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trident-shaped lands of the Chalcidice and on across the Pierian mountains to Thessaly, her spirit called there by the lover of her youth.
    So long ago now, she realized. Thirty-three years had passed since she and Parmenion had lain together in Xenophon’s summer home, lost in the exuberance of their youthful passion.
    She found him in the captured city of Pagasai, walking from the palace. His step was unsteady, and she saw that he had been drinking. But more than this, she sensed the sadness within him. Once Derae had believed they would spend their lives together, willingly locked into love, chained by desires that were not all of the flesh. Not all …? She remembered his gentle touch, the heat of his body upon hers, the softness of his skin, the power in the muscles beneath, the warmth of his smile, the love in his eyes … Despair whispered across her soul.
    She was now an aging priestess in a far-off temple, he a general in Macedonia’s triumphant army. Worse, he had believed her dead for these last thirty-three years.
    Sorrow followed the touch of despair, but she put it aside and moved closer to him, feeling the warmth of his spirit.
    “I always loved you,” she told him. “Nothing ever changed that. And I will watch over you as long as I live.”
    But he could not hear her. A cold breeze touched her spirit, and with a sudden rush of fear, she knew she was not alone. Soaring high into the sky, she clothed her spirit body in armor of light, a sword of white fire burning in her hand.
    “Show yourself!” she commanded. A man’s form materialized close by. He was tall, with short-cropped gray hair and a beard curled in the Persian manner. He smiled and opened his arms. “It is I, Aristotle,” he said.
    “Why do you spy on me?” she asked.
    “I came to see you at the temple, but it is guarded bymoney-hungry mercenaries who would not allow me to enter. And we must talk.”
    “What is there to talk about? The child was born, the chaos spirit is within him, and all the futures show he will bring torment to the world. I had hoped to aid him, to help him retain his humanity. But I cannot. The Dark God is stronger than I.”
    Aristotle shook his head. “Not so. Your reasoning is flawed, Derae. Now, how can I come to you?”
    She sighed. “There is a small side gate in the western wall. Be there at midnight; I will open the gate. Now leave me in peace for a while.”
    “As you wish,” he answered and vanished.
    Alone once more, Derae followed Parmenion to the field hospital, watching as he moved among the wounded men, discussing their injuries with the little surgeon, Bernios. But she could not find the peace she sought and took to the night sky, floating beneath the stars.
    It had been four years since the
magus
who called himself Aristotle had come to the temple. His visit had led to tragedy. Together Derae and the
magus
had sent Parmenion’s spirit into the vaults of Hades to save the soul of the unborn Alexander. But it had all been for nothing. The chaos spirit had merged with the soul of the child, and Derae’s closest friend—the reformed warrior Leucion—had been torn to pieces by demons sent to destroy her.
    Returning to the temple, she rose from the bed and washed in cold water, rubbing her body with perfumed leaves. She did not allow her spirit eyes to gaze upon her aging frame, could not bear to see herself as she now was—her hair silver, body thin and wasted, breasts sagging. Dressing in a clean full-length
chiton
of dark green, she sat by the window waiting for midnight. Outside the temple the camp fires were burning, scores of them. Some supplicants would wait half a year to see the healer. Many would die before they could redeem their tokens. Once, before the arrival of Pallas, she had tried to walk among the sick, healing as many as she could. But she had been mobbed, knocked to the ground, saved only by her friend and servant Leucion, who had beaten thecrowds back with a club. Derae