David Gemmell - Lion of Macedon

'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 The boyish features had long since been replaced by the angular, almost harsh lines of the man.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?'

'I think that would not be wise.'

'Gods, man, you are so staid!' Philip slumped down on a couch and poured the last of his wine.

'Get me some more drink, would you, there's a good fellow?'

Parmenion wandered out into the deserted corridor, following the stairs down to the kitchens. It was close to midnight, and even he was beginning to feel a sense of rising excitement over the forthcoming wedding.

The Mysteries fascinated Parmenion, as indeed did the culture of this volcanic isle. Xenophon himself had been initiated here, but had told Parmenion little of the ceremonies save that they involved arcane knowledge of the 'Greater Gods'. One of these, Parmenion recalled, was Kadmilos -

the ram-horned immortal, the Spirit of Chaos.

The Spartan walked into the empty kitchens, located a pitcher of wine and returned to the King's rooms. Philip was once more drinking happily.

'You found some more,' said Parmenion, seeing the golden pitcher beside the King.

'A woman brought it. You cannot fault the hospitality here, Parmenion — and it is the finest wine I've ever tasted. Have some.'

'I saw no woman, sire. From where did she come?'

Philip shrugged. 'The palace is like a maze. Who knows? Come. Drink.'

Parmenion poured a goblet of the King's wine and tasted it. It was strong, heavy and almost sweet.

Just then they heard the chanting, and he put down his wine and wandered to the window. A torchlit procession was moving from the woods. 'Your bride is coming, sire,' said the Spartan. Philip leaned out, his hands gripping the stone sill.

At the front of the procession, dressed like an ancient Minoan princess, was a flame-haired girl of great beauty — her hair tied with golden ribbons, her breasts bared and rouged, her hips clad in swirling silk.

'By all the gods of Olympus!' whispered Philip. 'Is that not a sight on which to feast the soul?'

Parmenion swallowed hard. The girl was the image of Derae: the,vide-set eyes, the full, sensual mouth. The Spartan stepped back from the window, tearing his eyes from the scene. The procession moved on into the palace, the chanting becoming muffled and distant. Philip poured yet another goblet of wine, draining it at a single swallow.

'It is almost time, sire,' said Parmenion. 'You should prepare.'

'Yes,' replied Philip, his voice slurring. 'Pre. . prepare.' He struggled from his chiton, staggered towards the white cloak and fell on to a couch. 'Damn!' he muttered. 'Legs betrayed me.'

Parmenion ran to him.

'What is it, sire?'

'Don't. . don't know. Help. . me up.' Parmenion pulled the King upright on the couch. 'I'll be all right. Get me some water.'