The Chosen Prince (17 page)

Earlier, when they were riding into camp, Alexos had mentally measured the distance from the stables to the central buildings, knowing he would have to walk it. But he hadn't noted how far the town extended to the north. Now, even though they're moving faster and more efficiently than before, it seems they'll never reach the edge of the town, and Alexos is nearing his limit. The staff Peles found for him, though better than nothing, is heavy and too short. The hastily applied protective wrapping under his brace is chafing badly.

“I have to sit down,” he says. “At least for a little while.”

Peles stops, but glances around, still uneasy. “Of
course, my lord. This is a good enough place to rest, I suppose.”

“Or to hide till daylight. There are probably cots in those buildings. We could lie down.”

Peles gets that look again, like he's summoning the courage to tell the prince, with profuse and polite apologies, that he's absolutely wrong. “I'm sorry, Your Highness,” he says, “but we ought to go on as soon as you are able. When we reach the tall grass, then you can lie down and sleep.”

“But there's nobody
here
, Peles!”

“I know. And there probably aren't many raiders left, if any at all. And even if there were, they wouldn't likely stray this far from the central compound. But it
only takes one
, my lord. And as I mentioned before, everything depends on your survival.”

“Are you saying that you think my father is dead?”

“Oh no, Your Highness! I'm not saying that at all. But seeing as we aren't absolutely sure, one way or the other—”

“You have made your point, Peles, and you are right.”

“Thank you, Your Highness.”

“Let's go.”

They plod on, more slowly now. The streets in this district are badly kept, potholes everywhere, and it's
impossible to tell in the dim light whether they are shallow or deep. Peles, who can apparently see in the dark like a cat, guides him carefully around them.

The tumbledown buildings on the edge of the town have now given way to derelict tents, sagging and mildewed, dreadful. This is where the auxiliary lives, where Peles slept till now. Alexos knows it's the natural way of the world: the rich live better than the poor. But it still makes him feel ashamed. Someday he will try to make things just a little fairer, at least in the kingdom of Arcos.

At last they leave the northernmost boundary of the headquarters encampment. The ground here is cleared but rough, a wasteland of stones, weeds, and garbage. But still Peles urges him forward, into the wild stubble and on to the long grass.

It's harder to walk here; the ground is spongy and uneven. Alexos' staff keeps getting caught in the underbrush. But Peles has a particular place in mind, a slow rise that drops sharply into a dry gully, and he seems unwilling to stop until they get there. So, on they go, stumbling and plodding. In the distance, the sounds of fighting have grown fainter. Now and then there are moments of complete silence. It must be nearly over.

At last they reach the rise. Peles helps Alexos to
sit on the edge of the bank, then supports him as he slides down. “You can sleep now if you want, my lord; you'll be safe here. Then, with your permission, I'll go for help.”

“Yes,” Alexos says. He slumps against the rough bank, not bothering to pick out the small stones that press into his back. “Please find out what you can,” he adds. “About my father, and Leander, and the others. Come back and tell me.”

“I will, my lord.”

“Be off, then, Peles. And may the gods protect you.”

ALEXOS WAKES TO PELES
leaning over him, gently shaking his shoulder. It's still dark and Alexos aches in a thousand places.

“The horses are here,” Peles says. “I'm instructed to say we need to hurry.”

“But what did you find out? Is my father all right?”

“Nobody seems to know, my lord. It's all disorder and confusion. I'm sorry.”

“What about Leander?”

“Leander is here,” Leander says, sliding down from the top of the bank. There's a makeshift bandage on his right arm, just above the wrist.

“You're wounded.”

“I am.” Leander says this brightly, as if he'd just been awarded a prize. Alexos supposes that in a way,
he has: his wound is a badge of honor. “Come on, Peles. Give us a hand. I can't haul him up by myself.”

Despite the chaos back in the camp, the soldiers have managed to identify Alexos' particular horse, find the saddle, and put it on correctly. With Leander's guidance they get him mounted and strapped in. Then they are off: Alexos and about twenty men he doesn't know, plus Leander, who rides just behind him, Peles, who is off in the back somewhere, and Nestor, who takes the sweep position.

The waning moon gives precious little light, so they trudge through the darkness at a crawling pace, Alexos in the middle of a tight-packed group, like the yolk in an egg. Now and then a horse or rider will accidentally press against one of his legs. The third time this happens, Alexos mentions it; after that, they're careful not to do it again.

Alexos is desperate for information, and though he doesn't doubt what Peles told him earlier, he knows that sometimes finding things out depends on who you ask—and who does the asking. He turns to the soldier on his left.

“Will you tell me your name?” he asks.

“Kyros, Your Highness.”

“Can you give me any news of my father, Kyros?”

“I'm sorry, my lord. I've heard nothing at all. I was just told to escort you back to the city. They'll send news by messenger once the situation is clear.”

The situation.
That's one way to put it. “But the fighting is over?”

“I believe so, Your Highness.”

“Surely, then, it would have been safe for me to stay—at least long enough to gather my companions and find out whether the king survived. Why leave in such a hurry?”

“We can't be sure we've killed all the raiders till we've made a thorough search of the camp. And there's no assurance that King Pyratos won't launch a second attack. Getting you quickly away was deemed the prudent thing to do.”

“By whom?”

“By my lord Theodorus, who, as I'm sure you are aware, is second in command after your father.”

Alexos nods, though in truth he has never heard of Theodorus, or any of the king's other generals. He is growing daily more conscious of how little he knows.

Twenty-odd men on horseback make a good amount of noise—the clopping of hooves on clay, the creaking of leather, the dull metallic sound of armed men in motion, and here and there a soft conversation. So they don't hear the approaching
rider until he is close upon them.

Instantly, the men on the outside peel off and turn back. Those nearest the prince become the spokes of a wheel, of which Alexos is the hub. The rear guard lines up in battle formation.

But the early morning light soon reveals a familiar face, one of Ektor's officers, and the escort stands down. The messenger is coming in with reckless speed, mud flying, his horse heaving with the effort. He reins in his mount so quickly that she dances sideways on her hind legs to keep from plowing into the others.

“I have a message for the prince,” the officer says, breathing hard.

Already Alexos is riding back to speak with him. To do this, he is forced to leave the road, which is blocked, and slog through the sticky muck and melting snow along the verge. His guards ride beside him, a very inelegant business, with more jostling and bumping against his legs.

“I am here,” Alexos says, conscious of his voice, trying not to sound like the terrified boy he is. “What news?”

The officer bows from the waist. “Your Highness,” he says, and then he pauses, very briefly, as if summoning his courage. “It is my unfortunate duty to inform you that your noble father is dead.”

Alexos gets stuck halfway through a breath; he can neither draw it in nor let it out. “Are you sure?” he finally says.

“Yes, Your Highness. I am sorry.”

“Have you seen him yourself?” He can't bring himself to say “the body.”

“I have, Your Highness.”

“How did he die?”

“At the hands of the assassins sent by Pyratos, the criminal king of Ferra, breaker of oaths, blasphemer of the gods.”

“I know that. But where?”

“
Where
, Your Highness?”

“Yes. Where was he killed?”

“In his headquarters, my lord.”

“But which room? Where
exactly
?”

The messenger looks at Alexos with an odd expression. “In the hallway.”

Not the room with the frescoes, then, the room where Alexos had been so rude to his father. He's not sure why that matters, but somehow it does.

“Was there a sword in his hand?”

The messenger relaxes. He understands now what the boy wants to know.

“Yes,” he says, “and he did not cross the River alone. He took the souls of three of his attackers with
him. He died most nobly, like a king.”

Alexos can't imagine a world without Ektor striding through it. His father had always seemed unstoppable, a force of nature like thunder or wind. Yet someone
has
stopped him, and now Alexos will never see his father again.

But Ektor's voice still echoes in his mind, as gruff and cold as ever.
Don't be such a child! Be a boy, for heaven's sake, not a dreary old man. You are so tiresome! I have spent too much time with you already.
And now there
is
no more time; it is all spent. Only memories remain, and they are hard.

Suddenly, to his great mortification, Alexos finds that he is weeping. He struggles to get control of himself, but if anything, it gets worse.

“Take a deep breath and hold it.” It's Nestor's voice. Alexos hadn't even noticed he was there. He tries to take a deep breath, as advised, but he chokes in the effort and goes into a spasm of coughing. It's hideous and shameful; but once he has the coughing under control, he seems to be over the crying too. The others wait in stony silence, their faces expressionless. When Alexos seems fully recovered, the messenger continues.

“You are the king of Arcos now, Your Majesty,” he says. And when Alexos doesn't respond, just blinks and does something odd with his mouth, the
messenger continues with what he's been sent to say. “More men will be following. They should catch up with you soon and will escort you the rest of the way. I don't think you are in any danger, but we can't take chances. You understand.”

Alexos knows there are questions he should ask, but he can't think what they might be. He tries hard. The army, he decides. He should ask about that.

“Who is in command?”

“My lord Theodorus, Your Majesty. You need not concern yourself on that account. There was considerable damage to the buildings, but the army is sound and in good hands for now. Once you return to the city, you may decide whether he or someone else should take charge—until such time as you are ready to do it yourself.”

This is more than Alexos can comprehend: leading an army, guiding a kingdom. How is it even possible?

“Your Majesty,” the officer says, more softly than before, “this is a moment of crisis. You must return to the
polis
of Arcos, meet with your advisers, and prepare yourself to rule.”

Alexos nods, but makes no move to go. “Now?” he says, still dazed.

“As soon as you are ready, my lord.”

Alexos doubts he will ever be ready.

“All right,” he says.

Seven Years Later

OUT IN THE WINE-DARK
sea, far from any shore, there is an island. It is small, with a mountain in the middle, and it's shrouded by fog in every season of the year—hidden from passing ships, invisible to the gods, invisible even to the great lord Poseidon, whose realm this is. Only Athene knows it exists, because she put it there, and has carefully protected it these seventeen years.

Now she is preparing to destroy it. If everything goes as planned, if the many threads of her intricate web come together as she intends, this blessed island—with its meadows and forests, soft grass, and perfect trees whose leaves gleam as if they had been polished, the delicate waterfalls that drop into clear pools far below, the birds and foxes and fireflies, and the wind
that sings in harmony—all will sink back into the sea from whence it came and disappear forever.

The three good souls who live here—Claudio, Aria, and Teo—don't know this is about to happen. They go about their days unaware. They sleep peacefully in their little cave dwelling, fitted by the goddess with smooth stone floors, rectangular rooms, arched doorways, and natural stone benches of varying shapes and sizes, all exactly as required to serve as tables, beds, and stools. They eat from the trees that reach down to offer them fruit and nuts. They drink from clear springs that appear whenever they are thirsty.

But while they can't see into the mind of Athene or envision the complex string of events she has already set in motion, they can feel the change in the air. They've grown restless of late, perhaps even a little bit bored with their effortless life in this remote and beautiful place, which, despite its divine perfection, seems to get smaller every year.

The children don't really understand what's troubling them. Maybe it's just that there's nothing to do. They've read every scroll in their possession many times. Their father has told them all his stories. Teo, now twelve, still has his lessons every day, but they're only going through the motions. He picked up most of what Aria learned back when she was learning it, and
whatever he didn't quite grasp at the time, she later explained.

So he and Aria have taken to inventing projects to fill their time. Most recently, they measured and mapped the island, naming and cataloging all its inhabitants, plants and animals both. But once that was finished, they came to a halt. It's strange—there used to be a thousand things they wanted to do. Now they can't think of one.