Dark Prince (Greek Series)
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The chaos spirit had chosen the child Alexander to be its human host. But Parmenion, most powerful warrior of ancient Greece, had won a small victory over the darkness that sought to rule through Alexander. The boy's soul had not been destroyed by evil, but instead had merged with it -- and now Parmenion aided Alexander in the battle between light and dark that constantly raged within him.
But there was another world, where the creatures of Greece's legends still flourished. There, the chaos spirit already ruled, through a demon king. In this Greece, there was a prophecy that a child of great power, the legendary golden child, would come and restore the fading magic of the land to the creatures of myth. The demon king believed also that devouring the heart of this fabled child would give him immortality. He believed Alexander, with the power of the chaos spirit within him, to be that child. And so he called Alexander into his world . . .
Only Parmenion, guided by the seeress Derae, his lost love from another life, could hope to save Alexander from the demon king. But who could save the young prince from the chaos spirit that threatened to conquer his soul?
From the Trade Paperback edition.
let us instead think of ways of helping the child.” Derae shook her head. “I long ago learned the folly of seeking to change the future. Had I known then what I know now, there would have been no demon prince.” “I think that there would, lady,” said Aristotle softly, “but it does not matter. The child is no different from the many who are brought to you each day—only he is not crippled in the flesh, he is tormented in the spirit. Neither of us has the power to cast out the demon. But
the spears were brought into position. “Drummers by the step four!” The beat quickened, like the thudding of an angry heart. “Now we will show them,” said Priastes, moving alongside his king. But Parmenion had no time to answer, for the enemy was close. The Makedones were not moving as fast as he had expected. In fact, they seemed hesitant, their line curving, wider at the flanks, concave at the center. For a moment Parmenion was nonplussed, then realization came to him. They were frightened!
“A sad, sad day,” he said solemnly, trying to muster a tone of infinite sorrow. He had not seen her arrive, but she was standing now, leaning on a carved staff, her expression set, her eyes dark and fierce, her white hair uncombed and framing her head like a lion’s mane. She was wearing a long gray robe, an owl embroidered upon the breast with silver thread. A priestess of Athene, then, he thought. “The child will not die,” she said, “for she has been blessed by the goddess. Though the queen
him. All he knew was that the child had appeared close to Olympus and that the Makedones still searched for him. Wrapping himself in his cloak, Parmenion slept. He awoke in the night to hear a whispering laughter echoing in the woods. Sitting up, he looked toward Attalus, but the swordsman was asleep beside the dead fire. Easing himself to his feet, Parmenion tried to locate the source of the laughter. Some distance away he saw twinkling lights, but the trees and undergrowth prevented him from
“Hush, fool,” she told him, “and go to your privacy. Your flanks are trembling and the need is upon you. Go now, before you shame yourself in public.” Kytin backed away, leaving the old woman sitting on the bed beside the dying child. Taking his hand, she felt the fever raging. “You should have come to us twenty years ago,” she whispered, “when my powers were at their height. Now I am old and nearly useless. My pony is dying and will not see out the winter. What would you have me do, Iskander—if