The Chosen Prince by Diane Stanley Read Free Book Online Page A

startles them. The high priest of Athene comes out onto the field; they kneel as the prayers are sung. Then King Ektor formally announces that the race will begin: runners, make ready.
    The surface of the track has been packed smooth, sand spread over clay. It’s dazzlingly white and hot under their feet after the cool of the shaded grass. They make discreet little hops as the sand stings the tender skin of their insteps. The sun is brutal. Already they are glistening with sweat. Alexos closes his eyes and fills his lungs with warm, damp air and lets it out again in a rush.
    His assigned place is near the right edge. He’ll need to make a lightning start and stay ahead of the pack just long enough to work his way across to the far left side. If he misses this chance, he’ll have to wait till the mass of runners has started to spread out, which could take a while, perfectly matched as they are.
    This strategy is mostly used when running on an oval track. But while it doesn’t exactly apply here,where the course meanders through the city and out into the countryside, the track will eventually make a wide turn to the left nearly a mile long, and the runners on the inside lane will have an advantage. So it’s worth the effort, the master had explained; the smallest thing can make a difference in a contest like this.
    They are all on their marks now, tense and waiting. Then comes the final blast of horns and they are off. Alexos’ toes grip the sand and hurl him forward, his strides measured and graceful, his body straight, and his arms pumping. He shifts to the left a heartbeat before the man beside him moves up to block his way; then he slides left again.
    Now he’s running beside Leander and can’t get past him. They race side by side like a pair of oxen pulling a plow, until Alexos puts on another burst of speed and crosses two more lanes. But it doesn’t come easily; it’s like running through steam. His legs ache as they’ve never ached before, his lungs can’t get enough air, and his head is pulsing with pain.
    Alexos has run greater distances than this and done it with relative ease. He can’t think why, so early on, he seems to be nearing his limit. It makes no sense. It’s alarming.
    At least he’s finished with strategy; that’s something,anyway. The field is spreading out a bit and he has the inside edge. Leander is right behind him, huffing and grunting as he runs. He’s doing it on purpose, of course. Leander never grunts. He’s trying to make Alexos nervous. But it has the opposite effect. It makes Alexos want to laugh. It lifts his spirits.
    The miles fly past. They’ve left the city now, out through the east gate and into the drab, sun-baked landscape of the countryside, making the long turn back toward the finish line. Alexos has a good position. Now the time has come to put those famous wings on his heels.
    He pushes everything out of his mind—Leander, the other runners, his exhaustion, the headache, the pain in his legs. He becomes a racing animal, as natural as a soaring hawk or a leaping deer. Sweat runs down his forehead and into his eyes; he blinks away the stinging salt and keeps on going. This is how Alexos runs, how he does everything—not to win, just to do his best.
    There are four or five in the lead now, clustered loosely together. Alexos pays no attention to them, doesn’t even bother to notice who they are. He’s racing only for himself, just running as fast as he can.
    But there really is something wrong with his legs. They’re trembling, unsteady; he’s half afraid they’llsuddenly refuse even to hold him up. He feels himself slowing down, just a little. He decides that’s probably wise. He doesn’t quite trust his balance anymore. Better to lose speed than to lose control.
    Then someone passes him close on the right, startling him and putting him off his rhythm. Alexos stumbles, and