The Chosen Prince (27 page)

Aria has been talking to a stone.

Stiff from kneeling so long, she rises, puts on her sandals, and steps out of the dimly lit temple into the bright afternoon. Dazzled by the light, she waits for her eyes to adjust. But even when they have, she continues to stand there, squinting and blinking. There must be something wrong with her vision. The sacred grove and the landscape beyond seem to have faded to drab. It's like the world is dying, all the
life and color bleeding out of it.

But no, her eyes are fine. Her hands, her tunic, are exactly as they were—it's everything else that has changed. The trees are almost entirely bare, their branches bleached bone-white. The fallen leaves lie in heaps on the ground, dark and wet, rotting.

Was her father trying to warn her when he said things were “changing by the hour”? If so, she'd misunderstood, assuming he was referring to
events
, not changes to the island itself. She should have listened more carefully, or maybe she should have asked, or maybe he should have explained himself better. Then she might have been prepared.

But wait—could this be just another example of Athene's protection, like the overgrown path and their weed-choked garden? Aria likes this theory, though she knows it isn't logically sound: her family doesn't need protecting anymore. Pyratos is dead, Claudio is king, and their presence on the island is hardly a secret. And another thing: these dying trees feel altogether different from the changes to the garden and the path. It isn't just wild and weedy; the sacred grove feels polluted, sickly. It frightens her just to be there, as if the ruin were contagious and to stay too long would mean her own destruction.

Suddenly she is desperate to get away. Already
something inside her is curdling. So she runs.

She will go to the waterfall. It's where she and Teo always went to bathe, but also to lie in the grass and talk. It's a healing place, full of warm and happy memories. She will go there now. She'll stand on the smooth stone platform under the cascade of fresh, cold water and let it wash away the dust and her misery both. She hadn't realized how troubled she was till she thought of the waterfall. Now it's like something to drink when you're thirsty, food when you're starving: exactly what she needs. And the anticipation of this small, sweet comfort grows so vivid in her mind that Aria grows almost sick with yearning.

She runs and runs—away from the dying trees, toward hope and beauty and healing—but things don't get better; they get worse. In the orchard, rotting fruit and nuts lie scattered on the ground, half-covered with a blanket of shriveled leaves.

In her agitation, Aria is not careful where she steps. She slips in the muck and falls hard, landing on a mound of decomposing scarlet perrums. They are gooey and black, turning to mush; they smear her arms and legs with the sticky mess. The smell of decay is in her nostrils, musty and overripe, and her stomach heaves. Tears sting her eyes.

She forces herself to rise and keep on going, but
she's losing hope with every step. Everything everywhere is in decline: fading, moldering, cracking, shriveling, rotting. And though she's almost there, certainly close enough to hear the roar of a rushing stream, the only break in the silence is the crackle of dry leaves under her feet.
The waterfall has run dry
.

But this knowledge does not prepare her for what she sees when she gets there, for however dark her expectations, the reality always seems to be worse. The waterfall has not merely dried up; the cliff itself is crumbling away. A dusty pile of rocks spreads out from the base, half filling the pool. And what water remains is dark and cloudy. Noxious scum floats on the surface. The air is thick with a putrid smell, worse even than the rotting fruit.

Aria drops onto the dry and matted grass, utterly defeated. There's no point in resisting the obvious: her beautiful home is dying. It will be like this wherever she goes. There is nothing left to eat anymore, no fresh water to drink. Athene, who made this island in all its perfection, doesn't need it anymore. Now she is shrugging it off like an old, worn cloak.

It shocks Aria down to the marrow of her bones.

She wanders randomly from one ruined place to another. She knows there's nothing new to learn; she
fully understands what's happening. But she feels the need to mourn. That's what you do when something or somebody dies: you take a last look, you remember the good things, you give yourself permission to be sad.

At some point she becomes aware that her feet are carrying her down the mountain slope toward the great stand of pines that grows at the edge of the sea. Aria has always loved that particular forest. The air is so fresh and briny there, the trees so tall and straight, their trunks like the pillars of an enormous temple. It always felt to her like a holy place.

The old path has disappeared under a wild tangle of thick growth, but Aria knows the way. She plows through the thorny underbrush, her bare ankles stinging from the countless little scratches. Most of the time she is looking down, watching for hidden rocks and ruts, stepping carefully over trailing vines. But now and then she raises her eyes to make note of landmarks and stay on course. Before long she begins to hear the rhythmic sounds of the sea, the
hussssh
,
hussssh
,
husssh
as waves crash against the rocks below.

All her life she's wondered what lay beyond that shore, beyond the sea and the fog. She'd asked her father about it many times. “It's not like this,” is all he would say. “People must struggle just to eat. The
weather is foul. There is suffering and disease. It's better here.”

But Aria couldn't help being curious. On lazy afternoons she would lie in the grass, her fingers busy making flower crowns, trying to imagine that faraway land and all the strange things she'd read about, but never seen: wolves, chariots, bread, cities, snow.

Soon she will see it for herself. A ship will come, everyone will climb on board, and they'll sail across the dark waters to a strange and foreign place. Aria will go because she cannot stay. The island will be gone.

She's been so occupied with these troubling thoughts that she's surprised to look up and see tall pines ahead. They are dying, too, of course, their branches mostly bare, and the few needles still clinging to the bark are an angry, ugly brown.

But—she blinks, squints, and is half convinced that she sees a faraway patch of green. Her heart pounding with hope now, she leaves the scrub and enters the forest. The ground is soft and spongy here, the air still sweet with the fragrance of salt and pine. The deeper she goes, the surer she is that she was not mistaken. Those are living trees up ahead, as grand and majestic as ever they were—only more so now, stage lit as they are by that inexplicable stream of light cutting through the mist.

She reaches the circle of light and stops at the edge of it. It's as if the fog has swallowed the sun, each tiny droplet of moisture catching and reflecting its light. Everything is alive with brilliance and color, like being inside a diamond.

Suddenly Aria is struck by a force of such immensity that her knees grow weak and she sinks to the ground in awe. There is no doubt, none at all, that she is in the presence of the goddess. Athene is not a statue; she doesn't need a temple. She is light and air, things you cannot touch: wisdom, goodness, power.

There are things Aria ought to say at a moment like this: words of praise, words of thanks, and all those other words her father uses in his prayers—ancient and mysterious, appropriate for addressing the immortals. But they have all flown out of her mind. So she stays as she is, knees resting on a soft carpet of pine, the sound of her labored breaths filling the silence, tears streaming down her cheeks.

And as slowly as the dawn, it comes to her: Athene doesn't want her thanks or praise right now. She wants something very particular, something important, something only Aria can give.

“I am here,” Aria says. “I give myself to you. Guide me and I will do whatever you ask.” The light swells, blindingly bright. At the same time the air seems to
compress around her. Dense and warm, it seems to hold her. It feels like an embrace.

Aria is bent over now, her forehead resting on the forest floor, her arms reaching out to the circle of light. She has committed herself, made her offer. The answer is not long in coming.

She is standing in a beautiful room. There are tapestries hanging on the walls; the furniture is finely carved, the wood dark. There are tables, scrolls, carpets, silver lamps on silver stands. The floor is a cunning pattern made from countless tiny stones—black and creamy white, russet, green. The shutters are open, but there is no breeze. It's hot in the room, hot and damp.

She is standing in front of a man, her hands behind her back. He is sitting at a desk, looking up at her: a burly man, broad of shoulder and brown of face, and richly dressed, like someone important.

Aria is afraid of him.

“You may sit,” the man says, so she does. And in the process, she notices the fine tunic she's wearing, the strong, slender legs, the beautiful long-fingered hands. None of them belong to her. It's as though she has become another person altogether—a different person in a place she's never been; and somehow she
knows that the man with the hard eyes is her father.

“I have good reports from all your masters,” he says. “That's as it should be, of course. Much is expected of you. You cannot afford to fall behind.”

She has heard this before many times and it's always the same: good work, now do better. Her spirit shrivels a little. The way he looks at her makes her cringe.

“I won't, Father,” she says. . . .

THEY ARE SITTING ON
the camp bed when Suliman comes in. They have leaned in close as they talk, their heads almost touching; Alexos is holding Teo's hand. At the sight of them, the physician seems to melt: soft folds form around his eyes, which somehow grow darker and brighter at the same time.

“Please excuse the interruption, my lord,” he says.

Alexos sits up a little straighter. “Is there something the matter?”

“Not at all. I have only come to say that Teo's sister is waiting outside.”

There follows a weighty pause. Then, tentatively, “What does she want?”

“To speak with you, Alexos. Alone.”

They exchange a long and meaningful look. All of
this makes Teo nervous. His eyes dart from one to the other, trying to make sense of it.

“All right,” Alexos says, but he doesn't move.

“Shall I help you dress?” Suliman seems to be stifling a grin.

Alexos looks down at his bare chest, his underclothes, his uncovered legs. “Oh. Yes. That would be good.”

“Is she angry?” Teo asks.

“No, my prince.” Suliman fetches the king's tunic, now ruined with damp and dirt, and helps him pull it over his head. “I believe it would be more accurate to say that your sister is terrified.”

“Ah,” Alexos says. “Well, that makes two of us, then.”

“Would you prefer to stay seated as you are? You will have the advantage of height if you are standing.” Suliman is actually chuckling now. Alexos points to the cane and Suliman brings it. Then he rises and positions himself in the middle of the tent. He can feel all the color draining out of his face.

“I hope she's nice to you,” Teo says, looking up at him.

“I hope so too, little man. Give me your hand for luck.” Teo does. “Will you come again soon? Please say yes.”

“Of course I will.”

She slips in quietly and stands by the entrance. It seems to Alexos that she has brought her own light—it's that astonishing white-gold hair; the perfect, radiant skin: pink, like the blush on a peach. A shiver runs through him and all he can do is watch her: the subtle hint of emotion playing over her face; the way she looks down at her feet, dirty and covered with scratches, then up again; the strand of hair that falls across her eyes; how she brushes it away.

Is she waiting for him to say something? Is he supposed to begin? Yes, probably. But what can he say?

“Thank you for coming here,” he tries. “Though of course I understand it is not something you would . . . that is to say, that you might . . . I mean . . .”

He gives it up.

She is studying her fingernails, as nervous and tongue-tied as he is. And she's so small! He hadn't noticed that before. Now he positively looms over her, not at all what he'd intended. He wishes he hadn't chosen to stand, but now it's too late.

He really needs to say something. This silence is dreadful. Frantically, he works it out in his mind, numbering and arranging the things that need to be said. Finally they fall into place. He has it now. He can do this.

“May I tell you something?” he begins.

She looks up with interest.

“When we spoke those two times, while I was still a prisoner and you came to me in disguise, I told you I had dreamed about this island, but I thought it was the death-world. Do you remember?”

She nods, so serious.

“I have had those dreams many times. I was twelve years old when they began. You were even younger; Teo was only four. I watched you grow up. And in a strange sort of way, I shared your childhood—your lessons, your games, your adventures. I saw you tame a fox.”

Still she doesn't speak.

“But those weren't common dreams; that's what I'm trying to say. Athene sent them to me, first in the temple on the day she called me out of childhood and into her service, then again as I lay dying from despair over the terrible thing I had done. It was only because I saw Teo here, in what I believed to be a blessed afterlife, with a loving death-father and death-sister to comfort and care for him—” His voice breaks. He swallows, clears his throat. “That's the only reason I was able to go on living, to finish the task the goddess had set for me. Those dreams were my one great consolation.”