“How did you know about that? The wind has fallen silent since you came; and there are no fruit trees in this clearing.”
“I dreamed it, a long time ago. I thought it was the Underworld. Perhaps it is and I’m already dead.” He lays a warm hand—the one that isn’t shackled—on Aria’s arm. “You don’t feel like a ghost,” he says.
“That’s because I’m not.”
“Tell me, then: among your people, is there a family, a brother and a sister? He is dark, like me; she is older, with hair that shines like gold.”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because I dreamed them, too. There is also a kindly father—a bearded man, quite devoted to his children. Do you know such a family?”
“I might.”
“You said there were only a few people here. Surely you must know them all.”
“I’m not free to discuss them.”
“But they are well?—you can tell me that much. Is the boy grown, healthy and happy? And the girl, she must be a woman now.”
“They’re both very well indeed. You will meet them soon. But we’d best go now while we can.”
“And the boy,” he says. “Has he also lived on this island all his life?”
“No,” she says slowly, plainly growing uneasy. “He was four years old or thereabouts when he came to us.”
Alexos catches his breath. “How? How did he come?”
“In a boat. Athene brought him here to safety.”
“And he’s been happy ever since? Content?”
“I told you before: yes.”
Alexos swallows hard, tries desperately to control his voice. “And what is he called, the boy? Do you know his name?”
“We’d better go,” she says.
“Just tell me his name. That’s all I ask. Please.”
Their heads are already close together as they speak in whispers. Now she leans closer still, her lips almost touching his ear. Her breath smells like clover. “His name is Teo,” she says.
There’s no hiding his feelings now. He pulls away and covers his face with his free hand. He’s weeping, making too much noise. Peles and Leander lean in, anxious. Suliman sits up. Aria doesn’t know what to do.
“I lost a brother,” Alexos finally says when he has recovered himself. “He was only four, and he looked very like the boy in the dream. That’s all. It upset me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry too, because I cannot come with you.”
“But why? Last night you said—”
He tears off the blanket. His tunic rides up in the process and, by the light of a few dancing fireflies, his leg in its metal brace is revealed. “This is why. I can’t walk without a cane, nor move with any speed. I would give you away with the noise I made.”
“But, Alexos,” Peles whispers, “we can—”
“Hush,” the king snaps, determined to make this his excuse—and as humiliating as possible, too, because the scab is off and it’s a fresh, new wound again.
“I’ll come back tomorrow when you’re more yourself,” Aria says, making to rise.
“Wait. One more thing, please.”
“What is it?”
“Come closer.”
She does, and in an instant his hand is touching her cap, pulling it off. Her hair comes tumbling down.
It’s hard to say which of them gasps—all of them, probably. And the sound of it, coming as it does after all Alexos’ weeping and the rising of their whispers, has woken the guard. But they are so caught up in this revelation that they don’t see Vasos coming till he has Aria by the arm.
29
PYRATOS EMERGES FROM HIS tent, thoroughly annoyed: his men have disturbed his sleep with their loud conversation, and there’s no excuse for such stupidity! They know which tent is the king’s, yet they stand right outside it, practically shouting. What in Hades were the blasted fools thinking, anyway?
The answer to his question is simple: they were thinking that Pyratos would be furious if they waited till morning to tell him about this interesting new development. On the other hand, he would also be furious if they woke him up. So this had been their ruse, and it had worked.
Now the king of Ferra looks around the camp with fire in his eyes. He takes in the assembled soldiers, the prisoner’s guard, the sentries. Then he sees the girl and his expression suddenly changes. “Well, what have we here?” he says with a predatory smile. The men move aside to let him pass.
“I found her in the prison camp, Your Majesty,” Vasos says. He has a firm hold on Aria’s arm, more out of nervousness than any ill intent. All the same, she’ll have a bruise there by morning.
Pyratos looks her up and down, studying her in a dispassionate way, as if she were for sale in the agora and he’s deciding whether or not he wants to buy. He registers approval of her face and hair, disgust at her shabby clothes and bare feet. Then he makes a little snuffling sound, as if laughing through his nose.
At the same time Aria is staring back at Pyratos, and is shocked to see the unmistakable family resemblance. His hair is pale gold, as hers is, as her father’s was before it turned white. He has the same noble brow, the same long face. Even the eyes are the same color, pale green.
“You are certainly familiar!” Pyratos snaps. And at first, Aria thinks he means she looks like family. But then the sentry grabs the back of her head and tilts her face down to a more seemly angle. Apparently she is not permitted to look directly at the king, though he is free to look at her all he likes.
“She claims to live alone on the island,” Vasos says. “No villages, no other people. She eats fruits and nuts and lives in a cave.”
“She’s lying, of course.”
Aria sighs, rather too loudly. Vasos grips her tighter in warning.
Pyratos cocks his head, as if to see her better. “Now I wonder: What shall I do with you?” He’s apparently decided to buy.
“You could let me go. I am perfectly harmless.”
“I could do that, yes. But I think I’d rather clean you up and let you amuse me with stories about your adventures on the island. I don’t suppose you dance? Play the lyre?”
She blinks, a little confused. “No thank you,” she says.
The men laugh.
“You’d rather live alone in a cave than enjoy my company? Really, my dear, there are many who would leap at the chance.”
It just slips out: “I’d rather die.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’d rather die.”
“And why is that?” He’s leaning in too close. She feels his hot breath on her face.
“Because you are a monster with blood on your hands. You killed both my parents. And were it not for the merciful Athene you would have killed me t—”
He slaps her hard across the face. Then he slaps her again. But she’s past fear now and well into righteous anger. She can’t stop herself.
“Do you really not recognize me, cousin? I am your uncle Claudio’s child. Surely you remember him. You took his fortune, put him under arrest, allowed his wife to die untended, then sent him off in a ship, believing he was banished—”
Before she can finish, his arm is around her neck. He presses hard against her throat until she gags. She flails wildly with her arms till he pins one of them down, but she goes on punching him with the other. With her heel she kicks his shin. She knows she’s not really hurting him, only making things worse. Probably he’ll kill her in his rage. She doesn’t care.
Instead, he freezes in surprise as the glade is suddenly filled with music—rich, majestic, and uncommonly loud: horns blasting over the sound of strings and flutes. The wind has never made that kind of music before. This has the quality of a fanfare.
“What is that?” Pyratos says.
Everyone looks around, alarmed.
Now the fog thickens and shimmers with light, and within that light a vision slowly forms. At first it’s just ambiguous shapes and random flashes of color. But soon they begin to fus
e and meld into a recognizable scene. They see a room, a throne, a king sitting on the throne—Pyratos, in fact, as he’d been when he was younger. Standing before him, cap in hand, is a disreputable-looking creature. The sort of person you might expect to pick your pocket.
Pyratos has released his grip in his astonishment. Aria darts away and returns to Vasos, who takes her arm again, but more gently now. The figures in the air begin to speak.
“I believe I’ve got it, Yer Majesty,” the disreputable fellow says. “Clear as clear. The duke goes off on his voyage, lugging all his books and whatnot along with him, ’cause he thinks he’s being banished. Then when we’re well out to sea, another boat will meet us and we’ll all go over to that one and row away.”
There are gasps from the men. Pyratos waves his arms. “Stop that thing!” he bellows to no one in particular.
But it doesn’t stop.
“And?” the young Pyratos says in the vision.
“We never, ever, ever speaks of it to no one.”
“And?”
“We never, ever, ever comes back neither, ’cause we’re supposed to of drownded along with the duke. And some other fella, that enemy king, is supposed to of done it.”
“Good. We understand each other. Now, I am paying you all handsomely to do this, more money than you could ever hope to see in your lives. So if any one of you so much as breathes a word, or decides to come back to visit his mother, then I promise that man a long and very painful death. Do you understand?”
“I do, Yer Majesty. I do indeed.”
“Then you sail tomorrow. And may I never look upon your poxy face again.”
“That you will not, Yer Majesty. I guarantees it.”
The vision fades, the last few words having been drowned out by a rumble of angry voices. The men move away from Pyratos, as they would from a leper.
The second vision comes up more quickly. Now they see two ships at sea, a large one and a smaller one. The duke, a younger Claudio, holding the infant Aria in one of his arms, is pulling at the sleeve of a sailor with the other.
“Surely you cannot mean to leave us here to die.”
“Surely we can. For we’ve been hired to do it, y’see, and by someone very important—very, very important, if you catch my meaning, such as you don’t say no to lest you wants to lose your head. ’Tis a pity, though. He never said there’d be a child.”
The men leave the ship and row away. The storm rises. Claudio shields his baby daughter with the hem of his cloak. The sound of wailing winds and hammering rain fills the island camp.
King Pyratos, who is not an unintelligent man, senses the rising fury of his men and he is wise enough to be afraid. “Stop that thing!” he cries again. And this time the scene pauses. But it doesn’t go away. Claudio still stands on the deck of that empty ship holding his innocent child to his breast as heavy clouds loom overhead and raindrops, frozen in motion, wait to strike them.
“For shame!” comes a voice from behind him. Pyratos spins around, as if fearing a knife at his back.
“Is it true?” comes another.
“No!” Pyratos cries. “I don’t know what that is, but it’s a brazen lie. No one in Ferra mourned my uncle’s death more than I did. He withdrew from his responsibilities at court after his wife died, and I respected that. But he returned to my service and agreed to go on a secret diplomatic mission. We hoped to reach an agreement with the king of Arcos to lessen the carnage on the borderlands. Claudio was on his way to discuss the terms when that swine King Ektor, in collusion with his swinish son Alexos, sent warships to attack our peaceful party, though the duke’s vessel plainly flew the flag of truce.”
“Liar!”
“Any man who touches me dies a traitor’s death.”
“And who would arrest us?”
Pyratos looks to his captain of the guard, who stands behind him.
“Dimitrios!” he says. “Do something.”
“I regret, Your Majesty, that I no longer choose to serve you.”
“Nor I,” cries a voice from the crowd.
“Nor I!”
“Nor I!”
Pyratos takes a deep breath and clenches his hands into fists. He is rallying now, fully aware that if he doesn’t seize this moment, soon it will be too late. He climbs onto one of the benches so everyone can see him and thrusts his right hand into the air. The bright image behind him remains unchanged, the duke and his child still in peril. The men fall silent.
“I know I haven’t always been a good king. My uncle gave me wise advice and I didn’t heed it. Like any young man thrust into power before he’s ready, I made mistakes. But I would have grown under my uncle’s tutelage had his life not been so cruelly cut short. Instead, I became wild with rage over his murder. I pursued the war against Arcos with a passion that consumed me.”
There is more grumbling from the men.
“Hear me out,” Pyratos cries, “and then you shall judge.”
They fall quiet again.
“I would never have harmed my uncle. He was like a second father to me. And looking back, remembering his soft and careful words, I am astonished at the subtlety of his mind, the greatness of his understanding, and the goodness of his heart. Indeed, if he could be brought back to life this night, I would gladly give over my throne to him, abdicate, and let him rule in my stead—”
“Would that it were so!”
“Sadly, that is not possible. He is lost to us forever. But his wise counsel is not. And though in my grief I followed the poisonous path of revenge, this night I have been recalled to my better self. I swear to you”—and here he literally beats his breast—“that the trial of King Alexos shall be my last act of retribution. Once my uncle’s death has been fully and truly avenged, I will put away all thoughts of war and rule as Claudio would have had me do. I shall devote the rest of my life to honoring his memory. And you will find in me a friend to the poor, a supporter of all that is honest and fair. What say you, my good men? Will you pardon me for the sins of my past and give me another chance, so that I may become everything I ought, for which I was anointed by the immortal gods—your true and righteous king?”
It’s a good speech, spoken with passion, the pauses in all the right places. His men aren’t inclined to trust him, but they’re moved by his words. They are searching their hearts and consciences, wondering what to do, when Claudio steps out of the fog and into camp, dressed in his dingy robe, formerly a coverlet, yet strangely godlike with the noble features of his face set off by his snowy beard and long, wild hair. As he appears, the vision fades and he is bathed in a circle of golden light.
A hundred men gasp as one. Many sink to their knees. The king tumbles off the bench, onto the ground. It is the kind of entrance every actor dreams of.
“Nephew,” he says, addressing Pyratos, who is even then scrambling to his feet. “I am glad to know you remember me so fondly.”
For a moment the king is speechless. Then: “Claudio?”
It’s not that Pyratos doesn’t recognize his uncle—the man hasn’t aged that much. He simply can’t believe his eyes.
“As you see,” Claudio says.
“But I thought—”
“—that I was dead. I know. And indeed, it was a very close thing. But Athene was kind to us and brought us here to this island. And so I stand before you now, very much alive.”
Aria pulls away from Vasos, who doesn’t try to stop her, and runs into her father’s arms.
“I rejoice that it is so,” says the king, trying his best to sound sincere.
“And I also rejoice, nephew, that you’ve had such a sudden and dramatic change of heart, that you see the error of your ways and regret the evil you have done. That was genuine, was it not—all those things you said?”
Pyratos chokes, clears his throat, and tries again. “Yes,” he says. “I was sincere in confessing my failings. I shall be a better king heretofore.”
Nikomedes, one of the chief noblemen of Ferra, steps
forward now, bows low to the duke, then turns to the king. “If that is so, my lord Pyratos, if you spoke honestly—”
“I did. I meant every word from the depth of my heart.”
“Then I am glad. For it was such a stirring speech, it very nearly brought me to tears. I warrant I could give it back to you word for word even now, especially the part where you said—what was it exactly?—‘If only my uncle could be brought back to life, I would give over my throne to him this very night. I would abdicate, and let him rule in my place.’ Something like that; close enough. So tell us, did you mean that, too? Or was it just another lie?”
“I . . . I meant it at the time, but you see—”
But his words are lost in a roar of derisive laughter. It is so full of scorn that even Pyratos can see that he is finished. Not one man among them would support him. He’s made a pledge and they are holding him to it.
“And I mean it still,” he says.
The laughter stops.
“Then, if you will,” Nikomedes says, “say the words properly here and now so that there shall be no mistake. I will help you if you like.”
“No, thank you, Lord Nikomedes, I am quite capable of abdicating with no assistance from you.” Pyratos stares down at his feet, takes a couple of deep breaths, then looks up into the expectant faces of his men.
“As the gods have wrought a miracle and brought my dear uncle Claudio back from the dead, and as he was ever highly esteemed for his wisdom, his temperance, and his judgment, I hereby renounce my throne and my title of king, though it came to me by rights as the only son of—”
“Get on with it!” shouts a voice from the crowd.
“My title, as rightfully mine, is rightfully mine to refuse, abdicate, and resign. And this I now do, formally and absolutely. I choose as my successor the honorable duke, my uncle Claudio.”
He removes the diadem from his head and makes to hand it to his uncle, but Lord Nikomedes steps in.
“That was handsomely done, Pyratos,” he whispers. “But it wouldn’t be proper for Claudio to crown himself. So if you haven’t the stomach to set it on his head, which I certainly understand, then I will gladly do it for you.”
The Chosen Prince Page 17