Nikos stilled. The room was colder than it had been moments ago, and the shadows seemed even darker, as if reminding him of the lateness of the hour. “A madman, you say?”
Jeno nodded vigorously. “And a noble. He claimed to be one of us and insisted on being admitted. I summoned Brother Basil, but when Brother Basil did not recognize him either, the man grew upset and began insisting on seeing you. I thought to summon the watch, but Brother Basil said I should consult you first.”
“No,” Nikos said swiftly. The time he had long feared had finally come; his renegade monk had returned. Inviting Josan in was dangerous, but involving the watch would expose too many of Nikos’s own secrets. It was unlikely that Empress Nerissa would believe that his actions six years ago had been driven by a desire to preserve order and ensure peace. And far better that the danger Josan represented be contained within the walls of the collegium rather than wandering the streets of Karystos, ready to tell his tale to whoever would listen.
“Run back, as quick as you can, and have Brother Basil bring the man to me.”
“But—” Jeno protested, his confusion evident.
Nikos laid his hand on the novice’s arm to reassure him. “I cannot turn away a troubled soul. It is our duty to help him, or to see that he is brought to those who can. Now go, swiftly, before the watch finds him on their own.”
Nikos watched him disappear. Jeno posed a problem, but he could be dealt with later. The novice on postern duty served at his post until dawn, so there were several hours during which he would have no chance to tell his tale to another. By the time dawn came, Nikos would know what was to be done with him.
But first he had an old student to confront.
He carefully marshaled his arguments, hoping that they would be more persuasive in person, since clearly his letters had been ignored. Josan had always followed the path of intellect, of cool reason over emotion. If Nikos was lucky, some trace of that logic would still remain.
The sight of his visitor destroyed his carefully ordered arguments. Curtly he dismissed Brother Basil, knowing the elderly monk would know better than to speculate on the identity of Nikos’s late-night visitor. As the door swung shut behind Basil, he gave voice to his anger.
“Prince of Fools, what have you done now? Are you trying to destroy us all?” He told himself it was anger that lent the sharp edge to his words, but in his belly he felt the cold knot of fear. His visitor’s eyes were wild, and his face flushed from anger or perhaps the force of his argument with the hapless Jeno. In a monk’s robes he might have gone unnoticed, but the silk-banded tunic he wore was nearly as obvious as if he had waved a flag proclaiming his lineage.
“The time has come for you to tell me what you have done.” Josan’s voice was calm, in eerie contrast to the emotions that flashed across his face.
“I told you not to return. You bring danger to us all by being here. And if the empress discovers you—”
“If I have to turn to her for answers, so be it. But I would rather hear them from you.”
Nikos searched his visitor’s face. Six years ago, when he had left the collegium, he had been a shell of a man, barely capable of following the simplest of instructions. From his frequent letters Nikos knew he had changed but assumed that his memories remained lost beyond recall. Now he wondered if that were true, or if the lighthouse keeper had been playing a game with him, pretending obedience and ignorance while secretly plotting his return.
“Who am I speaking to? Josan? Or Lucius?” Was this body ruled by Josan, one of the finest minds of his generation? Or by the spoiled princeling who saw no further than his own petty desires?
His visitor’s face stilled with the careful blankness of one practiced in meditation, or in the art of courtly deception. “Both. Neither. Does it matter?”
It mattered. It might well prove the difference between life and death.
Turning away, his visitor made his way to Nikos’s desk, sitting down in his chair as if these were his quarters and Nikos a mere supplicant. Such arrogance was well within Lucius’s character, but the words that came out of his mouth had the cool reason that Josan had once possessed.
“Tell me how it is that two souls came to share this body,” he commanded.
Nikos hesitated, then took a seat on the bench that was used by the rare visitors to his private room.
“What do you remember?” he began. It seemed wise to treat his visitor as if he were indeed Lucius, but his questions indicated that there were still gaps in his memory. It might be possible to minimize the role Nikos had played in the events past. And the less Lucius learned, the better, for anything he knew he would confess once Nerissa’s torturers got their hands on him.
That is, if Nikos let Lucius leave the collegium alive. There was still time to undo the choices he had made six years before.
“Assume that I know everything, but that I want to hear it from your lips.”
Nikos hesitated.
“You owe me the truth.”
“I owe you nothing. I gave you life. Both of you would have died were it not for me.”
Lucius nodded. “The breakbone fever,” he said, showing that he did indeed remember something of the past.
“And your reckless folly.” Nikos rose to his feet and, crossing to the shelves on the far wall, poured out a cup of wine. While ordinarily he despised those who turned to wine to steady their nerves, surely he could be forgiven for making an exception on this night. After a moment of hesitation he poured a second cup and offered it to Lucius.
Lucius waved it away. “I know better than to take a drink from someone who calls himself my friend as he hands me the poisoned cup.” There was a bitter edge to his voice.
Nikos flushed, remembering that it had been his hand that had held the cup six years before, promising Lucius that the drugged wine would provide a painless passing.
“It was your choice,” he reminded him. “You chose to die, knowing that Nerissa would be far less merciful once she got her hands on you.”
“But you had something else in mind. Lucius was an embarrassment to you. A former pupil who learned so little from your lessons that he fell into the hands of those who used him for their own ends. When the scales fell from his eyes he turned to you for help, only you betrayed him.”
“I did not betray you.”
“You did not turn me over to Nerissa, true. But you had plans of your own. Who was it that thought of using soul magic?”
“Brother Giles.”
“So you decided that all his years of studying ought to be put to use, and who better to practice on than a man you despised?”
“We did what we thought best. It was not just a matter of hiding from the empress. You swore that you could not live with yourself, nor with the blood that had been shed in your name.”
“And then there was Josan. Your perfect student. Yet even his obedience would surely have been strained had he known what you were going to do. Did he ask to be saved?”
“He was too ill to make a choice, so I made it for him. Letting both of you die seemed a senseless waste.”
His words painted a picture of altruism, but Nikos’s motives had been far less pure. Saving Josan’s knowledge was a worthy goal, but if the supplicant had been anyone other than Prince Lucius, then both men would have been allowed to die. The risks of practicing the forbidden soul magic would have far outweighed any possible gain. But the chance to put his own man on the throne, even if it was only a slim one, had been too great an opportunity for Nikos to ignore.
There had been great dissatisfaction with Empress Nerissa, but Prince Lucius had lacked both the charisma and wisdom to unite the disparate factions into a cohesive whole. Lucius’s own character had doomed the rebellion, but if he had been a different man, it might have succeeded.
Nikos had the power to make him a different man, and the temptation to reshape history had proven irresistible. He had gambled, but Brother Giles’s efforts had produced only a gibbering ha
lf-wit, unfit for any purpose.
“Pity for you that your efforts yielded a drooling simpleton who could not further your plans. No wonder you sent me away, so you would not have to look at your failure,” Lucius said, showing far more insight than he had in his youth.
“I sent you away so you would be safe. And now you have ruined that by returning.”
“Safe? Then it was not you who sent an assassin to kill me?”
The thought had crossed Nikos’s mind, but he had believed himself safe as long as the man in the lighthouse still obeyed his orders and continued to sign his missives as “Your Obedient Servant, Josan.” And there was still a chance that circumstances would change, and Nikos would have a use for him.
“It was not I,” he said. But clearly someone else had seen through Lucius’s disguise and tried to kill the exiled prince, thus prompting his flight. He had known all along that the body found at Txomin’s Lighthouse was no mere thief, but the question of who had sent the assassin still lingered.
“My enemies continue to hunt me, but I have also found friends who wish to help. They brought me here to finish what I started six years ago.”
“The empress will crush you.”
“I know. But I was not consulted as to my wishes.”
Perhaps it was Josan’s knowledge tempering Lucius’s arrogance, for he seemed genuinely distressed at the prospect of another uprising.
It seemed that Nikos’s scheme to create a worthy prince had indeed worked, but the opportunity for him to be of use had passed. The empress had used the past six years to tighten her grasp on power. Any rebellion would be swiftly put down, and there would be no mercy for those involved.
Nikos could not afford to have Lucius fall into the empress’s hands. He was no match for him physically, so he would have to persuade Lucius that he would be safe in the collegium. Then, surely the brethren’s stock of herbs and potions would contain one that would destroy Lucius’s mind, so they could deliver a witless, gibbering husk to the empress’s dungeons. Killing him outright was too much of a risk since it would imply that Nikos had something to fear from what Lucius might say. But if Lucius’s arrival at the postern gate had been observed, the witnesses would confirm that he had behaved as an incoherent madman, thus avoiding any need to explain where Lucius had been for six years, or why he had chosen to come to the collegium of all places for sanctuary.
Brother Basil could be trusted, but Jeno would have to be dealt with. Novices were often sent to other countries to study, and he would accept such a posting without question. But if he were to return one day, it might be awkward. Instead, Jeno would have to be sacrificed, a tragic victim of the mad prince. And his death would explain the violence of Lucius’s capture and any damage the prince might suffer as a result of his apprehension. A skull fracture would be more convenient than relying on herb lore.
“You cannot keep me here,” Lucius said, as if he had read Nikos’s thoughts.
“But we can protect you. If you venture out into the city, you will be recognized and arrested.”
“I have already been recognized,” Lucius said. “My friends know that I have come here. If I do not return, they will begin asking questions that you cannot afford to answer.”
“What do you propose?”
“Let me return to them and persuade them that the time is not ripe for rebellion. Convince them to disband, then disappear once I am certain they will not commit further folly.”
And if Prince Lucius were indeed the leader of the rebels, his plan might work. But six years ago he had been a mere figurehead with no true authority. It was unlikely that anything had changed in the intervening years.
“At least stay long enough that we may consult with my advisors. They may see a different path.” If he summoned reinforcements, among them they could overpower Lucius.
Lucius shook his head. “No. It is too dangerous for me to stay here.”
Despite the peril that he faced, a part of Nikos was fascinated. More and more he was convinced that though Lucius’s mouth gave voice to the words, it was Josan’s intellect that shaped them. He had thought the soul transfer spell an utter failure, but it seemed he had been wrong.
If only he could be certain how much of the man before him was ruled by Josan and how much was the remaining traces of the foolish and impetuous prince. If Josan were in control, then Nikos might well gamble on letting him leave alive, but if it were Lucius’s personality in ascendance…
“You will give me a robe to hide this tunic and let me leave,” Lucius said. “The rebels are more highly placed than anyone dreams, and they have Nerissa’s ear. You will not survive if she turns her gaze upon your activities.”
Lucius had been a fool, but he had been an honest one. He had never lied to Nikos, not even when a lie would have served his purposes far better than the truth. And Josan had been a scholar who valued truth above all. If this man said that the rebels knew enough to endanger Nikos, then he would have to assume that was indeed the case.
He considered calling out, summoning monks to restrain Lucius to prevent his leaving, but concluded that he could not afford the spectacle that would result. Such an uproar would be witnessed by dozens of monks, and it was too much to hope that they would all remain silent at his command. A few words whispered to one of the imperial guard, and Nikos would find himself on trial for his life.
Instead he heaved a sigh, giving the air of a man persuaded against his will. Let Lucius think himself victor, and perhaps he would not think too closely about Nikos’s own plans.
“You may go, but first you will swear to me that you have no intention of trying to take the throne and that you will do everything in your power to disband the rebellion,” he said.
“This I swear. I have no interest in power and no taste for killings.”
It was little enough, but it would have to do. Nikos rose and retreated to his sleeping chamber, where he pulled out a dark wool robe from his wardrobe. It was plain, in keeping with his position, but unlike the light-colored robes that the brethren wore as their uniform. There would be nothing to tie its wearer to the collegium.
Lucius accepted the robe and donned it in silence.
“Should I summon an escort?”
“I know my way out,” Lucius said. “And I know what I have to do.”
“As do I,” Nikos said.
He waited until Lucius had left before summoning the boy assigned to tend his quarters. “Fetch me Brother Gregor, and Brother Thanatos. Wake them if they are sleeping,” he said.
Lucius might believe that he could stop the rebellion, but Nikos was not as sanguine. He had his own plans to put in place. By the time Lucius was captured, Nikos would ensure that there was nothing to link him to the prince. And if he handled the situation just right, he might even be able to turn Lucius’s appearance to his advantage. A few words here and there would point the finger of suspicion firmly away from Nikos and the collegium. Anything Lucius might say would be seen as desperately lashing out against one who had helped to bring him to justice.
Nikos would do whatever it took to survive.
As soon as the walls of the collegium were out of sight, Josan fell to his knees and vomited. He and the Other had managed to cooperate long enough to fool Nikos into giving them the answers they both sought, but now his head pounded with the strain caused by his warring selves, even as his stomach churned. A pack of youths returning home from their revels mocked his seeming inability to hold his drink, but they contented themselves with mere jeers. The dark robe hid both his features and the damning tunic with its bands of crimson silk, the color of royalty.
Fool that he was, it had taken Nikos’s sharp tongue to reveal the obvious. On another man, such a tunic would be a sign of his close connection to the imperial household, and it would be fitting for a magistrate to wear such to an official function of the court. But worn by one who styled himself a prince…
Yet was that who he was? he wondered, even as a voice ins
ide of him whispered Yes. The Other was growing stronger, refusing to be silent now that he had been given a name. Prince Lucius, whose great-grandmother had been Princess Callista, full sister to Empress Constanza, the last of the old blood to sit on the imperial throne. Constanza had married the newcomer Aitor, elevating him to the rank of Prince Consort, then Aitor had needed only his own ambition to win the title of emperor for himself.
Lucius, who owed his very existence to Aitor’s seeming charity in sparing the lives of Princess Callista and her daughter, and to his heirs who had allowed Callista’s descendants to live quiet lives of obscurity until a vain and reckless youth let himself be used in an attempt to topple the empire.
It was beyond comprehension. He was Josan, a dedicated scholar who knew the secret harmonies of numbers and the histories of the civilized peoples. He was a man of peace. Violence was no part of him.
And yet it was. From his blood-soaked dreams to the arcane skills that he had used against his attacker, it seemed violence was very much a part of this Other. The rebellion of six years ago had not been an orderly affair of two armies meeting upon a field of battle. It had been a time of assassinations, of rape and pillage done in the name of ancient hatreds. Entire families had been executed from the oldest down to the babes in arms, as each side seemed determined to outdo the other in sheer horror. Prince Lucius might not have wielded the sword personally, but that did not make him any less responsible for the atrocities that had been done in his name.
I agree.
He shivered, as he realized that the prince was able to speak directly with him. If this had been happening to anyone else, he would have been fascinated. But faced with the twisted horror that he had become, he felt not curiosity but revulsion. His greatest fear had been that he was afflicted with madness, but now such fear seemed laughable. Josan had been made party to an abomination—and he was not alone in his torment.
It was strange to conduct a conversation in his own head, and he wondered if his lips were moving, even as his voice remained silent. So what do we do now? Do we run?
The First Betrayal Page 22