But the dream moved on and she saw an army marching, cities ablaze, thousands slain. The warriors wore black cloaks and armour, and carried round shields emblazoned with a huge sunburst.
At the centre of the horde rode a warrior in a black cuirass edged with gold. He was black-bearded and handsome, and she recognized him instantly. Yet there was something about him that was strange, different. Floating close to him, she saw that his right eye was made of gold, seemingly molten, and she felt the black touch of his spirit reaching out like ice and flame to freeze and burn.
Recoiling she tried to flee, seeking the peace of the enchanted wood where the centaurs roamed. But she could not escape and a new vision flowed before her spirit eyes.
She saw a palace, grim and shadow-haunted, and a child weeping in a small room. The King came to him there.
Derae tried to block her ears and eyes to the scene. To no avail. The man approached the weeping child, and in his hand was a long, curved dagger.
'Father, please!' the child begged.
Derae screamed as the knife clove through the boy's chest. The scene shimmered and she saw the King leave the room, his mouth and beard streaming with blood.
'Am I immortal now?' he asked a shaven-headed priest who waited outside the room.
The man bowed, his hooded eyes avoiding the gaze of his King. 'You have added perhaps twenty years to your life-span, sire. But this was not the Golden Child.'
'Then find him!' roared the King, blood spraying from his lips and staining the man's pale robes.
The invisible chains holding Derae to the scene fell away and the Healer fled, coming awake in her darkened room.
'You saw?' asked Aristotle, his voice soft.
'So, it was your doing,' she answered, sitting up and reaching for a goblet of water from the table beside the bed.
'I sent you there,' he admitted, 'but what you saw was real. There are many sides to Chaos, Derae, in many worlds. In the Greece you saw there is already a Demon King.'
'Why did you show it to me? What purpose did it serve?'
Aristotle rose and walked to the window, staring out over the moonlit sea. 'You recognized the King?'
'Of course.'
'He has murdered all his children in a bid to achieve immortality. Now he seeks a child of legend, Iskander.'
'What has this to do with me? Speak swiftly, magus, for I am tired.'
'The enchantment in the world you saw is fading, the centaurs and other creatures of beauty dying with it. They believe that a child will come, a Golden Child, and that he will save them all. The King seeks that golden child; he believes that by eating his heart he will gain immortality. Perhaps he is right.' Aristotle shrugged. 'There are many ways of extending a life. However, even that is not the point. His priests can form small gateways between worlds, and now they are searching for that special boy. They think they have found him.'
'Alexander?' whispered Derae. 'They will take Alexander?'
'They will try.'
'And remove him from our world? Surely that is to be desired?'
Aristotle's eyes narrowed. 'You think it desirable that another child should have his heart cut from his body?'
'I do not think I like you,' whispered Derae. 'You are not doing this for the Source, or even to fight Chaos.'
'No,' he admitted. 'It is for me alone. My own life is in peril. Will you help me?'
'I will think on it,' she replied. 'Now leave me in peace.'
Pella, Macedonia, Summer
Alexander lifted his hand and stared at the blue and grey bird perched in the lowest branches of the tall cypress tree.
The tiny creature fluffed out its feathers and cocked its head to one side, regarding the golden-haired child.
'Come to me,' the boy whispered. The bird hopped along the branch, then took to the air, swooping over the child's head. Alexander waited, statue-still, his concentration intense. With his eyes closed he could follow the bird's flight up over the garden wall, circling back to the palace and down, ever closer to the outstretched arm. Twice the finch sped by him, but the third time its tiny talons sought purchase on his index finger. Alexander opened his eyes and gazed down at the creature. 'We are friends then?' he asked, his voice gentle. Once more the bird cocked its head and Alexander could feel its tension and its fear. Slowly he reached over with his left hand to stroke the finch's back.
Suddenly he felt the surge of killing power swelling within him, his heartbeat increasing, his arm beginning to tremble. Holding it back, desperately he began to count aloud. But as he reached seven he felt the awful flow of death along his arm.
'Fly!' he commanded. The finch soared into the air.
Alexander sank to the grass, the lust for death departing as swiftly as it had come. 'I will not give in,' he whispered. 'I will reach ten — and then twenty. And one day I will stop it for ever.'
Never, came the dark voice of his heart. You will never defeat me. You are mine. Now and always.
Alexander shook his head and stood, forcing the voice away, deeper and deeper inside. The sun was beginning to drop towards the distant mountains and the boy moved into the cool shadows of the western wall. From here he could see the sentries at the gate, their armour bright, their bronze helms gleaming like gold. Tall men, stern of eye, proud, angry because they had been left behind when the King rode to battle.
The guards stiffened to attention, lifting their lances to the vertical. Excitement flared in the boy as the sentries saluted someone beyond the gate. Alexander began to run along the path.
‘Parmenion!' he cried, his high-pitched voice disturbing scores of birds in the trees. ‘Parmenion!'
The general returned the salute and walked into the gardens, smiling as he saw the four-year-old running towards him with arms outstretched. The Spartan knelt and the boy threw himself into his arms.
'We won, didn't we, Parmenion! We crushed the Phocians!'
'We did indeed, young prince. Now be careful you don't scratch yourself on my armour.' Detaching the boy's arms from around his neck, Parmenion loosened the leather thongs on the gilded ear-guards of his helmet, pulling it loose and laying it on the grass. Alexander sat down beside the helm, brushing his small fingers across the white horsehair crest.
'Father fought like a lion. I know, I watched it. He attacked the enemy flank, and had three horses killed under him.
Then he cut the head from the traitor, Onomarchus.'
'Yes, he did all that. But he will tell you himself when he comes home.'
'No,' said Alexander softly, shaking his head. 'He won't tell me. He doesn't speak to me often. He doesn't like me.
Because I kill things.'
Parmenion reached out, drawing the boy close and ruffling his hair. 'He loves you, Alexander, I promise you. But, if it pleases you, I will tell you of the battle.'
'I know about the battle. Truly. But Father should beware of neck cuts. With his blind eye he needs to swing his head more than a warrior should, and that bares the veins of the throat. He needs to have a collar made, of leather and bronze.'
Parmenion nodded. 'You are very wise. Come, let us go inside. I am thirsty from the journey and the sun is too hot.'
'Can I ride your shoulders? Can I?'
The Spartan rose smoothly and, taking the prince by the arms, swung him high. The boy squealed with excitement as he settled into place. Parmenion scooped up his helm and walked back towards the palace. The guards saluted once more, the prince's nursemaids dropping to their knees as he passed. 'I feel like a King,' shouted Alexander. 'I am taller than any man!'
Olympias came out into the garden, her servants behind her. The Spartan took a deep breath as he saw her. With her tightly-curled red hair and her green eyes, she was the image of the Derae he had loved so many years before. The Queen was dressed in a sea-green gown of Asian silk, held in place at the shoulder by a brooch of gold shaped like a sunburst. She laughed aloud as she saw the Spartan general and his burden. Parmenion bowed, Alexander screaming with mock fear as he almost came loose.