Chapter 17
Lucius was bored. He was present—but as an observer in his own body. He could not take control, but neither could he escape into the oblivion that passed for sleep. The boundaries between the two of them had begun to blur. He could feel what the monk felt, see what the monk saw, hear what he heard. But at the moment he could not move a single muscle—not even twitch his eyes, which were staring at a scroll in rapt fascination.
The writing on the scroll was illegible, a grotesque series of angular lines that contrasted poorly with the flowing curves of courtly script. The monk, however, found this fascinating and had been reading the scroll all morning.
Struck by a thought, the monk unfurled the earlier section of the scroll, and if Lucius had had a voice, he would have groaned with frustration. But as it was he was merely a witness as the monk stared intently at a single line of writing.
For a moment the line swam in his vision, and he could nearly make sense of it. A draught made from the berries of the endikot bush, plucked when they are neither green nor ripened red, will unchain a soul from the body, easing . . .
And then he blinked, and the line was gibberish once more.
For a brief moment he'd drawn on the monk's skills. But it was not enough.
The monk resumed reading, and Lucius returned to his own contemplations. This was yet another reminder that the monk had skills he lacked. Were it not for the monk, he'd be forced to speak the common trade tongue, or to beg Lady Ysobel to serve as his translator. It was wholly beyond him to search for a cure—not that the monk was making much progress on his own.
They'd learned how to enchant a stone so that it always pointed in the direction of where it was made—far handier than a mere compass, which pointed to the north. And how to brew a tea that would render the drinker unable to resist the maker's sexual advances, but such seemed unnecessarily complicated. Far easier to ply the object of one's desire with unwatered wine, until the drinker's senses swam.
As for soul magic—there'd been precious little to discover. If he'd translated the line correctly, the berries were a clue, but merely untethering the soul would not be enough. How would the potion know which soul to unchain? What if it banished both of them?
Though he could not help remembering the drink that Brother Nikos had given him. He'd been told it was a
tisane to help him sleep—but rather than a single evening of rest, he'd awoken five years later, the victim of Nikos's machinations.
Which argued that it had not been endikot berries after all, or that the effects of such berries were only temporary.
There's something missing, the monk's mind voice said, proving that their thoughts ran along similar lines. And I don't know how much trust I put in this herbal. It hardly seems likely that a magician who spent two hundred lines describing how to cure toe rot would be capable of working soul magic.
But you've found nothing else. Even to himself, the words sounded like an accusation, though he had not meant them as such. These days he was too weary to feel true anger.
Even the news that Zuberi had declared himself emperor-in-waiting had stirred mere concern rather than the righteous wrath he would have once felt. Though others had been suitably outraged, including Admiral Septimus, who'd urged Lucius to return to Ikaria and resume his rightful position.
But Green Dragon remained in port, even after Admiral Septimus had sailed with the task force to attack Anamur. News would arrive in Sendat faster than it would in Ikaria, though that was not the main reason he'd chosen to stay. Sea voyages had proven chancy for him in the best of health, and he had no wish to spend the remaining days of his life in a tiny cabin, heaving his guts.
I've not given up, the monk thought, but it seemed likely that he had. Reading books randomly chosen from market stalls was less about looking to reverse their decline than it was about filling the hours of the day. The monk studied because he knew nothing else to do.
If Lucius had been in ascendance, he could have found other ways to fill his time—it had been too long since he felt the pleasures of the flesh. Though whether his body would be able to fulfill his wishes was in doubt, so perhaps it was for the best that he was not in control rather than risk the humiliation of being unable to perform.
Finally the monk rolled up the scroll, then slowly rose to his feet, waving off the servants who tried to assist.
There were times when he was unable to stand on his own—when his legs dragged uselessly as his attendants pretended they were merely guiding him. Last week there'd been a day when none of his limbs obeyed him. Forced to endure the humiliation of allowing others to dress and feed him, he'd soon retreated to his bed, feigning sleep so he would not have to endure their pity.
But today was one of the good days, and the monk was able to walk unaided back to his bedchamber. After washing his ink-stained hands, he returned to the parlor, where he ate a solitary lunch before resuming his studies.
At the hour before sunset he made his way to the dining room. It was not strictly a dining room—Lord Delmar's private dining room was on the third floor, as part of his suite, and there was another large dining room that served the working members of House Flordelis, who were polite when they came across him but knew better than to socialize with their guest. This room had likely started life as an office, or someone's sitting room, and once he left it would resume its original function. But for the present it held a table where an intimate group of eight could dine, and couches where they could relax for conversation in the Ikarian fashion.
Lord Delmar had returned to Alcina a fortnight before, having neglected his duties there as long as he dared. But Lady Ysobel was still in residence, and when he entered he found her deep in conversation with Chenzira.
They broke off as soon as he entered—a sure sign that they had been discussing him. Or, perhaps, their latest plans to send him back to Ikaria, will he or nay.
“Good afternoon, Captain Chenzira, Lady Ysobel,” the monk said. As his eyes swept the table, which had three place settings, he observed, “Your aide is not joining us?”
“He is fetching something for later,” Ysobel said.
She poured a pale green wine into three glasses, watered it lightly, then let him choose which of the three to drink.
He took the center, and then Ysobel and Chenzira took their own glasses.
They'd little enough in common. Chenzira and Ysobel could discuss boats for hours, but while the monk would listen with interest to almost anything, he had nothing to contribute, and etiquette demanded that the highest-ranking member of the party at least participate in the conversation.
Politics was far too touchy a subject for mere casual discourse, and they'd long since run out of ways to describe the places they'd visited and sights they'd seen.
The monk had once tried to discuss his method of fixing a position at sea with Lady Ysobel, but she'd demurred, still considering herself bound to a vow of silence, even though such was no longer needed.
The few acquaintances they had in common resided under this roof, or back in Karystos, so there was no gossip to be had. And there was a limit to the number of times that they could discuss the weather, or compliment the dishes that the chef set before them. As he'd half expected, it was not long before conversation devolved into a two-sided discussion between Ysobel and Chenzira regarding Ysobel's newest ship. As a naval officer, Chenzira was accustomed to having crews assigned to him, so he was intrigued by the challenges Ysobel faced in having to compete with her fellow traders to hire skilled seamen.
Even the monk, with his endless quest for knowledge, found little to interest him in this discussion. Instead he allowed his mind to drift back to the scrolls he had read that day, while Lucius silently urged him to take another cup of wine.
After the meal they rose from their seats and moved to the couches, while servants brought cups of a warm tea spiced with cinnamon.
Captain Burrell entered, trailed by a diminutive older man whose shoes clomped on the ground.
The man was a laborer by his clothes, which were clean but not adorned. And as for his shoes—what Lucius had assumed were shoes were actually wooden pegs that thunked onto the tiles with each step.
At some point the man had lost both legs, but he seemed to have adapted to life without them. Lucius would have stared, but the monk politely averted his gaze.
“I know you have an interest in our local tales. This is Brice, one of our best-known storytellers,” Lady Ysobel said, by way of explanation.
Brice stepped forward and bobbed his head. “Gentlemen. Lady,” he said.
It was an unusual form of entertainment, but better than listening to another discussion on speed versus cargo capacity, and he sensed the monk agreed.
“I'm sure it will prove diverting,” the monk said, gesturing for Brice to take a seat.
Brice disdained the couches, instead pulling a straight-backed chair from the table, and turning it so that it faced his audience. At Burrell's signal servants brought Brice a glass of well-watered wine, and a cup of tea for himself.
“Is there anything that you had in mind to hear?” Brice asked.
He must know who Josan was—all of Sendat must know that Flordelis sheltered a prince, if not an emperor—but Brice was obviously too shrewd to question his betters. If Ysobel had not mentioned Lucius's title, neither would he.
The monk shrugged. “A tale of the sea,” he suggested. “There are few of those in my homeland.”
“I'll tell you the story of how I fell in love with a sea maid, then lost my legs to her jealous husband,” Brice began, launching into his story with enthusiasm.
That story was followed by one of a doomed voyage, then a ribald tale of twin brothers who married twin sisters and proceeded to swap mates every fortnight.
Brice was a good storyteller, but the monk's eyes were repeatedly drawn to Lady Ysobel, who seemed uncommonly nervous. At least twice she'd leaned forward, as if about to say something, then reclined back against her cushions.
When the tale of the licentious brothers ended, the monk set down his cup, the signal that he was ready to retire.
“Brice, if you'd be so kind, there's one more story I'd like to hear. I'd long forgotten it, but when I saw you earlier today you were telling a story that reminded me of it,” Lady Ysobel said. She paused for a moment. “It's the one about the Taresian boy who takes revenge for his murdered father.”
“The tale of Mikhal and Jahn?” Brice asked. “It's a grim tale for a pleasant night.”
“Please,” Lady Ysobel urged.
His curiosity piqued, the monk settled himself back against the cushions.
“Very well,” Brice said. He emptied his wineglass, tipping it to catch the last drops, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Mikhal lived in Tarsus, where his father Jahn was the henchman of the local lord. That's like a guard and an aide in one,” Brice began. “But Jahn was too close to his master, and one day he saw the lord commit murder. Jahn would have held his tongue, out of love for his master, but the lord took no chances, and stabbed Jahn with the same blade that had just killed another.
“But he'd made a mistake. Jahn was dying, but not dead. Clutching his wound with both hands, he staggered home, where he was found by his young son Mikhal. The boy was barely nine, but at his father's command, he placed a piece of amber on his father's tongue. As Jahn breathed his last, the amber caught his soul.”
The monk, who'd been listening with only half an ear, turned his head to stare at Brice. “It caught his soul?” he repeated.
“Aye,” Brice said, with a vigorous nod. “Then young Mikhal strung the amber on a cord and wore it around his neck.”
Brice described how Mikhal had fled, living in the woods until he was a man full-grown. Mikhal had numerous adventures in this time, none of which interested either Lucius or the monk.
“And then, on the tenth anniversary of his father's death, Mikhal returned to the town where the murderer held sway. He took the amber stone from its cord, and as he swallowed the stone, the spirit of Jahn possessed him.”
Lucius felt light-headed, as did the monk, who had forgotten to breathe as soon as Brice had mentioned the amber stone.
The tale concluded with Jahn—wearing Mikhal's body like a cloak, to use Brice's phrase—challenging the lord to a duel, and defeating him. It was a typical Taresian tale, where even a seeming victory was marred by tragedy, for the cost of Jahn's revenge was Mikhal's very life, as Mikhal's spirit had perished. Jahn lived to a ripe old age in Mikhal's body, but he fathered no more sons.
The monk swallowed hastily against the bitter laughter that tried to well up inside him. After all this time, it had taken an illiterate fisherman to point out that he'd known the answer all along. Months before he'd come across a ballad that told of a man's spirit captured in a piece of amber. He'd even known that Brother Giles had studied the properties of amber and other so-called magical gems. But rather than seeking out these truths, he'd sailed the length of the Great Basin, facing one peril after another, all the while his body growing weaker. He'd come all this way—
To discover that the answer had been in Karystos all along.
If Brother Giles knew this tale, and had an amber luck stone as I breathed my last . . .
Then placed your soul in me, Lucius concluded.
They expected you to be cast out, the monk surmised. Or perhaps they used endikot berries after all, but the effect was not permanent.
“I'm sorry if my tale displeased you, sir,” Brice said.
The monk blinked, then realized that his companions were staring at him. Lucius did not know how long they had been in private contemplation.
“It was a fine tale,” the monk said. “All of them were. But I am tired and must rest.”
The monk turned to Ysobel and caught her gaze. She met his gaze firmly, then gave a slight nod.
So the tale had been deliberate. Lucius wondered what she wanted to accomplish. Was she trying to help him find a cure? Or did she have a more sinister plan at work?
They had only her word that Brice was who he said he was, and that this was a true tale, not one invented expressly to deceive them.
The monk's mind voice was silent as he made his way back to their room and made his preparations for bed. Only after the servants had been dismissed did the monk open his thoughts up to Lucius.
They knew I was dying. No, they let me die, the monk thought, his anger bleeding through their tenuous connection.
So they fed your soul to me? It sounded undignified.
Lucius had imagined a complicated spell, one requiring a blood sacrifice, perhaps, and skilled magicians the likes of which hadn't been seen in Ikaria for a dozen generations. It was lowering to think his body had been stolen with a simple stone, still wet with the last gasps of a dead man.
I don't see how this helps us, Lucius thought. If the story was true, all they'd learned was how to capture a soul in the moments before death and move it to another victim.
Even if they could trick this body into thinking that it was dying, what good would it do to capture their souls? Their new host—willing or otherwise—would undoubtedly awaken one day, and there would be three men fighting for supremacy, in a body that had none of the advantages that came with being emperor.
Nikos had intended to murder Lucius. To destroy his soul, if not his body. But for some reason he'd survived. Perhaps he was stronger than Mikhal had been. Or perhaps he was merely selfish. According to the story, Mikhal had willingly sacrificed himself for his father, while Lucius had not consented to what was done to him.
He wished they'd never heard the story of Mikhal and Jahn. Useless knowledge was worse than none at all. Nothing had changed. He was still trapped in a failing body, with no hope for a cure.
The monk's mind voice was silent for so long that Lucius wondered if he'd fallen asleep with his eyes open.
Then, at last, he spoke.
There is a way. A way to set you free.
What do you mean?
If we brew the endikot tea—
No. He feared being trapped in a crippled body, but he also feared what would happen if his soul was unbound—what if it merely wandered the earth, rather than finding peace?
He could feel the monk's exasperation.
I drink the tea, the monk thought, in tones suitable for speaking with a child. I place the amber in our mouth, and it captures my soul. Remove the stone, and this is once again your body, and yours alone.
It could work. If he'd been in control, his heart would have sped up, his breath quickened, but there was no physical outlet for the desperate excitement that welled up within him.
We should do it as soon as we can. While we still have the strength, the monk thought.
No. The word slipped unbidden, before he'd had time to think it over.
He could feel the monk's relief, followed by shame.
It made him feel more kindly toward the monk. Only the most honorable of men could have proposed sacrificing himself as Josan had just done, and such virtue made Lucius uncomfortable. But it was easier to feel kinship with someone who was selfish enough to want to live, regardless of the price.
As for his instinctive refusal—Lucius's first reaction had been fear, which was only gradually subsiding. It was not that he was afraid of losing Josan's presence, as much as it was fear of trying the spell only to have it fail. But he could not explain that to the monk.
I still need you, Lucius thought, and that was no more or less than the truth. If anything went wrong at Anamur, we will need your skills to negotiate with King Bayard and his councilors.
It would be difficult enough to negotiate with Bayard without having to explain why the emperor no longer spoke fluent Decanese.
He sensed the monk's reluctant agreement. It seemed strange that he'd be eager for his own death, but perhaps having steeled himself for the sacrifice, he wanted to make it as quickly as possible.
It might be a kindness to let him go. But Lucius needed Josan's skills—as did the empire. Although it would not be for much longer.
I will gather what we need. When the time comes, I will be ready.