A corporate I/T project manager by day, she wishes to note that any resemblance between her villains and former coworkers is entirely coincidental. When not at her home in upstate New York, she can be found on the SF convention circuit, or taking bike trips in exotic locations. Readers can find out more about Patricia and her latest projects by visiting her website at www.patriciabray.com.
Also by Patricia Bray
Published by Bantam Spectra Books
THE SWORD OF CHANGE TRILOGY
BOOK 1: DEVLIN’S LUCK
BOOK 2: DEVLIN’S HONOR
BOOK 3: DEVLIN’S JUSTICE
THE FIRST BETRAYAL
Be sure not to miss
the stunning conclusion
to Josan and Lucius’s tale in
THE FINAL
SACRIFICE
BY
Patricia Bray
Coming soon from Bantam Spectra
Here’s a special preview…
Lady Ysobel slowly waved her fan, but there was no relief from the stifling heat of the crowded theater. Around her, the other patrons fluttered their own fans, filling the theater with a low rustling, as if a flock of birds had taken up residence. Certainly they were as colorful as any bird, though birds, at least, did not have to worry about sweating through costly silks.
Ysobel had chosen to wear a split robe of embroidered dark green linen over a high-necked cotton tunic—a fashion popular in her homeland, and far more conservative than the revealing, tightly fitted silks favored by the women of the Ikarian court. Her escort, Captain Burrell, wore his dress uniform—an unsubtle reminder that he was as much bodyguard as companion. The two stood out among the other patrons, as she had intended.
“Proconsul Zuberi’s not here,” Burrell murmured, gesturing as if to draw her attention to the action on the stage.
She smiled as if he had said something particularly witty. “Unwell? Or secure enough in the emperor’s favor that he need not dance attendance upon him?”
“Or perhaps he is the only sensible one among them, and has retired to the cooler breezes of the countryside.”
It was possible, but not likely. Not as long as the emperor remained in the capital.
She glanced over at the imperial box where Emperor Lucius sat in splendid isolation, flanked only by his servants and bodyguards. There had been much gossip in the court over who Lucius would choose to share his box on this evening—but no one had expected him to attend alone.
Then, again, the emperor had repeatedly shown himself to be unpredictable. Which made him all the more dangerous.
It was Ysobel’s job to understand him. To anticipate his next move, and be ready to counter it. The truce she had negotiated with Lucius on behalf of her country was merely that—a temporary cessation of hostilities while both countries retired to lick their wounds.
But if she could not guess who Lucius would take to the theater, then how could she predict when he would cast off the chains of peace and once more attack the Seddonian Federation?
Years ago, under the reign of Empress Nerissa, she’d woven a network of spies that spanned the imperial city, from the dockyards to within the very walls of the imperial palace. But most of her contacts had been killed after the aborted rebellion, and those that remained were unwilling to risk their lives—no matter what threats or inducements she offered.
She attended each session of court and a bevy of social occasions, gathering what gossip she could. But it was not enough.
Lucius was impossible to predict. One day he was a virtuous emperor, listening to the endless petitions from his subjects. On another he would hide himself within his chambers, canceling all his official appointments. Sometimes rumor placed him in the great library at the collegium of the Learned Brethren, while others said that he traveled incognito to the hippodrome outside the city walls, where he participated in mock races observed only by the grooms.
A year ago, he had ascended to the imperial throne under an extraordinary set of circumstances. The first of the old blood to sit on the throne in over one hundred years, many had expected that he would swiftly move to restore his followers to power. But instead he had followed Nerissa’s policies as slavishly as if he were her own son.
The worship of the twin gods remained the official religion of the empire, rather than the triune gods favored by his ancestors. Nerissa’s former ministers remained in power—all except her advisor, Brother Nikos, who had either left on a scholarly pilgrimage or fled ahead of the imperial guards, depending on whom you believed.
The newcomers retained all of their former power, while the old nobility grumbled—quietly—about Lucius’s failure to favor his own people.
The only sign that one of Constantin’s line sat on the throne was the lizard crown that he wore on state occasions—and the lizards themselves, which after years of being exterminated now flourished throughout the capital.
Ysobel shifted in her seat, envying Burrell’s ability to remain motionless. He detested the theater as much as she did, but they were not there for pleasure. The unwritten rules of the Ikarian court demanded that she show an interest in whatever amusements captured the attention of the emperor. Indeed, she’d had to pay hefty bribes to secure a private balcony on the most desirable tier so that her presence could be duly noted.
She winced as the singers hit a particularly unfortunate note. Tonight’s performance appeared to be about a shepherd courting the daughter of a wealthy merchant. Ysobel had caught only one phrase in ten, but she was certain that before the final act it would be revealed that the shepherd was actually the son of a nobleman.
The names had changed, as had the setting, but the plot was nearly identical to every other recent offering from this theater. There were frequent interludes where the central characters paused to allow barely clad dancers to take the stage. These interludes had grown longer as it was observed that the dancers were the only parts of a play guaranteed to bring the emperor’s full attention to the stage.
As the young swain proclaimed his love, Emperor Lucius turned to survey the crowded theater. He nodded to her as he caught her gaze, a rare show of respect. She saw several others try to attract his attention, but his gaze swept over them.
The young lady ran from the stage, followed by her suitor. The music rose, loud enough to drown out the rustling fans, as the dancers took the stage.
All eyes turned toward the dancers—all eyes except hers. And the emperor’s. Instead he gestured sharply at a servant who fetched him a cup of wine. He took a sip, and then turned to face the stage. It appeared that he was frowning, perhaps displeased by the wine, or perhaps even he had finally had his fill of insipid drama.
Then Lucius twitched, and his wine cup flew out of his hand, hitting one of his servants in the chest.
She blinked. “Did you see that?”
Captain Burrell shook his head.
The servants in the imperial box stood frozen, unwilling to attract the emperor’s wrath. Could it be as simple as a fit of temper? Or had the wine been poisoned?
Lucius started to rise, then fell back into his chair. His servants hastened forward, but he waved them away. Grasping the arms of his chair, he pushed himself to his feet.
Immediately he was surrounded by his guards, hidden from view. The music slowly halted, the dancers forgotten, as the emperor and his escort swept out of the imperial box.
It had happened so suddenly that it was only as the emperor left his box that the other patrons realized something was wrong. All around the theater, heads turned toward the imperial box, and raised voices drowned out the sounds from the stage.
“Quickly, go after them, and discover what you can,” Ysobel said.
Burrell hesitated, unwilling to leave her alone. “Go,” she said. “I would do it myself if I could.”
Burrell’s uniform would make him stand out, but not as much as she would. Ikarian society had very rigid views on the roles of women. If she tried to force her way through the crowd, s
he would be looked at in suspicion, but Burrell could move freely.
Instead she remained in her seat, watching as the patrons put their heads together, trying to determine what had happened. Was it an assassination attempt? Was the emperor merely indisposed?
She had been looking directly at the emperor, and even she did not know precisely what had happened.
Lucius shook, as if in the grip of a fever, but he kept moving. He could not collapse. Not here, where he would be seen by all. Ahead of him, a functionary rushed to open the door to the private staircase that led from his box directly to the plaza below, where his carriage would be waiting. As he reached the stairs, which would shield him from curious eyes, he gave a sigh of relief.
But it was too soon, for his left leg gave way beneath him. He would have tumbled down the stairs, were it not for the guard behind him who hastily grabbed his arm, wrenching it in his haste.
Then another was on his right side, and between them, they hauled Lucius upright.
There was no room for humiliation as he struggled to regain his balance; there was only the bitter taste of fear.
“Gently,” the functionary known as One admonished. “The emperor is unwell.”
Lucius could not feel the left side of his body. His arm hung limp in the guard’s grasp, while his leg trembled with spasms that he could not feel.
“I will fetch a litter,” One said.
“No,” Lucius insisted. “I will walk.”
He looked at the guard who held his left arm, his eyes carefully downcast, as if this somehow made it acceptable to have laid hands upon the emperor.
“I will walk,” he repeated. With his right leg, he took a step down. His helpers, after a frantic glance back toward the chief functionary, supported him between them, as he continued down the stairs.
It was not walking, precisely. If it were not for the guards bearing most of his weight, Lucius would surely have fallen. But it was less humiliating than being carried, as if he were a fainting woman.
In his mind, he called out to the monk. Wake. I need you.
But there was no response. The monk’s consciousness must be slumbering, something that had not happened for several months.
Finally he reached the safety of his carriage and was helped inside.
“I have sent a runner, and the healers will be waiting in your chambers,” One said as he climbed into the carriage and took the seat opposite Lucius.
As the chief functionary and most trusted of the emperor’s personal servants, One held a position of responsibility over all the other servants in the emperor’s employ. At times, it seemed he would command the emperor himself—for his own good, of course.
“There is no need for a healer,” Lucius said.
He could heal others. He had even healed himself, recovering from injuries that would have killed a lesser man. But whatever was happening now was no mere illness. Neither Lucius’s own powers nor the skills of the imperial healer would be of any aid.
He could not confess the source of his affliction. No one must know that the emperor was the victim of sorcery, the victim of a spell meant to transform Prince Lucius into a willing puppet under the control of the Learned Brethren.
The spell had both succeeded and failed. The soul of a dying monk had been transplanted into the body of a prince, but the prince’s own soul remained. Rather than a willing puppet, Brother Nikos had created an implacable enemy, as the souls of both men found common ground in their hatred of what had been done to them.
And now it seemed the spell had other, unintended consequences, as his gradually failing health would attest.
At least the trembling had subsided once he was in the carriage, though he still had no sensation on his left side. He could only hope it returned before he had to be carried through his own palace as if he were an elderly cripple.
Josan, he called in his mind. There was still no response. He shivered again, struck by a new fear, then turned his head so he would not have to meet One’s gaze.
He had long chafed against the spell that had bound two souls in one body, wishing to be freed from the monk’s persistent presence. Yet now that he was alone, he was afraid. What was happening to him? This was not the first time his body had betrayed him, but each attack was more severe than the last.
Josan was the only one who understood, the only one with whom he could share his fears. Yet, at the moment he most needed the monk’s wisdom, the monk was gone.
He knew the rumors that swirled around the capital. The kindest said that the emperor was fatigued from the events of the past year, when he had simultaneously quelled a rebellion against him and personally led his fleet to victory over the ships of the Federation of Seddon.
Others were less kind, hinting at a fatal illness, or that he had been poisoned.
But more and more he heard the words God-touched, whispered when they thought he could not hear them. His attacks were seen as the consequences of the gods’ favor—the price of the magic that he had inherited from his ancestors.
His left arm began to tingle, as if he had lain upon it. Slowly he flexed the fingers of his hand, welcoming the prickling pain.
Lucius, the monk’s mind voice called. Prince!
Where have you been? Lucius demanded.
I was here, but you disappeared, the monk responded. It was as if you had retired, but I could feel only part of our body. And I could not take control.
He could feel the echoes of his own panic in the monk’s thoughts. Normally, when Lucius could no longer maintain his grasp on consciousness—or when he was overwhelmed by tedium—he retreated into a kind of slumber, while the monk took control of their shared body. They had become accustomed to switching in this fashion, until it could be done within a heartbeat, while those around him remained completely unaware.
Yet this time something had gone wrong.
I could not feel my left side, Lucius said. Nor could I hear you.
And I could feel only the left.
There was silence between them. Then, finally, Lucius voiced what they must both be thinking. The spell is failing, isn’t it?
I cannot say for certain, the monk replied.
Of course not. The monk never committed himself, instead choosing to study one musty scroll after another. Gathering knowledge, he would say. Collecting facts with which to build a hypothesis, as if their shared fate was a merely scholarly preoccupation.
“Do you require assistance?” One asked.
Lucius was startled to realize that they had already reached the palace. He’d been so lost in his internal struggles that he hadn’t paid any attention to his surroundings.
He wondered what he looked like when he and Josan were conversing. Did he appear as a man deep in thought? Or as a madman, his expressions changing in response to a voice only he could hear?
“I am recovered,” Lucius said. The carriage door swung open, and One descended, then turned to offer his arm.
Lucius accepted the courtesy, as was his habit, but as soon as both feet touched the marble stones of his courtyard, he shook free of One’s grasp. He headed toward his private chambers at a brisk pace, his servants scurrying behind him.
His body was under his command. But his relief was tempered by the knowledge that this was a momentary respite. At any moment, he could be struck down again.
He could not live like this. He could not rule an empire in this condition—a weak emperor was too inviting a target.
There was no more time for the monk’s leisurely scholarship. Lucius had to find a cure, before they were both destroyed.
THE SEA CHANGE
A Bantam Spectra Book / August 2007
Published by
Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or
dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2007 by Patricia Bray
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Bantam Books, the rooster colophon, Spectra, and the portrayal of a boxed “s” are trademarks of Random House, Inc.
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eISBN: 978-0-553-90375-1
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