Dark Prince (71 page)

As the Spartan entered, the woman smiled and spoke. He did not understand her words and merely bowed. Aristotle laid down his charcoal and stood. He said a few words to the woman, who stretched her back and rose. The
magus
walked her to the door, leading the way downstairs, then returned to the studio.

“I did not realize it was so late,” he said, reverting to Greek.

Parmenion was standing before the sketch. “It is a good likeness. You have great talent.”

“Centuries of practice, my boy. Come, let us eat.”

After the meal the two men sat in comfortable chairs by an open leaded-glass window through which the stars could be seen glittering like diamonds on sable.

“What happened to Alexander?” asked Parmenion.

“He died some seventeen hundred years ago,” the
magus
answered, “but in death he won his finest victory.”

“How so?”

“The Dark God took control of his body at the end. But Alexander had ordered it embalmed.”

“What difference could that make?”

“Kadmilos was spiritually joined to the body of Alexander. He could only be released from it when the body was destroyed by fire or consumed by carrion eaters or rotted to nothing. But embalmed? Alexander’s body would never rot, and Kadmilos was trapped.

“When the king died, there was a civil war among his generals. Ptolemy stole the embalmed body and took it to Egypt, to Alexandria, where he had a huge mausoleum built to accommodate it. For centuries men came from all over the world to gaze upon the still, perfect form of Alexander the Great. I myself stood before it with an emperor of Rome five hundred years after Alexander died. And Kadmilos was still a prisoner within. I could feel his evil pulsing through the crystal that held the body.”

“Is it still there?” Parmenion asked.

“No. Barbarians sacked Alexandria hundreds of years ago. But the priests of Alexander carried the crystal coffin into the mountains and buried it there, deep and far from the gaze of men. No one knows where it now lies. Save me, of course … for I found it. The body is still perfect, the chaos spirit trapped—perhaps for eternity.”

Parmenion smiled. “Then no more will demon-possessed kings bring evil upon the world?”

“Not this demon, at least,” answered Aristotle, “but there are others. There will always be others. But their powers do not rival those of the Dark God.”

“Poor Alexander,” whispered Parmenion. “His life was cursed from the beginning.”

“He fought the demon with great courage,” the
magus
said, “and he knew friendship and love. What more could a man want? But let us think of you …”

“Where can I go?” asked Parmenion with a sigh. “What is there for me, Aristotle?”

The
magus
chuckled. “Life. Love. It is time, I think, to say our farewells. There is someone waiting for you.”

“Who?”

“Who else but Derae?”

“I never went back. That was decades ago.”

Aristotle leaned forward, clapping his hand to the Spartan’s shoulder. “It is only time. Have you learned nothing?”

THE GATEWAY, SPARTA, 352
B.C.

Derae drew the woolen cloak more tightly about her as the clouds covered the moon and the night winds swirled.

Six hours had passed since Parmenion had walked back through the shimmering gateway to the unknown world beyond. She shivered and stared up at the cold stone pillars. The
magus
had asked her to wait there, but now she was alone beneath the empty sky.

“Derae!” called a voice soft as the whisper of a distant memory. At first she thought she had imagined it, but it came again, tiny but insistent.

“I am here,” she answered aloud.

Something shimmered at the edge of her vision, and she saw two ghostly shapes—faint, almost transparent—standing before her on the hillside. It was difficult to make out their features, though she could see that one was male and the other female.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Close your eyes,” came the faraway voice. “Use your powers.”

“I have no powers.”

“Trust me. Close your eyes and draw us in.”

Fear sprang into her heart, but she quelled it. What harm could they do to her? Was she not a Spartan, strong and proud? Closing her eyes, she concentrated on the voice. It grew a little stronger, and she recognized the
magus
Chiron.

“I have someone with me,” he said, “and I have a favor to ask.”

“Name it,” she told him.

“I want you to open your mind and allow her to enter your heart.”

“No!” answered Derae, suddenly fearful.

“She will leave when you request it,” he assured her.

“Why are you doing this?”

“For love,” he told her.

Instantly she became aware of the second spirit. “It is her! You are trying to kill me. It was all a trick, wasn’t it? Parmenion loved her, and now she wishes to steal my body. Well, she cannot have it! You hear me?”

“That is not true,” he said gently. “But it is your choice, Derae. Look into your own heart. Would you steal the body of another?”

“No,” she admitted.

“Not even to save your life?”

She hesitated. “No,” she said firmly. “Not even for that.”

“Then why would she?”

“What do you want of me?”

“Let her come to you. Speak with her. She will ask nothing from you. But through her memories you will see Parmenion—his life, his dreams.”

“And then?”

“If you wish it, she will depart from you, and I will take her to another place.”

“She’s dead, isn’t she?”

“Yes.”

Derae fell silent, then opened her eyes to look once more upon the stone gateway through which her love had passed.

“I will speak to her,” she said softly.

A great warmth flowed through her, images tumbling into her mind: a different Sparta, another life, a temple, a turbulent ocean of sick, injured, diseased, or dying people, begging, praying, a lifelong struggle against the evil of Kadmilos. Derae reeled under the weight of those memories and felt herself slipping into a daze.

Light blazed, the sun shining high above a hillside.

“Thank you,” said another voice, and Derae blinked, for sitting beside her was a woman in white, young and beautiful, with red-gold hair and wide green eyes.

“You are me,” said Derae.

“No, not quite,” the woman replied.

“Why have you come?”

“Aristotle … Chiron … found me. He said it would warm my soul to know you. He was right.”

Derae felt a great sadness growing within her. “Your dreams were never realized, were they?”

The woman shrugged. “Some were. But there are those who walk through life and never know love. They are the ones to pity.”

“He is coming back to me,” said Derae. “But it is you he wanted, you he loved. I am only a … copy.”

“Not at all,” the woman assured her. “You are everything he could want; you will be happy.”

“Why did Chiron bring you to me? What does he want me to do?”

“He wants us to become one.”

“Two spirits in one body?”

“No. There can be only one. He believes we can merge, one soul with two paths of memory.”

“Is that possible?” Derae asked.

The woman spread her hands. “I do not know. But if you have doubts, then do not attempt it. There is no need for you to do this for me. Parmenion will soon be here, and your lives together will be rich and fulfilled.”

Derae looked at her twin and reached out her hand. “Let us try,” she said.

The woman looked surprised. “Why? Why would you do this?”

“Would you not do it for me?”

The woman smiled. “Yes, I would.” Their hands met, and the light faded.

Derae found herself sitting once more in the moonlight in the shadows of the gateway. There were no ghosts and no
voices, and the stars were bright above her. Taking a deep breath, she summoned her memories.

For a time she sat unmoving. The corridors of the past were branched now, and there were two histories to scan. She remembered her life as a child in the Sparta of the enchantment and also as a young woman in the world of Parmenion. The years spiraled on, from youth to the first gray hairs, and she recalled with a shiver her arthritic joints, felt again the constant pains of old age, the fading of her powers.
Her powers?
I had no powers, she thought. Of course I did, she reminded herself. They were developed by Tamis when first I came to the temple. But I had to give my sight to acquire them.

I have never been blind!
An edge of panic touched her, but the memories flowed on, filling her mind, covering her like the warm blankets of childhood.

“Which one am I?” she asked aloud, but there was no answer. The memories were all hers, and identity was based, she knew, on memory.

It was not just the years of healing at the temple that she could recall but all the emotions and yearnings that had accompanied those years. Yet similarly, she could remember vividly her time as Sparta’s queen with the first Parmenion and her childhood with Leonidas.

“Which one?” she asked again.

Glancing down, she saw a small white flower with fading petals, its time finished, its beauty disappearing. Reaching out, she held her hand above it; the petals swelled with new life. All confusion left her then.

“We are one,” she whispered. “We are Derae.”

The panic faded, to be replaced by a quiet longing. Her gaze swung to the hill above her and the twin columns of stone.

The gateway shimmered with golden light, and a tall young man stepped out onto the hillside.

A cold wind blew down from the snow-covered mountains, hissing through the narrow streets of Thebe Under Plakos. Snow was falling in icy flurries from the dark clouds massing over the city. Few citizens were on the streets that night, and even the guards at the palace huddled close to the gate, their heavy woolen cloaks drawn tightly around them.

Inside the palace there was an air of increasing panic as the pain-filled day drifted into a night of screams and anguish. People gathered, silent and fearful, in the cold corridors. Every now and again there came a flurry of activity as servants ran from the queen’s bedchamber, fetching bowls of water or fresh cloths.