Dark Prince (18 page)

As Parmenion strolled toward the group, a looming figure moved from his right, and he saw the Minotaur Brontes. The creature bowed clumsily, his great bull’s head dipping and rising.

“Welcome to my home,” he said. “How did I come here?”

“I carried you.”

“Why?”

“You drank the wine, human. It made you sleep and gave you dreams. Then more Makedones came, and the lady bade me bring you.”

“Where is Attalus?”

“Your companion still sleeps—and will continue to do so. Come, the lady waits.” The Minotaur strode on past the waterfall, angling to the right through the trees and coming at last to another wall of vines. Two women stood by them, pulling them apart for the Minotaur to enter. Parmenion followed,
finding himself in a natural hall columned by tall cypress trees and roofed by flowers. Birds of all kinds were flying there, swooping and diving high among the multicolored blooms.

There were many pools within the hall, surrounded by white marble boulders from which grew enormous flowers of salmon-pink and crimson. Yellow-stoned paths had been set around the pools, curving across the moss-covered floor of the hall, all leading to the dais at the far end.

Ignoring the women and satyrs who sat by the water’s edge, Brontes marched on until he stood before the dais. His brothers, Steropes and Arges, were sitting there, but Parmenion barely glanced at them; his eyes were drawn to the naked woman who sat upon a throne carved from a huge block of shining marble. Her hair was white—but not the tired, listless color of the aged, more the proud, unconquered white of mountain snow. Her eyes were gray, her face ageless, unlined and smooth, but not young. Her body was slim, breasts small, hips boyish.

Parmenion bowed low. The woman rose from the throne and climbed from the dais, taking the Spartan’s arm and leading him deeper into the hall, then out through the vines to a hollow in the hills bathed in sunshine.

“Who are you, lady?” he asked as she sat beneath a spreading oak.

“Men have given me many names,” she answered. “More than the stars, I think. But you may continue to call me lady. I like the sound of it upon your tongue. Now sit beside me, Parmenion, and tell me of your son, Alexander.” It was a moment before he realized what she had said, and a cold thrill of fear whispered through his soul.

“He is the
son
of my king,” he told her as he stretched out on the grass beside her. “He has been abducted by Philippos. I am here to return him to … his father.”

She smiled, but her knowing eyes held his gaze. “He is your child, sired during a night of mysteries. It is a shame you bear—with many other guilts and despairs. I know you, man, I know your thoughts and your fears. You may speak openly.”

Parmenion looked away. “I am sorry that you have seen so much, lady. It grieves me to bring my … darkness … to this place of beauty.”

Her fingers touched his face, stroking the skin. “Do not concern yourself with such shame. Your guilt is all that kept you alive after you drank my wine. For only the good can know guilt, and you are not evil, Parmenion. There is kindness in your heart and greatness in your soul—which is more than can be said for your companion. I have let him live only because you need him. But he will sleep on until you leave and will never see my land.” Rising smoothly, she walked to the crest of a hill and stood staring at the distant mountains. Parmenion followed her and listened as she pointed out the landmarks. “There, far to the west, are the Pindos mountains, and there, across the plains to the south, is the River Penelos. You know these places, for they exist in your own world. But farther south there are cities you will not know: Cadmos, Thospae, Leonidae. They fight in a league against Philippos—and will soon fall. Athens was destroyed during the spring. Soon only one city-state will stand against the tyrant: Sparta. When you find Alexander, take him there.”

“First I must find him,” said the warrior.

“He is with the
magus
Chiron and safe for the moment. But Philippos will find him soon, and the woods of the centaurs will prove no barrier to the Makedones.”

Turning to him, she took his arm, leading him back through the glades to the hall of vines.

“Once upon a time,” she said, her voice soft and sorrowful, “I could have helped you in this quest. No longer. We are the people of the enchantment, and we are slowly dying. Our magic is failing, our sorcery faint against the bright swords of the Makedones. I give you my blessing, Parmenion. There is little else.”

“It is enough, lady, and a gift I am unworthy of,” he told her, taking her hand and kissing it. “But why give me even that?”

“Our interests may yet be mutual. As I said, the enchantment is fading. Yet there is a legend here that all of us know. It
is said that a golden child will come among us, and the land will shine once more. Do you think Alexander is that golden child?”

“How could I know?”

“How indeed? Once I could see into the future—not far but far enough to be able to protect my people. Now I see only the past and lost glories. And perhaps I, too, cling to foolish legends. Sleep now—and awake refreshed!”

He awoke wrapped in his cloak at the campsite, the horses grazing by the stream. Across from the dead fire Attalus slept on, no signs of wounds on his face and arms.

Parmenion stood and walked through the woods to the clearing. There were no bodies there, but dried blood still stained the earth.

Back at the campsite he woke Attalus.

“I had the strangest dream,” said the swordsman. “I dreamed we rescued a group of nymphs. There was a Minotaur and … and … damn, it’s fading now.” Attalus rolled to his feet and brushed dirt from his cloak. “I hate forgetting dreams,” he said. “But I remember the nymphs—wonderful women, beautiful beyond description. What of you? How did you sleep?”

“Without dreams,” answered the Spartan.

Derae watched Parmenion and Attalus ride west, then stepped from the shadows of the trees to the center of the campsite. Her hair was no longer flame-red but a deep brown, close-cropped. Her face was more square, her nose long, her eyes, once sea-green, now hazel beneath thick brows.

“You are certainly no beauty now,” Aristotle told her as they stood in the stone circle following the departure of the Macedonians.

“I will not need beauty,” she answered, her voice deep and almost husky.

She had stepped through the portal in time to see Parmenion and Attalus riding into the woods and had followed them, settling herself down a little way from their campsite. At first she had intended to introduce herself that same night,
but reaching out with her talent, she touched the souls of both men, learning their fears. They were uneasy with one another. Parmenion did not trust the cold-eyed Macedonian warrior, while Attalus had no love for the man he considered an arrogant Spartan. They needed time, she realized, and wrapping herself in her cloak, she slept.

She was awakened by the sound of laughter and heard the two Macedonians creeping through the undergrowth. Soaring from her body, she viewed the scene from above and was the first to see the dark-cloaked Makedones warriors making their way through the woods toward the women.

When the first screams came, Derae sped to Parmenion. His emotions were surging. Part of him yearned to rescue the maidens, but a stronger desire was to stay safe and think of Alexander. Instinctively Derae used her power, filling him with a new sense of purpose. Even as she did so, she knew it was a mistake. One against ten would mean the death of the man she loved. Transferring her spirit to Attalus, she swiftly read his intent. There was no way he would go to Parmenion’s aid. His mind was locked to a single thought: Protect yourself! With nothing else to work on, Derae made his fear swell. If Parmenion was to die, Attalus would be trapped in this world forever, all his riches counting for nothing. Never would he see his palaces and his concubines. He would spend his life as a mercenary soldier in a world that was not his own. His anger was colossal as he drew his sword and raced to Parmenion’s aid.

The two warriors fought magnificently, but Derae was sickened by the slaughter and, when it was over, withdrew to her body, carrying with her a sense of shame.

The deaths were on her conscience. She had manipulated the events, and that was contrary to all her beliefs. Long into the night she tried to rationalize her actions. The Makedones were intent on rape and murder. Had she not intervened, the women would have been abused and slain. But their deaths would not have been your fault, she told herself. Now the blood of the Makedones was on her hands.

What could I have done? she asked herself. Whatever action
or inaction she had chosen would still have resulted in tragedy, for there had been no time to influence all the Makedones. But you did influence them, she thought. You slowed their reflexes, giving Parmenion and Attalus an edge.

Filled with self-doubt, the healer slept, dreaming of centaurs and a demon king. In the midst of her dream she was awakened by the touch of a hand and sat up to see a naked white-haired woman sitting on a fallen tree. Behind her stood the Minotaur she had seen at the clearing. The moon was high, and a shaft of light bathed the woman, making her seem almost ethereal.

“You did well, seeress,” the woman said. “You saved my children.”

“It was wrong of me to interfere,” Derae told her.

“Nonsense. Your actions saved not only my people but the two men you follow. Had they not acted as they did, then Brontes and his brothers would have slain them while they slept.”

“Why?” asked Derae. “What harm have they done you?”

“They are humans,” answered the woman. “It is enough.”

“What do you want of me?”

“Your blood is of the enchantment. That is why you have the talent. Parmenion also is a man of power. You are strangers to this world, and I need to know if you come to do good or to work evil.”

“I will never knowingly help the cause of chaos,” answered Derae. “But that does not necessarily mean that I will always do good. For many years I fought the chaos spirit, seeking to prevent him from becoming flesh. But I was responsible for his birth.”

“I know. Parmenion sired Iskander, and now the demon king seeks him.” The woman was silent for a time, her expression distant. Then she turned her gaze once more to the healer. “The enchantment is dying. Can you help to save it?”

“No.”

The woman nodded. “Neither can I. But if the child is truly Iskander …” She sighed. “I have no choice.” Turning to the Minotaur, she laid a slender hand on his huge shoulder. “Go
with her, Brontes, and help where you can. If the child is not Iskander, then return to me. If he is, then do what you must to get him to the gateway.”

“I will, Mother,” he answered.

The moonlight faded, and with it the white-haired woman, but the Minotaur remained. Derae reached out with her spirit but was met by an invisible wall.

“You do not need to read my thoughts,” he told her, his voice impossibly sweet. “I am no danger to you.”

“How can there be no danger when there is so much hate?” she countered.

He did not reply.

THE WOOD OF THE CENTAURS

Alexander sat in the warm sunlight at the mouth of the cave, high on the mountain, staring out over the roof of the forest and the plains beyond. Despite his fear he felt wonderfully free in the wood of the centaurs. Here he could touch without killing and sleep without dreams. The previous day a silver-gray bird had landed on his hand, sitting there warm in the security of his friendship, and not once had the killing power threatened to flow. It was a form of bliss Alexander had never known. He missed his home and his mother and father, but the longing was eased by this newfound joy.

Chiron wandered out into the open. “A fine day, young prince,” he said.

“Yes. It is beautiful. Tell me of the centaurs.”

“What would you wish to know?” asked the
magus
.

“How do they survive? I know something of horses and the amount they must eat and drink. Their throats and stomachs are made for digesting grass and vast quantities of liquids. And their lungs are huge. I cannot see how the centaurs can function. Do they have two sets of lungs? Do they eat grass? And if so, how do they manage it, for they cannot bend like the neck of a horse?”

Chiron chuckled. “Good questions, Alexander. Your mind works well. You saw me with Caymal, and it is the same with the true centaurs. They live like men and women, but they have formed special bonds with their mounts. They merge in the hours of daylight, but at dusk they separate.”

“What happens if a horse dies? Can the centaur find another?”

“No. If the horse dies, the man—or woman—will fade and pass away within a day, occasionally two.”

“Would that happen to you if Caymal died?” Alexander asked.

“No, for I am not a true centaur. Our merging is born of external magic. That is why Camiron feels so isolated. Lost, if you will.”

Chiron passed the boy a chunk of sweet bread, and for a while the companions ate in silence. Then the boy spoke again. “Where did it begin?” he inquired.

“What an enormous question that is,” the
magus
answered. “And who am I to attempt an answer? The world once brimmed with natural magic in every stone and brook, every tree and hill. Many thousands of years ago there was a race of men who harnessed that magic. They strode the earth like gods—indeed, they were gods, for they became almost immortal. They were bright, imaginative, inquisitive. And their children were the Titans, giants if they chose to be, poets if they wished to be. Times of wonder followed, but they are difficult to describe—especially to a four-year-old, albeit one as brilliant as Alexander. I would imagine you saw at your own court how men and women seek out the new—cloaks in different colors, dresses of different shape and design. Well, in the old world the Titans sought out different shapes in the cloak of life. Some wished to be birds, having wings to soar into the sky. Others wished to swim in the depths of the sea. All manner of hybrids graced the earth.” Chiron lapsed into silence, his eyes focused on the past.