"Yes, I'm sure. I want to know. She could have protected me; she's a G.o.ddess 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 a.s.suming that nothing is accidental where the G.o.ds 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 a.s.sumed about his role as champion. "Are you saying that I'm supposed to suffer? That's what the G.o.ddess 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 G.o.ds, 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."

8.

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 a.s.sure 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.

9.

"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 embarra.s.sment of the brace and the cane, are all marks of his n.o.ble 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."

"Ready for what?"

"For the rest of your life."

"Let me try it on," says the prince.

With all the dignity he can muster, Alexos leaves his rooms for the first time in over two months. He is dressed in chestnut wool and clutching a handsome gold-headed cane. He goes alone by choice. He wants, for once, not to be hovered over, protected, treated like an invalid.

He makes his way down the corridor at a stately pace until he reaches the stairs. Here he stops for a moment, reviewing his strategy. Then carefully he sets the tip of his cane on the first step below, bending his left leg so he can step down with the right, stiff in its metal cage. That done, he quickly brings the left leg down beside it. He pauses briefly on each tread to make sure of his balance, then continues on to the next.

It wouldn't do to fall.

At last, a bit breathless, he reaches the bottom of the stairs and crosses the entry hall, leaning forward just the right amount so he won't rock side to side. At the door, a porter waits, holding it open for him. He bows as Alexos pa.s.ses. "Your Grace," he says.

It is strangely warm for autumn; the sky is cloudless and uncommonly blue. Alexos is astonished by it, cannot remember such a day, not for years and years. Or maybe it's just that he's been cooped up in the sickroom so long, he's forgotten what it's like to be outside, how glorious it is to feel the sun on his back, the soft breath of wind on his cheek.

The rest of my life, he thinks. It begins now, on this glorious afternoon. He feels an unaccountable surge of happiness.

He turns onto the gray stone walkway that leads to the Queen's Garden, so named not for his late mother but the consort of some long-ago king. The palace gardeners keep it clipped and tidy, see to the roses, and rake the leaves, but it's rarely used anymore. Ektor will occasionally walk here when he tires of being inside and needs to stretch his legs, but as he is generally busy and rarely in residence, it's almost always empty.

Alexos doesn't really like the Queen's Garden. It's too formal for his taste, too small; and what natural charm it might have had in the old days has since been ruined by an excess of statuary and ornamental ponds. But Suliman had suggested he come here for simple, practical reasons: it's an easy walk, not too far from the palace, there are no steps, and the ground is flat. Also, it's a private place with an abundance of marble benches where Alexos can practice, un.o.bserved, the newly complicated art of sitting down.

He enters through a trellised arch and continues down the gravel path. The garden is rather like the palace, he thinks, with hallways and rooms, except that here the walls are high boxwood hedges and the rooms are open s.p.a.ces with ponds or fountains in the middle, furnished with benches instead of beds, tables, and chairs.

He wanders a bit, looking for a room that's more peaceful than garish. Which demented ancestor was it who chose those hideous statues, anyway? The thought makes him laugh, and again he's startled to realize that he is actually happy. It's wonderful to move his body, to feel the blood flowing, to breathe air that isn't stale, and look at something different for a change, however dreadful. Really, why was he so resistant to going out before? He might have done this weeks ago.

Having considered all the possibilities and pretty well worn himself out, Alexos decides on a round room with a round pond and a stone dolphin in the middle. There are three benches to choose from, all of them curved to fit the curving walls. He picks one at random, backs up to it, and begins the now familiar series of motions: leaning forward, positioning his cane just so, reaching down to release the latch that allows his brace to bend at the knee. Then-using the strength of his right arm, which grips the gold-headed cane, and the delicate muscles of his left leg, more powerful now from lifting sandbags over and over a thousand times-dropping as gracefully as possible onto the bench.

It doesn't go well. The bench, it turns out, is lower than the chair in his room. Well, consider that a lesson learned-at least there were no witnesses. And for now he's content to rest and enjoy the sunshine.

It's incredibly quiet. There is no sound but the rustling of dry leaves overhead, the occasional chirp of a bird, the distant plash of water from a fountain in one of the other rooms. And then, faintly, there are boots crunching on gravel and the soft voices of men in conversation. They come closer and closer, till they stop almost directly behind him on the other side of the hedge. Alexos knows exactly which room it is-rectangular, with an enormous birdbath in the center and a marble Apollo against the far boxwood wall. He hears the delicate rustle of clothing, the little grunts as the two men sit down.

Ektor has a carrying voice-an excellent trait for a warrior king, except on those occasions when he doesn't wish to be overheard. Like now.

"It can't be helped," the king is saying. "A lame king will be seen as a weak king. Pyratos will only redouble his efforts. The boy couldn't possibly handle it."

Alexos feels a p.r.i.c.kling all over his skin: tiny hairs standing at attention.

The other man's voice is more difficult to hear. He says something about the army, and "could do it just as well."

"No. The decision has been made."

"But, Your Grace," the other man says, clearly treading carefully, "Athene chose him."

"So it seemed at the time. But we must have been mistaken. The amulets were contradictory: he would be strong but also weak-remember?"

"Yes, sire. But he was strong, and now he is weak. That supports the truth of the rest. Was he not also destined to be virtuous and wise?"

"And foolish."

"We are all foolish sometimes, Your Highness. And he grasped the amulet for greatness. There was no doubt about it-quite impossible for an infant to do unless the G.o.ddess guides him. As your chancellor, and I hope also your friend, I strongly advise you to reconsider. Who can tell what Athene intends?"

"Have you seen him?"

"Alexos? No, Your Majesty. He has not yet appeared in public."

"Well, if you had, you'd know I am right."

"But Athene-"