The final sacrifice, p.27
The Final Sacrifice, page 27
Two ships had already sailed ahead, bearing news of the victory at Anamur back to the empire. It remained to be seen how Zuberi would react to that news. Would he step aside? Or would he challenge Lucius?
He knew that his men were worried that the emperor would die at sea, but they did not know what Lucius knew.
It's time, Lucius thought. Tell Chenzira to come to us after we're safely at sea.
Chenzira?
Eight is not strong enough, and I trust no other, Lucius thought. The stone must be destroyed.
Of course.
After Septimus took his leave, Chenzira personally escorted the emperor to his cabin. Once they were settled, the monk said, “Captain, if you would be so kind, I would like to speak with you after we have set sail.”
“As you wish.”
After the captain left, the monk sent Eight to fetch hot water for tea. He knew the galley would curse such a request, since the coals would be banked as the ship was making ready to set sail, but Eight would rouse them.
Finally, the monk grumbled. You nearly left it too late.
If I could, I would wait till the great city was in view, Lucius thought. But I dare not.
He'd been waiting until he learned if Septimus's mission had been a success. But when the flotilla returned, it was to find the emperor lying insensible in his bed, apparently dying. It had been two days before they'd been able to rouse him.
The next time could prove fatal to them both.
The floor tilted beneath his feet as the sails caught the wind. Around him timbers creaked, and through the open porthole he could hear echoes of shouted orders over the sound of the waves.
Eight returned with the hot water, and the monk dismissed him, telling Eight that he would make his own tea. Here the monk's odd habit of performing menial tasks stood in their favor, for Eight did not question his emperor's whim.
Reaching inside his robe, the monk withdrew a pouch that held a perfectly round amber stone and a handful of dried berries that were neither green nor red.
He could sense the monk fretting, wondering if dried berries would be sufficient, but they'd had no means of acquiring fresh ones. With a mental shrug, the monk tossed the berries into the pot, then stirred them thrice. He let them steep for a quarter of an hour, then poured the brew into a plain clay cup.
The aroma was surprisingly pleasant, though endikot berries were known to be poisonous, harvested for use in dyes and inks rather than for food.
He could feel the monk gathering his courage.
Lucius, the monk began, and then his thoughts fell silent.
It seemed even a scholar could find no words for this.
The monk reached for the cup—
And at that moment Lucius struck. Using all of his carefully hoarded strength, he rose up and took control of his body.
He felt the monk's shock, but ignored him.
With hands that shook only slightly, Lucius lifted the cup and began to drink. The acid brew burned his lips, his tongue, and the length of his gullet. Still, he forced himself to keep swallowing until the last drop was gone. When finished, he wiped his lips with the sleeve of his robe, as if he were a peasant.
Then he picked up the amber luck stone, rubbing it between thumb and forefinger. He'd carried this stone since Karystos, part of the imperial gems that he'd taken to pay for his voyage. It was smooth to the touch—the same dark gold as the rarest honey, roughly the same size as an imperial gold piece.
Such a small thing to hold a man's soul. But if it were any larger, it would hardly fit in his mouth.
His fingers began to tingle, and then his toes, with a strange prickling sensation as if his limbs were being woken from sleep.
Perhaps the berry's reputation as a poison was well earned. It would be ironic if it killed them before he could complete the spell.
He could feel his strength ebbing, but he held on with every ounce of his will. Minutes passed, or perhaps hours, but finally there was a knock at the door.
“Enter,” he called.
Chenzira came in, shutting the door behind him. “How may I serve you?”
“I've been poisoned,” Lucius said.
Chenzira's eyes widened in shock. “Just now?”
“No. It was some time ago. Long before I left Ikaria,” he said.
Chenzira's bewildered expression disappeared, as he realized that Lucius was talking about his illness. “What can I do?” he asked.
“Do you trust me?” Lucius asked.
“With my life,” Chenzira vowed.
Such loyalty warmed his heart, even as it firmed his resolve, for he knew that he was not the one who had earned it.
“There is a spell,” Lucius said, holding up the amber stone so that Chenzira could see it. “I will place this in my mouth, and it will absorb the poison. When I stop breathing, you must remove the stone and destroy it.”
Chenzira nodded. He looked around the cabin, until his gaze settled on the iron rod that was used to bar the porthole in bad weather. Swiftly he removed it from its fittings.
“When I stop breathing, not before,” Lucius reminded him.
Chenzira swallowed hard, then nodded. “It will be as you command.”
He was putting all his trust in Chenzira. Not to make the spell work, he could do that himself without any witnesses. But Lucius could not bear the idea of his soul being trapped forever in a stone, unable to join his ancestors. Hopefully smashing the stone would be enough to free him.
If not, he would have to hope that the gods would grant him mercy for his courage.
With one last deep breath, Lucius lay down on the bed. His hands were numb, and he nearly dropped the stone twice before it slid into his mouth.
He closed his eyes, and thought about his soul leaving. He could sense the monk's presence, but the monk was not strong enough to resume control.
You will be a better emperor than I, he thought.
And then he breathed his last.
Lady Ysobel watched the emperor's halting progress along the dock, until he climbed aboard Green Dragon.
Was it Lucius who had said farewell to her? Was it the monk? Or perhaps some blend of the two?
She'd wondered if Brice's tale would provide the answers he needed to find a cure, but from his continuing decline, it appeared she'd been wrong.
Or perhaps it was simply that neither man was willing to sacrifice himself so that the other might live.
She shivered, and it had nothing to do with the chill air.
“What do you think will happen to him?” Burrell asked.
“If he's lucky, he'll die before he reaches Ikaria.”
If Zuberi had claimed the throne, he would not lightly give up his prize. Especially not to an ailing emperor who had few political allies. Lucius would be imprisoned for his own safety, and then, if his malady did not kill him outright, the imperial physicians would.
“It seems a cruel fate,” Burrell said.
“All politics are cruel.”
She turned her back on Green Dragon. There was nothing more she could do. She'd offered the emperor sanctuary, but she understood why he had left. The federation was alien to him, while the Green Dragon was his ship, crewed by his people. It would be a good place to die.
When it came her time, she could ask no more.
She was too restless to return home, so waved off the carriage and made her way to the boardwalk that encircled the port. Burrell fell into step beside her, a familiar presence.
They did not need words between them. Each knew that the other had been unnerved by the contemplation of the emperor's probable fate. It was not often that one saw a man so clearly touched by the shadow of death.
Lucius, or whoever he was, had finally earned the throne he had long coveted—but he would not live to reign over his people.
And what had she earned? She'd thought to use her political connections to secure the future of her trading house, but instead paid a heavy price for her ambition. Still she'd persevered, and none would deny that she'd been instrumental in averting a costly war with the empire. Bayard himself had expressed his gratitude toward her, in terms that made it clear she was in his favor, and his advisor Telfor had invited her for a private meeting, where he'd hinted that she could name her own reward.
She could have a seat on the king's council, or even the post of Deputy Minister of Trade—second-in-command to Lady Solange, and in line to succeed her should Ysobel prove herself worthy. She'd be more powerful than any born into House Flordelis in the past century—and she was barely thirty.
It was even conceivable that she might be elected queen, one day in the far-distant future. All it would take was sacrificing what remained of her soul.
Her thoughts turned over and over, but the familiar sights and smells of the port failed to soothe her restlessness. She skirted precariously stacked crates, stepped neatly around coiled lines, and nearly lost her balance crossing a swath of discarded fish scales.
Finally, they reached the southernmost point of the harbor. From here they could walk no farther, so instead she climbed the stairs until they stood atop the wall.
The harbor lay spread out before her, each ship within reminding her that there was far more to life than could be found in council chambers or grand palaces.
“What now?” Burrell asked. “Where will you go?”
“Somewhere I've never been,” she said.
He blinked at her, and she realized he'd been asking if she wanted to return to the mansion.
“Will you go home first?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. But not in the way that he meant. House Flordelis was no longer her home—it was merely a place where she could take refuge when she needed.
“I'm off to Alcina tomorrow,” she said. “I've changes in mind for the new ship, and I want to oversee them personally.”
Disappointment flashed across his face, but then his features smoothed. “A good choice. Your house needs you, and I've always thought you were happiest at sea.”
If Ysobel returned to life as a trader, then she would have no need for an aide who happened to be a marine captain. Once they parted, it was doubtful their paths would cross again.
She let him help her down from the wall, and by unspoken accord they turned their steps in the direction of the mansion.
“Western Star will be refitted for an extended voyage,” she said. “I plan to take her out of the basin, up north along the coast of Tarsus, and from there, I'll see what is to be found.”
Few ships sailed out past the western edge of the Great Basin, and fewer ships had ever ventured north of Tarsus, where there were no maps, only mere rumors to guide a captain. It would be the adventure of a lifetime—and the opportunity to be the first to discover new trade goods and new markets.
“Come with me,” she said, turning to face him.
“I could wish for nothing more, but—”
“You will be my price,” she said. “King Bayard has promised me whatever I want if I'll stay—and I'm sure Lord Quesnel will be equally willing to give me what I want to make sure that I leave.”
Quesnel was minister of war, and no friend to Ysobel. Her success had angered him, and he'd be happy to see her gone.
And if not, Bayard owed her a favor or two.
Burrell paused, his mouth open.
She was seized with a sudden doubt. What if he didn't want this? Had she presumed too much? He'd been in the marines since he was a young man.
“It is your choice,” she said, a trifle stiffly.
“I've never been a trader,” he said. “Nor a sailor.”
Her lips curved in a smile as happiness rose up inside her. “You know the sea,” she said. “The rest can be learned.”
Burrell grinned back, appearing five years younger.
She could never have asked him to share her old life. But this new life would be one worth sharing.
“There's just one condition,” he said.
She began to ask what it was, just as he cupped her face with both hands. Bending down, he brushed his lips with hers.
She gasped, and what had started as a chaste kiss quickly grew fierce, as Burrell finally showed her just how much he wanted her.
When they broke apart, they were both flushed and panting. But there were stars in his eyes, and she was sure that she looked equally infatuated.
A passing apprentice clapped to show his appreciation, until he wilted under their combined stares.
“Well, then,” she said. “That's settled.”
Chapter 20
Josan gasped desperately, struggling for air. Pain consumed him as his muscles tensed, arching his body off the bed—then just as suddenly he collapsed upon it, boneless. He could hear the sound of a hammer, mingled with Chenzira's desperate curses.
As his frantic breaths slowed, Josan opened his eyes.
Chenzira's gaze met his—eyes wild, holding an iron bar suspended over his head with one hand. With a ringing crash, Chenzira brought the bar down against the table.
The spell. Josan's memories came rushing back to him.
“Enough,” he said, then coughed.
The bar clanged to the floor as Chenzira came over to help him sit upright.
Josan's senses swam, but as he blinked the dizziness passed. He swallowed a few times to clear the foulness from his mouth.
“Did it work? Are you well?” Chenzira asked.
Josan hesitated, not knowing how to answer the question. Lucius, he called out. Lucius!
But there was no answer. He closed his eyes and tried again, summoning all of the focus he had learned in years of patient study, but there was nothing. Not even the vague echo that he had come to associate with those times when Lucius was unable to communicate with him.
He pushed Chenzira aside and stood. The amber stone had been pounded into fine crumbs—Josan brushed a few into his palm, but there was no sense of magic, no feeling of connection. If Lucius's soul had been in that stone, it was there no longer.
“Emperor, are you well?” Chenzira asked.
Josan nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He'd steeled himself for death, hoping merely that his passing would be swift. Coming back to life in this fashion was as painful as any birth.
He let the stone fragments fall on the floor as he held his hands in front of him, turning them over, then bringing them together, reveling in the sensation as flesh met flesh.
He could feel. For the first time in months, the sensations were not dulled. It was only now that he realized how much Lucius's presence had affected him. His body was still weak, but it was his, from the chill of his bare feet against the rough wooden deck to the ache of his head.
It was as if he'd awoken from a long illness, or a dream.
But why had Lucius done it? Josan had been willing to die. He had never expected that Lucius would take his place.
Was it a sudden whim? Or a secret that Lucius had held for days, until it came time to act?
He had not thought Lucius had the strength within him to sacrifice himself. And yet he had. Lucius had given his life for the sake of his empire. In the end, Lucius had proven his nobility—he was what he'd always wished to be, the equal of any of his illustrious ancestors. Ikaria was poorer for his loss, though no one would know to mourn him, except Josan.
“I could not have done this without your help. Thank you,” Josan said.
Chenzira eyed him critically. “Not to be difficult, but you don't look any different.”
“It's what's inside that matters,” Josan told him. “My body will recover now that the curse is gone.”
Chenzira's eyes widened at the mention of magic. “You said it was poison.”
So he had. “It was both,” Josan explained. “But it is over.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
He knew that Lucius's soul was gone, but he could not say where that certainty came from, merely that he felt it within the very bones that were now his. No longer would he struggle for survival in a body that was at war with itself. That part of his life was over.
It was up to him to decide what came next.
* * *
The sun was high in a cloudless sky as Green Dragon sailed past the moles into Karystos harbor. Josan looked up at the terraced hills, his eyes traveling from the markets, to the nobles' quarter, to the copper roof of the collegium, which was barely visible behind its neighbors. And, finally, the great palace, dominating the scene effortlessly from its perch upon the great hill.
Admiral Septimus peered through his long glass, then twisted it shut with a snap. “They're waiting for us,” Septimus said, faint disapproval coloring his words.
Yesterday they'd anchored off of Eluktiri, and at Josan's command, Septimus had sent a ship ahead to Karystos. He had no intention of sneaking into the city as a thief. All would know that the true emperor had returned.
After some grumbling, Septimus had obeyed—then insisted on joining the emperor aboard Green Dragon for their arrival.
Josan had agreed, knowing that their fate was shared. Whether Septimus stood beside him or was aboard another ship would not matter. The rest of the navy might be spared, but whatever happened to the emperor would happen to Septimus and Chenzira as well.
The breeze ruffled his hair, and Josan took a deep breath, then another, savoring the feeling of being alive and whole.
Ever since he'd awoken to find a frantic Chenzira smashing the stone to powder, Josan had been a changed man. He no longer had to fight for each breath, to struggle merely to perform the simple tasks that others took for granted. His appetite had returned, and his sleep was untroubled by dreams.
He was not the man he had been, when years of tending a lighthouse had gifted this body with both physical strength and endurance. But each day he grew stronger, and given time, he knew he would recover fully.
He heard Chenzira's shouts, as the topmost sails were furled and the ship prepared to drop anchor.
“There's still time to change your mind,” Septimus said.
Josan did not have to do this. Chenzira would have sailed him anywhere he wished to go. He could have shaved his head and disappeared, become a scribe writing letters for those too ignorant to write their own, or a clerk in some foreign city.
