Nobody's Princess by Esther Friesner
This book is dedicated to the memory of
Elissa Nicole Sullivan.
Through her life, she gave an eternal gift of love,
Through her art, an enduring legacy of beauty.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I owe thanks to many people for their part in helping make this book a reality.
To Tamora Pierce and Josepha Sherman, whose Young Warriors anthology gave Helen her start.
To Elizabeth Moon, whose knowledge of all things equine gave Helen the reins.
To my editor, Mallory Loehr, and my agent, Russell Galen, whose ongoing support and assistance have been invaluable.
Thank you all so much!
PROLOGUE
When I was four years old, my father, King Tyndareus of Sparta, dedicated a shrine to his favorite goddess, Aphrodite. He ordered it built on one of the rooftops of our palace because he said the queen of love and beauty was worshipped best under the beauty of an open sky. You could reach the holy place only by climbing an outside stairway, each step covered with painted tiles that told stories from the life of the goddess.
Most of the gods were born in the usual way, but not Aphrodite. She was never a baby, never a child, and she never had to put up with any of the problems of growing up. The goddess was born full-grown from the waves of the Middle Sea when the god Kronos spilled the blood of his father, Uranus, over the sea foam. I never did understand why bloodshed would give birth to a goddess of love and beauty, but that’s the way I was told it happened: Aphrodite sprang to life out of the waves, and as soon as the world saw her, every living thing fell in love with her beauty. The winds themselves fought for the honor of carrying her to shore.
Now that I could understand. It was the part of the story I liked best. Even as a very young child I thought it would be a wonderful thing to be able to fly over the waves, free as a seabird, seeing new lands and having grand adventures. I didn’t care if I grew up to be as beautiful as the goddess, as long as I could be just as free.
The shrine itself was a simple thing: A wooden ark sheltered the painted clay image of the goddess, an image as big as a two-year-old child. I was playing in the shadow of my father’s throne on the day he received it from the Cretan artist who also made the tiles to adorn the stairs. At first I thought it was a wonderful doll and that it would be mine. I ran forward, threw my arms around Aphrodite’s neck, and gave her such an enthusiastic kiss that my lips marked the paint on her cheek.
I didn’t think I was doing anything wrong, and so I was confused when I looked up and saw expressions of shock on the faces of almost every grown-up around me. Some of them were whispering to each other and scowling at me. I began to feel afraid, until I heard my father laugh and say, “The child is wiser than all of us. My little Helen has hit on the perfect tribute for Aphrodite! What better welcome for the goddess of love than a kiss?” And he ordered the servants to make me a new dress for the dedication ceremony in three days’ time.
On the dedication day, my nurse, Ione, held me and my twin sister, Clytemnestra, by the hands as we watched our father and mother perform the welcoming rites for the goddess. Our brothers, the twins Castor and Polydeuces, were nine years old, so they were given the honor of holding the garlands of fragrant springtime flowers that the king and queen would place at Aphrodite’s feet. The boys didn’t seem to be enjoying the privilege. The two of them fidgeted as if they’d caught fleas from one of Father’s hunting hounds.
Though my parents and we royal children were the only ones entitled to come before the goddess in her new home, the nearby rooftops were crowded with the nobles of Sparta, all of them eager to have a good view. How splendid the men looked with their long hair curled and oiled, the women in their finest gowns, their blue and scarlet tiered skirts jingling with gold charms! The sunlight was striped with the rising smoke of precious incense brought from across the Middle Sea. The melody of flutes and Egyptian harps over the beat of little hand drums filled the air.
The music made me want to dance, so I did, pulling my hand out of Ione’s grasp. She smiled. “What a clever child, wanting to offer the goddess such a lovely dance as a gift! But not just yet, dear one. This isn’t the right time; you’re interrupting the dedication ceremony. Wait until it’s finished, like a good girl.”
As Ione gently took my hand again, my parents called out to welcome Aphrodite-of-the-Foam. They were dressed in their finest robes and their best jewels, all to pay reverence to the queen of love and beauty. The image of the goddess was a marvel, but that day I saw something that I thought was even more marvelous.
“Look, Ione!” I cried. “Isn’t she beautiful?”
“Hush, child,” Ione said. “Everyone knows that the goddess is—”
“Not the goddess—her.” I pointed at my mother, Leda, with my free hand. “Mama. She’s much more beautiful than the goddess.” My voice carried loud and clear across the rooftop.