The Chosen Prince (20 page)

Pyratos stares at the officer for a while, just to make him squirm, then, “Leave us,” he says, to everyone in general.

When they are gone, Pyratos sits on the ground in a regal sort of way and sets the lamp between them. It's the first time Alexos has seen his enemy up close like this. He was kept belowdecks throughout the voyage; then when they came onto the island, the king was busy elsewhere. Now, as he looks into the face of the man who murdered his father, Alexos is caught completely off guard. Pyratos might be a statue of Apollo brought magically to life. His form is manly, his face strikingly handsome, and his pale hair is as beautiful as that of a god.

“Well, well,” he says. “So this is the famous champion of Athene.” He glances down at the legs covered with a blanket. He is looking for the equally famous deformity, of course, and disappointed that it's not on view. “But surely you don't need
this
on such a warm night. Here, let me help you.” Dry wit, so terribly clever, loving every moment.

Pyratos pulls the blanket away, tossing it on the ground. Then he leans forward, chin out, and stares pointedly at Alexos' legs. “Oh, what a pity,” he says. The lamplight, shining on his face from below, leaves ghoulish puddles of darkness around his eyes.

Alexos, full of helpless rage, says nothing.

“But I don't suppose it really matters.” He reaches over to touch the iron brace, drums on it playfully with his fingers. “Athene would have to find herself a new champion anyway. You won't be much use to her without your head.”

Alexos recoils, as from a snake. “Isn't there supposed to be a trial first?”

“Oh, yes. First the trial, then the execution. And never fear, Alexos, it will be a thorough spectacle, befitting your kingly status. All of Ferra will turn out to enjoy it. Perhaps I should give a feast.”

“And here I thought the point of a trial was to determine the guilt or innocence of the accused.”

“And so it is. As it happens, you will be judged guilty.”

“Of what crime?”

“Has no one told you? Really? Conspiracy to murder, my dear boy.”

Alexos licks his lips, which are suddenly dry. “And who am I supposed to have killed?”

“My uncle, of course, the duke of Ferra. I'm amazed
you could forget such a masterful bit of trickery. You and old Ektor urged me to send an envoy to Arcos to discuss terms for a peace accord—remember? So I sent the duke and you sunk his ship, though it was flying the flag of truce. Your father has already paid for that crime. Now it's your turn.”

“You know that's ridiculous. A complete fabrication!”

“Do I?”

“I heard about your uncle's death years ago, when I was just a boy. Even then it was old news. I would have been two or three years old at the time he died, hardly capable of conspiracy. As for my father, he would rather have disemboweled himself than do such an ignoble thing. Nor would he have sued for peace, as that is contrary to the express commands of Olympian Zeus. Everything about your pitiful tale is wrong. The judge won't believe it; no one will.”

“Don't worry. I'll make sure they do. Then,
chop
!—off with your head.”

“You are a dreadful man, Pyratos.”

The king of Ferra rises without comment and takes up the lamp. “Enjoy your reprieve, you sad little king, for it will be brief.” With a merry chuckle he saunters away.

Alexos shivers as a chill runs down his shoulders, into his arms, his belly. He hunches over, shuts his
eyes, and concentrates on breathing.

“Alexos?” Suliman is beside him now. “Are you all right?”

“No. But I can't talk about it right now.” His eyes are still closed. He is still shaking.

And then they are all around him, his companions, in a conspiracy of touching. Suliman is stroking Alexos' hair, like a father consoling his little son who has lost his best toy. Leander straightens the disordered tunic, then lays the blanket back over the prince's legs, gently tucking it in all around. And Peles has slipped in on his other side. He lays a gentle hand on Alexos' shoulder and whispers in his ear.

“My lord?”

They are treating him like a child, Alexos thinks. He doesn't mind at all.

“What is it, Peles?”

“Before we were interrupted, I was telling you about the boy who so earnestly wants to help you. Do you want to hear the rest? I think you will like it.”

Alexos nods. He's still breathing heavily, but the trembling has stopped.

“The lad said, ‘This island belongs to the goddess Athene. I am under her protection, and I believe your master is, too. He is not meant to die here, I am sure of that.'”

He opens his eyes and looks at Peles. “How remarkable!”

“Yes, my lord. I thought so, too, and I was quite inclined to trust him. But you will judge for yourself when you meet him.”

“Soon, you say?”

“Later, when the guards are all asleep.”

“Yes, I remember now. You told me that before.”

He listens to the silence. It is absolute. And for a moment he wonders if that is a beautiful thing, or a premonition of death.

THE NIGHT IS UNCOMMONLY
dark, lit only by a crescent moon shining weakly through the fog. Around the dying campfire the guards are dead asleep, seduced by the softness of the silky grass and the fresh island mist on their sunburned cheeks. Janos has slumped against his tree, eyes closed, snoring softly.

Aria waits in a thicket at the far side of the clearing. She has hidden her hair under a brown woolen cap, left on that long-ago ship by one of the deserting sailors. Claudio had picked it up, thinking it might prove useful one day. And now it has. Dressed in her father's tunic and wearing the sailor's cap, Aria has transformed herself into a creditable boy.

It's been a while since she last heard any sound from either camp, except for the snoring guard. Surely
it must be safe to make her move.

Softly she makes the call of a small, croaking frog—once, twice, three times. Moments later, a cricket responds, their agreed-upon signal. Aria creeps out into the open, taking care to keep the tree between herself and the sleeping guards.

Peles, seeing her approach, touches the king's shoulder to wake him, while one of the other attendants, an older man, rolls over as if in his sleep, opening a space for her to sit beside him.

It ought to be dark here, as it is everywhere else. The moon is just an eyelash of light shining dimly through the fog, and the fireflies left the island when Pyratos arrived. Yet it seems a few of them still remain. They hover around his face now, as if inviting her to look.

Aria has read about the great heroes of yore, and often they are described as
handsome
. This she has long understood to mean that they are pleasant to look at, as flowers and foxes are. But her personal experience with men and their faces has been severely limited. So
handsome
remained an abstract notion, not something she could picture in her mind.

Earlier that night, as she sat in her spying place above the prison camp watching and listening to the guards, she had realized that humans came in many
different forms. Faces could be long or round; noses small or large, long, broad, upturned, or drooping. Hair might be curly, straight, or sparse. But not one of the guards, and certainly not the man called Peles, had struck her as especially beautiful. So it must be that the writers of stories described a man as
handsome
to distinguish him from the rest.

Now as she studies the prisoner-king by the light of a few dozen fireflies, she sees that
handsome
means more than merely pleasant. It is something that makes you catch your breath. It stirs secret yearnings you never even knew were there. But even more than that,
handsome
is the capacity in a face to express who a person really is.

And while the king of Arcos is unquestionably a lovely thing to gaze upon, he is deeply marked by tragedy, worn by unrelenting struggle. There is such fierce intensity in those glittering eyes, desperation almost, and at the same time a deep fragility, that Aria longs to comfort him. She wants to take him in her arms and stroke his hair as she used to do when Teo was sad.

Now that she thinks of Teo, she can see how very alike they are, her brother and this man. That would explain the sudden rush of affection she is feeling.

She leans down and whispers in his ear, so close that his hair brushes her cheek. “Your man Peles tells
me that you are the king of Arcos,” she says.

“That's true. I am.” His voice, even as he whispers, is deep. The sound of it sends a peculiar thrill running through her.

“You seem very young to be a king.”

“I was younger still when I became one.”

“Well,” Aria says, “I would like to help you. But there are only a few of us and we have no weapons. The best we could do is set you free and hide you where you won't be found.”

“And how would you set me free?”

“Your man said he could lift the keys from the officer's belt.”

“Really?” The king smiles and his face is suddenly transformed. It's softer now, affectionate, amused. “Then I trust he can do it. Peles is a man of many talents.”

The king is staring searchingly at her and she begins to fear that her deception hasn't fooled him. She puts a hand to her cap, making sure it's pulled down low enough to cover all her hair. “I will have to consult with the others first, before I commit to anything. They will want to know more.”

“All right.”

“I heard what King Pyratos said, so I know a lot already.”

“But how is that possible? Where were you?”

“Right over there.” She points.

“
Gods
, that was risky!”

She shrugs. “I know how to be stealthy. So is there anything else you feel you should tell me—how you came to be Pyratos' prisoner, why he wants to kill you?”

He's silent for a time, forming his thoughts. “I met him for the first time this evening, but he has long been my enemy—not only because our kingdoms are at war with each other, but because he murdered my father. He would have done the same to me if Peles hadn't helped me escape. That's how I came to be king at such a tender age. I was not yet fourteen.”

“How did he kill your father?”

“He didn't do it himself, if that's what you're asking. He sent a small force of assassins into our camp, in strict violation of a long-standing truce between sunset and dawn.”

“I see.”

“After that, we never trusted his word again; we increased the security all along the border, building more watchtowers and doubling the number of sentries. But I made a mistake, left one place unprotected, and Pyratos noticed.”

“What was it?”

“A swamp. It's on the coast, about ten miles north of the border, where a river runs into the sea. It's completely impassible, miles and miles of sucking sand, choked with reeds and grasses. I didn't think we needed to put a watchtower there, or post any sentries. That's how they came in.

“I was asleep in my tent at army headquarters. I'd only just arrived. Unlike Pyratos and my late father, I don't live and rule my kingdom from the borderlands. I leave the war to my generals, who are far more competent than I, and concentrate on finding ways to help my people. But I am obligated to go down there once in a while, and this happened to be one of those visits.

“Pyratos had been planning and preparing for a long time. His men were ready to go at a moment's notice. They had devised all sorts of special equipment: belts ringed with bladders inflated with air that allowed them to float, breathing tubes, special shoes shaped like frog's feet to propel them through the water, poles with flat disks on the bottom so they wouldn't sink in the mire. They were very clever, I'll grant them that, but it was still a difficult assignment, even with the special gear. Yet they made it through those miles of swamp and onto dry land.

“Then, under cover of darkness, they entered our camp from the rear, silently killing as they went. They
slaughtered my personal guards, men who have served me since I was a child, then came into my tent. I woke as they were forcing a gag into my mouth. Then they bound me with ropes and made my attendants carry me away, threatening to slit my throat if they made the smallest sound. Pyratos insisted they bring along my physician, too, so he could keep me in good health.”

“Why would he care about your health? He wants to chop off your head.”

“He wants a public trial first,
then
the execution. But you heard all that already.”

She nods.

“When we reached the swamp they put me into a slender little knife of a boat, light and buoyant and pointed at both ends. They'd towed it behind them when they came in; now they towed it out with me inside. It was rather like being in a very narrow coffin. Peles and Leander floated, paddled, and poled along with Pyratos' men. Suliman, my physician, who was not able to swim, clung to the stern of the boat. It was horrible for them all, far worse than it was for me.

“A skiff was waiting at the edge of the reeds to carry us to Ferra. They have a large military port just south of the borderlands, full of transport ships. We were transferred to one of them, put in a cabin belowdecks. Then Pyratos came on board and we headed south
along the coast, bound for the
polis
of Ferra. But a violent tempest rose up, as you know, and blew us out to sea. There's no need to tell you the rest.

“As for your other questions, I don't know why Pyratos would feel such personal hatred for me and my late father. We did nothing to harm him; we just pursued the war as we were commanded to do. He may want to put an end to the royal line of Arcos so he can claim the kingdom. But that doesn't explain the grand public trial. He could have had me assassinated right there in Arcos, as he did with my father. And if it was personal satisfaction he wanted, he could have put a knife between my ribs this very night. Yet he didn't. I honestly don't understand it.”