Dark Prince (12 page)

Alexander’s dreams were troubled. He saw a dark mountainside and a stone altar around which black-robed priests were chanting, calling out a name, summoning.…

“Iskander! Iskander!”

The voices were sibilant, like storm winds through winter branches, and he felt a terrible pull on his chest. Fear swept through him
.

“They are calling me,” he realized, and his dream eyes fixed on the sharp knives they carried and the blood channels carved into the altar
.

A figure moved forward, the moonlight shining on his face. Alexander almost screamed then, for the man was his father, Philip, dressed for war in a cuirass the boy had never seen
.

“Well?” asked the king. “Where is the child?”

“He will come, sire,” answered the chief priest. “I promise you.”

The king turned, and Alexander saw that his blind eye was no longer like an opal. Now it shone pure gold and seemed to burn with a yellow fire
.

“I see him!” yelled the king, pointing directly at Alexander. “But he is so faint!”

“Come to us, Iskander!” the priests chanted
.

The pull grew stronger
.

“No!” screamed the child
.

And woke in his bed, his body trembling, sweat covering his tiny frame.

* * *

Lolon crept into the royal gardens, keeping to the shadows of the trees, ever watchful for the sentries. His hand strayed to the dagger at his side, taking comfort from the cold hilt.

The child was possessed, he reminded himself. It was not like killing a real child. Not as the Macedonians had done to his own two sons back at Methone, when the troops had poured through the breached wall, killing all who stood in their way. The mercenaries guarding the walls had been the first to die, alongside the city militia. But then it was the citizens—cut down as they fled, the women raped, the children butchered.

The survivors had been herded together in the main square. Lolon had tried to protect his wife, Casa, and his sons. But what could he do against armed men? They dragged Casa and the other women away, killing the children and making a mound of their tiny bodies. Then they marched the men north, the women east, where the ships waited to take them to the slave markets of Asia.

The city had been destroyed, razed utterly, every surviving man and woman sold into slavery.

Lolon felt the weight of his heartache and sank to the soft ground, tears welling in his eyes. He had never been rich. A maker of sandals, he had eked out a living, often going hungry himself so that Casa and the children could eat. But the Macedonians had come with their siege engines, their long spears, and their stabbing swords.

There was no place in the tyrant’s heart for an independent city within Macedonia. Oh, no! Bend the knee or die.

I wish they’d given me the chance to bend the knee, thought Lolon.

But now—thanks to the Athenians—he had a chance to repay the tyrant in blood. A simple thrust with the knife and the demon prince would die. Then Philip would know the anguish of loss.

Lolon’s mouth was dry, and the cool night breeze made him shiver.

He had been marched first to Pelagonia in the northwest,
where the new slaves were put to work building a line of fortresses along the borders of Illyria. For a year Lolon had toiled in the stone quarries. He had spent his evenings making sandals for other slaves before his handiwork was observed by a Macedonian officer. After that he was removed from the work force and given a better billet, with warm blankets and good food. And he made sandals, boots, and shoes for the soldiers.

In Methone his work had been considered fair, but among the barbaric Macedonians he was an artist. In truth his talent did swell, and he was sold at great profit to the household of Attalus, the king’s champion.

It was then that the Athenians had come to him. He had been walking in the marketplace, ordering leather and hide, and had stopped for a cool drink.

“Surely I know you, friend,” came a voice, and Lolon turned. The speaker was a short, stout man, bald and beardless. Lolon did not remember him but glanced down at the man’s sandals. These he knew; he had made them two years before—a month before the Macedonians had come.

“Yes, I remember you,” he answered dully.

As the weeks passed he saw the man, Gorinus, more often, at first talking of better days and then—the floodgates of his bitterness giving way—speaking of his hatred. Gorinus had been a good listener, becoming a friend.

One morning, as they met in the marketplace, Gorinus introduced a second man, and they took Lolon to a small house behind the
agora
. Here the plot was hatched: Kill the demon child, said Gorinus, and then come with us to Athens.

At first he had refused, but they fed his bitterness, reminding him of how the Macedonians had killed the children of Methone, taking the youngest by their ankles and dashing their brains on the walls.

“Yes! Yes!” cried Lolon. “I will have my revenge!”

Now he cowered beneath the trees, staring up at Alexander’s window. Easing himself from the shadows, he ran to the wall, his heart beating wildly. Slipping through a side door into the corridor beyond, he moved carefully in the darkness,
climbing the stairs, stopping every few steps to listen for the sentries. There was no guard on Alexander’s door, the Athenians had assured him, but two warriors were stationed at the end of the corridor.

Reaching the top of the stairs, he glanced out. The soldiers were standing some twenty paces away, talking in hushed voices, their whispers carrying to the waiting assassin. They were discussing a coming horse race. Neither was looking in Lolon’s direction. Swiftly he crossed the corridor, pushing his back against the door to Alexander’s room.

Slowly he drew the dagger.

Alexander swung his legs from the bed and jumped to the floor, the dream still strong in his mind, his golden hair lank with sweat. Moonlight streamed through the open window of his room, bathing the ceiling with a pale, white light.

He could still hear the voices like whispering echoes in his mind.

“Iskander! Iskander! Come to us!”

“No,” he whispered, sitting down at the center of a goatskin rug and pressing his hands to his, ears. “No, I won’t! You are dreams. You are not real!”

The rug was warm, and he lay down upon it, staring up at the moonlit ceiling.

Something was wrong in the room. He gazed around, the dream forgotten, but could see nothing amiss. His toy soldiers were still scattered about the floor with his small siege engines. His books and drawings were on the tiny table. Alexander stood and walked to the window, climbing up on the bench seat below it so that he could look out into the gardens. Leaning out on the sill, he gazed down … at the moon.

The gardens had disappeared, and stars shone all around the palace, above and below, to left and right. In the distance there were no mountains, no plains or hills, no valleys and woods. Only the dark of an all-consuming sky.

The boy’s fear was forgotten, lost as he was in the wonder of this miracle. He did not often wake in the night. Perhaps it was always this way, but no one had bothered to tell him. The
moon was an incredible sight, no longer a silver disk but a scarred and pitted shield that had seen many battles. Alexander could see the marks of arrows and stones on the surface, the dents and cuts.

And the stars were different also, perfectly round, like a slinger’s stones, glowing, pulsing. In the distance he saw a movement, a flashing light, a dragon with a tail of fire … then it was gone. Behind him the door opened, but he was aware of nothing but the beauty of this colossal night.

Lolon saw the boy at the window. Softly closing the door, he swallowed hard and advanced across the room. His foot came down on a wooden soldier, which broke with a loud crack. The prince glanced around.

“Look,” he said, “isn’t it wonderful? The stars are everywhere.”

Lolon drew his dagger, but the boy had turned back to the window and was leaning out over the void.

One thrust and it would be over. Lolon tensed, aiming the dagger point at the small back. He was no older than Lolon’s youngest …

Don’t think that way! he cautioned himself. Think of revenge! Think of the pain you will cause the tyrant!

Suddenly Alexander cried out and fell forward, losing his grip on the sill. Without thinking, Lolon’s hand snaked out, grabbing the prince by the leg and hauling him back. A terrible, soul-searing pain swept through the slave, and he staggered, clutching his chest. The agony coalesced into a burning ball in his heart, and he sank to his knees, gasping for air.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” wailed Alexander, the stars forgotten. Lolon began to tremble, then pitched face-first to the floor. “I’ll get help,” shouted the prince, running to the door and pulling it open. But there was no corridor, no stone walls, no familiar hangings. The door opened onto the vault of the night, huge, dark, and irresistible. The boy teetered on the edge of the abyss, his balance failing him. With a last despairing cry he fell … tumbling among the stars.

The voices came roaring back to him as he hurtled through the sky, and he heard a shout of triumph from the priest: “He is coming! The golden child is coming!”

Alexander screamed and saw again the face of the man who looked like his father—a malevolent grin on his bearded face, his golden eye gleaming like a ball of fire.

THE TEMPLE, ASIA MINOR

The man’s heart was weak, the valves hard and inelastic. His lungs were huge now, distorting his rib cage, and he could move only a few paces before exhaustion forced him to rest. Derae sat beside his bed, her hand resting on his chest, and gazed down into his tired eyes.

“I can do nothing for you,” she said sadly, watching the light of hope fade from his eyes.

“Just … give me … a few more days,” he begged, his voice weak.

“Not even that,” she told him, taking his hand.

Beside the bed his wife began to weep. “So … soon … then?” he whispered.

Derae nodded, and his head sagged back to the pillow.

“Please help him!” begged the wailing woman, throwing herself to her knees before the healer.

The man on the bed tensed suddenly, his face darkening. His mouth opened, but no words came forth, only a long, broken sigh. “No!” screamed the woman. “No!”

Derae eased herself to her feet and walked slowly from the altar room, waving away the servants who moved to assist her. The corridors were cold, and she shivered as she made her way to her room.

A man stepped into her path. “They have taken him,” said Aristotle.

Derae closed her eyes. “I am tired. I can be of little use to you. Go away.” Pushing past him, she forced her weary body
on. Behind her Aristotle dipped his hand into the pouch at his side, lifting clear a golden stone.

Derae walked on, her mind locked to the merchant whose death she could not prevent. She took a deep breath. The air felt good in her lungs, refreshing, invigorating. How strange, she thought, as her weariness evaporated. She felt better than she had in years and remembered how cool it was in the sea, how good to run down to the beach and wade out into the crystal-clear waters, feeling the sun warm on her back.

Suddenly she laughed. It was too long since she had last left the temple to walk the cliff path. And she was hungry. Ravenous!

Pushing open the door to her room, she wandered to the window. How clear the air, she thought as she stared out over the sea. White gulls circled the cliffs, and she could see each bird as it wheeled and dived. Even the clouds were sharply defined. Then she realized she was not using her spirit eyes. Her blindness had gone. Glancing down, she looked at her hands. The skin was smooth and unlined. Anger flared in her, and she swung to face the
magus
who stood silently in the doorway.

“How dare you!” she thundered. “How dare you do this to me!”

“I need you,” he responded, moving into the room and pushing shut the door behind him. “And what is so terrible about youth, Derae? What is it you fear?”

“I fear nothing!” she stormed, “unless it be the suffering I cannot heal. Did you see the man they carried in? He was a prince; he was kind, caring. But his heart had rotted within him, moving far beyond my capacity to heal. That is what I fear—living long enough to see another thousand like him. You think I want to be young again? Why? For what purpose? Everything I ever desired has been denied me. Why should I want to live any longer?”

Aristotle moved farther into the room, his face reflecting his sorrow.

“If you wish, then, I will return your body to its former … glory? But first will you help me? Will you aid Parmenion?”

Derae moved to the mirror and stared at her youthful reflection. A deep sigh came from her, and she nodded. “I will go. But first you must change my face. He must not know me—you understand?”

“It will be as you say,” he promised.

“I think it was rash to execute the sentries,” said Parmenion, struggling to hold his temper.

“And what would you have done, Spartan?” sneered Attalus. “Promoted them, perhaps?”