'One thousand drachms to the man who finds him!' called the King.
'Aya!' roared the men, raising their torches in salute.
From where he lay, Alexander could see the legs and feet of the searchers as they neared him. They were barefoot, but their calves were protected by greaves of bronze, showing intricate designs. But each one that he saw had a central motif, a stylized sunburst. This surprised the child, for the sunburst was the symbol of Macedonia and yet the armour the men wore was neither Macedonian nor Phrygian — the breastplates more elaborate, the helms bearing raven's wings, rather than the horsehair plumes sported by his father's soldiers.
Even through his fear, Alexander was puzzled. These soldiers were like none he had ever seen, in life or in paintings or murals.
An enormous clap of thunder sounded, lightning forking across the sky.
A lance-point sliced through the bush above him, the branches parting. Then the lance pulled clear and the man moved on.
Alexander stayed where he was until all sounds around him faded away. At last, as the rain stopped, he moved his frozen body, crawling from the shelter of the bush and standing on the mountainside.
Glancing up, he gazed at the stars in the now clear sky — realizing with a sharp stab of fear that he knew them not at all. Where was the Bowman, and the Great Wolf, the Spear Carrier and the Earth Mother? Seeking out the North Star he scanned the heavens. Nothing was remotely familiar.
The searchers had moved down the mountain behind him and the boy decided to walk in the opposite direction.
The trees were shrouded in darkness, but Alexander swallowed his fear and moved on, deeper into the wood. After a little while he saw the altar of his dream, gaunt and stark in a small clearing, broken columns of stone around it. It was here that they had tried to summon him.
The clearing was deserted, but under a spreading oak a small fire still smouldered. Alexander ran to it, kneeling down and blowing flames to life. He searched for dry wood, but there was none and he sat by the dying blaze, holding his trembling hands to the fading heat.
'Where is this place?' he whispered. 'How can I get home?' Tears welled and he felt the beginning of panic. 'I will not cry,' he said. 'I am the son of a King.'
Gathering wet twigs, he laid them in the hot ashes at the edge of the fire to dry, then rose and began to scout the area.
He needed fuel for the fire; without it he could die in this cold. The altar yielded nothing and he walked further into the wood. Here the darkness was deeper, the tree branches interlaced like a great domed roof. But the ground was dryer underfoot, and Alexander found several broken branches which he gathered in his arms before returning to the fire.
Patiently he worked at the small blaze, careful not to smother it, feeding small twigs to the dancing fingers of flame until at last his trembling body began to feel the growing heat.
Three times he returned to the heart of the wood, gathering fuel, building up a store which he hoped would last the night. On his fourth journey he thought he heard a sound in the darkness and paused. At first there was silence, then came a stealthy padding that filled him with terror. Dropping the wood he ran for his fire, sprinting across the clearing and crouching beside the blaze, seizing a burning branch and hoisting it above his head.
From the woods came a hunting pack of grey wolves, padding out to circle him — yellow eyes gleaming, fangs bared.
They were huge beasts, taller even than the war-hounds of his father, and he had no weapon save the burning branch.
He could feel their hunger beating upon his mind, coming at him in waves. They feared the fire, but their empty bellies were fuelling their courage.
Alexander stood very still and closed his eyes, reaching out with his Talent, sliding through the haze of hunger and fury, seeking the pack leader, touching his soul fire and merging with his memories. The child saw a birth in a dark cave, tumbling tussles with brothers and sisters, more bitter fights and battles as he grew — scars and pain, long hunts, victories.
At last the boy opened his eyes. 'You and I are one,' he told the great, grey wolf. The beast cocked its head and advanced on him. Alexander returned the branch to the fire and waited while the wolf came closer, his jaws level with the boy's face. Reaching out slowly, Alexander stroked the grizzled head and the matted fur of its neck.
Puzzled, the other wolves moved uneasily around the clearing.
The boy let his mind wander further, scouring the mountainside and the woods beyond until at last he felt the beating of another heart- a doe sleeping. Alexander shared the image with the wolf-leader and pointed to the south.
The wolf padded silently away, the pack following. Alexander sank to his knees by the fire — tired, frightened, yet exultant.
'I am the son of a King,' he said aloud, 'and I conquered my fear.'
'A fine job you made of it,' said a voice from behind him. Alexander did not move. 'Do not fear me, lad,' said the man, moving out into the boy's range of vision and squatting by the fire. 'I am not your enemy.' The newcomer was not tall, his hair short-cropped and grey, his beard tightly curled. He was wearing a kilt of leather and a bow was slung across his broad shoulders. A horse moved out into the clearing; it wore no chabraque or bridle but came close to the man, nuzzling his back. 'Be at ease, Caymal,' he whispered, stroking the stallion's nose. 'The wolves are gone.
The young prince dismissed them in search of a doe.'
'Why did I not sense your presence?' asked Alexander. 'And why did the wolves not pick up your scent?'
'The two answers are one: I did not wish to be found.'
'You are a magus, then?'
'I am many things,' the man told him. 'But despite all my virtues I have one irritating vice: I am by nature curious, and I find this current situation irresistibly intriguing. How old are you, boy?'
'Four.'
The man nodded. 'Are you hungry?'
'I am,' admitted Alexander. 'But I see you have no food.'
The newcomer laughed and dipped his hand into a leather pouch by his side. The pouch was small, yet — impossibly — the man drew from it a woollen tunic which he tossed to the boy. 'What we see is not always the complete truth,' he said. 'Put on the tunic.' Alexander stood, lifting the garment over his head and settling it into place. It was a perfect fit, the material soft and warm, edged with leather. When he sat down again the man was turning an iron spit over the flames, on which meat was sizzling.
'I am Chiron,' said the man. 'Welcome to my woods.'
'I am Alexander,' responded the boy, the smell of the roasting meat filling his senses.
'And the son of a King. Which King would that be, Alexander?'
'My father is Philip, King of Macedonia.'
'Wonderful!' said Chiron. 'And how did you come here?'
The prince told him of the dream and the night of stars followed by the long fall into darkness. Chiron sat silently as the boy talked, then questioned him about Macedonia and Pella.
'But surely you know of my father,' said Alexander, surprised. 'He is the greatest King in all of Greece.'
'Greece? How interesting. Let us eat.' Chiron lifted the meat from the spit, pulling it apart and handing a section to the boy. Alexander took it gingerly, expecting the hot fat to burn his fingers. But although well-cooked the food was only warm, and he devoured it swiftly.
'Will you take me to my father?' he asked when the meal was finished. 'He will reward you well.'
'I am afraid, my boy, that what you ask is beyond even my powers.'