Blending archaeological fact and legend, the myths of the gods and the feats of heroes, Marion Zimmer Bradley breathes new life into the classic tale of the Trojan War-reinventing larger-than-life figures as living people engaged in a desperate struggle that dooms both the victors and the vanquished, their fate seen through the eyes of Kassandra-priestess, princess, and passionate woman with the spirit of a warrior. "Bradley animates...the conflicts between a culture that reveres the strength of women and one that makes them mere consorts of powerful men." - Publishers Weekly "[Bradley] makes a strong statement about the desirability of women having control of their destinies and about the cruelties men inflict upon them." - Library Journal Marion Zimmer Bradley  was the New York Times bestselling science fiction and fantasy author of the Avalon series, the Darkover series, and more. In addition to her novels, Mrs. Bradley edited many magazines, amateur and professional, including Marion Zimmer Bradley's Fantasy Magazine . She died in 1999 and was posthumously awarded the World Fantasy Award for Lifetime Achievement in 2000. “Before the birth of Paris, Hecuba, Queen of Troy, dreamed that she had given birth to a firebrand who would burn down the walls of Troy.” PROLOGUE All day the rain had been coming down; now heavy, now tapering off to showers, but never entirely stopping. The women carried their spinning indoors to the hearth, and the children huddled under the overhanging roofs of the courtyard, venturing out for a few minutes between showers to splash through the brick-lined puddles and track the mud inside to the hearthside. By evening, the oldest of the women by the hearth thought she might go mad with the shrieking and splashing, the charging of the little armies, the bashing of wooden swords on wooden shields, the splintering sounds and quarreling over the broken toys, the shifting of loyalties from leader to leader, the yells of the “killed” and “wounded” when they were put out of the game. Too much rain was still coming down the chimney for proper cooking at the hearth; as the winter day darkened, fires were lighted in braziers. As the baking meat and bread began to smell good, one after another the children came and hunched down like hungry puppies, sniffing loudly and still quarreling in undertones. Shortly before dinner, a guest arrived at the door: a minstrel, a wanderer whose lyre strapped to his shoulder guaranteed him welcome and lodging everywhere. When he had been given food and a bath and dry clothing, the minstrel came and seated himself in the place accorded the most welcome guests, close to the fire. He began to tune his instrument, leaning his ear close to the tortoiseshell pegs and testing the sound with his finger. Then, without asking leave—even in these days a bard did as he chose—he strummed a single loud chord and declaimed: I will sing of battles and of the great men who fought them; Of the men who lingered ten years before the giant-builded walls of Troy; And of the Gods who pulled down those walls at last, of Apollo Sun Lord and Poseidon the mighty Earth Shaker. I will sing the tale of the anger of powerful Akhilles, Born of a Goddess, so mighty no weapon could slay him; Even the story of his overweening pride, and that battle Where he and great Hector fought for three days on the plains before high-walled Troy; Of proud Hector and gallant Akhilles, of Kentaurs and Amazons, Gods and heroes, Odysseus and Aeneas, all those who fought and were slain on the plains before Troy—— “No!” the old woman exclaimed sharply, letting her spindle drop and springing up. “I won’t have it! I’ll not hear that nonsense sung in my hall!” The minstrel let his hand fall on the strings with a jangling dissonance; his look was one of dismay and surprise, but his tone was polite. “My lady?” “I tell you I won’t have those stupid lies sung here at my hearth!” she said vehemently. The children made disappointed sounds; she gestured them imperiously to silence. “Minstrel, you are welcome to your meal and to a seat by my fire; but I won’t have you filling the children’s ears with that lying nonsense. It wasn’t like that at all.” “Indeed?” the harper inquired, still politely. “How do you know this, madam? I sing the tale as I learned it from my master, as it is sung everywhere from Crete to Colchis—” “It may be sung that way, from here to the very end of the world,” the old woman said, “but it didn’t happen that way at all.” “How do you know that?” asked the minstrel. “Because I was there, and I saw it all,” replied the old woman. The children murmured and cried out. “You never told us that, Grandmother. Did you know Akhilles, and Hector, and Priam, and all the heroes?” “Heroes!” she said scornfully. “Yes, I knew them; Hector was my brother.” The minstrel bent forward and looked sharply at her. “Now I know you,” he said at last. She nodded and bent her white head forward. “Then perhaps, Lady, you sh