Chapter 20
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Josan gasped desperately, struggling for air. Pain consumed him as his muscles tensed, arching his body off the bed—then just as suddenly he collapsed upon it, boneless. He could hear the sound of a hammer, mingled with Chenzira's desperate curses.

As his frantic breaths slowed, Josan opened his eyes.

Chenzira's gaze met his—eyes wild, holding an iron bar suspended over his head with one hand. With a ringing crash, Chenzira brought the bar down against the table.

The spell. Josan's memories came rushing back to him.

“Enough,” he said, then coughed.

The bar clanged to the floor as Chenzira came over to help him sit upright.

Josan's senses swam, but as he blinked the dizziness passed. He swallowed a few times to clear the foulness from his mouth.

“Did it work? Are you well?” Chenzira asked.

Josan hesitated, not knowing how to answer the question. Lucius, he called out. Lucius!

But there was no answer. He closed his eyes and tried again, summoning all of the focus he had learned in years of patient study, but there was nothing. Not even the vague echo that he had come to associate with those times when Lucius was unable to communicate with him.

He pushed Chenzira aside and stood. The amber stone had been pounded into fine crumbs—Josan brushed a few into his palm, but there was no sense of magic, no feeling of connection. If Lucius's soul had been in that stone, it was there no longer.

“Emperor, are you well?” Chenzira asked.

Josan nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He'd steeled himself for death, hoping merely that his passing would be swift. Coming back to life in this fashion was as painful as any birth.

He let the stone fragments fall on the floor as he held his hands in front of him, turning them over, then bringing them together, reveling in the sensation as flesh met flesh.

He could feel. For the first time in months, the sensations were not dulled. It was only now that he realized how much Lucius's presence had affected him. His body was still weak, but it was his, from the chill of his bare feet against the rough wooden deck to the ache of his head.

It was as if he'd awoken from a long illness, or a dream.

But why had Lucius done it? Josan had been willing to die. He had never expected that Lucius would take his place.

Was it a sudden whim? Or a secret that Lucius had held for days, until it came time to act?

He had not thought Lucius had the strength within him to sacrifice himself. And yet he had. Lucius had given his life for the sake of his empire. In the end, Lucius had proven his nobility—he was what he'd always wished to be, the equal of any of his illustrious ancestors. Ikaria was poorer for his loss, though no one would know to mourn him, except Josan.

“I could not have done this without your help. Thank you,” Josan said.

Chenzira eyed him critically. “Not to be difficult, but you don't look any different.”

“It's what's inside that matters,” Josan told him. “My body will recover now that the curse is gone.”

Chenzira's eyes widened at the mention of magic. “You said it was poison.”

So he had. “It was both,” Josan explained. “But it is over.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes.”

He knew that Lucius's soul was gone, but he could not say where that certainty came from, merely that he felt it within the very bones that were now his. No longer would he struggle for survival in a body that was at war with itself. That part of his life was over.

It was up to him to decide what came next.

*  *  *


The sun was high in a cloudless sky as Green Dragon sailed past the moles into Karystos harbor. Josan looked up at the terraced hills, his eyes traveling from the markets, to the nobles' quarter, to the copper roof of the collegium, which was barely visible behind its neighbors. And, finally, the great palace, dominating the scene effortlessly from its perch upon the great hill.

Admiral Septimus peered through his long glass, then twisted it shut with a snap. “They're waiting for us,” Septimus said, faint disapproval coloring his words.

Yesterday they'd anchored off of Eluktiri, and at Josan's command, Septimus had sent a ship ahead to Karystos. He had no intention of sneaking into the city as a thief. All would know that the true emperor had returned.

After some grumbling, Septimus had obeyed—then insisted on joining the emperor aboard Green Dragon for their arrival.

Josan had agreed, knowing that their fate was shared. Whether Septimus stood beside him or was aboard another ship would not matter. The rest of the navy might be spared, but whatever happened to the emperor would happen to Septimus and Chenzira as well.

The breeze ruffled his hair, and Josan took a deep breath, then another, savoring the feeling of being alive and whole.

Ever since he'd awoken to find a frantic Chenzira smashing the stone to powder, Josan had been a changed man. He no longer had to fight for each breath, to struggle merely to perform the simple tasks that others took for granted. His appetite had returned, and his sleep was untroubled by dreams.

He was not the man he had been, when years of tending a lighthouse had gifted this body with both physical strength and endurance. But each day he grew stronger, and given time, he knew he would recover fully.

He heard Chenzira's shouts, as the topmost sails were furled and the ship prepared to drop anchor.

“There's still time to change your mind,” Septimus said.

Josan did not have to do this. Chenzira would have sailed him anywhere he wished to go. He could have shaved his head and disappeared, become a scribe writing letters for those too ignorant to write their own, or a clerk in some foreign city.

Or even resumed his life as a monk, joining the brethren in Tarsus or some other place where they'd never heard of Brother Josan. Nor of Brother Nikos.

It was possible. Some would say it was the wisest choice. And his supporters would have understood.

But Lucius would not.

In the end, Lucius had finally understood duty, and that the power he'd inherited was not a privilege but a responsibility.

Lucius had sacrificed himself for his empire, and so that Josan might live. Josan could do no less.

Eight approached, carrying the casket that held the lizard crown.

“Admiral, if you would?” Josan asked.

Septimus flushed at the honor, then carefully he lifted the crown and set it on Josan's head. The familiar warmth greeted him, and for a moment he thought he heard lizards chattering.

The crown still recognized him. He knew that Lucius would have taken this as an omen.

Chenzira guided the ship to the imperial pier, which was reserved for the emperor's own ship. It was vacant, which could be taken as a sign of respect—or merely that they wished to make it easy for him to surrender. As they approached, Josan saw that the wharves were crowded with people, their voices rising and falling in excited utterances. All around the harbor, imperial flags flew, adorned with purple streamers, likely left over from Zuberi's coronation.

At the very end of the pier a canopy had been erected, and he saw a small group of people standing there, though he could not make out their faces.

It made no sense. He thought he'd be met by Zuberi's men, or perhaps a squad of General Kiril's troops, ready to take the former emperor into custody. But this crowd was more than mere casual spectators—all of Karystos would know what happened here today.

It was not like Zuberi to make this kind of mistake. But perhaps he'd had no choice—word of the victory at Anamur would have reached Karystos a week ago by his reckoning, and such news could not be kept quiet.

Zuberi might have had better luck suppressing the news that today was the day of the emperor's return, but he could not control rumors, and any preparations he made for Lucius's arrival would serve as warning to Lucius's allies.

If he had any supporters left besides the men who currently stood by him.

A handful of men approached, but even with their help, it seemed to take an eternity for the ship to be made fast and the gangplank to be lowered in place.

To his surprise, once they'd tied off the ship, the men retreated back down the short pier. He waited for a heartbeat, but no group of soldiers took their place.

It seemed Zuberi was waiting for Lucius to come to them. So be it.

“It is time,” Josan said.

He led the way down the gangplank, flanked on either side by Septimus and Chenzira. He recognized Senator Demetrios standing beneath the canopy, accompanied by General Kiril, Petrelis, and a handful of other senators and dignitaries. Oddly, several key figures were missing, including Chancellor Telamon.

And there was no sign of Zuberi, but armed men wearing the uniforms of the city guard formed a solid line that held back the crowds on either side, likely by Zuberi's command.

He heard the crowd chanting, “Long live the emperor,” and wondered who it was that they hailed.

As Josan's foot touched the pier, he summoned his will, and a rainbow appeared, arching from the harbor up over Karystos, coming to rest at the spires of the palace.

The crowd gasped, then cheered. It was not a subtle display, but he knew that Lucius would have loved it.

The magic had been Lucius's final gift to him—tied to the very blood that flowed through these veins, regardless of whose spirit commanded it.

He pasted a confident smile on his face as he drew near those who awaited him.

General Kiril was the first to step forward, followed a heartbeat later by Demetrios. Kiril looked much the same as he remembered, but Demetrios was pale, with a half-healed scar across his neck that even a high-necked robe could not wholly conceal.

“Where is my proconsul?” Josan asked. He would not grant Zuberi the title of emperor.

“Dead. Assassinated,” Kiril said bluntly.

Josan blinked. That possibility hadn't even occurred to him. He looked quickly at Demetrios, then scanned the rest of his welcomers, to see who had taken Zuberi's place, but none wore a crown, nor even the thin gold circlet that proclaimed the wearer as the emperor-in-waiting.

“But I know he would have wished to be the first to greet you upon your victorious return,” Kiril added.

These were not the words of a man preparing to arrest his former ruler. Kiril had risen to his post because of his alliance with the emperor—and his ability to sense the shifting winds of power.

But it could not be this easy, could it?

And yet, even as he wondered, Kiril dropped to his knees, followed by Demetrios, and the rest of the greeting party.

Demetrios bowed his head, saying, “Emperor Lucius, your loyal subjects welcome you home.”

He wondered if anyone else perceived the irony in those words.

Apparently Zuberi's assassination had meant that there had not been enough time to name a new emperor, or perhaps that no suitable candidate had been able to muster the necessary support. Merely because Demetrios knelt to him now did not mean that he had given up his ambitions.

The same could be said for the rest of the court. Those present were at least as much of a danger as those who had not been chosen to greet him.

The support of the navy, and the resounding victory at Anamur—a victory that for all their striving Empress Nerissa and her ancestors had never been able to achieve—had apparently secured his throne. For the moment.

If he wished to remain as emperor, to rule Ikaria and not merely pose as a figurehead for others, it would take everything that he had. Every bit of energy, every scrap of cunning, every bit of wisdom that he could muster. It could be no half effort—he could no longer play at being a scholar and leave the governance of his realm to others.

The scholar must give way to the emperor, as Lucius had given way to Josan. In the end, each had sacrificed what he valued most, so that the best part of the other would survive.

Just as no one would know to mourn Lucius, there was no one who would realize that today was the day that Josan the monk finally perished.

“Rise, my loyal friends,” he said. “It is good to be home.”