Such an eclectic gathering might well be deemed suspicious were it held in the dead of night, behind closed doors. Instead, in response to Dama Akantha’s urgent message, Lady Ysobel had chosen to hold their meeting in daylight, in the seeming openness of her garden, where the high walls prevented any from getting close enough to overhear their conversations.
Still, despite the warmth of the day, she shivered as she recalled the danger. This time there were no masks to hide behind. Those present had come so openly, as commanded by Dama Akantha.
Dama Akantha had been tight-lipped about whom she had invited, but Ysobel had carefully compared each guest to the costumed figures she had met in the wine cellar. At least two were missing, whether because they had other obligations or because they refused to reveal their true faces she did not know. And it was not them that she had to fear. Those who stayed away showed a commendable prudence. No, if Nerissa had a spy among their number, he was present, confidently barefaced among them, taking note of each name so he could inform the empress.
Even as she circulated, exchanging tepid pleasantries with her guests, her eyes kept darting to the gate in the garden wall. At last her patience was rewarded, as the gate swung open, and a figure stepped within. She was close enough to see that he was stocky, with the light brown hair and the ruddy skin of the native Ikarians, but he looked more peasant than noble. Fury welled up inside her as she realized that no one would believe this one an heir to Constantin, and thus they had taken the risk of meeting openly for naught.
The newcomer looked carefully around the garden, catching the eye of Magistrate Renato, who nodded to him. Then he stepped aside and a second man stepped within.
This man wore the hooded robe of a penitent or leper. As the gate swung shut behind him, he pulled off his robe and revealed his features.
“By the gods it is him,” Dama Akantha muttered.
Ysobel swiftly closed her mouth, which had fallen open with amazement. The man did not merely having the look of the old blood, she would swear that he was the old blood. It was as if Emperor Constantin had sprung to life from one of the forbidden coins that bore his visage.
Swiftly she crossed the distance that separated them. As she drew near she hesitated, wondering how she should greet him. She had been prepared to meet a pretender to the throne, one who would know he was a tool and not expect the royal courtesies. But this man, who had the look of the late prince, might well be offended if he was not greeted properly. Yet she could not risk a formal obeisance, lest she be observed by one of her servants. She had no wish to test the depths of their loyalty to her.
The man made the choice for her, extending his hand toward in the manner of old acquaintances.
“Lady Ysobel, I had not realized that you were a friend of ours. Had I done so, our last meeting might have gone differently,” he said.
As she took his hand in hers, she recognized his voice.
“Shall I call you Lucius? Or do you still claim to be the monk Josan?”
“Josan will serve well enough, for now,” he said.
It was true that clothes made the man. Dressed in rags, with shaven head and downcast eyes, he had seemed a mere monk, a bastard connection of the old imperial blood. But with his blond hair grown out to a fashionable length and his blue eyes gazing directly at hers, there was no mistaking him for anyone other than the royal prince.
“You should introduce me to your guests,” he prompted. “Some I know of old, but other faces are new to me.”
“Of course.”
As they toured the garden, she was comforted by the reactions of her guests to the newcomer. Even Dama Akantha had expected a bastard or impostor, not the return of Prince Lucius in the flesh—though six years had changed him. Gone was the soft roundness of his face and the impatient petulance that had made the prince as much a danger to his supporters as to his enemies. His face bore lines of maturity and determination, and his careful exchanges with the guests gave away nothing of his true feelings. He was as calm as if this were an ordinary garden party and not a meeting of treasonous conspirators.
By unspoken consent, after Prince Lucius had greeted each person, they wandered over to the couches. Lucius took the place of honor, at Ysobel’s right side, as servants moved among the guests, refilling their wineglasses and placing chilled decanters within easy reach. Then the servants were dismissed, as was customary when Ysobel’s guests wished to discuss discreetly the indiscretions of those not present. Months had been spent establishing a routine just for this very purpose, so that the gathering would seem no different than any others. It was time for all her careful preparations to be put to the test.
“Three nights past, the watch heard rumors that the ghost of Prince Lucius had been sighted in the old quarter, running through the streets in search of his faithful followers. I dismissed it as a drunkard’s fantasy,” Benedict said, as if recounting an idle bit of market gossip.
“I cannot explain what drunkards see,” Lucius replied.
“But you do claim to be Prince Lucius, do you not?” Benedict pressed.
“I am he.”
She swept her eyes over her guests to gauge their mood. Renato appeared triumphant, as well he might, since he was the one to whom Prince Lucius had turned. Dama Akantha’s face was still, but her eyes shone with a zealot’s fire. She would press for sudden, decisive action. Benedict, despite Lucius’s avowal, looked doubtful, and as for Salvador, perhaps his ancient eyes failed him, for his face was drawn in harsh lines, as if displeased to see his prince. The rest of the conspirators appeared cautious, wavering between the hope of Lucius’s return and their own private doubts.
“If you are indeed the prince, then why should we listen to you? Why, after you ran off to save your skin and abandoned your supporters to the racks and the pyre?” Salvador demanded. His raised voice caused his neighbors on both sides to hiss at him in warning.
“It was not my choice to leave. Those who called themselves my friends spirited me out of the city to a place far away. By the time I came to myself it was too late to return. There was nothing that I could have done.”
“Then why have you returned now?” she asked.
Lucius shrugged. “I could not forget the past, nor could my faithful friends, it seems. I came to see for myself the state of Karystos and to judge whether the time was ripe to unseat Nerissa.”
He was lying. She knew that, with the same certainty that told her when a merchant was trying to pass rotten goods off as fresh. It was not mere curiosity that had brought him to the capital after all these years. Someone or something had summoned him back, by telling him that the time was once more ripe for rebellion.
She wondered if it was her presence that was the cause for his return, and if the federation’s secret support had been the key to stirring the rebels to action after their long years of dormancy. She was well aware that it was her sacks of coins that paid for the seemingly spontaneous riots that targeted businesses owned by the newcomers and encouraged cutpurses and gutter thieves to spare their fair-headed victims while dealing harshly with anyone with dark hair and porcelain skin.
So far, such deeds had done nothing but encourage the watch to come down even more harshly on the native Ikarians, guided by Benedict’s sure hand behind the scenes. In time, such punishments would breed resentment and encourage the native Ikarians to rise up against their masters. But it was a chancy proposition at best. She’d had no real hope that their efforts would do anything more than inconvenience Nerissa, but Prince Lucius’s return changed everything.
If it were indeed Lucius—which Salvador apparently doubted. His whispered mutterings grew louder as Prince Lucius patiently asked each person in the circle what he or she could bring to the rebellion and where they judged Nerissa to be weakest. Lucius’s face was still giving nothing of his own thoughts away as he gave each speaker the benefit of his full attention. It was a masterful performance. Even Dama Akantha, who had spoken derisively of the boy prince i
n the past, now nodded approvingly as he spoke, while Flavian was nearly vibrating with excitement.
Salvador scowled, his grim expression in stark contrast to the enthusiasm of the others. Perhaps sensing his resistance, Lucius had saved the old man for last, and when his turn came Salvador was defiant.
“I have nothing to say and nothing to offer you. I have seen no proof that you are anything but a pretty face, a bastard whoreson whose resemblance to Lucius has these lapdogs panting for another chance to get us killed. Even if you were Lucius, I would not trust you. Our best and most loyal were killed six years ago for his miserable hide, and no explanation can put that right.”
Salvador started to rise, but Lucius was quicker.
“Hold,” he said, as he rose to his feet. Now those reclined on the couches had to twist their necks to look up at him. Salvador, half-propped on his elbow, subsided with a grumble.
“Constantin gave me more than this jawline. The old blood flows in my veins, as does the power of my forefathers.”
Lucius extended his right arm, palm upward. He closed his eyes for a moment and his lips moved silently. Then, as he opened his eyes, golden flames sprang to life on his palm. Ysobel sat bolt upright, propriety forgotten. The flames danced for several moments, but just as she reached to touch them, Lucius closed his palm.
“The Old Magic, the gift of the true blood,” Septimus the Elder proclaimed.
“A conjurer’s trick,” Salvador countered.
It had been generations since the former royal line had publicly demonstrated a talent for the old magics. Ysobel herself had believed them mere children’s tales, a bit of conjury meant to impress gullible fools.
It seemed wisdom was not the only thing that Lucius had gained during his exile. She wondered what else he had learned, and resolved to meet with him privately as soon as possible. She had thought the rebellion doomed to failure, but for the first time wondered if he might actually succeed in overthrowing Nerissa.
“My friends, I urge you pay no heed to his words or to his tricks. We have seen better on any market day,” Salvador said.
Prince Lucius pinned Salvador with his gaze. “When lightning strikes the roof of the imperial palace this night, you will remember your disbelief with shame.”
He spoke with surety, as if he were accustomed to calling lightning at his command. She swallowed hard, wondering if he were indeed gifted, or mad, or perhaps both.
“Only those present today are to know of my return. You will think on what we have discussed but take no action until I have had time to lay my plans. You will wait for my word, is that understood?”
“We hear you,” Dama Akantha replied, and the others murmured in agreement.
“It will be as you say,” Septimus said. “Only do not wait too long. For years your followers have lived in despair and they deserve to know the joy of your return.”
“Do not worry. I know what I owe to them,” Lucius said. He smiled, but to Ysobel’s eyes it was a false smile. If Lucius were half as intelligent as he seemed, he would realize that this group would not be able to keep their tongues silent for long. Each would tell a trusted confidant, or two, swearing them to secrecy. And then those would tell others, until the news had spread throughout the city.
Which might well be what Dama Akantha had intended, by ensuring that young Flavian was present in place of his father the duke. Even if all others held their tongues, it was doubtful that Flavian would be able to resist the temptation to impress others with the secret. And the more people who knew of the prince’s return, the more pressure there would be for Lucius to act.
With a final nod, Lucius made his way to the garden gate, accompanied by the man who had identified himself only by his rank of sergeant. Lucius once more donned the all-encompassing robe that allowed him to pass unchallenged through the streets, and then the two disappeared.
Salvador was the next to leave, his curt farewell showing that he was not ready to support a new rebellion.
Ysobel fought to retain her patience as the rest of her guests continued to murmur quietly among themselves, making their own plans on how to take advantage of Prince Lucius’s return. Gradually, in ones and twos they left, just as the sun was setting.
Finally, only Dama Akantha remained.
“I see your worry, but we should celebrate. The time will come when we show Nerissa for the liar and craven coward that she is,” Dama Akantha proclaimed. “All those years Nerissa led us to believe that the prince had died in her torture chambers, and now he has returned to confront her lies.”
“We have not won yet,” Ysobel cautioned.
“But we will. Victory will be ours. Can you not taste it?”
Dama Akantha was intoxicated, not by wine, but by the prospect of seeing Nerissa brought low, forced to pay for the crime of abandoning her countrymen in Anamur to their fates. Akantha’s eyes glittered and her cheeks were flushed, as if years had melted away. Such excitement was dangerous if it meant she forgot the caution that had kept her alive all these years.
“The race is not won until we have crossed the line and taken the laurels for our own. He who celebrates before the end will find his victory stolen by another,” Ysobel said, quoting the ancient proverb.
“And he who will not throw the die wins nothing,” Dama Akantha countered, dredging up a proverb of her own.
Ysobel smiled but did not speak. There was nothing more she could say that would be in keeping with her role as a friend to the rebellion. Instead she would have to remain vigilant, to ensure that she did not become swept up in the madness around her.
As Josan left the walled garden, Myles fell into step behind him. They walked in silence, exchanging not a single word as they made their way from the southwestern district, where Lady Ysobel had her house, to the second tier on the north, where Magistrate Renato lived. The last rays of the setting sun painted the white buildings in fantastic colors, but Josan had no heart for the spectacle. To him the rosy hues were an ominous omen, foretelling that once more blood would run in the city streets.
His thoughts were uneasy as his two selves struggled to interpret what he had seen and heard. Lucius had been touched by the devotion of his followers, inspired by their loyalty despite the years of danger and hardship, whereas Josan had seen only self-interest and heedless folly. It was as if he were viewing the same scene through two different lenses. Each distorted the image, and the truth of the matter lay somewhere in between.
Josan had seen Salvador’s doubts as the voice of reason among a crowd too eager to see what they wanted to see, but Lucius had been cut to the quick by his doubts. It had been Lucius who called upon the Old Magic to impress his followers, and who had made the prediction that lightning would strike the high towers of the palace. Left to his own inclinations, Josan would have done neither. Not that he doubted Lucius’s powers; indeed, he could feel the impending storm in the prickle of the dampness upon his skin and the faint taste of copper in the air. But it would not have occurred to Josan to use such tricks to sway his followers. In matters so grave men should be ruled by reason and logic.
What did it matter if he could summon a flame in his palm? Empress Nerissa could extend her hand and summon a thousand troops to do her bidding. And that was just the garrison within the city walls. His powers were nothing compared to hers.
When he returned to Renato’s residence he shut himself up in his quarters. A private room, now that Myles was no longer pretending to be his equal. Myles had taken the next chamber over, the one closest to the stairs, and he slept with his door open so he could hear any possible threat to his prince. Or his prince making another escape, the more cynical part of Josan observed. He did not know how Renato explained matters to his servants, nor did he care. Not as long as they allowed him his solitude, and were content merely to call him “sir” when he had cause to summon them.
As midnight drew near, Josan threw open the shutters and stood watching as the storm finally broke. Thunder rolled an
d flashes of lightning lit up sky as if it were day. He could not see the palace from the window, but he did not need to. He watched as a jagged bolt cut across the sky, and knew that it had been struck. Then, the clouds opened, and rain began to fall in torrents, so heavy that he could barely see. Still he stood there, as the wind drove the rain through the open window, soaking him and his borrowed finery, as he savored his bitter triumph.
The next morning, Magistrate Renato greeted him at breakfast with the news that the palace had been struck by lightning, just as Josan had predicted. It was unclear whether this display would convince the reluctant Salvador, but Renato appeared awed. A royal prince who needed his help to regain his throne was one thing, but a man who could call lightning at his command was clearly marked by the gods, and Renato showed the deference due Lucius’s newly revealed gifts.
Myles was even more awkward around Josan. He supposed it would be difficult to reconcile the tattered beggar who had shoveled manure for you with the man Josan was now pretending to be. Once Josan had called Myles “Master.” Now Myles called him “my lord,” in lieu of more damning titles. Josan needed him, but he could not pretend to the easy friendship that they had once shared. Myles had even made a wry jest of it, saying that he had known that things had to change, but he would always treasure the memory of his future emperor having been tossed in the muck pile by a balky steed. Josan had joined in the laughter, but swiftly sobered as he remembered Myles’s betrayal.
“When did you know who I was?” he asked. “Was it from that first day?”
Myles shook his head and, strangely, Josan was comforted. He had not wanted his memories of Myles’s first kindnesses to him to be tainted with the knowledge that it had been not kindness but rather cool calculation that had driven Myles to offer his friendship.
The First Betrayal Page 24