Free The Chosen Prince by Diane Stanley

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, unobserved, 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 spaces 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 breatheair 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 areboots 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.
    â€œIt 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 prickling 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.”
    â€œNo. The decision has been made.”
    â€œBut, Your Grace,” the other man says, clearly treading carefully, “Athene chose him.”
    â€œSo it seemed at the time. But we must have been mistaken. The amulets were contradictory: he would be strong but also weak—remember?”
    â€œYes, 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?”
    â€œ And