A Conspiracy of Kings by Megan Whalen Turner Page A

former
master of mine.”
    “Good one?” he asked.
    I shrugged.
    Hanaktos was an enemy of the king. Was my father perhaps
changing sides? That was a laughable idea; my father is the
opposite of changeable. It was far more likely that my uncle had
sent my father under a flag of truce to woo Hanaktos back to his
side.
    I was thoughtful as we continued back to the field house. Should
I have called out to my father? I was a failure as a man, a prince,
and a son, and I doubted very much that he would care that I was
still alive.
    Ochto was waiting for us, and there was little I could do but
eat my meal and sit on my pallet with my back against the plastered
wall while the other men lay down to rest. Was I of any use to my
father at all? Would it make any difference to anyone but me if I
stayed right where I was?
     
    “There is no wolf to eat you, Bunny,” my tutor
reminded me. “Stay where you are, and no man will know and no
god will be displeased.” She pointed to a space in the air
where I could see nothing. She pursed her lips and exhaled, and a
tiny mote appeared, moved by her breath into the broad beam of
light. “What do you want, Zecush?” she asked.
    My chin dropped to my chest, and I woke, lifting my head
abruptly and slamming it into the wall behind me. Eyes watering, I
realized that I had been asleep. My tutor had not in fact appeared
in the field house of Baron Hanaktos.
    The others were still at rest. The room was full of indirect
light, though the sun came in none of its doorways and there were
no dust motes shining in any sunbeams. It was warm, and I was
sweating. I thought of another swim with longing, but I
wasn’t a free man, to swim when I pleased. I swam, as I
rested and as I ate, when I had permission. I was a slave, owned by
the baron, waiting for the call to rise and go with the others to
work in the fields. When it came, I pulled myself to my feet and
followed Ochto out the door.
     
    Out among the olives, as I began to fit stones into place in the
wall I was building, I thought, as if it were the first time, about
what I wanted. All of my life people had chosen for me. My father
or the king of Sounis, his magus, or the king’s other
advisors. All my life they had made choices for me, and I had
resented it. Now the choice was mine, and once it was made, I would
have no right to blame anyone else for the consequences. Loss of
that privilege, to blame others, unexpectedly stung.
    I didn’t want a choice; I wanted to stay right where I was
and build walls and share poetry with an avid audience and enjoy a
swim with friends, but I didn’t want it to be my choice .
    Goaded by self-disgust, I worked faster, picking the largest
rocks and throwing them into place and then watching in rage when
they landed awry. Ochto sent Runeus to give me a hand, but Runeus
collided with my glare and backed away. Shrugging helplessly at
Ochto, he went to work elsewhere. Only when I caught the tip of one
finger between two rocks and stood cursing and swearing like, well,
just like a field hand, did I stop. I wiped tears of frustration
out of my eyes and faced the truth.
    I had been happy. And I could stay if I wanted to. I could spend
my life contemplating olives and reciting old plays to a friendly
audience and building excellent walls that would outlast my
lifetime. I could save the occasional coin that came to me by way
of the baron’s feast day generosities and in time buy a book
or two, a blank scroll, ink. In thirty years I might be the poet
Leuka. He wasn’t a field hand, but he had been a slave, and
his poetry has survived him by four hundred years. No one would
know but me and the gods, and I was sure the gods didn’t
care. All I had to do was hold my peace, and I knew that I
couldn’t do it.
    What would I choose if I could have anything? Well, I
wouldn’t be useless. I would be the statesman my father
wanted and the prince my country needed. But that wasn’t what
I was offered. I was still the same poor