The Sea Change

by Patricia Bray

  Brother Nikos and Zuberi told me of Hector’s guilt. He heard the monk’s voice in his mind, as clearly as if he were speaking aloud. But merely because they say it does not mean that it is true.

  Then why did Zuberi put me on the throne? Why not take it for himself?

  Lucius felt his body shrug. The monk had no answer. For all that the monk had spent the past year living in the palace, it seemed he had learned nothing.

  Lucius’s anger grew. This was his body, by right. His name. His lineage that had earned him the crown. Yet he had spent the last year exiled to dreamland while the monk had played his part. It was unseemly that he had to rely upon whatever scraps of information the monk deigned to share with him. Who knew what the monk had done in his name? What promises had he made, what alliances had he forged?

  How could he trust that the monk was telling the truth? Josan’s words might be nothing more than lies meant to deceive so that Lucius would allow the monk to remain in control. The monk had already shown that he could tap in to Lucius’s knowledge, but Lucius could not return the favor. He could feel the monk’s emotions but knew only what the monk chose to tell him.

  It was time to remind the monk how it felt to be powerless. Lucius gathered his thoughts, preparing to cast the invader into unknowingness, but before he could do so, Proconsul Zuberi strode into his chambers as if he owned them, followed by the attendants Lucius had previously dismissed.

  “I suppose you think yourself clever, with that little display,” Zuberi growled. His face was flushed with anger, and his hand was raised.

  For a moment, Lucius feared that the proconsul would strike him, heedless of the servants who would bear witness. But at the last moment Zuberi relented, lowering his hand.

  “We—that is I—did as you instructed,” Lucius replied. “Nothing more.”

  Zuberi’s lips twisted in derision. “We? Giving ourselves airs already?”

  He did not need the monk’s whispers to know that he had made a dangerous mistake. It was time to soothe Zuberi’s ire and ensure that he did not dwell upon that slip of the tongue. “Whatever I have done to offend, tell me so that I may make it right.”

  “Do not pretend to innocence. A few fools may have been impressed when you made that bauble glow, but your trickery will gain you no friends.”

  “Glow?”

  Zuberi spoke slowly, as if to an idiot. “The crown glowed when it touched your brow. As you well know.”

  Lucius shook his head firmly. “How could I? There were no mirrors for me to see myself.” Then, prompted by the monk, he added, “The choice of the lizard crown was yours, not mine. I could hardly have anticipated this.”

  Though it was satisfying to know that the crown of his ancestors had recognized him. It had acknowledged him, at the very moment when his consciousness had returned to his body. Or perhaps it was the crown that had summoned him, like calling unto like.

  The crown had been given to One for safekeeping, but now he wished to hold it for himself, see what other secrets it might hold.

  “You will perform no more such trickery,” Zuberi said. “You will keep your magic to yourself. You will remember that your every moment is watched. The next time you disobey me, it will be your last.”

  Zuberi glared at him until Lucius dipped his head in acknowledgment. “I understand,” he said.

  The reckless prince he had once been would have argued, but Lucius had changed. He would obey, for the moment.

  Zuberi spun on his heel and left, in violation of protocol. So great was his scorn that he could not be bothered to keep up the pretense in front of the servants.

  It seemed the monk had told the truth when he said that Zuberi hated Lucius. Which made it all the more strange that he had put Lucius on the throne. Was this a bizarre form of punishment, to give Lucius the title he had longed for but not the power that went with it? Or was it merely the first move in some complex scheme that would ultimately destroy him?

  He stilled his thoughts, ready to listen to whatever advice the monk could share, but the monk’s voice was silent. For all that he had lived in the palace for the past year, the monk knew nothing of Zuberi’s motivations or the political climate.

  I could not afford to ask those questions, Josan’s voice sounded in his head. Any hint that I was gathering information would have been seen as a threat, and the empress would have acted accordingly.

  So what did you do with yourself for the year that I slept?

  I did everything that Nerissa requested of me. When I was allowed to, I read. Books of the early years of the empire, and children’s tales mostly.

  A waste of time.

  He felt Josan’s impatience. I could hardly ask for books on magic, the monk thought. Not with Brother Nikos inspecting each request I made, and Nerissa’s men reading every scroll looking for hidden messages.

  And did you learn anything?

  I learned that your forebears had powers similar to yours—the ability to call fire, and to heal. Some scrolls implied that they could control the weather, others that they were merely able to predict the weather to come. But nothing that would help undo what Nikos has done to us.

  He felt disappointment echoing across both halves of his soul.

  There are more scrolls in the collegium, ones I did not have access to. Brother Nikos will not want to share them, but in time we can force his hand.

  Why not now?

  Brother Nikos is the one who urged the council to put you on the throne. Do you think you can survive if he turns against you?

  It seemed the monk had some political instincts after all. Patience was not one of Lucius’s strengths, but he recognized that he needed to gather power to himself before he could challenge Brother Nikos.

  Sunset brought a change of servants. The new functionary referred to himself as keeper of the emperor’s chambers, as had his predecessor, but the monk called him Five. Giving a functionary an individual name was against all custom, but the monk’s conceit appealed to Lucius’s sense of humor.

  Not to mention that knowing the functionaries as individuals might well have saved Nerissa’s life—a lesson not lost on either Lucius or the monk.

  A short time later, Five informed him that supper had been laid out in his private dining room. He dined lightly on grilled fish and summer vegetables dressed with vinegar, musing that this was a very odd way for an emperor to celebrate his coronation. A public celebration would have been fitting, or at the very least a private dinner surrounded by friends and trusted allies.

  But he had no friends. Only those who had agreed not to harm him out of political expediency. He could not think of a single person that he would want to share bread and oil with.

  What little appetite he’d had fled with this realization. Pushing the dishes away, he rose from the table. He could feel that the monk wanted to say something to the hovering server—an apology for the wasted food, perhaps—but Lucius easily overrode him. He would never win the respect of the servants by stooping to their level.

  The monk’s presence remained a subtle pressure in his mind, but his mental voice fell silent, granting Lucius the illusion of control. But he knew it for just that, an illusion. He did not command the monk any more than he commanded these servants. The servants took their orders from Zuberi, and as for the monk…Well, as much as the monk claimed to regret this spell, for him this shared existence was better than the finality of the grave.

  Five followed him from the dining room, reciting a list of the appointments for the next day. The imperial tailor had sent word that the first garments in Lucius’s new wardrobe were ready to be fitted. In the afternoon, Proconsul Zuberi and Demetrios would accompany him to the senate for his first public appearance. Lucius let the words wash over him, knowing that it was not up to him to approve the arrangements that had been made on his behalf.

  Not yet. The time would come when he had true power. But until that day he would play Zuberi’s games, lulling his enemies into a false sense
of security.

  The functionary broke off his recitation as Lucius yawned once, then twice. It was still early, but Lucius could feel the bone-deep tiredness within him. He dismissed the functionary and retired to his bedchamber.

  There the servants had lit oil lamps, which provided a soft glow as he stripped off his tunic, leaving it crumpled on the floor by his wardrobe. Crossing to his bed, where nightclothes had been laid out, he glanced down at his own body, needing reassurance that nothing had changed. He was far thinner than he remembered, his sunken belly flanked by jutting hipbones. He was not yet thirty, but hardship had given him the body of a man a decade older. As he cupped his belly with his right hand, he felt a sharp ridge on his skin. Questing fingers revealed three long parallel lines.

  What is this?

  There was no answer. The soft light hid more than it revealed, so he picked up the lamp from his bedside, and brought it close. The flickering light revealed three white scars, which appeared to be several months old.

  He stared, seeing a faint shadow that might have been another scar, this one leading down toward his groin.

  What happened?

  Still the monk remained silent. Replacing the lamp, Lucius made his way to the adjacent bathing chamber. A surge of anger and the lamps within the bathing chamber blazed to life, filling the room with their radiance.

  Here he studied his body with the dispassionate gaze of a stranger. The three raised ridges on his belly were the most prominent, but the mirrors revealed that his body was covered in faint scars, from his neck down to his thighs.

  Were these the marks of a lash? A knife? What had happened? And why?

  He was outraged. Here was the evidence that his body had been violated, not once, but repeatedly.

  Who did this to us? Whoever it was, he deserved death.

  He could taste the monk’s anger as if it were his own.

  After Nerissa was assassinated, we were Nizam’s special guest for thirty-eight days, the monk said. We were only released from his charge two days ago.

  The monk was lying. Nizam did not do this. These scars are too old.

  You healed this body. Each time Nizam brought it near death, your magic brought it back.

  Lucius shivered, wishing suddenly for a robe to cover himself.

  What did he do to us? I have a right to know.

  You have no rights, the monk lashed out, in a rare display of temper. You abandoned us to Nerissa, left me to die for your sins while you chose the peace of oblivion. Now you must live with the choices you made, as must I.

  With that the monk’s presence disappeared, leaving Lucius alone to endure his guilt.

  And his shame. Shame not just for abandoning Josan last year, but for that moment of relief he had felt when he realized that he had been spared torture.

  Caught up in the heady pleasure of his coronation, it had been easy to forget just how much he owed the monk. Easier to dwell on the lost months than to admit that the monk had not chosen his fate.

  Surrendering to Empress Nerissa had been Lucius’s decision, not Josan’s, though in the end they had both agreed that it was the only way to end the senseless slaughter being committed in his name. That final night, as they faced the prospect of torture and an agonizing death, Lucius had sworn that he would not leave the monk alone to face what was to come. But he had broken that promise.

  It had been his decision to leave. The monk had not forced him into oblivion. Instead, Lucius had fled headlong, so terrified by what was to come that he had broken his word.

  It was no wonder the monk was angry. Lucius had shown himself a coward, while this monk, the bastard son of a nameless peasant, had proved the stronger man.

  The irony was that his fears had been for naught. Nerissa had not tortured him, after all. Whatever the monk had said to her had convinced her to spare his life. Lucius’s cowardice had served only to rob him of nearly a year of his life.

  Though from the evidence of his body, the last month had been every bit as horrific as he could have imagined.

  Thirty-eight days. Dry-mouthed, he turned his back on the mirrors. His hands shook as he extinguished the lamps one by one, concentrating on the task so that he would not have to think about what Nizam had done to him. To them.

  When he woke the next morning, he could feel the monk’s presence again, though Josan was silent. In the quiet darkness of the night before Lucius had rehearsed his apologies, but now the words seemed inadequate or self-serving. And the growing discomfort he felt from the monk made him suspect that the monk was not interested in his apologies, nor indeed in anything that would force him to recall his trials.

  Lucius let the moment for explanations pass in silence, not knowing whether he had chosen this path out of wisdom or cowardice.

  The tailor arrived soon thereafter—an unprepossessing man trailed by three lackeys carrying garments in various stages of completion. Conscious of his scarred body, Lucius insisted on wearing his undertunic throughout the fittings. The tailor appeared ready to object, but a raised eyebrow was all it took to quell his mutterings.

  It had been far too long since he had worn decent garb, but though the tailor was anxious to hear his preferences, Lucius could find no pleasure in discussing fabrics or styles. Instead, after confirming that the completed garments fit well enough, Lucius dismissed the tailor with instructions to make whatever he saw fit.

  The half dozen outfits delivered included a set of court robes, nearly as fine as those he had worn to his coronation. After lunch a servant helped Lucius dress, and the functionary One brought Lucius the lizard crown. He’d half hoped it would glow or show some other sign of magic, but to his disappointment it did not react to him, instead resting quietly on his brow, the heavy weight an unsubtle reminder of the weight of his responsibilities.

  Proconsul Zuberi and a dozen of the household guard escorted him from the palace to the senate. A stranger glancing at their grim expressions might have assumed that they were escorting a prisoner rather than acting as an honor guard. Demetrios met them at the steps of the senate hall, offering his official welcome as he led the procession into the hall. The hall consisted of a semicircle of thirteen courses, which descended to a speaker’s platform, where orators would stand in debate when the senate was meeting. At the rear of the dais was the emperor’s chair, a marble throne used only for occasions of state. Today a purple drape softened the cold stone, but as Lucius took his seat he realized that it was a damn uncomfortable piece of furniture. Perhaps deliberately so, as a means of encouraging the emperor not to spend too much time interfering with the workings of the senate.

  Proconsul Zuberi, who was not a member of the senate, took a seat at the left end of the bottom course while four of the honor guard arranged themselves at the corners of the dais. The assembled senators had risen to their feet when Lucius entered, and remained standing as Demetrios repeated his oath of fealty.

  The senators turned and formed into a line that snaked along the courses. One by one they approached the throne to pledge their allegiance to their new emperor, with varying degrees of enthusiasm. As Lucius accepted their oaths, he was surprised by how few faces he recognized. Some of their names were familiar, likely cadet members of powerful families, or sons who had taken their fathers’ places. Others were newly come to power, as Nerissa cleansed her government of those suspected of being sympathetic to the rebellion. These men, brought to power because of their personal loyalty to Nerissa, would have no reason to look favorably on their new emperor. Lucius would need to look elsewhere for allies, if he was to challenge Zuberi.

  Demetrios is an unknown, the monk thought. Zuberi could not have done this without his support, but I do not know how he convinced him to set aside his own ambitions. If Zuberi did not want to pursue his own claim, it seems likely that Demetrios would have been the next strongest candidate.

  Demetrios has an older brother, Lucius replied, absurdly pleased to have knowledge that the monk did not. Though I would not
want to wager on Prokopios’s continued good health.

  The monk made no reply, but Lucius could feel his shock at the implication. It amused him to realize that, despite everything he had witnessed, the monk could still be shocked. His expression must have revealed something of his thoughts, for the councilor in front of him blanched and lost his place, stammering as he began reciting his oath anew.

  He schooled his face to a neutral expression, knowing that he could not afford to indulge his boredom. He would never earn the respect of the councilors if he did not at least appear to respect them in return. Still, patience had never come easily to him, and thus when he felt his grasp upon consciousness slipping, he did not fight it. He would save his strength for another day, confident that the monk would do nothing that might imperil them.

  As he let control of his body slip from his grasp, a brief flare of panic engulfed him as he remembered how long he had slept the last time. What if he did not awaken for days? Or months, or even years? He strained toward the light, but he was too weak, and his thoughts dissolved until all that remained was an echo of his fear.

  Josan felt the moment when the prince’s consciousness drifted away. He shifted uneasily on the marble seat as he again grew accustomed to the sensations of this body. He tasted the copper taste of fear, and in his mind he called out: Lucius? Prince?

  But there was no answer. Nothing to tell him what or whom the prince had feared.

  At last the final senator had sworn his allegiance and returned to his place, his name and features carefully memorized. Josan had spent the ceremony observing the senators, noting who had kept their eyes fixed on the dais, refusing to acknowledge their neighbors, and which ones had gossiped among themselves when they thought his attention elsewhere.

  Josan rose and thanked the senators for their confidence, and pledged to work with them to fulfill Nerissa’s legacy. Zuberi, who had spent much of the ceremony hunched forward, his arms crossed on his chest, unbent enough to nod with grudging approval. It seemed his master was pleased with the performance of his lackey.