Chapter 2
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They were not the only ones trying to leave the theater, and it took all of Burrell's considerable muscle to force a path through the crowds. As Ysobel followed, she paid close attention to the fragments of conversation that she overheard. There was curiosity, but no signs of panic. If it had been an assassination attempt, the patrons would have been far more nervous—and with good reason.

In the last decade, the ranks of the Ikarian court had been dramatically thinned, as Empress Nerissa eliminated all those suspected of disloyalty. Lucius had not yet committed his own purges, but the possibility was ever-present, and it would not be the first time that the innocent had been swept up along with the guilty.

Outside the theater, patrons milled aimlessly in the square; the shortened performance meant that their carriages and litter bearers would not arrive for hours.

“It will be faster to walk than to try and find a litter for hire,” Ysobel said, as they fought their way out of the plaza and turned west toward the Seddonian embassy. Burrell fell into step beside her, his right hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

It was a clear summer's night, the cool air refreshing after the heat of the theater, though her flimsy sandals were not intended for walking. The hour was still early enough that many were only now venturing out to attend the evening's entertainments. A few stared at the sight of a well-dressed woman walking the streets of Karystos after dark, but they reached the embassy without incident.

Only when they were inside did she breathe a sigh of relief. Dismissing the servants, she led Burrell to her private sitting room, where they would not be disturbed.

“What did you learn?” she asked, as she seated herself on the couch closest to the door. Drawing her swollen feet up beside her, she untied her sandals, wincing at the bruises.

Burrell unfastened his sword, leaning it up against the wall before he took his own seat opposite her. In public he played the part of her aide, but in private he was a friend, and the only person in Ikaria in whom she could place her wholehearted trust.

She knew that her servants thought that she and Burrell were lovers, and had they met under different circumstances she would have enjoyed taking him to her bed. But such was not possible, not while he was her subordinate. Such personal indulgence would be a foolish distraction at a time when both were surrounded by their enemies.

No matter how much she might wish otherwise.

“I knew I could not reach the imperial box, so I used the servants' staircase to descend to the plaza, and managed to arrive before the emperor. He was clearly unwell, leaning on guards as he walked. They had to lift him into his carriage.”

“Unwell,” she repeated. “Fatigued, perhaps? Or something more serious?”

Burrell shrugged, unwilling to venture a guess. “What did you see?”

She cast her mind back. “A servant handed him a cup of wine. Lucius took a sip, then a moment later he threw the goblet, which struck one of his guards. If he suspected his wine was poisoned—”

“He would have said something, and his guards would have arrested the servants, and all those in the theater who had access to the imperial box,” Burrell pointed out. “The functionaries with him were not looking for an enemy, they were merely concerned with the emperor.”

“And we've heard rumors before that the emperor is unwell. An illness, or a slow-acting poison.”

She'd discounted those rumors as the efforts of Lucius's enemies to sow doubt and weaken the emperor. He'd been unpredictable, true, but this was the first evidence she'd seen of poor health.

“Some have said that the gods speak to him, and this gives him fits,” Burrell said.

Ysobel shook her head. “Credulous fools. They would also have us believe that Lucius can cure fatal illnesses and call up storms to strike down his enemies.”

Lucius had a few small magics—evidence that he was indeed descended from the old imperial line. She had witnessed him calling fire to his palm, a trick that impressed the gullible; but she would not credit him with greater powers, not without proof. Those who claimed the gods spoke to him were merely trying to build loyalty to the new emperor, for what man would be so bold as to rebel against one directly favored by the gods?

“He has an audience tomorrow, does he not?” Ysobel asked.

Burrell nodded.

“Send a runner to say that we will attend,” she said. “And we need to find some reason why I must speak privately with the emperor.”

In a general audience, even the petitioners drew no closer than several paces away, but the emperor usually granted a few private audiences as well, which allowed for true conversation.

If Lucius was indeed in failing health, then her mission—not to mention her own life—was in jeopardy. Should Lucius die or be removed from power, his replacement would almost certainly be Proconsul Zuberi. Zuberi had made no secret of his hatred for both Ysobel and the Seddonian Federation, and his first act as emperor could well be to break the truce.

“We have not received a response to our proposal to turn the disputed colony at Seneka into a free port,” Burrell said.

There was no chance that Lucius would agree to the absurd proposal, which was the product of wishful thinking from those in the federation who continued to underestimate the new emperor's resolve. Still, she was duty-bound to request a formal response so she could report back to her people, and it would serve as a reason for her request to meet with him.

“Do so,” she said. She needed to judge Lucius's health for herself. Only then would she know what she must do—for herself, and for her country.


It had happened again. This time, the episode had lasted an entire morning. One moment Josan had been strolling in the garden, and the next he'd fallen to the ground, his limbs twitching under conflicting commands.

He'd been carried back to his private chambers, and the healer had been summoned. Of course the healer had found nothing wrong, instead proclaiming that the emperor was suffering from the summer heat. He'd recommended that the emperor retire to his estate at Sarna, where the cool mountain air would refresh him, though he'd refused to look Josan in the eyes as he offered this advice. Even he did not believe the words that he had uttered.

Josan had lain in bed, periodically searching for any trace of Prince Lucius, but it was nearly noon before the prince made his presence felt. And with the return of full sensation in his limbs came the prince's anger.

He could feel Prince Lucius trying to take control of their shared body, but though Josan yielded, Prince Lucius's presence could not rise to the fore. Instead, there was a dizzying moment when neither ruled—his limbs slackened, and he stopped breathing. Panicked, Josan once again surged to the forefront.

What happened? Lucius demanded.

I don't know. This had never happened before. In the past, there had been times when Lucius was strong enough to seize control, despite Josan's best efforts. These days they managed an uneasy truce, and Josan—conscious of his status as an interloper—would yield whenever the prince wished to take charge. But this was the first time Lucius had been strong enough to communicate with Josan, yet too weak to take control when it was offered to him.

You are worthless, Lucius declared. You know nothing. You do nothing.

The words stung, for all he knew them to be unfair. Were it not for Josan, they would both be dead. He had kept them both alive—not only that, but it was his discoveries that had led to victory over the Seddonians and secured Lucius's place on the throne.

Josan had spent much of the past months scouring the great library of the Learned Brethren, seeking out the smallest scrap of knowledge about the forbidden magics. The records of the spell had been destroyed, as had all of the private journals of Brother Giles, who had performed it. But there were other writings, ones not obviously associated with the forbidden magics, and he had used these to try and piece together what had been done to him. To them both.

The only reference he'd found to soul magic was a ballad that told of a man who placed his soul in a piece of amber so that he could guide his descendants after death. Josan had been inclined to dismiss it as a mere fable, meant to explain why amber luck stones were passed down from one generation to the next. But then he'd remembered that Brother Giles had studied rare minerals as well as plants, and so he'd searched for any other reference to soul-bearing gems, with no success.

If he'd been a mere scholar, he could have made better progress. But he was also an emperor, and there was a limit to how much time he could spend away from his other duties without explaining to anyone else why this research was so important.

Your books will not save us, Lucius said. Or is it that you do not wish to be saved? Perhaps you have already found the cure, but resist, since you know it means your own death.

And there was the crux of the matter. The souls of two men, but only one body between them. Josan's own body had been destroyed by fever, his lifeless corpse dumped in the harbor to be torn apart by the scavengers that fed off scraps from the docks. He should have perished with his body, but instead he wore another man's flesh, cheating fate. It was not until Prince Lucius's spirit returned that he'd realized that he'd unwittingly benefited from an abomination.

He did not want to die. But neither could they continue as they had been. So he searched for a spell to undo what had been done, hoping that when the time came, he would have the courage to act.

Though there was no guarantee that it would be his soul that was banished. This might be Lucius's body, but Josan had a far firmer grasp upon it. Josan could remain in control for days, while Lucius struggled whenever he was in control for more than a few hours.

In private, he'd wondered if it was possible to live the rest of their lives in this state—if the two of them could move past grudging cooperation, to tolerance, and, perhaps even friendship.

He hadn't realized that things could get worse. But this second attack frightened him just as much as it did Lucius, though Josan was too disciplined to lash out.

We have an audience this afternoon, and must be present, to counteract any rumors, Josan thought. But tomorrow morning I can return to the library—

And do what? Lucius demanded. Is there a book within their walls that you have not read?

Of course. It would take a lifetime to master all of the knowledge contained within the collegium.

Are there any that are likely to prove useful?

Josan paused. He'd searched every work that could be relevant, tracked down every reference he could find. There was nothing left but enlisting others in his search—or begin reading books at random.

Just because I cannot find it, doesn't mean the knowledge doesn't exist, Josan argued. Brother Giles did not invent the spell; he found it.

And Brother Nikos destroyed all traces of his work, lest he be accused of treason, Lucius reminded him.

Brother Nikos might know enough to undo what had been done. Brother Giles might have mouthed the spell, but it had been Nikos who schemed to put a puppet emperor on the throne. He would have been present when the spell was cast, unwilling to leave this to another.

Lucius had wanted to try Brother Nikos for treason, but Nikos's crimes could not be exposed without also revealing the truth of Lucius's condition. In the end, all he'd told his advisors was that Brother Nikos had sheltered Prince Lucius after the first disastrous rebellion, in direct defiance of Empress Nerissa's orders. And if it had been simply his word against Nikos's, it was unclear whom they would have chosen to believe. But in the end, it had been the knowledge that Josan had looted from the libraries of the Learned Brethren—knowledge that had turned the tide of battle with the Federation—that had convinced Proconsul Zuberi and the rest of his councilors that Nikos was not to be trusted.

Without proof of treason, Proconsul Zuberi had suggested exile, and Lucius had been forced to agree. The former head of the collegium of the Learned Brethren had been allowed to take passage for Xandropol, where his order had their headquarters. But spies reported that Nikos had not arrived in Xandropol, and his whereabouts were unknown.

Pity. If he'd gone to Xandropol, Josan would have been tempted to seek him out. No matter that the journey would take weeks; the risk would be worth it.

I'm a fool, he thought. A fool, he repeated, so that Lucius could share this knowledge. We must go to Xandropol.

But Nikos is not there, Lucius objected, showing that he'd been able to follow at least that much of Josan's internal musings.

We do not need Nikos. The library here in Karystos has but a fraction of the knowledge that the brethren hold in Xandropol. And there the study of magic is not forbidden. The very spell that Giles used may well have come from Xandropol.

Emperor Lucius would not be welcomed, but Josan the scholar had once visited Xandropol and been allowed to pursue his studies undisturbed. He could do so again.

You want me to abandon my empire. My throne.

What will Zuberi do when he sees our weakness? Would you rather wait for him to destroy you?

Either way, we risk everything. And there is no guarantee that your books will save us.

It is our only chance. If we are to find a cure, it must be now. Every day we delay is another day that we grow weaker.

He could feel Lucius's indecision. Lucius longed to be free of him, but even his freedom meant less than the prospect of losing his position as emperor. An emperor simply did not leave his country for months—not when he could not explain where he was going, nor why.

Stay or go, we must decide today. If we wait, we may be too weak to make the journey, Josan thought.

As it was, it might already be too late.