The Chosen Prince (8 page)

“Ready for what?”

“For the rest of your life.”

“Let me try it on,” says the prince.

With all the dignity he can muster, Alexos leaves his rooms for the first time in over two months. He is dressed in chestnut wool and clutching a handsome gold-headed cane. He goes alone by choice. He wants, for once, not to be hovered over, protected, treated like an invalid.

He makes his way down the corridor at a stately pace until he reaches the stairs. Here he stops for a moment, reviewing his strategy. Then carefully he sets the tip of his cane on the first step below, bending
his left leg so he can step down with the right, stiff in its metal cage. That done, he quickly brings the left leg down beside it. He pauses briefly on each tread to make sure of his balance, then continues on to the next.

It wouldn't do to fall.

At last, a bit breathless, he reaches the bottom of the stairs and crosses the entry hall, leaning forward just the right amount so he won't rock side to side. At the door, a porter waits, holding it open for him. He bows as Alexos passes. “Your Grace,” he says.

It is strangely warm for autumn; the sky is cloudless and uncommonly blue. Alexos is astonished by it, cannot remember such a day, not for years and years. Or maybe it's just that he's been cooped up in the sickroom so long, he's forgotten what it's like to be outside, how glorious it is to feel the sun on his back, the soft breath of wind on his cheek.

The rest of my life
, he thinks.
It begins now, on this glorious afternoon
. He feels an unaccountable surge of happiness.

He turns onto the gray stone walkway that leads to the Queen's Garden, so named not for his late mother but the consort of some long-ago king. The palace gardeners keep it clipped and tidy, see to the roses, and rake the leaves, but it's rarely used anymore. Ektor will
occasionally walk here when he tires of being inside and needs to stretch his legs, but as he is generally busy and rarely in residence, it's almost always empty.

Alexos doesn't really like the Queen's Garden. It's too formal for his taste, too small; and what natural charm it might have had in the old days has since been ruined by an excess of statuary and ornamental ponds. But Suliman had suggested he come here for simple, practical reasons: it's an easy walk, not too far from the palace, there are no steps, and the ground is flat. Also, it's a private place with an abundance of marble benches where Alexos can practice, unobserved, the newly complicated art of sitting down.

He enters through a trellised arch and continues down the gravel path. The garden is rather like the palace, he thinks, with hallways and rooms, except that here the walls are high boxwood hedges and the rooms are open spaces with ponds or fountains in the middle, furnished with benches instead of beds, tables, and chairs.

He wanders a bit, looking for a room that's more peaceful than garish. Which demented ancestor was it who chose those hideous statues, anyway? The thought makes him laugh, and again he's startled to realize that he is actually happy. It's wonderful to move his body, to feel the blood flowing, to breathe
air that isn't stale, and look at something different for a change, however dreadful. Really, why was he so resistant to going out before? He might have done this weeks ago.

Having considered all the possibilities and pretty well worn himself out, Alexos decides on a round room with a round pond and a stone dolphin in the middle. There are three benches to choose from, all of them curved to fit the curving walls. He picks one at random, backs up to it, and begins the now familiar series of motions: leaning forward, positioning his cane just so, reaching down to release the latch that allows his brace to bend at the knee. Then—using the strength of his right arm, which grips the gold-headed cane, and the delicate muscles of his left leg, more powerful now from lifting sandbags over and over a thousand times—dropping as gracefully as possible onto the bench.

It doesn't go well. The bench, it turns out, is lower than the chair in his room.
Well, consider that a lesson learned—at least there were no witnesses.
And for now he's content to rest and enjoy the sunshine.

It's incredibly quiet. There is no sound but the rustling of dry leaves overhead, the occasional chirp of a bird, the distant plash of water from a fountain in one of the other rooms. And then, faintly, there are
boots crunching on gravel and the soft voices of men in conversation. They come closer and closer, till they stop almost directly behind him on the other side of the hedge. Alexos knows exactly which room it is—rectangular, with an enormous birdbath in the center and a marble Apollo against the far boxwood wall. He hears the delicate rustle of clothing, the little grunts as the two men sit down.

Ektor has a carrying voice—an excellent trait for a warrior king, except on those occasions when he doesn't wish to be overheard. Like now.

“It can't be helped,” the king is saying. “A lame king will be seen as a weak king. Pyratos will only redouble his efforts. The boy couldn't possibly handle it.”

Alexos feels a prickling all over his skin: tiny hairs standing at attention.

The other man's voice is more difficult to hear. He says something about the army, and “could do it just as well.”

“No. The decision has been made.”

“But, Your Grace,” the other man says, clearly treading carefully, “Athene chose him.”

“So it seemed at the time. But we must have been mistaken. The amulets were contradictory: he would be strong but also weak—remember?”

“Yes, sire. But he
was
strong, and now he
is
weak.
That supports the truth of the rest. Was he not also destined to be virtuous and wise?”

“
And
foolish.”

“We are all foolish sometimes, Your Highness. And he grasped the amulet for greatness. There was no doubt about it—quite impossible for an infant to do unless the goddess guides him. As your chancellor, and I hope also your friend, I strongly advise you to reconsider. Who can tell what Athene intends?”

“Have you seen him?”

“Alexos? No, Your Majesty. He has not yet appeared in public.”

“Well, if you had, you'd know I am right.”

“But Athene—”

“We
made a mistake
, blast you! We even sensed at the time that something was wrong. But we wanted
so badly
for him to be the one that we turned a blind eye to the inconsistencies. Now I'm not going to compound that mistake by making another one.”

There is a silence. Alexos, frozen, holds his breath.

“It'll break the boy's heart, you know—after all he's been through.”

The king grunts.

“Perhaps if you waited a while, gave him a chance to fully recover—”

“No! I've given it more than enough time and
thought. I told you, it's done. Teo is my heir.” There is a long pause. Then, “I sometimes think it would have been kinder if the boy had died.”

“Oh, Your Highness!”

“You think I don't grieve over what's happened to him? Of course I do! He was such a strong, handsome boy. Now he's ruined. And as I have another son who is perfectly sound, it's the only reasonable decision. It's best for the kingdom.”

“Prince Matteo is very young. What is he, four?”

“Every heir to every throne was once very young. He'll have a regent if he inherits before he comes of age.”

Another long pause.

“When will you tell them?”

“This afternoon. Then I have to get back to the army and Teo must start his training. He's a terrible baby for a boy his age. All he wants to do is fish. I'll see that Antonio takes him in hand.”

“And Alexos?”

The king heaves a deep, carrying sigh.

“He will just have to take it like a man.”

TEO STANDS AT THE
window of his sleeping chamber gazing down at the grassy slope below, the shade trees on the bank, the river, the little skiff that is always tied up at the bank—and all of it reminds him of Alexos. He misses his brother so much!

Everyone says he's better now. So why won't he come out of his rooms or let anyone in?

The dragon snores have already started, but Teo has learned to wait until they've grown more regular, without the occasional waking snorts that tell him she's still settling in for her nap. It'll be soon, though. Then he can sneak out.

Below, a figure has just come out onto the lawn. He walks with a cane, moving with an awkward, jerky motion. He's dressed in an ankle-length tunic, the
kind old men wear, but Teo doesn't think this person is old. His hair is black, not gray. And he wears it long, pulled back and tied with a ribbon at the nape of the neck, a young man's style.

Teo holds his breath. The fellow is moving too fast; he's going to fall. And sure enough, he almost does, but then he manages to catch himself in time. He stands for a moment, trying to compose himself. Then he looks around, probably to see if anyone noticed. And for the first time Teo catches a glimpse of his face. . . .

He races down toward the river, his heart nearly bursting with joy. He runs so fast that he trips and goes tumbling down the slope. But he just laughs, picks himself up, and keeps running till he's reached the fishing place.

Alexos is sitting on a tree stump facing the river, a gold-headed cane across his knees. He is very still. Teo decides to surprise him. He circles around and with a joyful leap suddenly appears before his brother—arms spread wide, a bright expectant smile on his face.

But how strange! The boy he sees before him, while he looks very much like Alexos, is at the same time altogether different: gaunt, wizened, brooding.

“Alexos?”
Teo asks.

“More or less, little man.”

“Carissa says you're better now—but you look sad.”

“Do I?” His voice sounds empty.

“Yes. You look different.”

Alexos turns his head away.

This isn't at all what Teo expected. It's probably his own fault. He should have said how much he'd missed Alexos, how he'd waited outside the sickroom all those afternoons, and how glad he is to see him again. That would have been so much nicer than saying he looks different and sad.

“We could go fishing,” he tries, thinking that might cheer his brother up. “We can take the boat out.” When Alexos doesn't move, just continues to stare at the moving water, Teo skips over and climbs into the skiff. The poles are already there, as they have been since the last time they went out on the river. There's no fresh bait, but Teo hasn't thought of that. He just looks longingly at his brother. “Come on. It'll be jolly.”

He hears a little groan then—or was it a sob? Teo doesn't see any tears, but his brother's face is all twisted up, as if he's about to cry. But at least he's moving now, leaning on the cane, hauling himself up into a standing position. It looks hard. It looks like it hurts. But he's coming, that's the thing.

Alexos struggles down the sharply sloping bank, then continues unsteadily along the water's edge to where the skiff is tied. Only then does Teo truly grasp that there's something terribly wrong with his brother's legs. Can he even climb into the boat? Of course—
that's
why he's so sad!

Alexos leans down, one hand gripping the cane, the other fumbling with the rope. It would have been easier with both hands, but he manages to undo the knot. He pauses for a moment, still holding the rope, staring at Teo, who sits there waiting, confusion on his small, round face. Then Alexos flings the line into the front of the skiff and pushes hard against the bow.

The boat slips backward till the current catches it, spins it around, and starts to carry it downstream. Alexos continues to stand on the shore, watching. His face is so contorted with anguish, Teo wonders if he is dying.

AN ODD ASSEMBLY IS
waiting in the room when Suliman arrives. Besides the usual house servants, there's a gardener, the side-door porter, a pair of humble laboring types, and one of the grooms. Suliman can feel the burning heat of their excitement: that blend of elation and anxiety, so common in moments of crisis.

“Oh, my lord physician!” the gardener cries as Suliman comes in. “Such a tragedy!” He claps a meaty hand to his chest to express the depth of his emotion. “I was the one who found him. And I didn't know what else to do but carry him back to the palace—with the help of these fine lads here—and then to send for you. He isn't dead, my lord, but he's quite insensible.”

Unwilling to take the man's word for this, Suliman
makes his way through the crowd, picks up the prince's wrist, and feels for a pulse. He finds one, slow and steady. Then, satisfied, he returns his attention to the gardener.

“Where was he?” Suliman asks. “Please describe the circumstances.”

“Down by the river, my lord. Right at the edge of the water. He was still breathing when I came across him, so I knew he was alive. But he wasn't as he ought to be, neither. He wouldn't open his eyes or speak a word, no matter how much I talked to him.”

“Did it look to you like a simple fall? Anything else you want to add?”

“Probably just a simple fall. There wasn't any blood.”

“Was he lying facedown?”

“He was.”

“Not in that position, then—bent over as he is now?”

The gardener looks at the figure on the bed and considers the question for a moment.

“I guess you're right, my lord. He wasn't
exactly
facedown when I found him. His legs were sticking straight out, but he'd sort of twisted and bent over from the waist, same as he is there. And when we brought him up here and put him in the bed, we set him down
on his back. But he's curled up again, like before.”

“He moved then, of his own volition?”