Chapter 5

image

Lady Ysobel’s testimony before the council was brief. She answered their questions truthfully, reminding the councilors that it had been a year since she had hastily left Ikaria. Much could have changed in that time, as new political alliances would have formed in the wake of the mass arrests and executions. Former friends would have distanced themselves from each other, and old enemies might have found common ground.

The supporters of Prince Lucius were widely assumed to have been behind the assassinations, though there was no word as yet if he had been tried and executed for the crime. The council issued a carefully worded statement of sympathy to the people of Ikaria, lamenting the death of their great ruler. Buried within the formal letter was a reminder that Nerissa had spent much of her reign focused on imagined conspiracies from outside her own shores, ignoring the danger from within that had finally claimed her life.

Copies of the letter were sent to federation emissaries around the great basin. The official federation position was clear—Nerissa had tried to blame earlier unrest upon agents from the federation to draw attention away from the growing disloyalty of her own subjects. But such deceptions could not last forever, and now all could see the truth. Thus neatly absolving the federation of any blame.

In public the federation offered its sympathies, while in private there was cautious rejoicing. It was clear that Nerissa’s death and the inevitable struggle for succession would weaken the Ikarian Empire, but King Bayard and his councilors had not yet decided how best to take advantage of the situation.

Not that Ysobel was privy to their debates. After her testimony, she had been dismissed so they could deliberate in private. The next day she received confirmation that all official restrictions upon her had been lifted. The council offered its regret that she had been inconvenienced because of baseless, vile rumors from Ikaria and thanked her for her patience and loyalty in the face of such calumnies. A copy of that letter was filed with the traders’ guild.

A second letter, enclosed with the first, asked her to make herself available for further consultations with the council during this difficult period. The letter was for her eyes only, but the meaning was clear. Officially she was free to go wherever she wished. In reality, though, she would not be allowed to leave Sendat. Not while each day brought ships carrying new rumors of what was happening in Ikaria. Her expertise might still be needed.

But the long-sought public approval from the council did little to change the opinion of the other traders. They were wise enough to recognize her restored status as a political favor—payment for services rendered rather than a judgment on her trustworthiness. Her mission to Ikaria had been a secret one after all. Even now, only the most senior councilors knew that she had been sent there specifically to offer federation aid to those who sought to overthrow Empress Nerissa.

Surely the next ship from Ikaria would bring news of the new emperor. Privately she expected that Proconsul Zuberi would take the throne, though she had been careful to downplay her certainty when she testified before the council. She did not want to make herself appear too valuable, after all.

With a new emperor on the throne in Ikaria, the council would have no further use for her. And once she was set free, she would leave on the first of her ships that came into harbor.

A successful voyage under her command would do far more to restore her reputation than a dozen letters of praise from the council. Sailing was in her blood, and she desperately longed to exchange the stench of politics for the clean scent of a favorable wind. The salt sea was calling her, and she anxiously awaited the day that she could once more answer that call.

 

The threat posed by the Seddonian Federation was not forgotten, but Brother Nikos had far more immediate matters to occupy his attention. In the days following the funeral of Empress Nerissa and her sons, he had been a near-constant presence at the imperial compound. Proconsul Zuberi, who had once held himself aloof, now frequently sought Nikos’s counsel. Others sought him out as well, perhaps seeing him as impartial, while the rest of the court maneuvered to back their favorite candidates for emperor.

Many assumed that Proconsul Zuberi would take the crown, and indeed there were those who asked Nikos to urge Zuberi to make his announcement now, rather than decorously waiting until a full month had passed. To these Nikos offered his reassurances, though as the days passed he began to suspect that Zuberi had no intention of claiming the throne for himself. And with each day that passed, the other claimants to the throne grew bolder, interpreting Zuberi’s silence as weakness.

Darius, one of the few native Ikarians left in Nerissa’s court, suggested that an election be held to name the new emperor, following the barbaric customs of the Seddonian Federation. Both Darius and his suggestion were widely mocked, his detractors finding common ground in their disdain—though they could not agree on anything else.

Finally, with only two days left before the official period of mourning was to end, Zuberi summoned Nikos to an informal dinner. The location, Zuberi’s private residence rather than his official apartments in the imperial compound, was perhaps meant to disguise the meaning of the invitation, but anyone watching would know that this was not a mere dinner but rather a council of war.

In addition to Nikos, Zuberi had invited Petrelis, head of the city watch, Simon the Bald, who served as Chancellor of the Exchequer, and Demetrios, the leader of the senate. With the imperial bureaucracies firmly under Zuberi’s control, these were four of the most powerful men in the empire. Five, counting Nikos himself, who wielded power not by official position but rather through the reliance of others on his counsel.

As Nikos took his place on the last empty couch in the dining room, an unwelcome thought occurred to him. Anyone wishing to complete the destruction of Nerissa’s legacy need only assassinate the men in this room, and there would be none left to oppose him.

He hoped fervently that Zuberi’s servants were loyal and that Petrelis’s guards on watch outside could be trusted.

Dinner itself was a modest affair, a mere six courses, accompanied by wine so heavily watered that it was impossible to guess its provenance. The dishes were mild, almost peasant fare, when contrasted with the heavily seasoned meals that were offered at the palace. Nikos and the others ate enough to seem polite, though he noticed that Zuberi himself ate only enough to assure the others that the dishes were not poisoned.

They spoke of trivial topics until the servants had cleared the last plate away and shut the doors firmly closed behind them.

“My men intercepted one of Commander Markos’s lieutenants trying to enter the city today,” Petrelis began. A man of modest stature, his unprepossessing appearance caused many to underestimate his ruthlessness. Though little known outside of Karystos, within the city walls he was a man to be feared. “He took poison before we could question him, but it is obvious that Markos is in contact with his supporters in the city.”

“He must be closer than we suspected,” Demetrios said.

“But did he bring his troops? Or are they still in the north?” Simon asked.

“He would be a fool if he moved without them,” Petrelis said.

Commander Markos was one of the five regional commanders of the imperial army, and married to Atlanta, the great-granddaughter of Aitor the Great. There were a handful that championed Atlanta’s claim to the throne as the only living descendant of the imperial line. But most had lost their taste for an empress, even if it was understood that Markos would rule in his wife’s name.

“Who knows what the armies will do? If Nerissa had replaced General Kolya, then we would not have this uncertainty,” Simon grumbled. As the oldest of those present, and one who had known Nerissa from her childhood, he was often freer in his criticisms of the late empress than the rest.

“And then we would be dealing with one man, rather than five. One man might be tempted to seize the throne, but if Markos tries to bring his troops into the city, the other commanders will oppose him,” Demetrios said.

Perhaps they would. Or perhaps Markos had already found common cause with one or more of his fellow commanders, offering a promotion in return for supporting Markos’s wife’s claim to the imperial throne. It was what Nikos would do, in his place.

“Zuberi, we’ve had enough of your modesty,” Simon said. Second in power to Zuberi, he could speak bluntly where another might have tried a more delicate approach. “Propriety is good enough in its place, but the longer you delay, the more time your foes have to gather strength and form alliances. Have Demetrios call the senate into session tomorrow, and when they offer you the throne, you will accept for the good of the empire. Then we can put the schemers in their place.”

“No,” Zuberi said.

Simon sat upright. “No? What madness is this? With us to support you, who will gainsay your right to the throne? Why else have you gathered us here?”

“Would that matters were so simple, but the gods have other plans for me,” Zuberi said. With his right hand he rubbed his stomach, a gesture that had become habitual with him in the last weeks. “I have a cancer in my stomach that will kill me before the year is done.”

Nikos drew in a sharp breath. It was scant comfort that the others seemed to be equally stunned.

“Are you certain?” Simon asked.

Zuberi nodded.

Nikos thought frantically, his careful calculations in disarray. If Zuberi was not to take the throne, then who?

“You could still rule,” he said, after a moment’s thought. “Ikaria needs your guidance for however long you have left with us. And your son Bakari will make a fine emperor himself one day.”

Bakari was only ten or eleven, as Nikos recalled. After his father’s passing, he would need regents and advisors to help him govern. Zuberi had many trusted friends, himself among them, who would gladly offer such service.

Zuberi shook his head. “I will not do that to my wife, nor to my sons. Has anyone forgotten what happened to Lady Zenia’s children? Not to mention the two princes? Once I am gone, my family will be easy prey.”

“The people will not rally behind a boy emperor, no matter whose hand guides him,” Demetrios added.

“Then it will have to be Count Hector,” Simon said. “Prince Anthor did survive after his mother’s death, as Hector’s supporters constantly remind us. With Nestor dead, Anthor would have inherited his mother’s titles. And under the law, without children of his own, Anthor’s possessions pass to his father’s nearest relative.”

“And if Hector merely wanted Anthor’s stud farm, I would see it given to him. But Nerissa sat on the imperial throne, not her husband. If Nerissa’s consort Philip could not call himself emperor, neither can his brother,” Demetrios argued.

Nikos realized that Zuberi had not told the others of Hector’s guilt. He, alone, had been privileged with this information, since he had been the first to cast suspicions upon Hector.

“Hector must not rule,” Zuberi said quietly. Zuberi’s calmness was in stark contrast to his frantic guests. Then, again, Zuberi had known of his death sentence for months, while Nikos and the rest were still trying to fathom the consequences of his illness.

“I know Nerissa never liked him, but he’s served the empire faithfully,” Simon said. “We could do worse.”

“I have proof that Hector arranged for Nerissa’s assassination,” Zuberi said.

Petrelis slammed his fist down on the table. “Proof? What proof do you have? And why have you kept it from me?”

Ordinarily Petrelis deferred to the others, conscious of his common birth. But he guarded the privileges of his office fiercely and would be slow to forgive any slight. He leaned forward, ready to demand answers, and Nikos wondered how Zuberi would respond. If Zuberi had indeed discovered proof of Hector’s treachery, it was news to him as well.

“Hector’s ships anchored off the coast three days before the empress’s murder. The duke has said that he was waiting to make a grand entrance on the day of her birthday celebrations, but when he sailed into Karystos harbor, he saw the black ribbons of mourning and learned of the tragedy,” Zuberi said.

This much was public knowledge.

“He played the role of grief-stricken uncle so well that no one questioned him, no one except the learned Brother Nikos and myself. We could not question Hector, so we questioned his lieutenant.”

“Lieutenant Azizi? He was reported missing—my men found signs of a struggle in his quarters but no trace of him,” Petrelis said. “This was your doing?”

Petrelis was angry over the slight to his authority.

“On my orders,” Zuberi said. “As for the lieutenant, well, after two days in Nizam’s care, he told the tale of a heavily cloaked stranger who boarded Hector’s vessel when they stopped in Kazagan. The stranger stayed in his cabin for the entire voyage, until Hector’s ships anchored off the coast. A skiff rowed from shore to meet the flagship, apparently by prearrangement. As the passenger descended from the ship to the waiting skiff, the wind disturbed his cloak, and the lieutenant is prepared to swear that the stranger’s face was covered in tattoos.”

Nikos stared at Zuberi, trying to read the truth from his face, but the proconsul was inscrutable. It was hard to believe that Hector could have been so careless as to transport the assassin on his own ship, knowing that the assassin bore the damning tattoos of a functionary. Then, again, who else could Hector have entrusted this errand to?

“Why haven’t you given the order to arrest him?” Petrelis asked.

“Only the next emperor will be able to order him jailed,” Zuberi replied.

“If Zuberi will not take the crown—” Simon began.

“I will not.”

“Then the empire is doomed,” Simon continued. “Only you or Count Hector had a chance at uniting the various factions. Anyone else will launch Ikaria into civil war.”

“What of yourself?” asked Petrelis.

“I am too old and have made too many enemies,” Simon said calmly, as if he was discussing the weather. “Demetrios, you have the power of the senate behind you, but you also have an older brother. We cannot elevate your blood by slighting his.”

Demetrios nodded, no doubt having already reached this conclusion days before. Ambitious and charismatic, he had friends among commoners and nobles alike. Next to Zuberi he was the best-known official outside the walls of Karystos and would have made a suitable emperor were it not for his older brother. Though if the struggle for succession stretched on, his older brother would do well to fear for his life.

“Petrelis is baseborn, and the city watch is as high as he will be allowed to rise. And as for Nikos, only a fool would name a celibate monk as emperor,” Simon concluded.

The insult stung, but Nikos recognized the truth of Simon’s words. The next emperor must have a son of his own to follow him.

Zuberi picked up the pitcher and refilled their wine cups, but no one drank. The five men sat in silence, their heads bowed as if they felt the weight of the empire pressing down upon them.

Strange to think that five men, lingering over the remains of an indifferent dinner party, held the fate of Ikaria in their hands. And yet, who else was there to guide the empire in these crucial days?

“We are agreed that Hector will not be allowed to rule?” Nikos asked.

“I will kill him myself before I see Nerissa’s murderer crowned in her stead,” Petrelis swore. It was not an idle threat.

“Then we must choose the next emperor ourselves. We cannot wait to let the factions fight among themselves and plunge Ikaria into civil war. I had come here tonight to pledge my loyalty to Zuberi, but if the proconsul will not rule, then there is another we should consider. A man who will owe no loyalty to the factions, but instead allow himself to be guided by us. And one whose claim to the throne cannot be disputed.”

“There is no such man,” Zuberi declared. “But would to the gods that he existed.”

“He does. And he is in Karystos at this very moment,” Nikos said.

 

Josan tensed as he heard booted footsteps approach his cell. After weeks spent in the dark confines of the dungeon, he was intimately familiar with its routines, and he knew that this sound boded ill.

Two sets of booted footsteps meant that the guards were coming with his daily allowance of food and a bucket of water. One man to bring them into the cell and a second who stood watch lest the prisoner try to escape.

The sound of sandals meant that the healer Galen or his slave was approaching, though it had been days since Josan had required the service of a healer.

This was the sound of several guards approaching, and he trembled, knowing what was to come.

It had been over a week since Nizam had last questioned him, but he knew better than to think that the chief torturer had forgotten him. The long intermission merely meant that Nizam had run out of questions to ask, and Josan had run out of answers to give him.

He wondered what new questions Nizam would put to him and whether this would be the day that Nizam finally learned the truth about his royal prisoner.

Not that Josan had been able to conceal anything that Nizam wished to know. Nizam had shown himself a master at his craft, capable of inflicting unimaginable pain—and stripping a man’s soul bare in the process. In the end, Josan had found himself begging to be allowed to answer Nizam’s questions.

After his first torture session he had been convinced that he was dying, a fate he welcomed. But instead he had awoken to find himself being tended by a healer. And to his utter disbelief, in a mere two days he had healed well enough for Nizam to begin his work again.

Over and over again he had recounted his activities during the months of his confinement in the palace, knowing himself blameless and desperate to convince Nizam of his innocence. Nizam had given no sign whether or not he believed his prisoner, merely moving on to questions about his role in the aborted rebellion.

Josan had told him everything he could remember. The names of everyone he had met with, every conversation he could recall, every detail that he had known or guessed about the conspiracy. All information that he had given the empress before, though this time his statements were punctuated with screams, his veracity guaranteed by the torments of his flesh.

Nizam had seemed equally interested in his magical abilities, though a talent for fire-starting seemed a paltry enough trick. It had taken a careless comment from the healer’s servant for Josan to realize that there was other magic at work—his body was healing itself. Injuries that would have killed another man were instead mere inconveniences. Broken bones mended within days, open wounds closed themselves overnight.

And as for the other—each rape hurt as if it were the first.

At times Josan cursed his body’s ability to heal—death would have been preferable to the repeated agonies that he had been forced to endure. Nizam had taken Josan’s healing as a personal challenge and tested the very limits of this new power.

Strange to think that he had learned more about the Old Magic under Nizam’s care than he had in all his months of surreptitious studying. But it was knowledge that he could have lived without.

Josan had answered every question that Nizam put to him, usually more than once. But for all his thoroughness, Nizam had yet to touch upon the biggest secret that his prisoner concealed.

The magic that sustained him was not his. It belonged to Prince Lucius, the heir to the former rulers of Ikaria and the rightful owner of the body that Josan now wore.

Both Josan and the prince were victims of a plot by Brother Nikos, who had sought to mold the prince into an obedient servant. Forbidden magics had been used to place the soul of a dying monk in the body of the rebellious prince. But rather than a compliant pawn, the spell had produced a damaged man who was neither prince nor monk. After years spent in exile, last summer Josan had learned the truth of what had been done to him as the prince’s spirit finally roused from its long slumber.

After struggling to cast the invader from his body, Prince Lucius had finally reached a truce with Josan, and the two had united to bring an end to the bloody rebellion. Then, as they surrendered to the empress and certain death, the prince’s spirit had fled. There had been no trace of his presence since. Josan had striven to awaken him but could not afford to rouse Brother Nikos’s suspicions by requesting works that dealt directly with the forbidden magics.

In the weeks before the empress’s murder, Josan had begun to fear that the prince’s spirit had indeed passed, leaving Josan alone to pay the price for the prince’s misdeeds. But his miraculous healing indicated otherwise. Some part of the prince still lingered.

And if any part of the prince survived, it was up to Josan to keep that secret for as long as he could. At first he had kept silence out of respect for the members of his order. Brother Nikos deserved punishment for his crimes, but the rest of the Learned Brethren were innocent. Once it was discovered that the collegium was studying forbidden magics, all members of the brethren would be seen as equally guilty.

Now he kept silent for the prince’s sake. And for his own. He had been very careful not to imagine what Nizam would do once he realized that he had two souls to toy with, but he suspected it would make his prior torments pale in comparison.

He could not withstand Nizam’s questions, so he must give him no reason to suspect that there was anything left to discover.

Josan rose to his feet as the door to his cell swung open, refusing to let his captors see his fear. A foolish gesture, perhaps, since Nizam and his assistants had already witnessed his degradation, still, such gestures were all he had left.

He was not a particularly brave man, and these weeks had taught him far more than any man should know about the depths of his own cowardice. But bravery wasn’t all there was to a man. Sometimes stubbornness would serve just as well, and a blind refusal to accept that he was defeated. It was not bravery that drew him to his feet and kept him calm as the hated guards approached. It was a refusal to grant them any more power over him than they already had. He feared them, yes, but he was still Josan. Still the man he had always been, even as he wore this borrowed body. And perhaps there was a bit of Prince Lucius’s arrogance still lurking, enough to help him stand without trembling, his face a mask of calmness.

“It has been too long,” he said. “I was beginning to think that Nizam had found a new favorite.”

There was no reaction from the guards, but he knew his words would be reported to Nizam. It was a subtle challenge, one he knew Nizam would understand. Josan had not broken. Not yet. Nizam might be able to make him bleed, but he had to work for his triumph, every time.

No doubt used to prisoners who were too damaged to walk on their own, two of the guards seized his arms, prepared to drag him if necessary. Their bruising grips discouraged any thoughts of resistance. Indeed, if he escaped them, where could he go? These underground catacombs were Nizam’s domain. Even if he had the strength to flee, Josan would not get ten yards without being recognized and recaptured.

Two more guards stood outside his cell, and as Josan was led out they formed up behind him. It was a curious sign of respect, that he was considered so dangerous that four armed men needed to watch over him. Then again, he supposed there was no established protocol for dealing with a man who was both royal prince and suspected regicide.

When they reached the end of the corridor, he automatically began turning left, toward the Rooms of Pain. His escort had other ideas though, and he stumbled as the guards jerked him to the right.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

They did not answer. Neither did they strike him, the usual reminder that he must keep silent in the corridors.

Interesting.

He was brought to a small room, with a proper wooden door instead of an iron grate. Bright lanterns illuminated the room, and he blinked furiously as he tried to take in his new surroundings. It was not one of the torture rooms, that much was clear. Instead there was a plain wooden table holding a basin of water, with a pile of folded cloth next to it.

“Clean yourself up,” a voice said, and Josan turned to find that one of his escort had followed him inside. Strangely enough, the others remained outside, with the door shut.

“If you won’t do it, I’ll have my men do it for you,” the guard said.

Josan nodded. Swiftly, he stripped off his filthy rags, dropping them carelessly on the floor. The water was tepid, but even this was bliss to a man who had gone without bathing for weeks.

A cake of soap rested on top of the folded towels and with the help of a small towel he scrubbed himself as clean as he could. The water was black when he was finished. He dried himself with the second towel, for the first time able to see the faint scars that were all that remained from his injuries. His skin felt better, but he was all too conscious of his rank hair and the itching of his unkempt beard. He stood there for a moment, holding the towel, unwilling to put on his filthy rags.

“Put these on,” the guard said, handing him a small bundle.

Josan opened it to find a cotton tunic and leather sandals. Plain enough garb, but luxury for a prisoner. He wondered at the meaning of this. He knew that Nizam had no interest in his comfort, but perhaps he was trying a new tactic—offering his prisoner courtesies that could then be withheld.

Though even that rang false. Perhaps the answer was simpler.

In the dark of the catacombs it was difficult to distinguish night from day. By his reckoning he had spent thirty-seven days here. But what if his count was wrong? What if today was the thirty-ninth day?

The empress would have been buried on the ninth day after her death, and then there would have been thirty days of mourning. By custom, on the thirty-ninth day the new emperor would take up his crown.

And what more fitting time could there be for the execution of the man who had killed his predecessor?

Josan was being prepared for his death, his ablutions meant to ensure that none could mistake the man being led to his doom. He searched inside himself for outrage or fear, but instead he found only calmness. He had known from the beginning that he could not expect his freedom. Regardless of whether or not he was found guilty of Empress Nerissa’s murder, the new emperor could not afford to let Prince Lucius live. Death was inevitable, and a swift death was preferable to remaining Nizam’s personal plaything.

“I didn’t kill the empress,” he said, needing to make this much clear. He would face his death calmly but not out of any sense of guilt.

“I know,” Nizam said.

Josan started. He had not heard the door open.

With fingers that shook only slightly, he finished tying the straps of his sandals, then straightened up and turned around.

The guard had left the cell, and Nizam stood in his place. Josan felt his closeness as if it were a blow, cold sweat breaking out along his spine, and his stomach clenched in anticipation. He was grateful that he had not eaten anything since yesterday.

If Nizam came closer, he knew his limbs would tremble. He could not control how his body reacted to his torturer, but he was more than mindless flesh.

“If you know I am innocent, then why wasn’t I freed?”

Nizam shrugged. “It is my job to uncover the facts. Others decide what to do with what I find,” he said.

Nizam stepped closer, and Josan locked his knees to keep himself from sagging as Nizam tugged at the folds of his tunic until it was arranged to his satisfaction.

“I will miss our conversations,” he said, giving one of his rare smiles. Josan had learned to dread those smiles. Then Nizam stepped back. “Come, they are waiting for you.”

The waiting guards had been dismissed. Apparently Nizam himself was considered sufficient escort. They climbed the stairs that led up from the catacombs in silence, emerging from an unmarked door into a small courtyard that accessed the buildings set aside for the ministers of state. It was a different route than the guards had taken when they took him to the dungeons, and Josan wondered just how many entrances and exits there were to the secret realms.

With each step, he grew more puzzled. He’d expected to be met by a contingent of soldiers, ready to lead him off in chains, and to hear the distant roar from the great square as the crowds prepared to witness his execution. Instead he was greeted only by the soft rays of dawn and the sounds of birds twittering as they splashed in the ornamental fountain.

But he was given no time to savor the peaceful scene, for Nizam urged him across the courtyard and into the nearest building. Prince Lucius might have once known what offices this building held, but Josan the monk could only speculate on where he was being taken.

And why.

At this early hour the ministry was empty. They encountered no one until they reached their destination—an unmarked door. Nizam rapped on the door once, then opened it.

“As you ordered,” Nizam said, pushing Josan into the room.

Caught off guard, Josan stumbled for a few steps until he was able to regain his balance. Looking up, his gaze met that of Proconsul Zuberi, whose frown of displeasure boded ill. Seated next to the proconsul was Brother Nikos.

There was no one else. He had expected Petrelis, the head of the city watch, or his deputy at the very least, but there were no guards. No irons. Merely two of the most powerful men in Ikaria, seated at a table that held the remains of their breakfast.

“Should I wait for him?” Nizam asked.

“Yes,” Zuberi said, just as Nikos said, “No.”

It seemed the two men were not in accord. They glared briefly at each other, then Zuberi said, “Wait outside.”

“Sit,” Zuberi added, gesturing at the empty chair at the opposite side of the table. “I won’t have you looming over me.”

Josan pulled out the chair and took his seat, using the time to study the two men. Zuberi’s face was drawn with exhaustion, his lips compressed in anger. By contrast Brother Nikos appeared impassive, but one who knew him well could see the pleasure that he was trying to hide.

Brother Nikos picked up the teapot and poured tea into an empty cup, sliding it across the table to him.

Tea? They were offering him tea? The last time he had seen Zuberi, the proconsul’s men had beaten him nearly to death. And now he was expected to drink tea with him?

“What do you want from me, proconsul? Or is it Emperor Zuberi I by now?”

He was proud of the steadiness of his voice, despite his parched throat and cracked lips. The rising scent of cinnamon tea made his mouth water, but he carefully ignored the cup, assuming that it was either drugged or poisoned.

With a small smile, Brother Nikos filled his own cup and took a hearty sip. And then another.

Only then did Josan drink from his own cup.

“Proconsul,” Zuberi said.

“Then whom should I congratulate? Count Hector, perhaps?”

With little to occupy his mind besides the pains of his own flesh, Josan had spent many hours carefully tracing the imperial genealogies in his head, wondering who would be named emperor. It had been purely an intellectual exercise, for he knew better than to hope that whomever they chose would pardon him.

“Count Hector will be arrested for treason, once the new emperor takes his crown,” Nikos said.

From the glare that Zuberi gave the monk, it was clear that this was a tidbit that Zuberi would have preferred to keep secret.

“Treason?” Josan repeated, too stunned to say anything else.

“For the murders of Empress Nerissa and her sons,” Nikos clarified.

It was fortunate that Josan was sitting, for his muscles sagged in sudden relief.

During these past weeks he had proclaimed his innocence, even through the taste of his own blood and the agonies of his flesh.

But a small part of him had wondered if he did bear some responsibility for her death. Some of his followers had escaped Nerissa’s justice, among them Josan’s former friend Myles, who possessed both the skills and fanaticism necessary to carry out the deed.

Instead, if Brother Nikos could be believed, it was Count Hector who had let his ambitions overrule his conscience.

“So why have you brought me here?” Josan asked. He kept his gaze locked on Zuberi’s face, knowing where the true power lay.

“I have been persuaded, against my own good judgment, to offer you a chance to stave off your execution,” Zuberi said.

“What do you want from me?”

“Count Hector must not be allowed to take the throne. And I cannot,” Zuberi said.

“So you are offering me the crown. Emperor Lucius,” he said.

His words had been meant as a jest, but no one laughed. Zuberi’s face tightened, as if he had bitten into a sour grape, while Brother Nikos smiled.

“Yes,” Brother Nikos said.

“What?”

“We want you to take the crown and ensure that Nerissa’s murderer is punished.”

This had to be a trick of some sort. A bizarre test, intended to reveal that he had been scheming for the throne all along. But he would not play their games. “Why not you?” he asked Zuberi.

“The proconsul—” Nikos began.

“I have my reasons,” Zuberi interrupted, “and this is not a jest. Already Ikaria trembles on the brink of civil war. The ministries and nobles would follow me, but I cannot rule. Count Hector has the next strongest claim, which he must have known when he put his foul scheme in action. No other candidate can hope to unite Ikaria and keep our enemies from taking advantage of our disarray.”

“So you want me? As what, a decoy for the next assassin?”

He could not believe what he was hearing. He had been prepared to beg for a merciful death. He was not prepared for this.

He longed with all his heart to accept—even an assassin’s blade was preferable to the prospect of returning to the dungeons and Nizam’s care. But to be named emperor…he could hardly comprehend it.

“If you will not deal with me, Nizam is waiting for you,” Zuberi said, proving that at least some of what Josan felt must have shown on his face.

“Why me? The newcomers will not follow one of the old blood, and you cannot truly intend me to reign over you.”

“Your blood gives you a legitimate claim to the throne, but you owe allegiance to none of the factions. Given a choice between you or one of their enemies, the nobles will prefer you,” Brother Nikos explained. “Proconsul Zuberi controls the ministries, and our allies control the treasury and the city watch. Our backing will be enough to see you seated on the throne.”

“You will be emperor in name only,” Zuberi said. “I will name your circle of advisors, and you will heed our advice or meet with a swift death at the hands of your personal guards.”

They had thought of everything.

“I know Prince Lucius will be pleased to serve his people, and to do whatever is necessary to protect his empire,” Nikos said, taking care to stress Lucius’s name.

Josan knew this was intentional, just as he knew the reason for Brother Nikos’s barely contained triumph. This was the moment that Brother Nikos had striven for when he had performed the forbidden magics linking the soul of a monk to the body of a prince. Nikos had long dreamed of having the next emperor under his control, and his dream was about to come true.

“You have given me no choice,” Josan said. “I will do as you ask.”

In the end it did not matter. Emperor or prisoner, he was still damned.