Lion of Macedon (62 page)

“I could grow to love him,” Phaedra assured herself. “I could will it so.” But she did not believe it. “It does not matter, anyway,” she whispered. “I do not
need
to love him.”

She waited until Parmenion had gone and pretended sleep
when Olympias climbed into the carriage. Slowly the hours passed. Steeling herself, Phaedra slipped from the carriage and moved stealthily through the camp, seeking out where Parmenion lay; he had made his bed away from the soldiers in a sheltered hollow. As she gazed down on his sleeping form, her courage almost fled from her, but, steeling herself, she slipped from her dress and lay down beside him, carefully lifting the single blanket over her slender body. For some time she lay still, unable to summon the courage to wake him. But again the vision came to her, more powerfully than before. Gently her fingers touched the skin of his chest. He was still impossible to
read
, random scenes pouring over her like a wave and engulfing her senses.

Her hand slid lower, stroking his belly. He groaned in his sleep but did not wake. Her fingers touched his penis and—for a moment only—she recoiled. Gathering her courage, she touched him again, fingers circling him, feeling him swelling under her touch. He awoke then and turned toward her. His right arm moved over her, his hand touching her shoulder, sliding down over her breast.

“I have you!” she thought. “You are mine! And our son will be the god-king. He will rule the world!”

And she saw again the vision of a battle king leading his troops across the world.

Parmenion’s firstborn.

My son!

THE TEMPLE, ASIA MINOR, WINTER, 356 B.C.

Derae lay on her bed and loosed the chains of her soul, floating free of the temple and soaring into the blue winter sky. In the distance clouds were bunching for a storm, but here by the sea the day was fine. Gulls arced and dived around her invisible form, and she gloried in their freedom.

Swiftly she sped across the sea, crossing the trident-shaped land mass of the Chalcidice and on to Pella, seeking, as always, the lover fate had denied her. She found him in the throne room … and wished she had chosen another day for the journey. For beside him stood Olympias.

Sadness struck Derae like a blow.

The mother of the Dark God!

The mother of Parmenion’s child.

Hatred touched her, and her vision swam. “Help me, Lord of All Harmony,” she prayed.

She watched Olympias walk forward into Philip’s embrace, saw the momentary spasm of jealousy on Parmenion’s face.

“What did we do to you, my love?” she thought, remembering her years with Tamis as they had battled to prevent the conception of the Dark God. According to the old seeress, Parmenion was the sword of the source, the one man capable of preventing Kadmilos from being born in the flesh. How vain they were … and how stupid. Tamis had secretly manipulated
events in Parmenion’s life, creating in him a warrior like no other in the civilized world: a fighter, a killer, a strategist beyond compare. All this so that he would be ready to destroy the Dark God’s plans. Instead, the opposite had been achieved.

Derae’s anger grew. For a moment she wanted nothing more than to use her power to obliterate the baby in the belly of the new queen. Frightened by the impulse, she fled back to the temple.

And here her anger turned to sadness, for she floated above her own body, staring down at the careworn face and the silver-streaked hair. Once she had been a beauty like Olympias. Once Parmenion had loved her. Not anymore. No, she thought. If he could see you now, he would turn away, his eyes drawn to the youthful skin and the earthly joys of girls like Olympias.

Returning to her body, she slept for two hours.

Leucion awoke her. “I have prepared a bath for you,” he told her. “And I bought three new gowns for you at the market.”

“I need no gowns. And I have no coin.”

“The clothes you have are threadbare, Derae. You are beginning to look like a beggar. Anyway, I have my own money.”

For a moment only she considered rebuking him but dismissed the thought. Leucion was a warrior who had chosen to travel to the temple to serve her. He asked for nothing in return.

“Why do you stay?” she asked him, her spirit eyes scanning his hawklike face, so stern and strong.

“Because I love you,” he answered. “You know that. I have said it often enough.”

“It is my vanity that makes me continue to ask,” she admitted, “but I feel guilty, for there will never be any more than we have. We are brother and sister, now and always.”

“It is more than I deserve.”

She traced a line on his cheek, her finger running the
length of his jaw. “You deserve far more. You must not let your mind drift back to our first meeting—that was not you. There are forces in the world that use us, abuse us, discard us. You were possessed, Leucion.”

“I know,” said the silver-haired warrior. “I, too, have studied the mysteries. But the dark one can only enhance what is already there. I almost raped you, Derae, and I would have killed you. I did not know there was such darkness in my soul.”

“Hush! There is darkness in every soul, and light also. For you the light was—ultimately—stronger. Be proud. You have saved my life and remain my only friend.”

Leucion sighed, then smiled. “It is enough for me,” he lied.

The warrior prepared a fire and left Derae sitting before it, her thoughts distant, her spirit eyes watching the dancing flames.

“I need help,” she whispered. “Where are you, Tamis?”

The fire surged to life, the flames dancing high, twirling in on themselves to form a woman’s face. Derae lifted her hands, soft light spilling from her fingers and surrounding her with a shield of brightness.

“You do not need protection against me,” said the face in the fire. “And you can no longer call upon Tamis. I am Cassandra.”

The face became more solid, framed by hair of flickering flames. Warily Derae let the spell of protection fall.

“You are the Trojan priestess?”

“Once upon a distant day,” answered Cassandra, “I warned Tamis of her folly. But she did not listen. When Parmenion sired the Dark God, Tamis was filled with despair. Her soul is far from us now, broken like crystal, fragmented like the moon on water.”

“Can you help her?”

“No. Though all others forgive her, she cannot forgive herself. Perhaps in time she will return to the light. For myself I doubt it. But what of you, young Spartan? How can I help you?”

“Tell me how to fight the evil that is coming.”

“My gift in life—if a gift it can be called—was to speak the truth and never to be believed. That was hard, Derae. But I obeyed the source in all things. Tamis was corrupted by pride. She believed she alone was the instrument to bring down Kadmilos. Pride is not a gift of the source. In teaching you the ways of the mysteries, Tamis instilled in you a sense of that same pride. My advice is to do nothing. Continue to heal, to work with those in pain, to love much.”

“I cannot do that,” Derae admitted. “I was as much to blame as Tamis. I must at least try to make it right.”

“I know,” said Cassandra sadly. “Then use your mind. You have seen Aida and her wickedness. Do you not think she also has seen you? If she is prepared to destroy a Persian child, will she not—even more powerfully—seek to destroy you?”

“She and I have met twice,” said Derae. “She has not the power to overcome me.”

“There speaks pride,” answered the face in the fire. “But Aida has many servants and can call upon spirits, demons, if you will. They have the power. Believe that, Derae!”

The fear returned, and Derae felt the cold breeze from the curtained window behind her. “What can I do?” she whispered.

“All that a human can do. Fight and pray, pray and fight. Yet if you fight, Aida wins, for to fight successfully, you must kill, and in killing there is the joy of the dark, touching, corrupting, changing.”

“Then I should let her kill me?”

“That is not what I am saying. The battle between light and dark is not without complexity. Follow your instincts, Derae. But I advised you to use your mind. Think of what Aida must do in order for her dream to be fulfilled. There is one great enemy she must kill.”

“Parmenion?”

“There speaks the voice of love,” said Cassandra. “Not Parmenion. Who is the great enemy, Derae?”

“I don’t know. How many men and women are in the world? How can I see them all, follow all their futures?”

“Think of a fortress with high walls. Impregnable. Where would the enemy most wish to be?”

“Inside,” answered Derae.

“Yes,” Cassandra agreed. “Now use your mind.”

“The child!” whispered Derae.

“The golden child,” Cassandra confirmed. “Two souls in one body, the dark and the light. As long as the spirit of the child lives, Kadmilos can never truly conquer. There is a bird, Derae, that builds no nest. It lays its egg in the nest of another, alongside other eggs. When it hatches, it is larger than the other chicks, and one by one it pushes them from the nest to fall to their deaths on the ground below. It does this until it is the only survivor.”

“And Kadmilos will push out the child’s soul? Where will it go? How can I protect it?”

“You cannot, my dear; you have no link to it. When the birth is close, the child’s spirit will be thrown into the underworld, the caverns of Hades, the void. There it will burn like a bright flame—for a little while.”

“What then?”

“Its brightness will summon the creatures of the dark, and they will destroy it.”

“There must be a way!” protested Derae, pushing herself to her feet. “I cannot believe it can end like this!” Walking to the window, she felt the breeze on her face and struggled for calm.

“You say I have no link,” she said at last, turning back to the face in the fire. “Who does?”

“Who else, my dear, but his father?”

“And how can Parmenion travel to the underworld?”

“By dying, Derae,” said Cassandra simply.

THE TEMPLE, SPRING, 356 B.C.

For weeks the words of Cassandra returned to haunt and torment Derae, but no matter how hard she tried, she could not summon the fire woman again.

“Perhaps she was a demon,” offered Leucion after Derae had finally confided in him.

“Would that she were,” said Derae, “for then I would be able to dismiss her words. No, Leucion, she was no demon. I would have sensed any evil. What am I to do?”

The warrior shrugged. “All the world’s problems are not yours, Derae. Let others take up the battle. I know very little of the ways of the gods. They do not—thankfully—take too much interest in me, and for my part I avoid them utterly. But surely it is they who must concern themselves with the coming of this … chaos spirit.”

“You do not know the whole story, nor will I tell it,” answered Derae, “but Tamis and I are in large part responsible for the coming evil. Cassandra gave me advice similar to yours. But do you not see why I cannot take it? I live to heal. I serve the power of harmony. How could I live the rest of my life in the knowledge that I had brought such horror into the world?”

Leucion shook his head. “Some mistakes cannot be rectified. But even so, lady, why should you blame yourself? You did not set out to do the work of darkness.”

“No, I did not,” she agreed. “But I was raised in Sparta, Leucion, and no Spartan would consider leaving the fight until it was won or he lay dead upon his shield. The babe must have a chance at life. Cassandra says that if the soul is still alive when the child is born, then Kadmilos will be forced to share the body. That would give us a chance to work on the child, to hold the chaos spirit at bay.”

“But for this the man you love must die,” pointed out Leucion. Derae closed her eyes, saying nothing. “I do not envy you,” said the warrior, “but it seems there is a contradiction here. Cassandra tells you there must be no killing or else you serve the darkness. Yet in order to win—albeit temporarily—you must kill Parmenion. There is no sense in it.”

Turning away from him, Derae moved to the window, staring out over the hills and the distant sea beyond. Leucion left her there and wandered out into the gardens. The roses were growing wild now, the blooms crisscrossing each other in a profusion of colors, the pathways becoming choked. Leucion strolled up to the ramparts of the eastern wall, sitting on the parapet and gazing over the fields. Suddenly he blinked.