The guards, a remarkably good-natured bunch, agreed that this was a problem. But it was the only chain they had, meant for use in a ship’s cabin, not wrapped around a big tree. They offered to remove one of the iron cuffs if that would help.
The prisoner’s physician said this would be a marked improvement. A blanket would also be welcome. The guards were happy to comply.
It’s dark now, their first night on the island. The guards have gathered around a little brush fire. They talk in low voices while the prisoner and his men, out of sight behind the tree, listen intently to their conversation.
“We’re stuck here, that’s the gist of it.”
“Nay, I think not. Soon as the fleet reaches port, they’ll send out a ship.”
“And how will they find us?”
“They’ll remember where we parted in the storm; they’ll know where to look.”
“In this fog?”
“It’ll lift. They’ll send a ship, and they will find us.”
“Would you?” This from another man, who hasn’t spoken before.
“Would I what?”
The speaker’s voice drops, almost to a whisper. “Send a ship to find Pyratos and bring him back to Ferra?”
This comment is greeted with gasps of surprise and soft, dark laughter.
“Well, you’ve got a point there. If I were himself”—he leans on the word for emphasis, as if to say, you all know who I mean, but I won’t speak his name—“I wouldn’t sleep so easy at night. Especially now that we’re off here in the wilderness, where if something were to happen, no one would be the wiser.”
“Truly—you think there are those among us who would go that far?”
“I do. I’ve heard their grumbling and their secret—”
“Shhh! What was that?”
“I didn’t hear anything.”
“A twig snapped, something like that.”
“Ooooooh—perhaps there be monsters here.”
The others laugh.
“Or a spy, maybe.”
They fall silent at that. They’ve been dangerously indiscreet, trusting in the distance between the two camps.
One of the prisoner’s men now emerges from the darkness and approaches the campfire and the guards. “Ho, Peles,” one of the men says. “We thought you were asleep, so quiet you were over there.”
“Near enough,” Peles says. “Soon.”
“So where might you be going this time of night?”
“To relieve myself.”
“There’s plenty of trees need watering over where you came from.”
“Excuse me, gentlemen, but that’s where we sleep.”
“I didn’t know the peasants of Arcos were so particular.”
“Would you rather I do it here, then, beside your campfire?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, let the fellow go do his business.”
As there is no further discussion on the matter, Peles steps into the privacy of the forest and the men return to their talk. But now they are more careful what they say.
“They’ll be searching the island tomorrow, that’s what I heard.”
“Do you suppose they’ll find any villages here? It seems such a strange little out-of-the-way place. It’s not on any map, the captain said.”
“I doubt anyone lives here at all. If they did, it wouldn’t seem so empty. There’d be cottages and fields, boats in the harbor, that sort of thing.”
“Makes sense. Who’s first watch tonight?”
“Janos,” says the officer, “then Stefano.”
The men are exhausted, as anyone would be who’d departed early from the borderlands, sailed for hours, looked death in the eye through a terrible storm, been cast ashore on an island, then spent still more hours unloading the ship, setting up a prison camp, and making a fire—all before having their first bite to eat since breaking their fast that morning. They shuffle over to the neat pile at the edge of the clearing and gather up blankets and roll their cloaks to rest their heads upon. Then they return to the warmth and cheer of the fire and arrange themselves to sleep on the grass.
Janos sits nearby, leaning against a tree. He knows it isn’t a good place for keeping a proper watch. It’s too far from the prisoner, and the light from the fire makes it hard to see into the darkness beyond. But he doesn’t like to sit alone in this strange place in the gloom of night; he prefers to stay close to the others.
And besides, this prisoner isn’t likely to run away, even if he weren’t chained to a tree; and his attendants are too loyal to leave him. So keeping watch is really just a formality. And should Janos doze off—which of course he’ll try very hard not to do—no harm done.
Peles saunters out of the forest, calm and cheerful as always.
“Sleep well,” he says to the guards.
“You, too.”
He crosses the clearing and returns to his place beside the king of Arcos. He lies on his side, his head propped up with one hand, and speaks softly into his master’s ear.
“It was a lad, sixteen or seventeen, I’d say.”
“And?”
“He may be inclined to rescue you.”
“Does he speak our language?”
“Aye—and that’s strange, now that you mention it.”
“How many others are there?”
“‘Not many.’ That’s all he would say.”
“Anything else?”
“He wants to meet with you in person. I hope you’ll forgive me, Alexos—I said he might, but he should wait an hour or two until the guards are well asleep. I told him to come around to this side of the clearing. Was that a mistake?”
“No, you did right. I take it you trusted this fellow, then?”
“Trusted, yes. Absolutely. As to whether he has the cunning and the skill to pull off a rescue, that’s another matter altogether. He seemed—how can I say it?—very young, very innocent. Soft, like—”
“Shhh. Lie down, Peles. Feign sleep.”
In the silence that follows they hear the voices of men approaching from the other camp. The guards hear them too, and they have picked out one familiar voice from all the others. They jump to their feet and do their best to look alert and respectful.
“I thought you were going to build a cage,” Pyratos says.
“Well, Your Majesty,” says the officer, “we did consider that, but there weren’t materials for building one and we felt the prisoner ought to be constrained right away. So we’ve chained him to that tree over there.”
“Let’s have a look. Bring the lamp, will you?”
Pyratos and his men cross the clearing. Peles, Leander, and Suliman rise as he approaches; Alexos, having no choice in the matter, stays where he is. Wordlessly Pyratos studies the chain. He jerks at the free end, hard; Alexos’ wrist comes with it. Pyratos studies the iron cuff, as dispassionately as if it weren’t attached to a body at all.
“Only one manacle?” he shouts to the guards. “You’ve released this other one? Or did he manage to get it off himself?”
The officer, who has been standing back, now joins the group. “Oh, no, Your Majesty. He could not possibly have opened it. We released it because he is quite secure with the single cuff, and it enabled him to lie down and attend to personal matters—eating, you know, that sort of thing.”
Pyratos stares at the officer for a while, just to make him squirm, then, “Leave us,” he says, to everyone in general.
When they are gone, Pyratos sits on the ground in a regal sort of way and sets the lamp between them. It’s the first time Alexos has seen his enemy up close like this. He was kept belowdecks throughout the voyage; then when they came onto the island, the king was busy elsewhere. Now, as he looks into the face of the man who murdered his father, Alexos is caught completely off guard. Pyratos might be a statue of Apollo brought magically to life. His form is manly, his face strikingly handsome, and his pale hair is as beautiful as that of a god.
“Well, well,” he says. “So this is the fam
ous champion of Athene.” He glances down at the legs covered with a blanket. He is looking for the equally famous deformity, of course, and disappointed that it’s not on view. “But surely you don’t need this on such a warm night. Here, let me help you.” Dry wit, so terribly clever, loving every moment.
Pyratos pulls the blanket away, tossing it on the ground. Then he leans forward, chin out, and stares pointedly at Alexos’ legs. “Oh, what a pity,” he says. The lamplight, shining on his face from below, leaves ghoulish puddles of darkness around his eyes.
Alexos, full of helpless rage, says nothing.
“But I don’t suppose it really matters.” He reaches over to touch the iron brace, drums on it playfully with his fingers. “Athene would have to find herself a new champion anyway. You won’t be much use to her without your head.”
Alexos recoils, as from a snake. “Isn’t there supposed to be a trial first?”
“Oh, yes. First the trial, then the execution. And never fear, Alexos, it will be a thorough spectacle, befitting your kingly status. All of Ferra will turn out to enjoy it. Perhaps I should give a feast.”
“And here I thought the point of a trial was to determine the guilt or innocence of the accused.”
“And so it is. As it happens, you will be judged guilty.”
“Of what crime?”
“Has no one told you? Really? Conspiracy to murder, my dear boy.”
Alexos licks his lips, which are suddenly dry. “And who am I supposed to have killed?”
“My uncle, of course, the duke of Ferra. I’m amazed you could forget such a masterful bit of trickery. You and old Ektor urged me to send an envoy to Arcos to discuss terms for a peace accord—remember? So I sent the duke and you sunk his ship, though it was flying the flag of truce. Your father has already paid for that crime. Now it’s your turn.”
“You know that’s ridiculous. A complete fabrication!”
“Do I?”
“I heard about your uncle’s death years ago, when I was just a boy. Even then it was old news. I would have been two or three years old at the time he died, hardly capable of conspiracy. As for my father, he would rather have disemboweled himself than do such an ignoble thing. Nor would he have sued for peace, as that is contrary to the express commands of Olympian Zeus. Everything about your pitiful tale is wrong. The judge won’t believe it; no one will.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll make sure they do. Then, chop!—off with your head.”
“You are a dreadful man, Pyratos.”
The king of Ferra rises without comment and takes up the lamp. “Enjoy your reprieve, you sad little king, for it will be brief.” With a merry chuckle he saunters away.
Alexos shivers as a chill runs down his shoulders, into his arms, his belly. He hunches over, shuts his eyes, and concentrates on breathing.
“Alexos?” Suliman is beside him now. “Are you all right?”
“No. But I can’t talk about it right now.” His eyes are still closed. He is still shaking.
And then they are all around him, his companions, in a conspiracy of touching. Suliman is stroking Alexos’ hair, like a father consoling his little son who has lost his best toy. Leander straightens the disordered tunic, then lays the blanket back over the prince’s legs, gently tucking it in all around. And Peles has slipped in on his other side. He lays a gentle hand on Alexos’ shoulder and whispers in his ear.
“My lord?”
They are treating him like a child, Alexos thinks. He doesn’t mind at all.
“What is it, Peles?”
“Before we were interrupted, I was telling you about the boy who so earnestly wants to help you. Do you want to hear the rest? I think you will like it.”
Alexos nods. He’s still breathing heavily, but the trembling has stopped.
“The lad said, ‘This island belongs to the goddess Athene. I am under her protection, and I believe your master is, too. He is not meant to die here, I am sure of that.’”
He opens his eyes and looks at Peles. “How remarkable!”
“Yes, my lord. I thought so, too, and I was quite inclined to trust him. But you will judge for yourself when you meet him.”
“Soon, you say?”
“Later, when the guards are all asleep.”
“Yes, I remember now. You told me that before.”
He listens to the silence. It is absolute. And for a moment he wonders if that is a beautiful thing, or a premonition of death.
26
THE NIGHT IS UNCOMMONLY dark, lit only by a crescent moon shining weakly through the fog. Around the dying campfire the guards are dead asleep, seduced by the softness of the silky grass and the fresh island mist on their sunburned cheeks. Janos has slumped against his tree, eyes closed, snoring softly.
Aria waits in a thicket at the far side of the clearing. She has hidden her hair under a brown woolen cap, left on that long-ago ship by one of the deserting sailors. Claudio had picked it up, thinking it might prove useful one day. And now it has. Dressed in her father’s tunic and wearing the sailor’s cap, Aria has transformed herself into a creditable boy.
It’s been a while since she last heard any sound from either camp, except for the snoring guard. Surely it must be safe to make her move.
Softly she makes the call of a small, croaking frog—once, twice, three times. Moments later, a cricket responds, their agreed-upon signal. Aria creeps out into the open, taking care to keep the tree between herself and the sleeping guards.
Peles, seeing her approach, touches the king’s shoulder to wake him, while one of the other attendants, an older man, rolls over as if in his sleep, opening a space for her to sit beside him.
It ought to be dark here, as it is everywhere else. The moon is just an eyelash of light shining dimly through the fog, and the fireflies left the island when Pyratos arrived. Yet it seems a few of them still remain. They hover around his face now, as if inviting her to look.
Aria has read about the great heroes of yore, and often they are described as handsome. This she has long understood to mean that they are pleasant to look at, as flowers and foxes are. But her personal experience with men and their faces has been severely limited. So handsome remained an abstract notion, not something she could picture in her mind.
Earlier that night, as she sat in her spying place above the prison camp watching and listening to the guards, she had realized that humans came in many different forms. Faces could be long or round; noses small or large, long, broad, upturned, or drooping. Hair might be curly, straight, or sparse. But not one of the guards, and certainly not the man called Peles, had struck her as especially beautiful. So it must be that the writers of stories described a man as handsome to distinguish him from the rest.
Now as she studies the prisoner-king by the light of a few dozen fireflies, she sees that handsome means more than merely pleasant. It is something that makes you catch your breath. It stirs secret yearnings you never even knew were there. But even more than that, handsome is the capacity in a face to express who a person really is.
And while the king of Arcos is unquestionably a lovely thing to gaze upon, he is deeply marked by tragedy, worn by unrelenting struggle. There is such fierce intensity in those glittering eyes, desperation almost, and at the same time a deep fragility, that Aria longs to comfort him. She wants to take him in her arms and stroke his hair as she used to do when Teo was sad.
Now that she thinks of Teo, she can see how very alike they are, her brother and this man. That would explain the sudden rush of affection she is feeling.
She leans down and whispers in his ear, so close that his hair brushes her cheek. “Your man Peles tells me that you are the king of Arcos,” she says.
“That’s true. I am.” His voice, even as he whispers, is deep. The sound of it sends a peculiar thrill running through her.
“You seem very young to be a king.”
“I was younger still when I became one.”
“Well,” Aria says, “I would like to
help you. But there are only a few of us and we have no weapons. The best we could do is set you free and hide you where you won’t be found.”
“And how would you set me free?”
“Your man said he could lift the keys from the officer’s belt.”
“Really?” The king smiles and his face is suddenly transformed. It’s softer now, affectionate, amused. “Then I trust he can do it. Peles is a man of many talents.”
The king is staring searchingly at her and she begins to fear that her deception hasn’t fooled him. She puts a hand to her cap, making sure it’s pulled down low enough to cover all her hair. “I will have to consult with the others first, before I commit to anything. They will want to know more.”
“All right.”
“I heard what King Pyratos said, so I know a lot already.”
“But how is that possible? Where were you?”
“Right over there.” She points.
“Gods, that was risky!”
She shrugs. “I know how to be stealthy. So is there anything else you feel you should tell me—how you came to be Pyratos’ prisoner, why he wants to kill you?”
He’s silent for a time, forming his thoughts. “I met him for the first time this evening, but he has long been my enemy—not only because our kingdoms are at war with each other, but because he murdered my father. He would have done the same to me if Peles hadn’t helped me escape. That’s how I came to be king at such a tender age. I was not yet fourteen.”
“How did he kill your father?”
“He didn’t do it himself, if that’s what you’re asking. He sent a small force of assassins into our camp, in strict violation of a long-standing truce between sunset and dawn.”
“I see.”
“After that, we never trusted his word again; we increased the security all along the border, building more watchtowers and doubling the number of sentries. But I made a mistake, left one place unprotected, and Pyratos noticed.”
“What was it?”
“A swamp. It’s on the coast, about ten miles north of the border, where a river runs into the sea. It’s completely impassible, miles and miles of sucking sand, choked with reeds and grasses. I didn’t think we needed to put a watchtower there, or post any sentries. That’s how they came in.
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