The Chosen Prince (7 page)

But why clear the room at all? So they could be alone, of course. So they could talk privately. So Suliman could answer the question he'd ignored before, because the time wasn't right. And the answer will be hard for Alexos to hear.

Suliman is sitting beside him now. It's strangely quiet all of a sudden, as if they weren't simply alone in this room, but the last two people in the world.

“I asked you a question, Suliman, and you didn't answer.”

“I was attending you, my prince. I couldn't give you my full attention. But you have it now.”

“You told me I had a fever, but I know it's worse than that. Tell me the truth. It's the summer sickness, isn't it?”

“I never lie to you, Alexos. I said your fever is down, which it is. Fever is one of the symptoms of the summer sickness. I'm so sorry.”

It's not as if Alexos didn't suspect this, especially after he couldn't move his legs. But to have it confirmed is a blow, a boulder pressing on his chest. Now he will have to rethink everything. He has been transformed into a different person, a broken, ruined person.

“Will I be like those children you see in the streets with their braces and crutches? Will I have to be carried around in a chair?”

Suliman lays a gentle hand on the prince's shoulder, another old habit of his: the consoling touch. Alexos has noticed that it often does more good than all the medicines combined.

“I would say no to the chair, Alexos. But it's too early to tell how much damage has been done. The illness must run its course. That said, you were remarkably strong and healthy to begin with, and that is a great advantage. You have survived the crisis. And the cramping you experienced just now was actually a positive sign; it means the muscle has not been entirely destroyed.”

Entirely destroyed?

“There will be some impairment. I'm afraid you must be prepared for that, because there always is with the summer sickness. . . .”

I will never run again, never feel the thrill of speed and grace anymore. I may not even be able to walk. I'll have to be helped in everything I do. My legs will be ugly. People will pity me. They will find me repulsive. I will forever be separate from everyone else, more even than I was before.

“. . . but I expect you will be one of the lucky ones. You'll work hard at your recovery, because it's your nature to do so. And whatever the outcome, I know you will face it with courage and dignity . . .”

I can't possibly be king now. It would be laughable. And the champion of Athene—more laughable still. I will be useless, nothing but a sickly prince rattling around in his private rooms, being waited on by servants.

“. . . because you are a remarkable boy, Alexos—so serious, always striving to excel, willing to do whatever . . .”

Please, will you help me out of bed? Please will you wash me? Please, will you carry me to the privy? Please, will you help me put my tunic on?

“. . . is asked of you. You have always done this in the spirit of service, for someone or something else: your father, the kingdom, Athene. Now you must use
that strength to heal yourself. You will rise above this, Alexos, as you have so many other things.”

Suliman seems to have finished. He seems to be waiting, and of course he
is
waiting, because that's what he does—he gives Alexos time to absorb and respond. And it's a good thing he's such a patient man, because Alexos just stares up at those large, dark eyes, so full of expression, and says nothing at all.

But he is thinking. His mind is awake now, though not in a good way; it's agitated, anxious, confused. All these random thoughts are running around in circles, shouting, each trying to drown out the others. And the loudest thought keeps screaming over and over,
Why? Why did this happen?

So finally Alexos asks, “Why did Athene allow this to happen to me?”

Suliman sucks in breath. Alexos is impressed; it's hard to startle Suliman.

“Are you sure you want to have this conversation now, my prince?”

“Yes, I'm sure. I want to know. She could have protected me; she's a goddess with enormous powers and I am her chosen champion. But she didn't lift a hand to do it. So, why? Did I fail her in some way? Am I not needed anymore? Because I'm useless to her as I am now.”

“Oh, Alexos! Do you think Athene needs you to run races for her?”

“I don't know what she wants.”

“Nor do I. But assuming that nothing is accidental where the gods are concerned, I would guess that this is part of her plan.”

Alexos is shocked by this. It flies in the face of everything he's ever assumed about his role as champion. “Are you saying that I'm supposed to suffer?
That's
what the goddess wants from me?”

“That's a surprisingly simplistic question coming from a clever boy like you.”

Alexos shrugs. It had seemed like a pretty straightforward question to him.

“All the heroes were tested. Think of Heracles cleaning out the Augean stables, washing out thirty years of cow dung in a single day. And poor Odysseus—all he wanted to do was get home to Penelope—but no! First he must wander the seas for ten years, be tempted by the Sirens, attacked by cannibals, imprisoned by a one-eyed monster—and you think the champion of Athene isn't supposed to
suffer
?”

Alexos laughs, as Suliman meant him to. It clears the air.

“We cannot see into the minds of gods, Alexos. But we know from experience that hardship, challenges,
and great disappointments help to form us as feeling, loving human beings. As I said before, the way you respond to a blow such as this—
that
is what's important. To show courage in the face of adversity will impress Zeus far more than being fast and strong.”

Alexos isn't sure why this helps, but somehow it does. This new understanding won't give him back his legs, but it gives him back his purpose.

“Have you ever watched a blacksmith at work? Humor me, Alexos; I
am
making a point.”

“No, Suliman, I have not.”

“The blacksmith takes shapeless lumps of iron and turns them into useful things—a sword, for example. But to change its form, he must soften it over burning coals. Then, when it is red-hot, he shapes it on his anvil with a hammer. The iron must go from the fire to the anvil and back again many times before the process is complete.

“The iron was always strong, Alexos, and a thing of great value. But it was of no use to anyone until the blacksmith transformed it.”

“Is that me you're talking about?”

“You are the instrument of Athene. She is forming you on her anvil.”

“Well, it hurts.”

“I know.”

IN THE HALLWAY OUTSIDE
the sickroom, directly across from the door, there is a large ornamental chest. It rests on feet carved to look like lion's paws. Beside it, wedged into the corner where the chest meets the wall, sits Teo, his legs drawn in close, his arms wrapped tightly around his knees. He is trying to be invisible and it seems to be working. Servants come and go from the room, yet no one has noticed him yet.

Teo wants to see his brother, but they won't let him in. Whenever he asks why, they say that Alexos needs his rest, which makes no sense at all. How can he rest with all those people bustling about? And besides, Alexos would much rather be with Teo than with any of them. So why can they go in when he cannot?

It isn't fair.

But the answer is clearly never going to change, no matter how often he asks. So Teo is doing the next best thing. He waits in secret outside the room, hoping at least to catch the sound of his brother's voice.

The lady mistress, back in the nursery, doesn't know where Teo is. She's sound asleep in her comfortable chair. Of late she's taken to sending the other nursemaids away in the afternoons and putting Teo down for a nap. She does this not because he's sleepy at all, but because the lady mistress, no longer as young as she used to be, is completely worn-out from looking after a little boy. So as soon as Teo hears the dragon snores begin, he creeps from his bedchamber, tiptoes past the chair where the lady mistress sits—her arms hanging loose, her head lolling back, her mouth agape—and slips out into the corridor.

This has been going on for quite some time and Teo is getting very good at it. He can tell by the sound of her snores when it's safe to leave and has a good sense of how much time he has before he needs to run back.

The sickroom door opens again and this time Carissa comes out, carrying a chamber pot. She stops for no discernible reason, facing in Teo's direction. He scrunches farther into the crack between the wall and the chest. But he can still see her, so it follows that she
can also see him—or she could if she weren't scanning the walls instead of looking down at the floor where Teo is hiding.

“What was that?” Carissa says, as if talking to herself. “I thought I heard a little mouse. I guess I'd better call the rat catcher.”

“No!” Teo whispers.

“Or maybe not. The mouse is probably just visiting, hoping to hear how Prince Alexos is doing. The palace mice
would
be eager to know that, I suppose. It's perfectly reasonable.”

She ignores the stifled giggle from behind the chest.

“Well, I assure you—wherever you are, little mouse—that the prince is growing stronger every day. His fever is gone and he's eating again. But he
does
miss his little brother most terribly. He asks about him every single day.”

There is a joyful little gasp, which Carissa also pretends not to hear.

“
And
,” she goes on (still talking to the wall—which is really very strange, since mice are usually to be found on the floor), “King Ektor is coming all the way back from the war to visit Alexos. Isn't that exciting? He should be here very soon.”

She turns to go (she has to empty the chamber pot
and wash it clean) but pauses again just for a moment. “I should also remind the little mouse that the cat is likely to wake fairly soon, so he might want to scurry back into his hole.”

As soon as Carissa has gone, Teo dashes down the hall, turns the corner, and runs up the stairs to his nursery.

The cat is still asleep.

“
THE BRACE WILL KEEP
his leg in its normal position,” Suliman explains to the king. “It will allow him to rest his weight upon it without creating deformity at the ankle or the knee.”

“And the other leg?”

“It has regained some of its function, though it's still very weak. We've been working to strengthen the unaffected muscles, to compensate for those which have been lost.”

“I see. He'll walk with a cane, then—always?”

“I'm afraid so, Your Majesty.”

Alexos sits in silence on the edge of his bed, taking no part in this conversation. His legs are bare and on display, the right one imprisoned in a metal cage that reaches from his thigh to below the ankle, a leather
strap running under the instep of his foot. The humiliation is unbearable and Suliman seems to sense this. He reaches over and rests a consoling hand on Alexos' shoulder.

“The prince has shown remarkable courage throughout this whole ordeal.”

“I would expect nothing less,” says the king.

Alexos stays in his rooms for weeks, allowing no one to visit. He isn't ready to show himself in public yet. He has tried telling himself that the awkwardness, the pitying looks, the embarrassment of the brace and the cane, are all marks of his noble suffering. But he's a boy of twelve who has been damaged for life and even Alexos finds this daunting. He just needs a little more time. Also there is the question of how he will get around.

“It will be easier if you walk with crutches,” Suliman says. “Your right leg can bear your weight, reinforced as it is with the brace. You will have stability and can move fairly quickly, though stairs will be a problem.”

“No, Suliman. I'd rather use a cane.”

“Certainly that is your choice, my prince. But it will be harder; and first you will have to strengthen the undamaged muscles in your left leg.”

“I understand.”

“Well, then, I will bring some linen bags filled with sand—we will begin with a light one, then increase the weight as you get stronger. But it will be painful, Alexos. You may be surprised by how much it hurts.”

“I don't care. Just show me what to do.”

Suliman smiles, something he rarely does. It's the kind of smile that makes its own light. It fills the empty place in Alexos' heart where hope had been before.

“I'd like to start right now.”

“I wonder what you will think of this,” Suliman says one morning. He has brought a long tunic for the prince. It is the sort of garment worn by men of distinction who are past the age for showing their knees. This one is particularly handsome: whisper-fine chestnut-colored wool trimmed with sage green, a bit of gold embroidery at the neck.

“It's . . . nice,” Alexos says guardedly. “You think I should wear that to hide my legs?”

“No,” the physician says. “But you seem self-conscious about the brace. I thought it might free you from any such concerns. And it would make you look more dignified. I have worn long robes myself since I was not much older than you.”

Alexos nods.

“There is one other thing to consider, my prince. You have suffered a terrible injury and everybody knows it. What you do now, how you comport yourself as you return to the world, is of the greatest importance. You must seem to say to all you meet, ‘Yes, I have been wounded by fortune, but I am Ektor's heir and will one day rule this kingdom. My legs are of no consequence. Let us move on to serious matters.' They will respect you for it.”

“Better than whining?”

Suliman chuckles. “Much. And if you will forgive me for saying so, my lord, I believe you are ready now.”