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

for a horrible moment he’s afraid he might actually fall. But he doesn’t; he recovers his stride. Only now the man is directly in front of him on the inside lane.
    It’s Peles of Attaros, and he is a wonder.
    He runs as little children do, for the joy of it. No one has forced him to come here and compete with noblemen’s sons. No one has taught him technique or strategy. And certainly no one expects him to win. He’s just here because he wants to be. And he runs as simply, naturally, and beautifully as the wind moves across a meadow. Watching him, Alexos is struck by the sudden knowledge that this boy —who probably sleeps on straw in a one-room wattle hut—is freer than Alexos himself will ever be.
    Alexos has completely lost his concentration now. He’s overwhelmed by the troubling symptoms he’s mostly managed to ignore till now: his burning cheeks and stinging eyes, the rising nausea, the throbbing pain in his head, and the terrible, aching unsteadiness of his legs.
    He’s falling behind. His form is terrible. He lurches from side to side as more runners pass him—two, three, four of them, including Leander.
    He can’t concentrate at all anymore; his mind is heavy, as though he was just awakened from a deep sleep. His legs are still moving, but haltingly. Three more runners pass him, gasping for breath, putting on speed as they near the finish. Alexos can hear the screams of the crowd and is vaguely conscious of the pavilion up ahead, where his father and Teo sit in regal splendor, expecting him to win this race.
    But Alexos is only trotting now—stumbling, almost. His face is on fire; he feels as if he will melt onto the track like candle wax. He’s not sure he can even finish the race.
    A huge roar goes up from the crowd: the winner has crossed the line. And from the amazed exuberance of the shouting—it goes on, and on, and on—Alexos is pretty sure he knows who it was.
    Was-buzzzz, buzzzzzzzz . His mind is buzzing, as though flies have crawled inside his head. He listens, inert. He can’t see much of anything. It’s all blurry, the world around him. Like fog—hot, stifling fog. He wants to lie down somewhere cool. Grass would be nice.
    And then, from deep inside his consciousness, he wills himself to stop drifting and come back to therace. He looks lazily down at his feet and is startled to see that they aren’t moving at all. He’s just standing there, bleeding sweat onto the track.
    The shock of this clears his mind—not completely, but enough to understand that he has failed to a degree that was unimaginable till now. He has failed his father, he has failed the goddess, and he has failed Teo. The shame of his performance will dog him for the rest of his life. But at least, at the very least , it will not be said that Alexos didn’t finish the race.
    So he hobbles the rest of the way, staggering like a drunkard. He feels the eyes of the crowd burning into him—for they have fallen silent now, and it’s a silence of horror and pity. Don’t think about it , he tells himself. Just take another step and then another after that.
    It goes on forever. He is hunched over, staring down at his legs, so ungainly, so very weak. And then he steps across the chalk line, smeared now by the eleven pairs of feet that have run across it. And there he stops.
    Alexos watches his father with something akin to awe. How does the king maintain such incredible control? He sets the laurel crown on the oily, sweaty brow of a peasant lad who has just defeated a host of young aristocrats—and does not look amazed. His son andheir, the future savior of Arcos, has publicly shamed and disappointed him—and he shows no anger or despair. Teo is weeping and making a scene. Ektor ignores him. He goes through the ceremony of praise to the goddess in a calm and dignified manner. He acknowledges the cheering crowd of commoners, delirious with