Dark Prince (19 page)

“What happened then?” whispered Alexander.

“What always happens, boy. There was a great war, a time of astonishing cruelty and carnage. A vast amount of the world’s magic was used up in that terrible confrontation. Look around you and see the trees. It would seem impossible that they could all be cut down. But if man sets his mind to a matter, he will achieve it, no matter how destructive. What I am saying is that all things are finite—even magic. The war
went on for centuries, and now there are only pockets of true power. This wood is one, but out there in the new world of men the stones are empty, the brooks and hills devoid of magic. So the children of the Titans—those who survive, anyway—are drawn to these few areas of enchantment, held to them by chains stronger than death.”

“You make it sound so sad,” said Alexander. “Will the magic not come back?”

“Perhaps. One day, like a perfect flower, it might seed itself and grow again. But I doubt it.” Chiron sighed. “And even if it does, man will corrupt it. It is the way of all things. No, better for it to fade away.”

“But if it does, will not the centaurs die with it?”

“Indeed they will, and the nymphs and satyrs, the dryads and cyclopes. But so also will the Vores and the Gorgons, the Hydras and the birds of death. For not all the creatures of enchantment are benign. However,” he said, rising, “that is enough of my world for one day. Tell me of yours.”

They talked on for some time, but Alexander could tell him little of interest and became aware of a growing irritation within the
magus
. “What is wrong?” the boy inquired at last. “Does my lack of knowledge displease you?”

“Pah! It is not you, child,” replied Chiron, rising and walking away down the mountainside. Alexander ran after him, taking his hand.

“Tell me!” pleaded the prince. Chiron stopped and knelt before the boy, his expression softening.

“I have a dream, Alexander. I hoped you could help me in my pursuit of it. But you are very young and know so little. It is not your fault. Indeed, I cannot imagine any other four-year-old who would know so much.”

“What are you seeking?”

“A world without evil,” answered Chiron sadly, “and other impossibilities. Now wait for me at the cave. I need to walk for a while, to think and to plan.”

Alexander watched him walk away down the mountain to vanish into the trees, then the boy climbed up to the cave mouth and sat for a while enjoying the sunshine.

Hunger at last forced him to move, and he walked through the wall of illusion, entering the palace beyond and making his way to the kitchens, where he ate honey cakes and dried fruit. He had seen no servants there, yet the food was replenished every day. His interest aroused, Alexander strolled out into the palace grounds, seeking signs of life. But there were no tracks in the soft earth save those he made himself, and he returned to the palace, where he wandered aimlessly from room to room, bored and lonely.

For a time he looked at the scrolls and books in one of the many library rooms. But these were of little interest, inscribed as they were with symbols he could not read. At last he came to a small room, western-facing, where he found a circular table covered with a velvet cloth. At first he thought the table was cast from solid gold, but as he examined the six ornate legs, he realized they were carved from wood and overlaid with thick gold leaf. Climbing to a chair, he pulled aside the velvet and gazed down on a jet-black surface so dark that it reflected no light, and it seemed he was staring down into an enormous well. Reaching out, he tentatively touched the table and recoiled as dark ripples spread across the surface, lapping at the raised perimeter. Fascinated, he touched it again. It was colder than snow and yet curiously comforting.

The surface lightened, becoming blue. Then a cloud moved across it. Alexander laughed aloud. “There should be birds,” he shouted. Obedient to his wishes, the scene rolled on and he saw swans flying in formation across the sky. “Wonderful!” he cried. “Now where is the land?” The image rolled once more, making the boy dizzy so that he gripped the edges of the table to steady himself. But now he saw the forest as if from a great height, the trees clinging to the mountains like green smoke. “Show me Chiron!” he commanded.

A figure loomed into life. It was the
magus
sitting beside a stream, flipping stones into the water. His expression was sorrowful, and Alexander felt a sudden stab of guilt for intruding on Chiron’s solitude.

“Show me Philippos!” he said.

The mirror table darkened, and he saw an army camped before a burning city, dark tents highlighted by the distant flames. The image settled on a huge tent at the center of the camp, moving inside to where the king was seated on a black throne of carved ebony.

Around him, kneeling at his feet, were dark-robed priests. One of them was speaking, but the boy could hear nothing. Pale shapes moved at the edge of the mirror, and Alexander felt an icy touch of dread as creatures of nightmare crept forward to surround the king. Their skin was fish-white, their eyes dark and hooded, their heads bald, the crown of the scalp raised in ridges of sharp bone. Scaled wings grew from their shoulder blades, and their hands were hooked into talons.

“Closer!” ordered the boy.

A ghastly face, in silhouette, filled the mirror, and Alexander could see that the teeth inside the lipless mouth were pointed and sharp, rotting and green at the purple gums. Suddenly the creature’s head turned, the dark shining eyes with their slitted pupils staring up at the child.

“He cannot see me,” Alexander whispered.

The mirror exploded outward as a taloned hand flashed up, sinking into the boy’s tunic and scoring the flesh beneath. The prince found himself dragged forward into the mirror and screamed, his hands scrabbling at the scaled arm.

The killing power surged from his fingers with such power that the arm holding him was turned instantly to dust.

Throwing himself back, Alexander toppled to the floor, the taloned hand still clinging to his tunic. Ripping it loose, he flung it across the floor and then swiftly gathered the velvet covering, hurling it over the mirror table.

As he did so, there came a sound like a low groan, which formed into a terrible sentence.

“I know where you are, child,” came the voice of Philippos, “and there is no escape.”

Alexander sped from the room. His foot caught the edge of a flagstone, and he tumbled to the floor, grazing his knees. Tears fell now as this fresh pain unleashed his fears.
They are
coming for me
, his mind screamed at him. Up the long stairs he ran, heart beating wildly, until at last he emerged from the cave mouth into the sunshine.

Scanning the skies for signs of the scaled creatures, he sank to a rock in the sunshine, shivering uncontrollably.

A centaur carrying a bow and quiver trotted from the treeline, saw him, and cantered up the mountainside. It was the white-bearded leader with the palomino flanks. He halted before the child.

“Why do you cry?” he asked, leaning forward to touch his thumb to Alexander’s cheek, brushing away a tear.

“My enemies are coming for me,” said Alexander, struggling to halt the surging panic.

“Where is the outcast who carried you here?”

“He is gone. I am with Chiron now.”

The centaur nodded, his dark eyes thoughtful. “These enemies you speak of, child—are they men or of the enchantment?”

“They have wings and scales. They are not men.”

“Vores,” hissed the centaur. “Their touch is disease; their breath is the plague. Why does the demon king seek you?”

“He wants to kill me,” the child answered. “He wants to live forever.” The shivering was worse now, and sweat bathed his face. He felt dizzy and nauseous.

“Are you Iskander, then?” asked the centaur, his voice echoing from a great distance as if whispering across the vaults of time.

“That is … what they … called me,” answered Alexander. The world spun, and he toppled from the rock to the soft grass. It felt cool against his face, but his chest was burning and a dark mist rolled across his mind.

Propping his bow and arrows, Kytin bent his front forelegs and leaned down, lifting the child in his arms. The small boy was burning with fever. The centaur pulled aside the boy’s torn tunic, cursing as he saw the marks of talons on the slender torso. Already pus was seeping from the wounds, the flesh around them puckered and unhealthy. Leaving his weapons
where they lay, Kytin galloped down the mountainside, cutting along a narrow path through the trees and splashing across a shallow stream.

Two other centaurs rode alongside him.

“Why do you have the child?” asked one.

“He is Iskander,” replied Kytin, “and he is dying!” Without waiting for a response he galloped on, lungs burning with the effort of the sustained pace, breath coming in ragged gasps. On he ran, deep into the heart of the woods. It was almost dusk when he arrived at a village on the banks of a broad river. The homes there, perfectly round and windowless, with huge, gaping doorways, were built of wood and straw. Beyond the scores of buildings were wide pastures and treeless hills, and already there were horses grazing, their bondsmen sitting around fires. Kytin felt the need upon him. Not yet, he cautioned himself. Hold to the form. Iskander needs you!

Halting before a roundhouse set apart from the rest, he called out a name. But there was no reply, and he stood waiting, knowing she was inside. Yet he would not—indeed, could not—disturb her at this time and felt with sick dread the life of the child ebbing away like water passing through sand.

Finally an ancient pony stepped from the large doorway, tossed its head, and trotted toward the hills.

“Gaea,” called the centaur. “Come forth. I need you.”

An old woman, supporting herself with a staff, hobbled into the doorway. “I am tired,” she said.

“This is Iskander,” Kytin told her, extending his arms. “He has been touched by a Vore.”

The old woman’s head sank down to rest on the tip of the staff. “Why now,” she whispered, “when I am so weak?” For a moment she was silent, then she drew in a deep breath and raised herself to her full height. “Bring him in, Kytin. I will do what I can.”

The centaur eased past her, laying the unconscious boy on a narrow pallet bed. Alexander’s lips and eyelids were blue now, and he scarcely seemed to breathe. “You must save him,” urged Kytin. “You must!”

“Hush, fool,” she told him, “and go to your privacy. Your flanks are trembling and the need is upon you. Go now, before you shame yourself in public.”

Kytin backed away, leaving the old woman sitting on the bed beside the dying child. Taking his hand, she felt the fever raging. “You should have come to us twenty years ago,” she whispered, “when my powers were at their height. Now I am old and nearly useless. My pony is dying and will not see out the winter. What would you have me do, Iskander—if you are truly Iskander?”

The boy stirred, moaning in delirium. “Par … menion!”

“Hush, child,” said Gaea, her voice soothing. Pulling open the tunic, she laid a wrinkled, bony hand upon the festering scars. The heat scalded her skin, and her mouth tightened. “That the enchantment should have sired such creatures …” she said, her voice acid and bitter. Her hand began to glow, the bones standing out like dark shadows below the skin as if a lantern were hidden under her palm. Smoke writhed from the boy’s chest, flowing through her outstretched fingers, and the wounds sealed, pus oozing to the skin of his chest. The smoke hung in a tight sphere above him, dark and swirling. “Begone!” hissed the old woman. The sphere exploded, and a terrible stench filled the roundhouse. Alexander groaned, but the color flowed back to his pale cheeks and he sighed.

Gaea stood, staggered, and reached for her staff. An elderly man, stooped and bent, edged his way into the room.

“Does he live?” he asked, his voice thin, whispering through rotted teeth.

“He lives, Kyaris. You brought him in time. How can you be sure he is Iskander?”

The old man moved slowly to a chair by a burning brazier, sitting and holding his hands to the blaze. “He told me. And the tyrant seeks him, Gaea, to kill him and become immortal. Who else can he be?”

“He could be a human child—and that is all. The tyrant is not infallible; he has been wrong before.”

“Not this time. I can feel it.”

“In your bones, I suppose,” she snapped. “I swear your
horse has more sense than you. The Vores marked him; that means they know where he is. How long before their wings are beating the wind above this wood? Eh? How long?”

“But if he is Iskander, we must protect him. He is our hope, Gaea!”

“Hopes! Dreams!” snorted the old woman. “They are like smoke in the breeze. I once dreamed of Iskander. But no more. Now I wait for my pony to die and to leave this world of blood and pain. Look at him. How old is he? Four, five? You think he will lead us from peril? His mouth still yearns for his mother’s tits!”

Kyaris shook his head, his wispy white hair floating like mist against his face. “Once you had belief. But you are old, and your faith has gone. Well, I, too, am old, but I still have hopes. Iskander will save us. He will restore the enchantment. He will!”

“Cling to your nonsense if you will, old man, but tomorrow be ready with bow and spear. For the Vores will come, and after them the Makedones. Your stupidity will see us all destroyed.”

Kyaris struggled to his feet. “Better to die than to live without hope, Gaea. I have sons, and sons of my sons. I want them to see the return of the enchantment. I will fight the Vores; they will not take the child.”

“Find a mirror, you old fool,” she taunted him. “Once the words of Kyaris-Kytin echoed like thunder across the world. Now you can scarcely stand without support. Even merged you cannot run far.”

“I am sorry for you,” he told her. Moving to the bedside, he laid his hand on the sleeping child’s brow. “Sleep well, Iskander,” he whispered.

“Sell him to Philippos,” she advised. “That would be true wisdom.”

“There is no wisdom in despair, woman,” he answered.

Parmenion and Attalus rode from the woods, angling down toward the plain and the distant, shimmering River Penelos. Clouds were bunching in the sky, huge and rolling, promising
a storm, but the wind was still warm, the rain holding off. Attalus eased his gray alongside Parmenion.