The Chosen Prince (6 page)

His assigned place is near the right edge. He'll need to make a lightning start and stay ahead of the pack just long enough to work his way across to the far left side. If he misses this chance, he'll have to wait till the mass of runners has started to spread out, which could take a while, perfectly matched as they are.

This strategy is mostly used when running on an oval track. But while it doesn't exactly apply here,
where the course meanders through the city and out into the countryside, the track will eventually make a wide turn to the left nearly a mile long, and the runners on the inside lane will have an advantage. So it's worth the effort, the master had explained; the smallest thing can make a difference in a contest like this.

They are all on their marks now, tense and waiting. Then comes the final blast of horns and they are off. Alexos' toes grip the sand and hurl him forward, his strides measured and graceful, his body straight, and his arms pumping. He shifts to the left a heartbeat before the man beside him moves up to block his way; then he slides left again.

Now he's running beside Leander and can't get past him. They race side by side like a pair of oxen pulling a plow, until Alexos puts on another burst of speed and crosses two more lanes. But it doesn't come easily; it's like running through steam. His legs ache as they've never ached before, his lungs can't get enough air, and his head is pulsing with pain.

Alexos has run greater distances than this and done it with relative ease. He can't think why, so early on, he seems to be nearing his limit. It makes no sense. It's alarming.

At least he's finished with strategy; that's something,
anyway. The field is spreading out a bit and he has the inside edge. Leander is right behind him, huffing and grunting as he runs. He's doing it on purpose, of course. Leander never grunts. He's trying to make Alexos nervous. But it has the opposite effect. It makes Alexos want to laugh. It lifts his spirits.

The miles fly past. They've left the city now, out through the east gate and into the drab, sun-baked landscape of the countryside, making the long turn back toward the finish line. Alexos has a good position. Now the time has come to put those famous wings on his heels.

He pushes everything out of his mind—Leander, the other runners, his exhaustion, the headache, the pain in his legs. He becomes a racing animal, as natural as a soaring hawk or a leaping deer. Sweat runs down his forehead and into his eyes; he blinks away the stinging salt and keeps on going. This is how Alexos runs, how he does everything—not to win, just to do his best.

There are four or five in the lead now, clustered loosely together. Alexos pays no attention to them, doesn't even bother to notice who they are. He's racing only for himself, just running as fast as he can.

But there really is something wrong with his legs. They're trembling, unsteady; he's half afraid they'll
suddenly refuse even to hold him up. He feels himself slowing down, just a little. He decides that's probably wise. He doesn't quite trust his balance anymore. Better to lose speed than to lose control.

Then someone passes him close on the right, startling him and putting him off his rhythm. Alexos stumbles, and for a horrible moment he's afraid he might actually fall. But he doesn't; he recovers his stride. Only now the man is directly in front of him on the inside lane.

It's Peles of Attaros, and he is a wonder.

He runs as little children do, for the joy of it. No one has forced him to come here and compete with noblemen's sons. No one has taught him technique or strategy. And certainly no one expects him to win. He's just here because he wants to be. And he runs as simply, naturally, and beautifully as the wind moves across a meadow. Watching him, Alexos is struck by the sudden knowledge that
this boy
—who probably sleeps on straw in a one-room wattle hut—is freer than Alexos himself will ever be.

Alexos has completely lost his concentration now. He's overwhelmed by the troubling symptoms he's mostly managed to ignore till now: his burning cheeks and stinging eyes, the rising nausea, the throbbing pain in his head, and the terrible, aching unsteadiness of his legs.

He's falling behind. His form is terrible. He lurches from side to side as more runners pass him—two, three, four of them, including Leander.

He can't concentrate at all anymore; his mind is heavy, as though he was just awakened from a deep sleep. His legs are still moving, but haltingly. Three more runners pass him, gasping for breath, putting on speed as they near the finish. Alexos can hear the screams of the crowd and is vaguely conscious of the pavilion up ahead, where his father and Teo sit in regal splendor, expecting him to win this race.

But Alexos is only trotting now—stumbling, almost. His face is on fire; he feels as if he will melt onto the track like candle wax. He's not sure he can even finish the race.

A huge roar goes up from the crowd: the winner has crossed the line. And from the amazed exuberance of the shouting—it goes on, and on, and on—Alexos is pretty sure he knows who it was.

Was-buzzzz, buzzzzzzzz
. His mind is buzzing, as though flies have crawled inside his head. He listens, inert. He can't see much of anything. It's all blurry, the world around him. Like fog—hot, stifling fog. He wants to lie down somewhere cool. Grass would be nice.

And then, from deep inside his consciousness, he wills himself to stop drifting and come back to the
race. He looks lazily down at his feet and is startled to see that they aren't moving at all. He's just standing there, bleeding sweat onto the track.

The shock of this clears his mind—not completely, but enough to understand that he has failed to a degree that was unimaginable till now. He has failed his father, he has failed the goddess, and he has failed Teo. The shame of his performance will dog him for the rest of his life. But at least,
at the very least
, it will not be said that Alexos didn't finish the race.

So he hobbles the rest of the way, staggering like a drunkard. He feels the eyes of the crowd burning into him—for they have fallen silent now, and it's a silence of horror and pity.
Don't think about it
, he tells himself.
Just take another step and then another after that.

It goes on forever. He is hunched over, staring down at his legs, so ungainly, so very weak. And then he steps across the chalk line, smeared now by the eleven pairs of feet that have run across it. And there he stops.

Alexos watches his father with something akin to awe. How does the king maintain such incredible control? He sets the laurel crown on the oily, sweaty brow of a peasant lad who has just defeated a host of young aristocrats—and does not look amazed. His son and
heir, the future savior of Arcos, has publicly shamed and disappointed him—and he shows no anger or despair. Teo is weeping and making a scene. Ektor ignores him. He goes through the ceremony of praise to the goddess in a calm and dignified manner. He acknowledges the cheering crowd of commoners, delirious with pride that one of their own has won the laurel crown, and guides young Peles of Attaros to his proper place for the procession back to the palace.

Never once does he show any feeling at all.

Never once does he look at his son.

Alexos sends a message saying he's unwell and cannot attend the banquet. The king does not reply. The next morning he is gone, back to the borderlands. Father and son have not exchanged a single word.

DAYS FLOW SEAMLESSLY INTO
nights, and days, and
nights: fever dreams broken by fitful wakefulness, both soon forgotten, all of it much the same. It is always dark. Lamplit faces hover over him; the servants speak in whispers. He is bathed, arranged, changed, massaged, examined. Drops are administered, damp cloths, sharp-smelling unguents, powders. Someone combs his hair.

On the fourth day, Alexos wakes, truly aware for the first time. He can't tell if it is night or day; the shutters are closed, so the room is dark. But a lamp is burning on the table by his bed. His skin feels dry; it itches. And his back aches from lying so long in one position. The room is too warm and smells of sickness: sweat, medicines, urine, too many people. His first conscious thought is,
Will someone please open a
window?
Then he sees Suliman, the court physician, standing over him.

“What happened?” he says. His voice sounds strange to him. It's breathy and the words are slurred.

“You've been very ill, my prince.”

“How long . . . ?”

“Four days. But the fever is down. You're on the mend now.”

Alexos doesn't feel like he's on the mend. He feels like he's been trod upon by horses, then left to rot all night in a bog.

Extra servants have been brought in, among them Teo's nursemaid Carissa. They all seem to be wearing sad faces, as though someone has died, or is dying.

“Where's Teo?” he asks, suddenly alarmed.

“He's perfectly well, my lord.”

This isn't an answer to the question Alexos asked, but it's a relief. The sad faces must be for
him
, then, not Teo.

“I'm sorry, Alexos, but I can't allow your brother into the sickroom. There are some physicians who maintain that disease travels from one person to another through the patient's polluted breath. And I have observed often enough how sickness spreads through families. Better not to take the chance with Teo.”

Alexos nods.
Please, yes, keep him away
.

“I have sent a message to your father informing
him of your illness. I expect he'll return as soon as he gets the news. But it could take a week, perhaps longer. There is considerable distance to travel, first for the messenger and then for the king.”

Alexos closes his eyes. His father. Only now does he remember. “He won't come.”

“Why do you say that? Do you think he will stay away because of what happened—?”

“Yes
.
”
It comes out rather more sharply than he intended.

“But, Alexos—you were severely compromised, already burning with fever! Most people would have collapsed on the track. Truly, your conduct was greatly to your credit. The king will understand that once he learns of your illness. So will everyone else.”

This seems too good to be true: his shameful failure instantly erased, his father's anger assuaged, and his reputation magically restored. Life, in his experience, is never like that, at least not for him. When things go bad they generally tend to get worse instead of better.

“He'll come,” Suliman says. His fingers play idly with his long, black beard; he rolls the hairs together as a spinner winds wool. It's an old, familiar habit of his, something he does when he's thinking. And Alexos can guess what's on Suliman's mind: he's starting to have doubts as to whether Ektor will come
after all, and wondering how the prince will bear it if he does not.

“But for now,” Suliman says, “we must try to build you up again. You've had nothing but water these past four days and not very much of that. It would be a terrible shame if you survived the illness only to die of starvation.” He raises his dark brows, clearly hoping for some response, perhaps even a smile at his little joke. But when none is forthcoming—Alexos really doesn't have the energy—he pats the boy's arm and goes on in his soft, deep voice. “I've ordered you some nourishing broth. I know you won't be hungry, but you must take some if you can.”

“All right,” Alexos murmurs, though the thought of food is mildly repulsive. His gut feels as though it's been turned to stone, or has died, or withered away. He can't imagine putting anything in there.

“Then let me prop you up so you can eat more comfortably. Hesta, bring me the bolster, if you will.” A young servant Alexos has not seen before quickly produces the bolster. “Slip it behind his back. That's right; just so.”

Alexos allows himself to be arranged like a rag doll. He lies passively as Hesta drapes a cloth over his chest, then sits on a stool beside the bed and begins to feed him, rewarding him with a smile for every mouthful.

Does she take him for an infant, he wonders? He scowls at her and she blinks, surprised. She hadn't meant to offend him. “Just give me the soup,” he says softly.

Then he flinches suddenly as a sharp spasm grips his calf. He tries to shake it off, to raise the leg and pull up the foot to stretch against the cramping muscle, but he can't. The pain is terrible. He lets out a moan, clutches at the sheets, arches his back.

In an instant Hesta and her bowl are gone and Suliman is there, throwing back the covers, massaging the muscle. Alexos stares, panting, desperate for the cramping to stop. He tries to slide over the other leg to get it out of Suliman's way, but it might be made of wood and not attached to him at all, just a thing someone left in the bed.

“What's
wrong
with me?” he wails. “My legs won't move!”

“It's a feature of the illness,” the physician says, not looking up, continuing to work the muscle.

“What illness? You never said!”

But Suliman doesn't respond; it's as if he hadn't even heard the question. He just goes on pressing his thumbs into the belly of the muscle, moving down the length of it, kneading it like dough. As the cramping begins to ease, he rubs with a brisk, quivering motion.
The skin and muscle are soft now, loose; they flutter under Suliman's hand.

When he is satisfied that the event is over, Suliman lifts Alexos, pulls out the bolster, and settles his head back on the pillow again. He tugs at the sheets to smooth out any wrinkles, then arranges the covers over the prince's legs and chest.

“There,” he says.

The whispering servants all seem to have disappeared; it's as if they had melted into the walls. Alexos doesn't remember Suliman telling them to leave, but then Suliman has very expressive gestures. He could send them away with a subtle jerk of the head, a roll of his eyes.