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.