The Princess of Sparta: Heroes of the Trojan War by Aria Cunningham Page B

necessary.”
    “A delicate affair... ” Paris mused, his mind already devising tactics to complete the task.
    “That is why it must be you.” A hint of pride gleamed in Priam’s eyes. “You have never failed me.”
    And I never will .
    Paris gave his father a curt nod, indicating he understood. “I will do as you command. My ship can sail on the morning tide.”
    Priam stood and reached out for him, placing a sturdy hand on Paris’ shoulder. For a moment he showered Paris with the love he withheld for Hector alone.
    “Alexandros Paris of House Laomedon, I know I have asked a lot from you, and I promise it has not been for naught. You were named after the bravest man I have ever known—a great king of men. You bear his name, now bear his honor.”
    Priam’s chest swelled as though the shade of his old comrade walked the hall. “Teach Mycenae to respect their elders. Do this, and I swear I will never send you from my side again.”

 
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter 7

The Court of Smiths
     
    LATER THAT evening, Paris joined Hector for festivities at the Court of Smiths. Each trade claimed a district in the hub city surrounding the acropolis. The Smiths, whose work was marveled throughout the river lands, had constructed theirs with an eye for opulence.
    Massive copper gates, forged with an embossed hammer and anvil on alternating panels, were open to the public. Towering buildings three stories high surrounded the interior court, their ivy-clung walls studded in bronze rosettes. Craftsmen, journeymen and apprentice alike were out of doors swilling grog and hollering requests to a band of minstrels. The hearth fires burned bright, laughter was in the air, and with the promise of wealth from the bounty Paris had secured from Tyre, the Smiths celebrated.
    The princes reclined in wicker chairs beneath a canopy of stars. Of the few hours he had left in Troy, Paris preferred to spend it in the company of these honest craftsmen in lieu of the hostile halls of the Palace. The libations were flowing and even Hector deeply indulged.
    “He swore? By Apollo’s honor, you better not be lying to me. You are coming home to stay this time?”
    “Zeus strike me down if it’s not true.” Paris lifted his flagon of ale to toast with his brother. “To home.” He forced a smile, though inside his heart was in chaos.
    Home...
    Paris’ restless wanderings could soon be at an end. It was the moment he had always dreamt, and now that it was in sight, he wasn’t sure he wanted it. Troy, and all her wonders, was never truly home. And despite Hector’s assurances, Paris doubted he’d ever really be welcome here.
    “The Western Wilds.” A note of longing filtered into Hector’s slurs. “You lucky bastard.” He drained his cup.
    “Slow down.” Paris plucked the empty flagon from his hand. “Andromache will never forgive me if I deliver you home drunk as a shore-leave sailor.”
    Hector’s smile slipped into a boyish grin at the mention of his beautiful bride. “Aye, she won’t at that.” Hector’s love for Andromache was as vibrant as his chestnut-colored hair. Paris envied his brother’s happiness. The newly-wed couple shared something sacred.
    “Seriously Paris, aren’t you a teensy bit excited?”
    Paris was, despite his cool demeanor. Mycenae was located along the frontier, their lands comprised of the edges of the known world, lands rumored to be home to creatures of legend—wild, like the men who settled there.
    “Do you think they are barbarians like Father insists?” Paris mused. The men of the Hellas were mostly unknown to him. Who knew how they’d react to a royal delegation.
    “If they are wild, perhaps you can learn some new secrets to share...?”
    “Like I’d share it with you.” Paris chuckled. Hector had been trying to illicit details from his sojourn at the Cypriot bathhouses for the past half-hour. With a new wife to bed, Hector desperately wanted to impress.
    But the question did bear some