‘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.’
The Spartan heard sounds of footfalls in the corridor outside, and listened as the door of the bedchamber opened. Moving to the hangings between the rooms he drew them tight, then took water to the King. Philip’s eyes were swollen and bleary. ‘They are here, sire,’ whispered Parmenion. ‘You must stir yourself.’ Philip took the water, which spilled to his naked chest. He tried to drink but his head sagged back, the goblet falling from his hand.
Parmenion cursed softly. It was beyond belief. He had watched Philip on many drinking bouts; the man’s capacity for wine or ale was legendary. Never had Parmenion seen him like this. And after only two pitchers of wine? It was inconceivable.
The smell of sweet incense drifted through the hangings
and he heard the acolytes withdraw from the chamber. Silently he crept across the room, opening a small gap in the drapes. The room beyond was lit by yellow-flamed lanterns and the naked form of Olympias lay on the broad bed. She was writhing and moaning softly.
Parmenion cursed again and returned to the King.
The hour was upon them.
And Philip lay in a drunken stupor.
*
Derae slipped from the palace after the torch-lit procession had passed by. Swiftly she made for the hills and the old stone circle half hidden by the trees of the apple orchard. Her spirits were high and she fought to stem the heady sensation of victory.
‘I did it, Tamis,’ she whispered. ‘I stopped him. There will be no Dark God!’
Running down a hillside she saw the darkness of the trees looming. Her spirit eyes caught a flicker of movement in the shadows and she dropped to her knees, waiting, scouring the trees.
There! By the undergrowth to the right.
Derae’s spirit swept into the sky, hovering over the trees. A young woman in black robes was waiting, knife in hand. Derae flew to the left, but another woman crouched there, similarly armed.
Returning to her body Derae retraced her steps up to the hill-top -then made an angling run to the left. She was only a few minutes from the stone circle. Once there, no assassin could follow.
She could hear her pursuers crashing through the undergrowth, shouting to other, unseen, companions.
Suddenly she sensed Aida!
Darkness fell on her like a cloak thrown over her head. She was blind! Panic swept through her as, falling to her hands and knees, she crawled forward. Leaves brushed her face. Her fingers ran over the bush. It was thick and high. Crawling into its centre, she pulled the branches around her, scooping dead leaves and dirt over her robe.
Then her spirit rose again.
Her blindness remained, but now her concentration deepened. Fire blazed from her eyes and the Spell of Darkness gave way.
A scaled hand lanced for her face, talons sinking deep into her spirit flesh. The pain was agonizing, but her own hand came up to grip the reptilian wrist. Flames burned along the length of the arm, sweeping down over the demon and enveloping him in fire.
In an instant Derae was armoured in breastplate and greaves of white silver, a Spartan helm on her head, and in her hand a sword of blinding starlight.
‘Where are you, Aida?’ she called. ‘Face me if you dare!’