EIGHT.

Helen stared off the side of the house for a while, wondering whether or not she'd done the right thing. A part of her knew she was hurting Lucas more by not setting him straight about her and Orion, but in the end she couldn't do it. Her reasons were selfish, but still valid. If Lucas thought she was with Orion, he would eventually pull away and she really needed him to do so.

She could look inside him and see he was still in love with her, but that the love had changed slightly. Regardless of what Orion said about it not making any difference to Lucas if she spent the night with another man, it had altered something in him-not the amount of love he felt, but how keenly he felt it. Helen figured it made sense. Even with a physical injury, there's only so much pain a person can take before they start to go numb.

Helen saw Matt leave the house and go to his car. She inhaled a breath, about to call out to him and ask him where he was going, but she remembered all the sleeping people just under the roof she was sitting on and stopped herself. Matt turned and looked in her direction, anyway.

Impossible, Helen thought as he smiled and waved up at her. There's no way he could have heard me inhale. But how else could he have known to look on the roof? Helen waved back, and Matt got into his car and drove off.

Still mulling it over, Helen flew in Lucas's window and sat down on his bed. For a moment, she considered climbing into it, but there was a chance Lucas would come home and find her there. It wasn't fair to do that to him. Helen hauled her tired body up and walked down the hallway to Ariadne's room.

She was surprised to find Ariadne awake.

"Hey," Ariadne said, automatically sliding over to make room for Helen in her bed.

"Hey yourself," Helen replied with a worried frown. Ariadne's heart was a throbbing mess of emotion, and Helen knew it had to have something to do with Matt. She kicked off her shoes and got into bed. "I just saw Matt leave. Did you two talk?"

Ariadne avoided all mention of her feelings and instead told Helen what she and Matt had discussed about the Scions being stuck in one repeating cycle. She explained how Matt thought the Fates needed all the roles to be filled, and if they weren't, the cycle would just start over again with the next generation.

"I think everyone's coming to the same conclusion," Helen said with a nod. "It would explain why we all look like people from Troy-we're stuck. There's something that didn't happen way back then that the Fates are still trying to bring about."

"But what?" Ariadne asked, exasperated. "And something else I don't understand? Why can't the Fates just make what they want to happen, happen? It doesn't make sense."

"What did Matt say?" Helen asked, feeling a sinking sensation in her stomach.

"He said that there must be a force working against the Fates in every cycle. Something that keeps ruining the play before the Scions can get all the way through it the exact way the Fates want. He said he thinks it's Nemesis, working against her sisters."

"By blocking the Fates and giving a Scion free will," Helen whispered. "At least that's what Lucas thinks. Every cycle someone who's supposed to make a huge decision has free will and ruins the Fates' plan."

Ariadne rubbed her eyes. "Does Lucas have any idea who has free will in this cycle?"

Helen felt like the universe kept pointing an accusing finger at her.

"We aren't sure," she lied.

Helen rolled over and opened her eyes. She expected to see Ariadne lying next to her. Instead, she saw a man's naked back, swelling and sinking with the deep breaths of sleep.

Lucas, Helen thought, recognizing his shape immediately. She wanted to run her hand between the bunched muscles of his shoulder blades and down the trench of his spine, but something was off. The room Helen had awoken to was familiar, although she had never been in it before.

The other Helen sat up slowly, watching her husband carefully to make sure she didn't disturb him. She needed to sneak out before Paris woke up, or she wouldn't be able to get away that day as she had planned.

Helen watched as Helen of Troy tied her simplest chiton over her shoulder, gathered up an old girdle, veil, and worn sandals. She noticed that Helen of Troy had one brown eye and one that was turned blue by a lightning-bolt scar that ran down the center of the iris. Helen knew that it had happened during the stoning. The beating Helen Hamilton had taken from Ares had given her the same mark.

The other Helen hurried a short ways down the dark marble corridor without putting her sandals on and stopped at a door. Inside the room was a little girl, no more than three or four, still in her bed. The little girl opened her eyes with uncanny prescience.

"Mommy?" whispered the little girl, awake in an instant. "Are we going to see Auntie Briseis today, like we promised?"

"Yes, Atlanta," Helen said quietly, rushing into the room and closing the door behind her.

"Are we going to walk with the Lady first?" Atlanta asked. Sensitive to her mother's mood, she kept her voice down.

"Not today." Helen dressed Atlanta in an old skirt and shawl she had borrowed from a servant.

"But the people like it when you and the Lady walk through their gardens. They hug each other and kiss your hand."

"That's because Aphrodite brings love to the beasts and to the growing things and they multiply," Helen said with a sad smile as she turned to finish dressing herself. "It's why our people have lasted so long without starving inside the walls."

"Starving-like they are outside?" Atlanta asked with a troubled frown.

"That's right. That's why we have to go see Auntie Briseis. We must bring her more food."

Helen of Troy picked up her daughter and put her on her hip. "Change your face, like mommy taught you," she said, touching half of the cestus that hung in the shape of a heart charm around Atlanta's neck. Atlanta squinted in concentration, and her face magically altered. "Don't forget your hair," Helen reminded her, and Atlanta's sparkling blonde locks darkened to brown. Helen then altered her own looks, adopting the plain face and stout figure of a hardworking field hand before the pair left the room.

They made their way swiftly through the palace and down to the kitchens. An old woman who had nursed Briseis as a baby handed Helen a prepared bundle, which she tied across her back. A quick glance to make sure no one but the loyal old woman was watching, and she stole out through a back door and through the kitchen gardens. Helen ran swiftly to the wall, her daughter clinging to her tightly. Picking up speed as she reached the fortifications, she scrabbled up one side of the wall and down the other faster than the guards could see in the low predawn light.

Atlanta was not afraid, although she knew that outside the wall she and her mother were in mortal danger. Helen smiled at her brave daughter proudly, and slipped through the sleeping siege camp. They stopped at one of the largest tents and whistled softly at the entrance.

A moment later, a woman who looked just like Ariadne appeared and wrapped the disguised mother and daughter in a warm hug.

"Briseis," Helen said softly to the woman. The sisters-in-law kissed each other warmly on both cheeks.

"There isn't much time for a visit," Briseis said as she led Helen and Atlanta into the tent. "Achilles will be back soon."

"There is an easy remedy for that. One that allows us to spend as much time together as we wish," Helen said leadingly as she allowed her real face to appear.

"Don't start," Briseis warned. "I won't leave him."

"I know." Helen put Atlanta down and gave her a small wooden figurine to play with before handing Briseis the bundle of food. "Have you thought about what will happen when Achilles joins the battle lines again?"

"He may never join them. He detests Agamemnon and refuses to do his bidding anymore."

"He didn't cross the sea with his army for nothing, Briseis."

"I'm aware of that." Briseis' eyes sparkled with anger. "But he's different now. He told me he has no quarrel with my brother."

"It doesn't matter if he has a quarrel with Hector or not. This is war. Don't let your love for Achilles blind you."

"I haven't." Briseis looked away. "But I know what side of the wall I'm on."

"And what side of the war? What about her?" Helen pleaded quietly, gesturing to Atlanta. She saw Briseis' eyes widen with worry, and knew that the risk of bringing Atlanta was worth it for this reason alone. Helen pressed her case while she had the chance. "Achilles came here to kill the Tyrant. That was the one argument Agamemnon made that convinced him to fight."

"Atlanta has nothing to fear from him, I swear it," Briseis said, glancing down at Atlanta protectively. "He would never kill a child. You don't know him."

The two sisters-in-law glared at each other. The only sound in the tent was Atlanta whispering to her doll.

"Do you like the pretty garden I made? The sun never burns and the bees never sting and the stones stay out of your sandals," Atlanta cooed, completely lost in her game of make-believe.

Helen rolled her eyes comically and spoke under her breath to Briseis. "She spends all day imagining a perfect world where no one suffers. Terrifying, isn't she?"

Briseis looked away again, her face falling into a frown as her thoughts turned dark. "It helps that she was born a girl. No one suspects her to be the Tyrant now. Not really."

"Then why does Achilles stay here even though his men starve?" Helen asked desperately. Briseis had no answer. "Sister, I believe you when you say he'd never kill a child. Achilles is a man of deep principles-principles that brought him to Troy. Have you ever considered that ridding the world of the Tyrant is so important to him that he might be willing to wait for her to grow up first before he kills her?"

"You must go," Briseis said suddenly, waving at the air like it had filled up with flies. "He'll be back any moment."

Helen sighed and dropped her head in defeat and then reached down to scoop up her daughter. "I'll be back with more food in a few days."

The two women embraced, cautiously at first as if they were still at odds, and then with true tenderness before Helen and Atlanta a.s.sumed their disguises and left the enemy camp.

Helen woke up with a thick tress of Ariadne's hair in her mouth. She spat it out and mentally apologized for drooling all over it before rolling over. She rolled over onto something that squeaked. It turned out to be Andy, who batted at her and made protesting sounds in her sleep. Wishing Noel would get even just one more mattress for the girls to sleep on, Helen scooted down to the end of the bed and crawled out as quietly as she could without crushing anyone.

Helen hugged herself as she left the room, trying to shake off the memory. That one had seemed closer to her than the others had, like she was more than just a spectator this time. In fact, halfway through it had started to feel like it was Helen of Nantucket, and not Helen of Troy, who was in that tent. She could still feel the warm, squirmy weight of her little girl (correction-Helen of Troy's little girl) in her arms, so of course she ran into Lucas in the hallway. She ached to hold one of them, either the little girl or the little girl's father, so desperately she actually groaned.

"I thought you'd gone home," Lucas said after a pause.

"Haven't been there in days," Helen said, staring at him greedily. "I figure, why bother when everyone is here?"

"And more on the way," he said, suddenly frowning.

Helen nodded. "The meeting of the Houses. Did you call-"

"Orion? Yeah," Lucas said, finishing her sentence. "He's waiting for us in the library."

"What time is it?" Helen asked, and peered blinkingly at the slanted light coming in a nearby window.

"Past two." He chuckled at the shocked look on Helen's face. "Meet us downstairs?" he said as he pa.s.sed by her and made his way to the staircase. "We need to make plans."

"I just need a minute," Helen said, gesturing to her rumpled clothes and ratty hair.

"Take your time," Lucas said. As he walked by on his way down the hall, he bent close to her, running his hand up her arm. His large hand swallowed every curve of her slender muscles, cupping them one by one in the palm of his hand and leaving a trail of goose b.u.mps behind. His skin was so hot on hers, she shivered when his warmth was removed, which it was, far too quickly.

Helen peeked in on her father first. Jerry still slept deeply, but even standing over him she could hear his heart beating strong and steady. He looked like he was in another world, a peaceful one that he was reluctant to leave. Helen didn't know if it worked like this or not, but she hoped that if Jerry were merely sleeping, that Morpheus was watching over him.

Helen ran to the bathroom, conniving to beat Ariadne and Andy to the shower before they got out of bed. She darted in before they'd even started scratching and shut the door behind her with a satisfied smile.

Helen turned on the tap and started pulling off her clothes, the memory of Lucas's hand on her arm still burning bright. She showered quickly. While she toweled off, another chance encounter in another dark hallway, centuries ago, billowed up in Helen's mind like the steam rising off the white tile.

Lancelot had been away from Camelot for many months.

The Barbarians-big, blond invaders from a land of ice-had kept the Knights of the Round Table busy. Guinevere's father had fought the Barbarians his entire life, as her father's father had fought before him. Now, with the marriage between Guinevere and Arthur finalized, the dragon and wolf worshippers from the world of snow were Arthur's problem and, therefore, the problem of every knight sworn to him in Briton. If Guinevere's island home was to survive, the Barbarian invasion must be stopped, or every Briton-born would be slaughtered before the year was done.

Arthur was not prepared for the Berserkers. His men were orderly soldiers, trained in the Roman fashion of warfare. They were not used to the drug-induced trances that the Barbarians employed to send their rabid hordes screaming down on men, woman, and children. The horrors they saw during these barbaric hit-and-run raids were taking a toll on all of Arthur's men. The knights were outnumbered, and an all-out war was brewing.

Arthur was still on campaign in the north, trying to find a solution. Lancelot had returned to Camelot two days ago, but Guinevere had not seen him yet. He was avoiding being alone with her, and she suspected it was not just because Arthur was her husband, as they both knew far too well. There was something deeper there, hindering him. Something terrible had happened to him. Guinevere could see it in Lancelot's eyes-they burned like two freshly blown-out candles. The color was still fierce, but all the heat was gone.

Guinevere knew she had to talk to Lancelot, set his feet right again, or he would spin away from both his duty and family. It was up to her to fix him, even if it broke her heart to be near him, to see the wounded look on his face as he imagined Arthur in her bed.

"Lancelot," Guinevere called, touching his elbow in the dark hallway. She coaxed him gently to turn around and face her. "Please. Talk to me."

"Gwen," he breathed softly, pulling her closer to him. There was a lost look in his eyes, like a little boy. He tugged on her hand, and she followed without a word or thought of protest.

Lancelot led her away from the main walkway and down a turret alcove that overlooked the dark moors surrounding Camelot. Moonlight streamed into the cross-like shape of the arrow slit, giving enough light so she could see the heavy look of l.u.s.t weighing down his eyelids. Guinevere's lips parted with a dozen unsaid words as she stared into his eyes. Lancelot's hips shifted closer to hers for one tense moment, and then he pulled himself away, releasing her entirely.

"You shouldn't have come to me tonight."

"But you brought me no word from my homeland in the Summer Country," she replied, smiling up into his bright eyes as she closed the distance between them. "You told me you'd sit with my father and bring back a token of his remembrance of me."

Lancelot's face went pale, his eyes widening with pity, and Guinevere knew.

"It can't be," she said, her voice suddenly high and girlish.

Her father was dead. That cantankerous, crafty, and surprisingly hilarious giant of a man couldn't be dead. He was too stubborn to die. But Guinevere saw the truth written all over Lancelot's face. The leader of her clan, her father, was dead.

Sorrow swept over her. She lost control for a moment, and the room crackled with the white-blue light of her witch-fire.

"I married Arthur so my father and our clan would be safe from the Barbarians." She sobbed disbelievingly. "All this," she said, gesturing with disgust to the jewels and the rich gown she wore now instead of humble homespun, "was to protect my father and my clan."

"I know," Lancelot said, striding forward to take Guinevere's hands. He jumped back involuntarily as her witch-fire coursed through him, but he schooled his pain and didn't let her go. "Gwen," he pleaded, gasping for breath. "It's not Arthur's fault. We fought and lost. I lost. Arthur wasn't even there."

The room went dark as Guinevere got control over herself, and the white-blue fire extinguished.

"But I married Arthur instead of you to save my clan," she said. Her voice was shaky and reduced to a whisper. "I gave you up for my clan's protection."

"And your clan is gone now." Lancelot's eyes darkened. "But not because of Arthur. Because of me."

Lancelot sat down on the floor of the turret in a heap and raked his hand through his hair. He told his story quickly and quietly, trying to keep his voice steady.

The Summer Country had flooded, as it always did in the ebb and flow of the yearly tides. The roads were impa.s.sable, and a battle unthinkable in the bog-like terrain. With the women and children safe in their flooded homeland, most of the men had all left to join Arthur's campaign against the Barbarians up north, as they always did at this time of year.

Lancelot had stayed behind to learn how the women grew all kinds of crops in the water instead of in soil, and Arthur agreed that knowledge of that technique could be useful at Camelot.

Lancelot was in the water fields with the women when he saw the dragon-crested ships sail right into the flood plains.

"I stayed with the women in the fields instead of going to your father," Lancelot rasped. "When I couldn't fight anymore, I stole a ship and sent as many women and children as I could gather away from the slaughter. Your father was . . . He was killed."

Guinevere knew he had been about to say tortured. It didn't matter how Lancelot tried to soften the blow for her. The damage was done. She'd allowed herself to be offered up in marriage to a man she didn't love because she'd believed that by doing so, she could save her clan. But it hadn't worked. Her father was dead, and her people was scattered. She'd married a man she didn't love for nothing.

"Thank you for saving what part of my clan you could," she whispered. "I owe you my life for that. Again."

Lancelot looked at her with such open need and desperation that she reached out, cupping his face in her hands. "It's my fault," he said, his face hot.

"No. I don't blame you for the lives lost. I bless you for the lives you saved," she said tenderly, meaning every word and hoping he believed her enough to forgive himself.

"Gwen," he breathed, and wound his arms around her tightly, his whole body pushing against hers in a wave of need.