She closed her eyes and soared, her spirit rising high above the palace, moving over the green hills — seeking, ever seeking, without knowing what she sought.
The assassins sent from the city of Olynthus were dead, their boat destroyed in a sudden storm.
Only one had reached the Samothracian shore, and his head had been crushed by a heavy rock wielded by two of Aida's acolytes. There was no danger from assassins. Aida would know.
But she could not dismiss her fears. She trusted her Talents and her intuition. Although she could not walk the paths of the Past and Future, still Aida was powerful, reading the hearts and minds of men, anticipating events. The rulers of the city of Olynthus feared Philip. It was not difficult to second-guess their intentions, especially now that the King's former favourite, Nicanor, entertained an Olynthian lover at his home in Pella.
The storm had been costly — two of Aida's acolytes sacrificed, their hearts torn from their bodies. But it was worth more than even those to ensure that the Lord of Fire could be born in the flesh. Aida would sacrifice a nation for such a holy miracle.
Returning to her body, she opened her eyes.
Where is the peril?
Think, Aida! Use your mind! She had searched the island, the seventeen villages and four ports.
Nothing. She thought of Tamis, almost wishing her alive so that she could focus her hatred once more.
Would that I could have killed you a dozen, dozen times! The old priestess had been a constant sore for decades. Curiously, her death had done little to ease Aida's hatred. All that power wasted on the whore, she thought, remembering — with exquisite distaste — Tamis' lovers.
The other priestess had worried her at first, but she also was flawed.
Where then the danger?
Closing her eyes once more she flew across the seas, hovering over the Temple. A tall man was tending the garden and there were no supplicants waiting in the meadows. Swiftly Aida armoured herself with protective spells, then entered the temple. It was empty.
Where are you, my dove? she thought.
Returning to Samothrace she searched the island once more — carefully, thoroughly, each hill and wood.
At last, weary and almost spent, she returned to the palace and walked to the kennels below the outer wall. The black hounds began to bay as she entered. Pulling open the wooden gate she moved in among them, crouching down as they surged around her. Summoning the image of Derae she cast the picture into the mind of each hound, imprinting it, holding it until the baying stopped. Then lifting her arm, she pointed to the open gate.
'Go!' she shouted. 'Taste of her blood, break her bones! Go!'
Derae sat in a hollow below the branches of a flowering tree, her mind alert. She sensed the Search and located Aida's spirit as she soared from the palace. Calming the fluttering of panic that beset her, she leaned back against a tree-trunk, her arms crossed, her hands on her shoulders. She merged her mind with the tree, feeling her way into the bark, through the oozing sap which killed most insects, on into the capillaries where water was drawn to the leaves and flowers.
She was Derae no longer. She was the tree, her roots deep and questing, seeking moisture and goodness from the dark earth — her branches growing, stretching, flowing with slow life. She felt sunlight on her leaves and concentrated on the seed-bearing blossoms that would ensure her existence through eternity. It was peaceful within the tree… so peaceful.
At last she withdrew her spirit and searched for Aida.
The witch-woman had returned to the palace. Derae rose and walked slowly down to the meadows, close by the wood, where tonight the acolytes would celebrate the Third Mystery. There was a stream here, and she drank deeply.
In the distance she heard the baying of hounds, ready for the hunt.
Adjusting her veil she waited, sitting on a boulder, not looking in the direction from which she knew he would come. His footfalls were soft, unconsciously stealthy.
'We meet again, lady,' he said and she turned.
'How are you, Savra?'
'I am well — even better now I have seen you again.'
Her spirit eyes scanned his face. The boyish features had long since been replaced by the angular, almost harsh lines of the man. Yet still he was the Parmenion of memory. Her Parmenion!
'How prettily you speak — for a soldier.'
'Not usually, lady. You bring out the best in me. What is your name?'
She was suddenly torn, filled with the desire to remove her veil, to show him her face, to tell him how she had missed him through all those lonely years. She turned away. 'No names,' she said at last.
'Is something wrong?' he asked, moving closer.
'Nothing,' she replied, forcing gaiety into her voice. 'It is a beautiful day.'
A sleek black hound padded from the woods, coming closer to them. Suddenly its lips drew back to show long fangs, a low growl rumbling in its throat. Parmenion stepped in front of Derae, his hand on the dagger at his side.
'Be off with you!' he roared and the hound backed away several paces — then charged at Derae.
Parmenion's dagger flashed into the air. The hound leapt at the woman, but the Spartan threw himself at it, his arm curling round the dog's neck, the dagger blade plunging into its side. As he rose to his feet two more hounds came running from the woods.
Parmenion turned to see Derae walking towards the palace, the hounds closing in on her.
'No!' screamed Parmenion, in the sudden realization that he could not reach her in time. Yet even as the beasts prepared to leap, they slumped to the ground. She did not turn to see this apparent miracle, but walked on through the palace gate.
Parmenion moved to the hounds. They were sleeping peacefully. Bewildered, he sheathed his dagger and ran into the courtyard.
There was no sign of the woman.
'Look at this,' said Philip, pointing to the long white cloak and the silver full-faced helm which lay on one of the couches. 'Can you believe I am supposed to wear that during the consummation?'
Parmenion hefted the helm. It was beautifully crafted of shining silver edged with gold, the earguards embossed with what appeared to be demons bearing jagged knives. At the nape of the neck were protective plates of silver, no wider than a man's thumb. There was no crested plume, but to the sides two black ram's hdrns curved from the temples to the neck.
'It is stunning,' said the Spartan, 'and very old. The workmanship is rare.'
'Rare?' stormed Philip. 'Rare, it may be. It is also rare to ask a man to mount a woman wearing such a… such a… bridal hat!'
Parmenion smiled. 'You said yourself that this marriage has been ordained. Surely you expected a little ritual? Even Bardylis made the wedding ceremony last a full day, with dances, speeches and athletic contests between his Guards.'
'Yes, he did,' said Philip, 'but there I was at the centre. Here I feel like a bystander, an incidental player.' He stalked to the window and stared out over the night-dark woods and the distant fires. Parmenion joined him. 'Listen to them,' said the King, as the night breeze carried sounds of laughter and music from the woods. 'You know what they are doing?'
'No, sire.'
'Neither do I. . and that irritates me, Parmenion. They are probably dancing naked around those fires — and I am sitting here waiting to be led into my bride like a prize ram. Am I so ugly that I need a helmet to disguise myself?'
'I think,' offered Parmenion, 'that you are nervous. I would also advise you to hold back on the wine; you have drained almost a full pitcher.'
'Wine has no effect on my abilities,' snapped Philip. 'Why don't we sneak out there and watch them? What do you think?'