Derae still mourned the warrior who had died defending her helpless body against the demons sent to destroy her.
She pictured his face — the long silver hair tied at the nape of the neck, the arrogant walk, the easy smile.
'I miss you,' she whispered.
Just before midnight, guided by her spirit sight, she crept down to the western gate, sliding back the bolt. Aristotle stepped inside. Locking the gate, she took him back to her room where the magus poured himself some water and sat on the narrow bed. 'Do you mind if I light a lantern?' he asked.
'The blind have no need of lanterns. But I will fetch you one.'
'Do not concern yourself, lady.' Reaching out he took a silver winecup, holding it high. The metal twisted, folding in on itself to form a spout from which a flame flickered and grew, bathing the room in light. 'You are not looking well, Derae,' he said. 'Your duties are leaving you overtired.'
'Come to the point of your visit,' she told him coldly.
'No,' he answered. 'First we must talk of the many futures. Has it occurred to you that there is a contradiction in our travels through time?'
'If you mean that the futures we see can change, of course it has.'
He smiled and shook his head. 'But do they change? That is the question.'
'Of course they do. I remember old Tamis telling me she saw her own deaths in many futures. In one, she said, she fell from a horse, even though riding was abhorrent to her.'
'Exactly my point,' said Aristotle. 'Now, let me explain: Tamis saw herself falling from a horse. But that is not how she died. So then — who fell from the horse?'
Derae sat down on a cushioned chair, her spirit eyes locked to the magus' face. 'Tamis,' she answered. 'But the futures were changed by events in the past.'
'But that is where the contradiction lies,' he told her. 'We are not talking of prophetic visions here, Derae. You and I -
and Tamis once — can travel to the many futures, observing them. What we are seeing is happening. . somewhere.
All the futures are real.'
'How can they all be real?' she mocked. 'Tamis died but once — as will I.'
'I do not have all the answers, my dear, but I know this: there are many worlds, thousands, all akin to ours. Perhaps every time a man makes a decision he creates a new world. I don't know. What I do know is that it is folly to examine all these alternate worlds and base our actions upon events in them. I too have seen Alexander drag the world down into blood and chaos. I have seen him kill Philip and seize the throne. I have seen him dead as a child, from plague, from a dog-bite, from an assassin's blade. But, do you not see, none of it matters? None of the futures are ours. They are merely echoes, reflections, indications of what might be.'
Derae was silent, considering his words. 'It is an interesting concept. I will think on it. Now, to the point of your visit?'
Aristotle lay back on the bed, his eyes watching the flickering shadows on the low ceiling. 'The point — as always -
concerns the boy in this world. You and I took Parmenion into Hades, where the child's soul merged with the Spirit of Chaos. We took it to be a defeat. But it may not prove to be so.'
'A curious kind of victory,' sneered Derae. 'The boy carries a great evil. It is growing within him worse than any cancer, and he does not have the strength to fight it.'
'He had the strength to stop it destroying Parmenion in the Void,' Aristotle pointed out. 'But let us not argue; let us instead think of ways of helping the child.'
Derae shook her head. 'I long ago learned the folly of seeking to change the future. Had I known then what I know now, there would have been no Demon Prince.'
'I think that there would, lady,' said Aristotle softly, 'but it does not matter. The child is no different from the many who are brought to you each day — only he is not crippled in the flesh, he is tormented in the spirit. Neither of us has the power to cast out the demon. But together — and with the boy's help — we might yet return the Dark God to the Underworld.'
Derae laughed then, the sound full of bitterness. 'I heal wounds, magus. I am not equipped to battle Kadmilos. Nor do I wish to.'
'What do you wish, lady?'
'I wish to be left alone,' she said.
'No!' he thundered, rising to his feet. 'I will not accept that from a woman of Sparta! What has happened to you, Derae? You are no lamb waiting for the slaughter. You are from a race of warriors. You fought the Dark Lady on Samothrace. Where is your spirit?'
Derae sighed. 'You seek to make me angry,' she whispered. 'You will not succeed. Look at me, Aristotle. I am getting old. I live here, and I heal the sick. I will do that until I die. Once I had a dream. I have it no longer. Now leave me in peace.'
'I can give you back your youth,' he said, his voice coaxing, his eyes bright with promise.
For a moment she stood silently, observing him without expression. 'So,' she said, at last, 'it was you. When I healed Parmenion of his cancer, I watched him grow young before my eyes. I thought it was the healing.'
'You can be young also. You can find your dream again.'
'You are a magus — and yet a fool,' she told him, her voice flat, her tone tired. 'Parmenion is married; he has three children. There is no place for me now. We may be able to meddle in the futures — but the past is iron.'
Aristotle stood and moved to the door. There he turned as if to speak, but shook his head and walked away into the darkness of the Temple corridor.
Derae listened until his footsteps faded, then sank to the bed, Aristotle's promise echoing in her mind: ‘I can make you young again.'
He was wrong, she knew. Oh, he could work his magic on her body, strengthening her muscles, tightening her skin.
But youth was a state of mind. No one, god or man, could give her back her innocence, the joy of discovery, the beauty of first love. Without that, what value would there be in a young and supple body?
She felt the rush of tears and saw again the young Parmenion standing alone against the raiders who had abducted her; lived once more the moment when he first held her.
'I love you,' she whispered.
And she wept.
Before allowing herself the luxury of sleep, Derae traced the lines of three protective spells on the walls, door and window of her room. They would not stop a seeress with the power of Aida, but any disruption to the spells would wake Derae in time to protect herself.
It was almost five years since the last attack, when Leucion had died defending her against the demons sent by the sorceress. Since then Derae had heard little of Aida. The Dark Lady had left her palace in Samothrace and journeyed back to the mainland — travelling, according to rumour, to the northern edges of the Persian empire, there to await Alexander's coming-of-age. Derae shivered.
The child of Chaos, soon to be a destroyer such as the earth had seldom witnessed.
Her thoughts turned to Parmenion and she climbed on to the bed, covering herself with a thin sheet of white linen.
The night was warm and close, the merest breath of breeze drifting in through the open window. Seeking the sanctuary of sleep, Derae pictured Parmenion as he had been all those years ago — the bitter young man, despised by his fellows, who had found love in the tranquil hills of Olympia. Moment by moment she savoured the heady joys of their five days together, stopping her memories short of that awful morning when her father had dragged her from the house and sent her in shame back to Sparta. Slowly, dreamily, she drifted into a new dream where strange beasts
— half-horse half-man — ran through forest trails, and dryads, beautiful and bewitching, sat by sparkling streams. Here was peace. Here was joy.