Chapter 13
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Zorion had visited Ikaria often enough to expect that both captains would be men. There were no women in their navy, nor indeed in any positions of authority. One was young for his rank, something perhaps explainable by his dark hair and pale complexion that showed his connections to the new Ikarian nobility. The other was a middle-aged man, with the light brown hair of the old Ikarians who were more typically found in the navy.

He was surprised at how quickly they had answered his invitation—and that they'd come in person rather than sending junior officers. Either they were truly concerned over a possible threat to the truce between their countries, or they were both involved in whatever was going on.

“Your message mentioned pirates, disguised as one of our ships?”

Curiously it was the younger captain who was doing the talking. His uniform was new, the fabric unweathered, while his companion's uniform showed signs of wear, the brass insignia worn down from repeated polishing.

The pirates that had attacked Rhosyn hadn't bothered with uniforms, except for the officer they'd captured, who'd worn a belted tunic with leggings rather than the customary pantaloons.

If he'd met them anywhere else, he would have taken them to be what they said they were. But these were perilous times, and he was interested to see what his passenger would make of them.

“If you'll follow me, there's someone below that you need to speak with,” he said.

The two captains exchanged glances. Going below meant putting themselves at risk, since the sailors that had rowed them over would be unable to see or hear any disturbance.

Then again, only a fool would attack a captain while his ship—and its heavily armed crew—swung at anchor only a few hundred yards away.

Zorion had put Josan in his own cabin for this meeting, where he'd be able to sit upright in the backed chair, giving the illusion of strength.

As the door to his cabin swung open, the younger captain stopped so abruptly that his companion ran into him.

“Emperor Lucius!” he exclaimed, then dropped down on one knee. “It is good to see you again.”

“Chenzira. Rise and tell me what you are doing here.”

“I've come for you,” the young captain said, scrambling to his feet. “I swore to the admiral that I could find you, and I did. Your calculations were exactly right. Following the new route, we made the voyage in less than half the time it would have taken before.”

Josan—no, Lucius—smiled. “You've shown yourself an apt pupil.”

Zorion realized that, up until this moment, he'd not really believed that this was Lucius, emperor of Ikaria. Even after Ysobel had identified him, and after Josan had agreed with her, he'd still thought of him as simply Josan, the man who had begged for passage to Xandropol.

But imperial captains would not kneel for just any traveler.

“This is Captain Eugenio,” Captain Chenzira said.

“Emperor Lucius, I am honored,” the second man said. He'd remained kneeling even after Chenzira had advanced.

“Rise,” Lucius said. “This is Captain Zorion's ship, not the throne room in Karystos. Come, sit.”

Chenzira took the seat closest to the emperor, while Eugenio sat next to him, his back as stiff as a plank. Zorion sat opposite them so he could watch their faces as Lucius questioned them.

“Why did you leave Green Dragon?” Chenzira asked. “I would have sailed you anywhere you wanted. I would have rowed you here myself, if only you'd asked.”

So Chenzira was not just any captain. He was the emperor's personal captain, which explained why his comrade deferred to him.

“I had my reasons,” Lucius said. He did not bother to explain himself, the first sign that he was accustomed to command. “Did Captain Zorion tell you what happened?”

Chenzira shook his head. “Only that there was a suspicion that one of our ships had turned pirate.”

“I saw the attack with my own eyes,” Lucius said. “Two ships, with the red-bordered sails of our navy, attacking a federation merchant ship.”

“They were not ours,” Captain Chenzira insisted. “They could not have been.”

Captain Eugenio eyed Zorion, then turned back to his emperor. “May I speak freely?” he asked.

“I command you to do so,” Lucius said.

Eugenio swallowed. “Last year, there were . . . incidents,” he began.

“You mean honest ships and their crews were destroyed by your navy,” Zorion interrupted. Good men and women, along with their ships, had simply disappeared at sea, their fates a matter for conjecture.

The federation might have begun the practice, but the imperials had perfected it.

Eugenio shrugged. “There was much to regret on both sides,” he said. “But Admiral Septimus has given strict orders, and none would dare disobey him. Whatever you saw, those ships weren't under the command of one of your captains.”

“They were crewed by mercenaries,” Lucius said. “Is it possible that the navy is using mercenaries to mask our involvement?”

“No,” Eugenio responded. “The admiral would not defile our fleet in that way.”

Lucius turned to Chenzira. “What of your uncle?”

Chenzira's lips thinned. “The proconsul no longer shares confidences with me,” he said. “But if he had given such orders, we would have known.”

Lucius sighed.

“I thought you'd be pleased that they were not ours,” Chenzira observed.

“If they were my ships, I could order them home,” he said. “Or whoever has taken my place could do the same.”

“You are still emperor,” Chenzira said. “No matter where you are.”

“So we're back to where we were,” Zorion said. “With no proof, and no way to stop them, the empire will take the blame for these attacks.”

“Unless I convince them otherwise,” Lucius said. “I have not forgotten my promise. You may tell Lady Ysobel that I will accompany her back to the federation.”

“No,” Chenzira said.

Lucius's eyebrows rose. “You wish to advise me?”

“I have my orders,” Chenzira said. “I am not to leave you. If you need to travel, then you will do so aboard my ship. Lady Ysobel may join you there.”

Zorion did not like this, and he knew Lady Ysobel would like it even less. It was one thing to sail aboard a federation courier ship, but if the emperor was on his own ship, he could change his mind at any time.

“You already agreed,” Zorion said. “And in our waters you will be far safer in a federation vessel than on one of your own.”

“Not to mention Lady Ysobel would prefer her own ship,” Lucius said.

“You cannot ask her to travel aboard one of yours, surrounded by her enemies,” Zorion said.

“Of course not,” Lucius countered. “After all, I've already agreed to travel to the country of my enemies in order to try and stop a war I did not start. Clearly it's too much to ask that she should inconvenience herself in any way.”

It was more than a mere inconvenience, but Lucius had made his point. Of the two, he was taking the far greater risk.

“Lady Ysobel will be as safe on my ship as she would be on one of her own,” Captain Chenzira said.

Zorion doubted that. But short of kidnapping Lucius, he could not force the emperor to do anything. If he were in Lucius's place, he'd want to be on one of his own ships, surrounded by his own people.

Especially if he thought he was dying.

“Agreed,” he said. “I'll inform Lady Ysobel of your decision.”

“Thank you,” Lucius said.

He rose, noticing that Captain Eugenio appeared troubled that he did not wait to be dismissed. No doubt the Ikarians expected courtly manners, but Hypatia was his ship, and while he was on her, he deferred to no one.

Not even an emperor.


Ysobel pulled her cloak tightly around her against the midnight chill. By habit she glanced up at the stars, noting that they continued to steer a southwesterly course, toward the islands of the federation.

So far, it seemed, Emperor Lucius intended to live up to his promises.

It was strange being aboard a ship of the imperial navy, where the crew insisted on treating her as if she were a delicate lady of the court, despite the fact that she owned—and had captained—larger vessels. She'd been given the cabin assigned to the first lieutenant as her own, and Captain Chenzira had offered to allow her to bring a maid on board, but Ysobel had declined. Unless she was dressing in the formal attire required for the court, she was well able to serve her own needs.

She'd cheerfully have shared the cabin with Burrell, but knew the suggestion would have shocked her hosts, who'd assigned Burrell to bunk with their officers.

Both she and Burrell had been observing their hosts closely. The ship appeared to be on course, but for the past two evenings the emperor had left his cabin to meet with Captain Chenzira up on the deck. Burrell had been unable to get close enough to overhear what they discussed, so tonight Ysobel was trying her hand at spying.

The few crew on night watch gave her a wide berth—indeed only the officers would look her in the face. The common sailors glanced away if they caught sight of her, and would not speak to her unless she spoke to them first. On Captain Chenzira's orders, she suspected.

Lucius and Chenzira were standing next to a high table that had been brought up onto the deck—so tall that a man could write without having to sit down. Two scrolls were weighted down against the breeze, and beside them was a navigator's quadrant—an object she knew well.

A thin beam of light from a shuttered lantern illuminated the scrolls, as Lucius wrote and Chenzira observed.

She realized he was reckoning their position.

“This way is quicker,” Lucius was saying. “See here? You can replace these two equations with this.”

Chenzira murmured something she could not hear.

“It's easier for a beginner to follow the equations step by step, till they understand the process,” Lucius was explaining. “But once you've done enough of these, you'll have memorized the sets and can use Jennivar's transformations instead.”

“Not all of us have swallowed a library,” Chenzira said, with a laugh. “Show me again, slowly.”

Lucius smiled, absently brushing the hair from his eyes. As he looked up, he caught sight of her.

“Good evening, emperor,” she said, as if she had every right to be here.

“Lady Ysobel,” Lucius said. “Curious, or merely unable to sleep?”

“Perhaps a little of both,” she said.

He gestured for her to approach.

“I'll wager Ysobel has been reckoning these sums since she was a child,” Lucius said. “She can probably tell our position without needing paper for her calculations.”

Ysobel shook her head. “It's been a while,” she said.

Far too long since she'd sailed as captain. In the brief war last year she'd commanded ships, but as leader of a task force rather than as captain. Navigation had been left to others; Ysobel had plotted tactics instead.

She glanced down at the table and saw two sets of equations. The ones by Chenzira followed the forms she was familiar with—proof, if any was needed, that the Ikarians had learned the secrets of navigation from someone in the federation.

The emperor's scroll, on the other hand, was less than half the length of Chenzira's and included symbols she did not recognize.

Interesting. She'd never imagined the emperor as a teacher, though it had long been rumored that he was the one who had brought his navy the stolen secrets. And from Chenzira's ease, it was clear that this was not the first time the emperor had instructed him.

She walked around the table, so the scrolls were no longer upside down, but still could make no sense of the writing upon Lucius's. Though the final line on both scrolls was the same—a set of numbers that referred to charts based on Aeneades' map of the Great Basin.

Both positions were the same—a point approximately halfway between Xandropol and Grayza. Precisely where they should be.

“We'll need your guidance to sail the inner passage,” Chenzira said. “Or we can skirt the islands and arrive from the west, but that will add days to our trip.”

“When it's time, I'll give you the course,” she said.

She waited for a moment, but Lucius showed no signs of resuming his instruction. Pity. She would like to have understood the meaning of the symbols that he'd so carelessly scratched. It was possible that his knowledge was in fact superior to the federation's, which left her once again wondering who had taught him.

At least she had found out what she needed to. Odd as it might seem, the emperor's midnight excursions were not a sign of conspiracy.

And whatever illness he had been suffering from in Xandropol seemed to have passed. Lucius had told Zorion that he was dying, but other than being thinner than he had been, he showed no signs of imminent collapse. His voice was strong, his body relaxed as he stood next to Chenzira, cheerfully correcting his sums.

She bid them both good night and returned below. She knew Burrell would be interested in what she had discovered, but seeking him out this late would surely offend the Ikarians' rigid sense of propriety. If she'd uncovered a plot, she would not have cared for their offense, but good news could safely wait until morning.


Owing perhaps to his late night, Lucius did not make an appearance the next day. The following day she met with Chenzira to plot out their approach to Sendat. Foreign vessels normally skirted around the islands, but with no time to waste, she had agreed to guide Chenzira's ship through the inner passage. They'd likely pick up an escort as soon as they were sighted, but a single Ikarian navy vessel under a flag of truce should be safe enough until then.

She wondered where the second Ikarian ship had gone—was it secretly rendezvousing with an Ikarian fleet somewhere at sea? Or was it returning to Karystos, as Captain Chenzira had claimed?

She wondered how Zuberi and the rest of the Ikarian government would react to the news of their missing emperor. Would they rejoice that he had been found? Or had they already begun the process to replace him?

Speed was of the essence. The emperor was akin to a cargo of exotic fruit. Rare and highly prized, his value nonetheless rotted a little each day that he had been away from his empire.

Mindful that they could not afford mistakes, she made Chenzira trace the course she had shown him on the map, proving that he had understood her directions. At last she pronounced herself satisfied.

“And Emperor Lucius, will he dine with us tonight?” she asked. “I wish to speak with him about his intentions once we arrive in Sendat.”

She had her own plans for Lucius, of course, but it would be easier if he cooperated.

Chenzira shook his head. “It's unlikely. The emperor is unwell.”

“He appeared fine the other night,” she said.

“The emperor is not accustomed to sea travel,” he explained.

Strange. Lucius had just spent weeks at sea—some in tolerable conditions, others less so. If he was suffering from anything, it wasn't from being at sea.

Lucius had appeared fine the other night, but she remembered Zorion's voice as he shared with her Lucius's conviction that he was dying. She'd not forgotten that he'd tricked her once by feigning illness, and had assumed this was simply a ploy for sympathy, especially when the physician they'd summoned found nothing wrong with him other than a lingering weakness which the physician had ascribed to a summer ague.

But what if he was genuinely unwell?

She made her way to Lucius's quarters, which were a suite of two rooms adjacent to the captain's quarters. Less luxurious than she'd expected, it was likely that Green Dragon had been designed as an admiral's flagship, rather than the emperor's personal ship, which would have been large enough to accommodate both the emperor and his numerous attendants.

A single functionary was aboard, who oversaw the two crewmen Chenzira had assigned to serve the emperor. They had little enough to do. If Chenzira had thought to bring a wardrobe fit for an emperor, there was no sign of it. Instead Lucius continued to wear the clothes she had purchased for him after the wreck.

She wondered how the Ikarians would react if she were to present them with a bill for all she had spent on Lucius's behalf.

The crewman who stood outside the door to Lucius's room stiffened as she approached.

She observed him carefully. Unlike the federation navy, which was comprised of sailors and marines, the Ikarians did not distinguish between those who served on ships and those who were trained for boarding enemy vessels and land attacks. Both were called sailors, and both wore the same uniform. This man had the sunburned skin and callused hands of one who pulled lines, rather than one who practiced with the cudgel and short sword.

A sailor, rather than a guard. This would make her task even easier.

“The emperor is not to be disturbed,” he said.

“I need to speak with him.”

“He asked to be left alone,” the sailor insisted, his eyes darting down the passageway, looking for someone with the authority to dismiss her.

She advanced, projecting an air of absolute confidence. She knew that the sailors were under orders not to touch her.

At the last moment, he stepped aside.

“I'll summon the captain,” the man said.

“Do so.”

She unlatched the door and pushed it open.

The Ikarians' prejudice against women was a weakness. A federation sailor would have stood his ground, but this sailor judged her little threat. He was more afraid of disobeying an order by striking her than he was of any harm she might do his emperor.

She had previously been in Lucius's sitting chamber, which had a large window cut into the bow of the ship and a table where they had dined. This room was smaller, with merely two small portholes for fresh air and lanterns to provide light.

Lucius sat in the room's sole chair, still dressed in a linen sleeping robe. The blankets on his bed were disarranged, suggesting he had only recently arisen.

“Lady Ysobel, I would say this was a pleasure, but I recall asking not to be disturbed,” he said.

His face was flat, unwelcoming. This was not the same man who had joked with Chenzira under the stars.

“I heard of your illness and was concerned,” she said.

“Concerned that I might die before you can trade me for something of worth,” he said. “Since you're here, you might as well fetch me water.”

He gestured toward a small table, where she found a pitcher of warmish water and a cup. She filled the cup and brought it to him, wondering where his servants were. Surely there should be someone here attending to him?

“I sent them away,” he said. “I wished to be alone.”

She ignored his words and the glare that accompanied them.

“We will arrive in Sendat in a few days,” she said. “I came to ask what you intend.”

Lucius drank the water, and then held out the cup for more.

She heard voices in the hall, then a brisk knock at the door, followed by it swinging open.

It wasn't Chenzira, but rather his first lieutenant, Federico, whose quarters Burrell was sharing. Federico bowed low.

“Emperor, I apologize. This won't happen again,” Federico said. Then he turned to Ysobel and gestured for her to come.

“Let her stay,” Lucius said, showing one of the rapid mood changes that had been the subject of so much gossip back in Karystos. “When she no longer amuses me, I will command her to leave.”

Federico bowed low, and when he straightened his cheeks were flushed. She knew just how Lucius's remark had been interpreted.

“Of course,” Federico said. “I will see that no one else disturbs you.”

He backed out and closed the door behind him. He must have thought that he'd interrupted the two of them as they were preparing for a tryst.

Lucius had meant to insult her, but she refused to be distracted.

“What do you intend?” she asked.

He has a plan,” Lucius said, finishing the cup of water.

“He?”

“Josan. The monk,” Lucius said.

He did not look feverish, but his words made no sense. “I do not understand.”

“Of course you don't. I don't understand myself—we were in Xandropol. We could have sought a cure, but he decided to turn aside.”

Was the emperor insane? Was this the secret behind his so-called illness? The reason for his flight?

How could she have missed this?

“What is Josan's plan?” she asked, speaking softly as if to a child.

Lucius laughed, an ugly sound. “You'll have to ask him.” He looked around his cabin. “Is there wine?” he asked.

“No,” she said, without even bothering to look.

“I suppose you think me mad,” he said.

She said nothing. Let him interpret her silence as he would.

Lucius rose from his chair and sat on his bed, leaning back against the wall. “Sit,” he said, gesturing to the chair. “Let me tell you a story.”

He waited until she had sat down before continuing. “Years ago, in the time of the first rebellion against Nerissa, there was a monk named Brother Josan. He'd been at the library in Xandropol collecting rare knowledge, but on his journey back to Ikaria he was struck down by the breakbone fever. By the time he reached the collegium it was too late; there was nothing the monks could do for him.”

“So you took his identity?” She'd long suspected that Lucius had lived under the brethren's protection during his exile.

“Patience,” he said. “At the same time there was a young man. A prince—arrogant, ambitious, and so naïve that he placed his trust in those who wanted to use him for their own gain, regardless of the cost.”

His words stung, and her hands curled into fists at her sides. “I did not come here to be insulted. Or to rehash all of our dealings.”

“Ah, but you've never heard the rest of this,” he said. “Only two people know the full story—three if you count Josan.”

How did one count a dead man? She nodded for him to proceed.

“The prince, realizing that the rebellion was doomed, fled to his old tutor, Brother Nikos. And Nikos saw an opportunity. The rebellion had shown him that Empress Nerissa was vulnerable. The prince, alas, was too weak, but with Nikos's backing the proper candidate might succeed. Nikos sent for a monk who had spent his life studying forbidden magic. The monk promised that he could take the soul of the dying man and place it in the body of the prince—creating someone who wore the face of a prince but was sworn to loyalty to Nikos.”

She leaned forward, intrigued despite herself. “What happened?”

“Brother Nikos handed me a cup of wine, to help me sleep. The next time I woke, it was five years later.”

“The spell failed?” Of course it must have—what he was saying was impossible, the delusions of a deranged mind.

“Yes. And no.”

“I don't understand.”

“Neither did I. Nor Brother Josan, who woke to find himself confused, his wits damaged from his illness. His body so clumsy that he needed to relearn how to write, and a hundred other tasks most men take for granted. Of course, it was not his fault. How was he to know that the body he wore was not his own?”

“That's impossible,” she said, slowly shaking her head. Surely the emperor was lying. This was a symptom of the madness that she had only just begun to suspect.

“I wish it were,” he said. “It took years for my soul to find its way back to my body. I still do not know if it was the passage of time or mortal peril that brought me back. Since then we've shared this body. Sometimes he is in command, sometimes I am.”

She stared at him, but he did not have the look of a man who was mad, merely one who was tired.

“You have no proof,” she said.

“I don't need proof. You've met Josan yourself. You knew from the first that he was not the same man that you'd known during the rebellion.”

“Men change,” she said. “You were younger then. We all were. And if this were true, what of Brother Nikos?”

“The spell did not work as he had planned. He thought us too damaged to be of use, so sent us into exile. When we finally returned to Karystos, Josan confronted him. Rather than a willing puppet, Nikos had created two implacable enemies. It's hard to say which of us hates him more,” Lucius said.

It was monstrous, if it were true. To steal a man's body? To deliberately plot to destroy not his life, but his very soul? What kind of man could think up such a tale?

“If this is true, why tell me? Why now?” She knew he did not trust her—why would he confide in her, of all people?

Lucius leaned back against his pillows. “Because I'm tired of pretending,” he said. “Because you should know that the soul spell is failing. As our link fails, so, too, does this body.”

Her head was spinning. If anyone else had told such a tale, she would have dismissed him as a liar. And yet, Lucius's words held the ring of truth. He was not trying to convince her, merely relating a story.

The less he argued, the more she was inclined to believe him.

“That's why you went to Xandropol,” she said. “Not to see a physician, but rather to consult with their magicians.”

He shook his head. “Do I look a fool? I cannot trust anyone to help me. Josan had planned to do his own research, hoping that if he found the source of the soul spell, he could also find the means to reverse it.”

She did not want to believe him. And yet his story explained so much—the strange fits she'd observed, his unpredictable temper, even his flight to Xandropol. As well as how one man could appear a spoiled noble on one day and a commoner on another.

But even if it were true, it changed nothing. It made no difference if he was mad, or if the body before her truly was inhabited by the souls of two different men. The body belonged to the emperor of Ikaria, and in the end, that was what mattered.

“I haven't been truly awake for weeks, now,” Lucius said. “From time to time I surface, as if in a dream, but Josan has remained in control of my body.”

“So the decision to come here—”

“Was the monk's,” Lucius said. “I'd have stayed in Xandropol.”

“But you will help us stop this war,” she said. Was this all an elaborate ruse so he could claim that he was not truly bound, because he had not been the one to swear the oath?

“Doesn't matter. In a few minutes or hours at the most you'll be speaking with him again. He'll do as he likes; he always has.”

If it was true, it was monstrous. To have your own body invaded—usurped by another? She could only imagine how helpless he must feel.

Something of what she felt must have shown in her face, for he patted the bed beside him. “I don't suppose you'd lie with me? One last wish for a dying man?”

“No,” she said.

“Pity,” he replied. He stretched out full length on the bed, closing his eyes. Then, after a moment, he reopened them. “If it were the monk's choice, he'd prefer your aide.”