Dark Prince (5 page)

Unable to thwart him fully, Derae had demanded he allow five poor people a day to be led to her, against ten of the richer. He had tried to trick her on the first day, and she had refused to see anyone. Now the system worked. Pallas hired servants, cooks, maids, gardeners to tend to Derae’s needs. But even this irritated her, for she knew he merely wanted her time spent earning him money by healing the sick and not engaged in
useless
pursuits like gardening, which she loved, or cooking or cleaning. And yet despite the motive, it did mean that more people were being cured. Should I be grateful to him? she wondered. No. Greed was his inspiration, gold his joy.

She pushed all thoughts of him from her mind. Closing her
blind eyes, Derae floated clear of her body. There was freedom here, with the flight of spirit; there was even joy in the form of a transient happiness free of care. While her body rested, Derae flew across the Thermaic Gulf, high above the trident-shaped lands of the Chalcidice and on across the Pierian mountains to Thessaly, her spirit called there by the lover of her youth.

So long ago now, she realized. Thirty-three years had passed since she and Parmenion had lain together in Xenophon’s summer home, lost in the exuberance of their youthful passion.

She found him in the captured city of Pagasai, walking from the palace. His step was unsteady, and she saw that he had been drinking. But more than this, she sensed the sadness within him. Once Derae had believed they would spend their lives together, willingly locked into love, chained by desires that were not all of the flesh. Not all …? She remembered his gentle touch, the heat of his body upon hers, the softness of his skin, the power in the muscles beneath, the warmth of his smile, the love in his eyes … Despair whispered across her soul.

She was now an aging priestess in a far-off temple, he a general in Macedonia’s triumphant army. Worse, he had believed her dead for these last thirty-three years.

Sorrow followed the touch of despair, but she put it aside and moved closer to him, feeling the warmth of his spirit.

“I always loved you,” she told him. “Nothing ever changed that. And I will watch over you as long as I live.”

But he could not hear her. A cold breeze touched her spirit, and with a sudden rush of fear, she knew she was not alone. Soaring high into the sky, she clothed her spirit body in armor of light, a sword of white fire burning in her hand.

“Show yourself!” she commanded. A man’s form materialized close by. He was tall, with short-cropped gray hair and a beard curled in the Persian manner. He smiled and opened his arms. “It is I, Aristotle,” he said.

“Why do you spy on me?” she asked.

“I came to see you at the temple, but it is guarded by
money-hungry mercenaries who would not allow me to enter. And we must talk.”

“What is there to talk about? The child was born, the chaos spirit is within him, and all the futures show he will bring torment to the world. I had hoped to aid him, to help him retain his humanity. But I cannot. The Dark God is stronger than I.”

Aristotle shook his head. “Not so. Your reasoning is flawed, Derae. Now, how can I come to you?”

She sighed. “There is a small side gate in the western wall. Be there at midnight; I will open the gate. Now leave me in peace for a while.”

“As you wish,” he answered and vanished.

Alone once more, Derae followed Parmenion to the field hospital, watching as he moved among the wounded men, discussing their injuries with the little surgeon, Bernios. But she could not find the peace she sought and took to the night sky, floating beneath the stars.

It had been four years since the
magus
who called himself Aristotle had come to the temple. His visit had led to tragedy. Together Derae and the
magus
had sent Parmenion’s spirit into the vaults of Hades to save the soul of the unborn Alexander. But it had all been for nothing. The chaos spirit had merged with the soul of the child, and Derae’s closest friend—the reformed warrior Leucion—had been torn to pieces by demons sent to destroy her.

Returning to the temple, she rose from the bed and washed in cold water, rubbing her body with perfumed leaves. She did not allow her spirit eyes to gaze upon her aging frame, could not bear to see herself as she now was—her hair silver, body thin and wasted, breasts sagging. Dressing in a clean full-length
chiton
of dark green, she sat by the window waiting for midnight. Outside the temple the camp fires were burning, scores of them. Some supplicants would wait half a year to see the healer. Many would die before they could redeem their tokens. Once, before the arrival of Pallas, she had tried to walk among the sick, healing as many as she could. But she had been mobbed, knocked to the ground, saved only by her friend and servant Leucion, who had beaten the
crowds back with a club. Derae still mourned the warrior who had died defending her helpless body against the demons sent to destroy her.

She pictured his face—the long silver hair tied at the nape of the neck, the arrogant walk, the easy smile.

“I miss you,” she whispered.

Just before midnight, guided by her spirit sight, she crept down to the western gate, sliding back the bolt. Aristotle stepped inside. Locking the gate, she took him back to her room, where the
magus
poured himself some water and sat on the narrow bed. “Do you mind if I light a lantern?” he asked.

“The blind have no need of lanterns. But I will fetch you one.”

“Do not concern yourself, lady.” Reaching out, he took a silver wine cup, holding it high. The metal twisted, folding in on itself to form a spout from which a flame flickered and grew, bathing the room in light. “You are not looking well, Derae,” he said. “Your duties are leaving you overtired.”

“Come to the point of your visit,” she told him coldly.

“No,” he answered. “First we must talk of the many futures. Has it occurred to you that there is a contradiction in our travels through time?”

“If you mean that the futures we see can change, of course it has.”

He smiled and shook his head. “But do they change? That is the question.”

“Of course they do. I remember old Tamis telling me she saw her own deaths in many futures. In one, she said, she fell from a horse, even though riding was abhorrent to her.”

“Exactly my point,” said Aristotle. “Now, let me explain: Tamis saw herself falling from a horse. But that is not how she died. So then—who fell from the horse?”

Derae sat down on a cushioned chair, her spirit eyes locked to the
magus
’s face. “Tamis,” she answered. “But the futures were changed by events in the past.”

“But that is where the contradiction lies,” he told her. “We are not talking of prophetic visions here, Derae. You and I—and Tamis once—can
travel
to the many futures, observing
them. What we are seeing
is
happening … somewhere. All the futures are
real.”

“How can they all be real?” she mocked. “Tamis died but once—as will I.”

“I do not have all the answers, my dear, but I know this: there are many worlds, thousands, all akin to ours. Perhaps every time a man makes a decision, he creates a new world. I don’t know. What I do know is that it is folly to examine all these alternative worlds and base our actions on events in them. I, too, have seen Alexander drag the world down into blood and chaos. I have seen him kill Philip and seize the throne. I have seen him dead as a child, from plague, from a dog bite, from an assassin’s blade. But do you not see that none of it matters? None of the futures are ours. They are merely echoes, reflections, indications of what might be.”

Derae was silent, considering his words. “It is an interesting concept. I will think on it. Now, to the point of your visit.”

Aristotle lay back on the bed, his eyes watching the flickering shadows on the low ceiling. “The point—as always—concerns the boy in this world. You and I took Parmenion into Hades, where the child’s soul merged with the spirit of chaos. We took it to be a defeat. But it may not prove to be so.”

“A curious kind of victory,” sneered Derae. “The boy carries a great evil. It is growing within him worse than any cancer, and he does not have the strength to fight it.”

“He had the strength to stop it destroying Parmenion in the void,” Aristotle pointed out. “But let us not argue; let us instead think of ways of helping the child.”

Derae shook her head. “I long ago learned the folly of seeking to change the future. Had I known then what I know now, there would have been no demon prince.”

“I think that there would, lady,” said Aristotle softly, “but it does not matter. The child is no different from the many who are brought to you each day—only he is not crippled in the flesh, he is tormented in the spirit. Neither of us has the power to cast out the demon. But together—and with the boy’s help—we might yet return the Dark God to the underworld.”

Derae laughed then, the sound full of bitterness. “I heal
wounds,
magus
. I am not equipped to battle Kadmilos. Nor do I wish to.”

“What do you wish, lady?”

“I wish to be left alone,” she said.

“No!” he thundered, rising to his feet. “I will not accept that from a woman of Sparta! What has happened to you, Derae? You are no lamb waiting for the slaughter. You are from a race of warriors. You fought the dark lady on Samothrace. Where is your spirit?”

Derae sighed. “You seek to make me angry,” she whispered. “You will not succeed. Look at me, Aristotle. I am getting old. I live here, and I heal the sick. I will do that until I die. Once I had a dream. I have it no longer. Now leave me in peace.”

“I can give you back your youth,” he said, his voice coaxing, his eyes bright with promise.

For a moment she stood silently, observing him without expression. “So,” she said at last, “it was you. When I healed Parmenion of his cancer, I watched him grow young before my eyes. I thought it was the healing.”

“You can be young also. You can find your dream again.”

“You are a
magus
—and yet a fool,” she told him, her voice flat, her tone tired. “Parmenion is married; he has three children. There is no place for me now. We may be able to meddle in the futures—but the past is iron.”

Aristotle stood and moved to the door. There he turned as if to speak but shook his head and walked away into the darkness of the temple corridor.

Derae listened until his footsteps faded, then sank to the bed, Aristotle’s promise echoing in her mind:
“I can make you young again.”

He was wrong, she knew. Oh, he could work his magic on her body, strengthening her muscles, tightening her skin. But youth was a state of mind. No one, god or man, could give her back her innocence, the joy of discovery, the beauty of first love. Without that, what value would there be in a young and supple body?

She felt the rush of tears and saw again the young Parmenion
standing alone against the raiders who had abducted her, lived once more the moment when he first held her.

“I love you,” she whispered.

And she wept.

Before allowing herself the luxury of sleep, Derae traced the lines of three protective spells on the walls, door, and window of her room. They would not stop a seeress with the power of Aida, but any disruption to the spells would wake Derae in time to protect herself.

It was almost five years since the last attack, when Leucion had died defending her against the demons sent by the sorceress. Since then Derae had heard little of Aida. The dark lady had left her palace in Samothrace and journeyed back to the mainland—traveling, according to rumor, to the northern edges of the Persian empire, there to await Alexander’s coming of age. Derae shivered.

The child of chaos, soon to be a destroyer such as the earth had seldom witnessed.

Her thoughts turned to Parmenion, and she climbed onto the bed, covering herself with a thin sheet of white linen. The night was warm and close, the merest breath of breeze drifting in through the open window. Seeking the sanctuary of sleep, Derae pictured Parmenion as he had been all those years ago—the bitter young man, despised by his fellows, who had found love in the tranquil hills of Olympia. Moment by moment she savored the heady joys of their five days together, stopping her memories short of that awful morning when her father had dragged her from the house and sent her in shame back to Sparta. Slowly, dreamily, she drifted into a new dream where strange beasts—half horse, half man—ran through forest trails and dryads, beautiful and bewitching, sat by sparkling streams. Here was peace. Here was joy.

But the dream moved on, and she saw an army marching, cities ablaze, thousands slain. The warriors wore black cloaks and armor and carried round shields emblazoned with a huge sunburst.

At the center of the horde rode a warrior in a black cuirass
edged with gold. He was black-bearded and handsome, and she recognized him instantly. Yet there was something about him that was strange, different. Floating close to him, she saw that his right eye was made of gold, seemingly molten, and she felt the black touch of his spirit reaching out like ice and flame to freeze and burn.

Recoiling, she tried to flee, seeking the peace of the enchanted wood where the centaurs roamed. But she could not escape, and a new vision flowed before her spirit eyes.

She saw a palace, grim and shadow-haunted, and a child weeping in a small room. The king came to him there. Derae tried to block her ears and eyes to the scene. To no avail. The man approached the weeping child, and in his hand was a long, curved dagger.

“Father, please!” the child begged.

Derae screamed as the knife cleaved the boy’s chest. The scene shimmered, and she saw the king leave the room, his mouth and beard streaming with blood.

“Am I immortal now?” he asked a shaven-headed priest who waited outside the room.

The man bowed, his hooded eyes avoiding the gaze of his king. “You have added perhaps twenty years to your life span, sire. But this was not the golden child.”

“Then find him!” roared the king, blood spraying from his lips and staining the man’s pale robes.