The Chosen Prince Read online

  Map

  Dedication

  For Ann2, Judy, Lauren, Margo, Marisol, Marj,

  Marty, Molly, Nancy, and Sue

  Epigraph

  Be not afeard. The isle is full of noises,

  Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not.

  Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments

  Will hum about mine ears, and sometime voices

  That, if I then had waked after long sleep

  Will make me sleep again; and then in dreaming

  The clouds methought would open and show riches

  Ready to drop upon me, that when I waked

  I cried to dream again.

  —William Shakespeare, The Tempest

  Contents

  Map

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  The Procession

  Part One: The Kingdom of Arcos

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Part Two: The Island

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Coda

  Back Ad

  About the Author

  Books by Diane Stanley

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  The Procession

  THE NEWBORN PRINCE ALEXOS is asleep in his father’s arms. The king does not hold his son tenderly. He isn’t a tender man. But he’s all the little prince will ever have in the way of parents. Alexos will have to make do.

  Strictly speaking, he also has a mother. But having brought him safely into the world, the queen can do no more for him. She is helpless even to care for herself, prone as she is to irrational fears and fits of depression. And though she will live another eight years and bear another son before dying of childbed fever, she’ll spend her days in solitude, tended by nursemaids and visited only by the king. Alexos won’t remember her at all.

  Considering what lies ahead for him, that’s probably just as well. Kindness and affection would soften him, and he will need to be tough. Even now, as the sun rises on the first day of his life, his destiny is unfolding its great, dark wings.

  Alexos is carried in solemn procession out of the palace, along the royal road, and into the city, then up the wide ceremonial way that leads to the temple of Athene on the hill. Early though it is, word of their approach has spread throughout the city. A crowd has gathered; they line both sides of the road, waiting.

  They are not a handsome people. The ancient justice of Olympian Zeus is written on their faces and their bodies. They are short and scrawny, their clothing shabby. The children are wan and listless—and those are the healthy ones. The others, the fortunate few who fell to the summer sickness and survived, lean on crude wooden crutches, their legs imprisoned in makeshift braces wrapped with dirty rags. Even here in the great polis of Arcos there’s never quite enough of anything. It is worse in the countryside.

  The crime committed by their ancestors, which so enraged the gods, is long forgotten now. But the punishment lingers on. The kingdom of Arcoferra was split in two—Zeus, the king of gods, did this himself with the flash of his thunderbolt. Then the newly created Arcos and Ferra, on the north and south of that line, were condemned to fight an endless civil war. They must fight through fierce winter blasts, through floods and droughts and punishing heat; on empty bellies when the crops wither in the fields; and with broken hearts when their children die of the dread new disease that comes every year in the summertime. To make this even harder to bear, Zeus decreed that neither side could ever win. This is the fruit of Zeus’ righteous anger.

  But Athene, patron goddess of Arcoferra, promised that once her father’s rage has cooled, she would send a champion to deliver them. The people have been waiting for a very long time.

  And so, on this cool spring morning, like their parents and grandparents before them, they watch the solemn procession with a tiny spark of hope. They kneel as King Ektor passes by, but their eyes are on the bundle in his arms. They wonder: Will he be the one?

  The chancellor walks behind the king with a coffer of gold, a tribute for the goddess. Poor as the people are, they don’t resent this. If the riches of Arcos will please Athene and remind her of her promise, they will have been well spent. Some have even added gifts of their own. The broad marble steps leading up to the temple are littered with small, shiny objects, the humble offerings of those who have almost nothing to give—rings, coins, copper spoons, precious objects passed down in their families from the old time, before Arcoferra’s fall from grace. No thief would dare to touch them.

  The procession enters the temple now. It’s dark and cold inside. The chill of stone stings their bare feet as they proceed down the cavernous aisle, moving through gloom toward the brilliance of silver lamps on silver stands that surround the sacred image of the goddess. She looms above them, white as mountain snow, tall as the tallest tree, stern and serene. Beautiful.

  The chancellor steps forward and holds the coffer up before the image.

  “O wise, good, and most splendid Athene,” he half speaks, half sings, “our patron and defender since ancient times, we bring you this humble gift of worldly riches as thanks for your unfailing kindness.” He sets the coffer down on a corner of the dais, then steps back and kneels, his hands folded.

  Now King Ektor comes forward and holds the infant high. “I offer you this blameless child, my newborn son and the heir to the throne of Arcos, to be the instrument of your mercy. If you accept him, I pray that he may be worthy, that he may strive to earn at last the forgiveness of the immortal gods and most especially your great father, Zeus.”

  The augur steps forward to join the king. Together they climb the steps of the dais and kneel at the feet of the goddess.

  The augur has done this many times—here before Athene and at other temples, too. There are always pressing questions to ask the immortals. But the one they ask today is altogether different. The fates of Arcos and Ferra hang upon the answer. And the augur is afraid of making even the smallest mistake.

  His hands tremble as he spreads the pure linen cloth at the feet of the goddess, smoothing out the wrinkles with gentle strokes. They fumble as he pulls open the leather pouch, withdraws eight small golden amulets, and begins to lay them out on the cloth one at a time, in the form of a circle. He takes special care with this. Each amulet has its own particular meaning and its own assigned position. When he is satisfied that he has done it properly, he turns to King Ektor and nods.

  The king unwraps the child’s swaddling cloth and lays him in the center of the circle. The baby’s skin is red and wrinkled, his little umbilicus swollen, wound-like, tied with a golden cord. In this magnificent temple, at the feet of the goddess, he seems a poor offering indeed.

  They wait.

  Naked and cold, the little prince stirs in his sleep. But other than that, he doesn’t move. The king looks to the augur, who responds with the slightest movement of his hand: Be patient
. So they continue to kneel in silence, listening to the child’s soft snuffling breaths and the muted sounds from the city below.

  Finally, when the augur feels they have waited long enough, he reaches into his pouch again and brings out a vial of sacred oil. He pulls the stopper and pours the golden liquid over the baby’s chest. The oil is cold; the child wakes. His squealing cry echoes off the marble walls.

  And at last he is in motion.

  The king and his augur lean in to watch as a tiny arm swings upward, sending the first amulet flying. It’s a good one, strength. There follows a brief moment of joy before the arm comes down again, striking foolishness this time.

  Strong and foolish, the king is thinking, an unfortunate combination, when the other arm jerks out and two more amulets are chosen. They are the opposites of the first two: weakness and wisdom.

  This can’t be right. The king shuts his eyes, sick with disappointment. He’d had the strongest presentiment that this child would be the one. But it seems he was mistaken. His son will just be one of those worthless boys who swings with the wind, turning first one way, then the other. He will never be dependable, will never amount to anything. His strengths will all be canceled out by his weaknesses.

  He hears a gasp from the augur and opens his eyes again. The child is still moving. With his left leg he makes a decisive kick, choosing virtue. Then two heartbeats later he raises his right arm high over his head. His little fingers scrabble at the cloth, searching.

  Ektor sucks in a breath and holds it, afraid to move. He knows what this amulet means. Like its opposite, it is placed so as to be difficult, if not impossible, to reach. It’s too important to risk being chosen by chance. There must never be the slightest doubt.

  But there will be none, no doubt at all. For the little fingers find what they are looking for and grasp it in a tight fist. Then, with a grace and assurance impossible for a newborn child, Prince Alexos lays the golden prize directly over his own beating heart.

  He is finished now. He sighs as his arm drops drowsily to his side; his eyes close and his breath slows. Once again he sleeps. And on his chest, in a pool of amber oil, glittering in the light of the lamps, is the amulet for greatness.

  The goddess has spoken.

  Part One

  The Kingdom of Arcos

  1

  ALEXOS HAS BEEN SUMMONED by his father. As usual, the king is occupied. So the prince waits in the anteroom, trying not to show that he is nervous.

  There are two attendants standing guard at each of the doors—the one from the hall and the one that leads to the king’s reception chamber. They are too well trained to stare openly at the prince, but they watch him out of the corners of their eyes.

  Alexos is tall for his age, taller already than his father. He’s slender, all muscle and bone, with the long, brown legs of a runner. His narrow face is well proportioned, his eyes large and dark, his bearing princely. The attendants exchange discreet smiles when they think he isn’t looking.

  Alexos is used to this. He is known—or suspected, or believed—to be the future champion of Arcos, the long-awaited hero sent to win the forgiveness of the gods. It’s only natural that people should be curious about him. So Alexos, knowing he will always be watched, has learned to keep his feelings to himself and behave with dignity at all times. As he is doing now.

  He wants to cross and uncross his restless legs. He wants to shift around on the bench, to fidget away his growing tension. But instead, he sits calmly, hands folded in his lap, staring at the mosaic on the anteroom floor.

  While he waits, he counts the number of times he’s been called to his father’s chambers. There haven’t been many; King Ektor is rarely at court. He lives and rules his kingdom from the borderlands, returning only once or twice a year. Ektor is a warrior-king and his place is with the army.

  Alexos curls a finger to record each meeting he can recall. He stops at nine. He may have left out one or two, but he doesn’t think so. Visits with his father are hard to forget.

  The door to the inner chamber opens and the steward comes out.

  “Prince Alexos,” he says with a smile and a respectful bow from the waist. “Your father will see you now.”

  The prince rises without haste in his natural, graceful way. He acknowledges the steward with a nod, then, doing his best to conceal his dread, enters the lion’s den.

  Ektor is sitting at his desk, a scroll in his hands, apparently engrossed in reading it. This is what he always does. He makes Alexos wait.

  Finally the king looks up at his son and heir, whom he hasn’t seen in almost a year, and notes that the boy has grown.

  “You’re very tall,” he observes.

  “Yes, Father.”

  “I expect you’ll be taller still.”

  “I expect so.”

  “That’s good. A man ought to be tall.”

  Alexos has nothing to say to this.

  “You may sit,” Ektor says, carefully rolling up the scroll, tying a ribbon around it, and setting it down. He isn’t scowling exactly. It’s more his usual expression of impatience.

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

  “I won’t, Father.”

  Every time Alexos is called into Ektor’s presence he is warned not to fall behind. He’s thoroughly grasped the concept by now. Why must his father keep repeating it? But he hides any hint of annoyance.

  “However, I am disturbed to hear you are not well liked by the other boys, that you keep apart from them and refuse to join them in their games. This will not do, Alexos! You will need their support when you become king. It’s crucial that you earn their friendship now, while you’re young—which you cannot do by being haughty and aloof.”

  Alexos’ face has flushed hot. “That’s not true,” he says. “The situation is very different from what you describe.” He speaks quietly and in a respectful tone, but he senses that he has still managed to offend his father.

  “Really? Then perhaps you’d care to enlighten me.”

  “I would.” Alexos has unconsciously balled his hands into fists. He releases them, though his body remains as tight as the skin on a drum. “It’s my classmates who keep apart from me. Apparently they don’t feel natural in my presence, because of who and what I am.”

  “Well, they might if you didn’t lord it over them! Truly, you have no reason to disdain those boys. They may not be your equals, but they’re the sons of the highest nobles in the kingdom.”

  Alexos gasps, shocked by the unfairness of this accusation. “I don’t disdain them,” he says. “And I don’t lord anything over anyone. I’m always polite and kind to my classmates. I praise their accomplishments and am modest about my own. Can I help it if they stop talking when I walk into a room? It’s not my fault that I’m a prince, and heir to the throne, and all the rest. Surely it must have been the same for you when you were a boy.”

  “Not in the least; I was well liked. I had many friends. You’ll just have to try harder, Alexos. Tell a few jokes, have a bit of rough-and-tumble. And it wouldn’t hurt to smile now and then.”

  This last bit hits home. Alexos resolves to work on smiling.

  “I especially arranged for you to be schooled with those boys, not privately tutored as your brother is, so you could make them your friends. They will be your lieutenants someday, advising you and helping you carry out your plans. You’ll need every ounce of their devotion—for believe me when I say that being king of Arcos isn’t the roll in the grass you think it is.”

  Alexos grits his teeth. He thinks nothing of the sort. He is perfectly aware that ruling a kingdom while fighting a war is hard.

  “And King Pyratos of Ferra is a most formidable adversary. These past ten years have been hard going, even for a seasoned commander like me. I’ve needed all the help I can get. It’s well that my men worship me as they do—why, they would walk on bur
ning coals if I asked it of them! You had better make sure your men feel the same about you. For without their full support, Pyratos will have crushed you like a worm beneath his heel within a month after I am dead.”

  Speechless, Alexos nods.

  “See if you can be a bit more accommodating and a good deal less solemn. Make an effort. Be a boy, for heaven’s sake, not a dreary old man.”

  Alexos feels a hot stinging rising in his eyes, and it terrifies him. This conference has been unpleasant enough already. He cringes to think how much worse it would be if he should actually shed tears. So he quickly orders his mind to think about something else—mathematics usually works; that’s what he chooses now—and manages at last to recover his composure. By then the king has moved on.

  “Good,” he says. “Good. Now, on a happier note, I also hear you have wings on your heels.”

  This change of subject takes some readjusting. “Running, you mean?”

  “They say you are marvelous fast.”

  “I . . . yes. I like to run and I give my best effort to everything I do.”

  “Then you’ll be glad to know that now you’ve turned twelve you may race on festival day.”

  “Oh!” Alexos cries. “Father, no!”

  The king’s smile vanishes. “And whyever not?”

  “I’m too young. For me to compete at such an age would make me look ridiculous. And it wouldn’t sit well with the other boys. They’d laugh at me behind my back.”

  “They’ll stop laughing soon enough when you win the race.”

  “But I won’t win, Father. I couldn’t possibly! I doubt I’d even make the final twelve.”

  “You needn’t worry about that. I’ve reserved you a place.”

  “You mean I won’t even compete in the trials?”

  “Of course not! You’re the crown prince of Arcos; it would be unseemly. And it’s not as if you’re some pathetic weakling. Everyone knows you’re more than good enough.”

  Alexos buries his face in his hands. “Father, I beg you—”

  “Oh, stop being such a child. I have my reasons.”