As I pondered the problem I thought I heard the faintest, subtlest echo of laughter. Mocking, cynical laughter that seemed to say to me that I had never moved myself through the continuum unaided, that I did not have the power to translate a molecule from one placetime to another, that everything I thought I had done on my own was really done for me by one of the Creators.
No, I raged silently. I have achieved these things by myself. Anya told me so in a previous life. The Creators were even becoming wary of my increasing powers, fearful that I would one day equal them despite all they tried to do to stop me. That is why they wiped my memory and sent back to ancient Macedonia. But it didn’t work. I am learning again, growing, gaining strength despite their betrayals.
That mocking laughter was one of their tricks, I told myself—trying to weaken my resolve, my self-confidence.
I can bring Philip to me, I told them. I know how to do it. I have the power.
And Philip, king of Macedonia, appeared before me.
He seemed more annoyed than startled. He was wearing nothing but a thin cloth wrapped around his middle. His one good eye blinked in the sunlight, and I realized that I had taken him from his sleep.
“Orion,” he said, without surprise.
“My lord.”
He looked around. “What place is this? What’s that city down there?”
“We are far from Macedonia. You might say that the city is the abode of the gods.”
He snorted. “Doesn’t look much like Mount Olympus, does it?” His body was covered with scars, old puckered white lines across his chest and shoulders, a raw ugly knotted gash along the length of his left thigh. He bore the history of all the battles he had fought.
“Pausanias told me that you’re a deserter. Are you a witch, as well?”
I started to answer, then suddenly realized that Olympias had shown him other domains of spacetime just as she had shown me. Philip was not startled to be plucked from his bed and drawn to a different part of the continuum because she had done this to him previously.
“No, I’m not a witch,” I replied. “Neither is your wife.”
“Ex-wife, Orion. And I guarantee you, she is a witch.”
“She’s shown you other places?”
He nodded. “More than once, when we were first married. She showed me how powerful Macedonia could become if I followed her advice.” Then he aimed his one good eye at me. “You’re in league with her, then?”
“No. Quite the contrary.”
“You have the same powers she has.”
“Some of the same powers,” I said. “I’m afraid she’s much more powerful than I.”
“More powerful than anyone,” he muttered.
“She means to kill you.”
“I know. I’ve known it for years.”
“But this time—”
He held up a hand to silence me. “Speak no more about it, Orion. I know what she plans. I’ve outlived my usefulness to her. Now it’s time for Alexandros to fulfill her ambitions.”
“You want to die?”
“No, not particularly. But every man dies, Orion, sooner or later. My work is finished. I’ve done what she wanted me to do. She’s like a female spider that must devour her mate.”
“But it doesn’t have to be that way,” I objected.
“What would you have me do?” he asked, his fierce beard bristling. “If I want to stay alive, stay on the throne, I’ll have to kill her and I can’t do that, else she’ll goad Alexandros into civil war. Do you think I want to see my people torn apart like that? Do you think I want to kill my own son?”
Before I could answer he went on, “If Macedonians make war on each other, what do you think the nations around us will do? What do you think Demosthenes and the rest of the Athenians will do? Or the Thebans? Or the Great King over in Persia?”
“I see.”
“Do you? We’ll be right back where we were before I made myself king.” He pulled in a deep breath, then added, “And even if he’s not my true son, that makes no difference. I won’t murder him.”