The Chosen Prince (18 page)

There aren't even any chores to do. Clothing is the only thing the island doesn't provide, and in the past they spent many hours mending and remaking their garments as they threatened to fall apart or didn't fit anymore. But they have no cloth that's fit to use; mostly it's just scraps and rags. And their thread, made from unraveled bits of fabric, is so old it snaps under pressure. Then Teo lost their only needle, and that was the end of it.

Not that it really matters that Claudio's robe, formerly a coverlet, is ripped halfway up the side, or that Teo's tunic is bursting at the seams, or that Aria has been reduced to wearing one of her father's old tunics, soiled and much too big for her, belted with a frayed and dirty cord. They don't care. Who is there to see them? They are alone on an island.

What troubles them is this restlessness they can't
seem to shake, the growing presentiment that something's about to happen. They're like the host who's prepared a feast and now everything is ready—the table is set, the food prepared, the lamps all blazing—and there's nothing left to do but wait for the guests to arrive. That's how it feels:
finished, waiting
.

Of late, Claudio has given up all pretense of going about his normal routine. He sits at the edge of the garden staring down at the harbor all day. But the view never changes. It's still just the beach, the sea, and the fog.

Teo and Aria wait with him. At times they get fidgety and wander off to bathe under the waterfall or go in search of foxes; but always they come back. They sit at his feet making grass whistles or flower crowns. Without being quite aware of it, they have moved from feeling expectant to actually
longing
for something to happen.

One afternoon, it finally does.

“Look there!” Teo cries, pointing out to sea. “See, the fog is lifting!”

And so it is. Though the sky is still overcast, the mist is rising from the water. And far in the distance, dark and discrete, great ballooning clouds with sharp, defined edges are beginning to form. Bright webs of
lightning flash out of their shadows. Even here on the island, they can feel the roll of thunder.

“Oh!” Aria cries. She has never seen a storm before. And no one, anywhere, has seen a storm like this.

“Don't be afraid,” Claudio says. “It's just a tempest at sea.” Yet despite his easy words, he leans forward anxiously and studies the storm through squinted eyes. “It is odd, though—the clouds. See how luminous they are? All the many colors?”

“They're beautiful,” Aria agrees, “in a terrible sort of way. But why is the storm only in one place? See, all around it on every side, the water is calm and bright. Is that how tempests usually are?”

“No.”

“Papa,” Teo says, “are those
ships
? See, there: in the very darkest part of the clouds, a little to the edge on the left.”

Claudio squints still harder. His eyes aren't what they used to be. “Yes,” he finally says. “Yes, you're right.”

The children have never seen a ship before either,
at least not that they can remember. They've read about them, though, and they understand that wherever there are ships there will also be people. Other people—something else they've never seen before. Or at least not that they can remember.

“Isn't it dangerous, being on a ship in a storm like that?”

“Very dangerous.”

“But wait!” Teo cries. “See—they're sailing out of it now. The people will be all right!”

And Teo is mostly correct. At the far side of the cloud cluster a favorable wind is driving the little fleet away from the storm and out into the calm seas. But one ship remains in the tempest's powerful grip, tossing wildly in the heavy swells. It looks as if, any moment now, it will pitch over and sink.

And yet it doesn't; it continues to move forward. Caught by an altogether different wind than the one that propels its fellows, it is heading directly south toward the island's rocky shore.

“May the gods protect them,” Claudio whispers. “Hurry, we must go down there. Maybe we can be of some help.”

They are up and running in an instant, down the winding path that hugs the cliff and leads to the beach far below. In places along the way, their view is obscured by bushes and trees. Here they run even faster, anxious to reach the next open spot to see how the orphaned ship is faring. It's flying in now at tremendous speed, just skimming the tops of the waves
as seabirds do, still pursued by those ominous clouds.

“Is that normal?” Aria asks.

“Not in the least,” Claudio says. “Go!”

They continue down the slope, one sharp turn followed by another. After a long wooded section where they can see nothing at all, they come again to an open place. Here they stop and stare, openmouthed, as the ship comes racing toward them: past the ring of jagged rocks, into the harbor and onto the beach, the bow carving a deep cleft in the sand. And there it comes to a shuddering stop.

Teo and Aria are off again, sprinting down the path, breathless with excitement. But Claudio doesn't move. He's staring, dumbfounded, at the pennant the ship flies. He blinks, then blinks again.

“Wait! Stop!” he calls in an urgent whisper, just loud enough for them to hear. “Turn around. Come back. Hurry!”

“But, Papa—” Teo pleads.

“Now!”

“But
why
?”

Neither he nor Aria moves an inch.

“There's a man on that ship who is a danger to us. I want you to come back
right now
!”

Reluctantly, they return.

“What man?” Aria asks. “And how can you know
he's dangerous? You've never even seen—”

“Yes I have, daughter. I have seen that man. I know all about him. And for now I want you to trust me and go back up the trail as quickly and quietly as you can. Stoop low as you pass the open spaces. They must not know we are here.”

AS THEY RUN, THE
island follows closely in their wake, erasing every trace of their existence. Eager vines creep out to cover the path; grasses sprout from hard-packed earth; stones rise up, aged and speckled with lichen, as if they'd been there a thousand years. When they reach the top, they find their garden choked with weeds and woody brush, shoulder high in places. And by the time they have gathered up their few belongings and carried them away to the temple of Athene, the entrance to their cave home has been buried under a mass of thorny vines.

The island is hiding them from the enemy, Claudio says. Or maybe Athene is doing it. Or perhaps, in some unfathomable way, they are one and the same.

Only the temple remains. It's a humble place with
no columns, no portico, and no altar, just a shallow cave at the base of a cliff enclosed by a stone facade. Inside, the walls, floor, and ceiling are the natural black rock of the cliff itself, arching overhead, smooth to the touch. And standing against the far wall, as pale as the little room is dark, is an image of Athene about the height of a full-grown man, which Claudio carved himself.

A small votive lamp at the feet of the goddess fills the temple with soft, flickering light. It has done so without ceasing for seventeen years, a miracle of sorts, due entirely to the sweet-smelling, long-burning oil made from the cluster-nut, which grows nowhere else in the world but here.

This small, shadowy room, formerly so bare and austere, looks almost cheerful now. The family has piled their belongings against the front wall and spread out their pallets on the floor. Claudio has lit a second, brighter lamp.

“Now,” Teo says when they are all seated. “Tell us.”

“I will,” Claudio replies. “But understand: this is not easy for me. Just as the island is protecting us by covering our traces with brambles and weeds, so I have tried to protect you with my silence all these years. I see I must break that silence now, because unless you know my history, you cannot fully appreciate the
danger we face. And since telling that story forces me to tell another, I'll have to give you both—but out of order, for I believe that is the kindest way to do it.”

Claudio reaches over and takes Teo's hand. Teo looks up at him, puzzled, wondering why he's been singled out for this solemn attention.

“One night, eight years ago, I woke from a dream in which I heard a child calling for help. That dream was sent by Athene; and having gotten my attention, she then guided me down the path to the beach, the same one we walked today.”

“Oh,” Aria says. She knows which story this will be.

“Aria woke and followed me. So we were both there to see a little skiff come floating out of the fog and into the harbor. We saw the waters grow still and the sand rise up so the child in the boat could step safely out onto dry land. It was a little boy, about four years old. And at first he was so frightened that he wouldn't speak. He only managed a single word. I asked him his name, and he said, ‘Teo.'”

“I don't understand.”

“
You
were that little boy, son. This is the story of how you came to be here.”

“But I thought—”

“I know. Listen now; there's more.

“We never knew how you came to be alone in that
little boat, adrift on the dangerous sea. But whatever happened, I felt sure it would be painful for you to remember. Also the life you left behind: your home, your parents and friends, and everything familiar, now lost. And since you were so very young, we—Aria and I—hoped that with time you would forget it entirely and come to believe you'd always been here with us. You might say we conspired to make that happen. I don't think we ever actually lied. We just left things unsaid. I know it must be disturbing for you to hear it now.”

Teo is blinking back tears. “You're not my father, then?” he says. “Aria's not my sister?” Claudio grips Teo's hand a little tighter.

“Not blood-born, but in every way that matters. I love you as my son; Aria loves you as her brother.” Aria scoots over and wraps an arm around Teo's waist and leans her head on his shoulder.

“Teo, I must also tell you that your miraculous salvation was neither good fortune nor an act of nature. The goddess brought you here so you would be safe—and so you could be with us. There was purpose in it.”

Teo nods.

Claudio takes his daughter's hand. They are linked now, all three.

“This next story happened earlier, seventeen years
ago. As you will see, Teo is absent from it. That's why I had to explain first how he came to us.”

He pauses, gathering his thoughts.

“The man I saw on the deck of that ship, the man who frightened me, is my nephew, Pyratos, king of Ferra. He's my late brother's only son.”

“Your brother was a
king
?” Aria's eyes are bright with astonishment.

“Yes. And when he died, his son was just fourteen, too young to rule on his own. So my brother asked me—as a favor, on his deathbed—to safeguard the kingdom and guide young Pyratos until he came of age. Of course I was glad to do it.”

“You ruled a kingdom?”

“Yes, Aria, and I did my best. I gave the boy the respect he was due. He was king after all, however young he might be. I was careful to include him in all the decisions I made, teaching him as we went along. But we were ill matched. He thought I was overly cautious, ploddingly slow, worse than the world's dullest schoolmaster. And I thought him headstrong, reckless, and impulsive. I was the wrong man for the task, I'm afraid; that's the heart of it. Pyratos needed a heavy hand, not reason and kindness.”

“I'll bet he wouldn't have liked a heavy hand either,” Teo says.

“No, but he wouldn't have been so bold if he'd been afraid of me.”

Claudio sighs and gazes up at the ceiling, the slick stone shimmering with the light of both lamps. He seems reluctant to go on. But he does.

“By the time Pyratos was seventeen, he was well versed in general statecraft and all things military, thanks to my careful training. But he'd also formed some very definite notions of his own on the direction that Ferra should take. I felt his ideas were dangerous, radical even. If he followed that path he was sure to further stir the anger of the gods. I tried many times to warn him.

“One day when we were alone in the council chamber, we argued about it. He lost his temper and struck me hard with the back of his hand. I fell off my stool and onto the floor. Then he stood over me and shouted curses.

“After that, of course, there was no going back—for me or for him. I sent Pyratos a respectful message offering to resign my position so he could choose someone more to his liking to advise him. He wrote back accepting my resignation, then put me under house arrest, seized all my lands and worldly goods, and refused to take any more advice from anyone.

“Guards were posted outside my door. Except for
the servants who did the marketing, no one was permitted to leave or enter the house. Lydia, my wife, was ill at the time, yet neither a physician nor an apothecary was allowed inside the walls. I'm sorry, Aria; that's how it was your mother died.”

Aria looks down at her hands, her cheeks flushed. All of this has been upsetting, but it seems especially cruel that, not only had her mother died so young, but Aria had never known her at all, had never even wondered who her mother was. Everything she knew about mothers came from books. She looks up at her father, blinking back tears.

“I'm not finished yet; I'm sorry. Do you think you can bear it?”

“I must. I need to know.”

“All right. So Pyratos, having already taken my beloved wife, my freedom, and my fortune, he now determined to have my life as well.

“Late one night he came to my house with a troop of armed men. He sent a servant upstairs to wake me. When I came down, he was surprisingly polite. He said he wished to discuss some urgent business in private. So we withdrew into my study and shut the door. I thought he'd had a change of heart, and I was glad. But his courtesy was only for show.