?”
A moment’s pause; she laughed, softly, mocking her own pain. “Happy? Is a prisoner ever happy? Is an oath-breaker less dishonored because forced to it?” She spoke as if to herself alone; long-endured grief soured her words. She spoke of a pain so old and so familiar she had grown accustomed to the dull constant ache in her heart.
It is not pride with her, not pride at all.
Shame flooded me, shame that I had not seen this truth long ago. This wife of my father’s, this queen, walked the palace halls in sorrow and regret. Now I knew what lay behind Queen Helike’s eyes: self-loathing. She hated, not my father but herself
The lemon flower lay in my hand, petals crushed by my careless fingers; I brushed them from my skin. “How can I help you?” I asked.
She turned to me; desire shadowed her eyes. “If I aid you, will you take—”
“You with me?” Despair swept me, for that I knew I could not do. My father’s wives were the knots that bound treaties, the tribute that bought peace. He could not bestow them as handmaidens, even upon his daughter; in a sense his wives were not my father’s to give, only to take.
“No. No. It is too late for me. I cannot go back. But my daughter—you must take her with you.”
“But my Lady Helike”—I made my voice very soft, gentle, as if coaxing a frightened kitten from a high branch—“you do not have a daughter.”
“No. Not yet. But I will.” She pressed her hands over her stomach, revealing new fullness still hidden beneath her tasseled skirt. “The Lady has promised me. I shall have a daughter, and she will redeem my broken oath.”
I looked at her rounding body; the child would not be born for half-a-year yet. “Even if that is so, I shall be gone before she is born.”
Gone or dead.
“You will take her. You will swear it. If you do not, I shall go before King Solomon and tell him what you plan.”
“But Lady Helike—”
“You must. She must be given to Artemis-Hippona. If you do not take her, I shall slay her myself. No daughter of the Huntress will grow within these walls, a plaything for men’s whims. A bauble for their lusts.”
Ice seemed to creep over my skin; I knew I faced madness. “I will help you,” I said, “but will you trust me? I must be gone before your child is born—but if it is a girl, I will send for her, foster her in my own courtyard. I swear it.”
“She is a girl; she is promised.” No doubt shadowed her mind. “You must vow her to the Lady of Swords, the Lady of Horses. You must swear that too.”
“I will not vow away a girl’s life without her consent. If she wishes it, she will go to your goddess. That I also swear.”
I kept my voice calm, my words low and steady. It seemed to be enough; Helike drew in a deep breath and seemed to free herself from the madness caressing her.
“That is enough,” she said at last. She smoothed her hands over her gently arching body once more, smiling; her eyes shone bright as full moons. “Yes, my queen; that is enough.”
She sounded still half mad; I dared not leave her. And so I spun my mind, trying to think of some diversion that would interest her—and drive that moon-mad sheen from her eyes. What did I know of the Lady Helike?
Nothing, I realized, and shame burned my face.
She has lived here all these months so wretched she wishes to die of it, and I know nothing of her. Nothing at all, save
—
“You are the Horse Lord’s daughter,” I said, and Helike stared at me as if it were I who trembled upon madness. “Helike, do you know how to ride a horse?”
A moment later I was sorry, for she began to laugh—and then could not stop. She laughed until she sank to her knees and buried her face in her strong square hands, until the wild sound turned to cruel sobs. And I could do nothing to stop her. I could not even pry her hands from her face; she was stronger than I.
At last, desperate, I set my lips close to her ear and said, “My lady Helike, if you do not stop this, I will go to my father the king and ask his aid.” I cast my voice to cut sharp.
And it worked; Helike gasped and coughed—and ceased to weep. She let her hands fall away from her face and gazed up at me.
“I am the Horse Lord’s daughter and I rode ten years with the Sword Lady’s Maidens. Oh, yes—I can ride a horse.”
“Then would you ride with me?” I could not offer the Lady Helike much, but at least I could offer that.
“It is forbidden.” No emotion colored Helike’s voice. “King’s wives do nothing.”
“Nothing is forbidden if the king permits it,” I said. “I will ask my father if you may ride with me—if you wish it.”
She looked at me for a long time, then; at first her eyes seemed to look far beyond me, into some shadow I could not envision. Then, slowly, her gaze warmed, softened, and I knew she now saw me, and not whatever demon had drawn her away.
“He will grant me this,” I said. “It is not seemly for a princess to ride alone.”
“Or at all. Not in this land of a jealous god and greedy men. But you—your father will deny you nothing.”
She weighted the words too clearly to mistake her meaning. Her father had denied her everything.
But that I could not mend. I could only offer what was mine to give. “Shall I ask him?” I said, and she stared down at her hands, hands still strong and hard, for all her long months in my father’s palace.
“Yes,” Helike said, her voice almost too soft to hear. “Yes, Princess. Ask.”
When I approached my father to ask this boon, I saw he was wary of me, fearful that I would again beg him to let me follow the Spice Queen south. So when I only smiled and asked whether his wife Helike might ride out with me, his relief was so great he granted my petition without hesitation or conditions.
“Certainly the Lady Helike may ride with you, if she wishes it, Baalit. But do not tease her to accompany you if she does not wish to.”
“She does,” I assured him. “She told me she once rode from Troy to Damascus and back again. She can teach me much.”
“Oh, yes—her father is the Horse Lord; he sends a hundred mares yearly in his tribute.”
And daughters whom he regards as less worthy than his mares.
But that I did not say. I only thanked my father, and ran off to tell Helike what he had said.