The Emerald Storm (3 page)

Esrahaddon sighed and shook his head. “You know the church was behind everything. They orchestrated the events so I would escape. They needed me to lead them to the heir. They enticed you to Gutaria knowing I would use you. Even if I hadn’t taken that advantage—even if I chose to remain locked up—your father would still be dead. Look at what happened right here in Rhenydd and in Alburn. King Urith and King Reinhold were both murdered so imperial usurpers could take their places. Your father was doomed the moment Braga married your mother’s sister.”

“Get out! Orrin! Guards!”

The scribe struggled with the door and it opened a crack, but a slight glance from Esrahaddon slammed it shut again. Orrin beat on the wood and pulled at the latch. “Your Highness, I’ll get help.”

“You don’t really hate me, Arista. It’s guilt that’s eating you. It’s knowing you had as much to do with your father’s death as Saldur, Braga, or even myself. Your father wanted to make you a prisoner of your station, but your hunger for the power of the Art drove you to me. Amrath was going to sentence you to life in a forced marriage, but instead he died and you got what you wanted.”

“GET OUT!” she screamed. With a wave of her hand, the office door burst open, nearly coming free from the hinges.

“You need to forgive yourself, Arista,” Esrahaddon continued, even as Orrin and two armed men entered. “You didn’t kill Amrath any more than I did. The Patriarch is responsible. He used both of us in his search for the heir.”

“Remove him!” Arista ordered, and the guards grabbed Esrahaddon.

“You have to help me, Arista, or all is lost,” he urged as they pulled him from the room.

Arista slammed the door, and kicked it for good measure.

She wanted to scream,
It
was
n’t my fault!
Even though she knew that was a lie. In all the years since her father’s death, she never faced the reality. Arista blamed Braga, Saldur, and Esrahaddon, but the real pain came from realizing her own part. Too horrible to face, she hid from the truth. Her father, who returned with hairbrushes from every trip just to see the smile on his daughter’s face died, because she wanted more.

Esrahaddon exited City Hall into the darkness of Ratibor’s Central Square. The clouded thin moon left just enough light to see the outlines of buildings. He looked back and sighed. He genuinely liked Arista. He wished he could tell her everything, but the risk was too great. In her present state, she might do something foolish with that knowledge. And while he was free of Gutaria Prison, he feared the church still listened to his conversations—not every word as when he was incarcerated, but Mawyndulë had the power to hear from vast distances and Esrahaddon could never be certain when he might use that particular skill. This forced the wizard to assume all conversations were suspect. A single slip—the casual mention of a name—and he could ruin everything.

Short on time, he had hoped she would cooperate. Now he realized she would not help unless he told her the truth—and that, he could not do. At least he could console himself with the fact he safely planted the seed and the soil appeared fertile. When they last met he had doubts, but now he was certain—Arista
had
become a cenzar.

He began to suspect the morning of the Battle of Ratibor when Hadrian mentioned the rain was not
supposed
to stop. He knew Arista cast the spell instrumental to the Nationalists’ victory. Since then he listened to any rumor around Ratibor concerning the new mayor possessing
unnatural powers
. No one dared use the term
witch
or
sorceress
. She was so beloved that using her name in such a derogatory fashion was unthinkable. Still, he only knew for certain when she broke his locking charm with a simple wave of her hand. Arista finally understood the Art, even if she did not yet know what that meant.

He worried about the burden he placed on her. Inevitable pain, regret, and loss—a terrible road to walk and he put her feet upon that path. Still, he could not help but feel at least a small amount of hope, and pride, in continuing the legacy of the cenzar.

Aside from Arcadius and himself no human wizards remained, and the two of them were pitiful representatives of the craft. Arcadius was nothing but an old hack, what they used to refer to as a
faquin
, an elven term for the most inept magical practitioner—knowledge without talent. They never managed to transition from materials based alchemy to the kinetic true version of The Art.

Esrahaddon did not consider himself any better. Without his hands he was as much a magical cripple as a physical invalid. Now however, with Arista’s birth into the world of wizardry, mankind once again possessed a true artist. She was still a novice, a mere infant, but given time her talent would grow. One day she would become more powerful than any king, emperor, warrior, or priest.

Knowing she could hold sway over all mankind was more than a little disturbing. During the Old Empire, safeguards existed. The Cenzar Council oversaw wielders of the Art and ensured its proper use, but that was gone now. All the other wizards—his brethren and even the lesser mages—were dead. With him effectively castrated, the church thought they eliminated the cenzar threat from the world. Now they were back, and he was certain no one understood the danger this simple princess posed.

He needed her and, though she did not know it yet, she needed him. He could answer the hundreds of questions she would have, and more importantly guide her steps. He could explain the Art’s source and how they came to use it. Arcadius taught her that a wizard’s role was to guide humanity to a better existence, but that was never their true purpose. They were the guardians, the preservers, and the defenders. They held the secrets that would protect mankind when the
Uli Vermar
ended.

When he learned the truth so long ago he felt relieved it would not be his problem to face, as the day of reckoning was centuries away. How ironic that his imprisonment in the timeless vault of Gutaria extended his life to this age. What was once forever in the future was now but months away. He allowed himself a bitter laugh, then walked to the center of the square to sit and think.

Will it work?

He was counting on so many unknowns.

Will Arista’s guilt drive her in the right direction? Will she understand in time? Will Royce and Hadrian play their parts successfully?

His plan was so tenuous, so weak, but at least all of the pieces were in their proper places. Hadrian knew he was the Guardian of the Heir, and Esrahaddon was convinced he was a worthy protector of Jerish’s legacy. Then there was the heir—an unlikely choice to be sure—but one that somehow made perfect sense. Arista just needed o master her hatred and then she would come around.

Yes
, he concluded,
it will be all right.

He remembered how his master Yolric always insisted things worked out for the best in the end. Yolric, the wisest of them all, was passionate about the world’s ability to correct itself. Esrahaddon’s greatest fear when the Old Empire fell was that Yolric might side with Venlin. The fact that the emperor’s seed still lived nearly a thousand years later proved his master had not helped the Patriarch find the emperor’s son when Jerish took Nevrik into hiding. Esrahaddon allowed himself a grin. He missed old Yolric. His teacher would be dead now. He was ancient even when Esrahaddon was a boy.

Esrahaddon stretched out his legs and tried to clear his mind. He needed to rest, but rest had eluded him for centuries. Rest was only enjoyed by men of clear conscience and he had too much innocent blood on his hands. Too many people gave their lives for him to fail.

Remembering Yolric opened the door to his past, and through it, ghosts entered. Faces of people long dead, his family, his friends, and the woman he had hoped to marry. It seemed his life before the fall was merely a dream, but perhaps this was the dream—a nightmare he was trapped in. Maybe one day he would wake and find himself back in the palace with Nevrik, Jerish, and his beloved Elinya.

Had she somehow survived the destruction of the city?

He wanted to think so, no matter how unlikely. It pleased him to believe she escaped the end but even that thought gave little comfort.

What if she believed what they said about me afterward? Did she marry someone else feeling betrayed? Did Elinya die at an old age, hating me? Or
was
she killed in the civil war?

Perhaps one day, when all this was over, he would look for a descendent of hers. Maybe somewhere there was a young woman called Elinya, named after a beautiful ancestor.

He needed to stop thinking this way. What he told Arista was true. The sacrifices they made were insignificant when compared against the goal. Still, he had lied about one thing—there
was
room for vengeance.

He glanced back at City Hall and sighed once more. He would leave now and travel north alone. Maybe she would come around with time, but he could not wait with only a few months left and so much yet to do.

With his decision made, he rose and turned toward the city’s gate. A cloud covered the moon, snuffing out what little light it cast, and Esrahaddon felt a stabbing pain in his back. Crying out in anguish, he fell to his knees. Twisting at the waist, he felt his robe stick to his skin and a growing wetness.

I’m bleeding.

“
Venderia
,” he whispered, and instantly his robe glowed. The square lit up, awash in an unearthly light. At the fringe of its radiance he caught a glimpse of a man dressed in a dark cloak. At first, he thought it might be Royce. He shared the same callous gait and posture, but this man was taller and broader.

Esrahaddon muttered a curse and four beams supporting the covered sidewalk directly over the man exploded into splinters. The heavy roof collapsed just as the man stepped out from under it. The force of the crashing timbers merely billowed his cloak.

With sweat coating his face and a stabbing pain in his back, Esrahaddon struggled to rise to confront his attacker who continued to walk casually toward him. The wizard concentrated, then spoke again. The dirt of the square whirled into a tornado traveling directly toward his attacker. It engulfed the man who burst into flames. Esrahaddon could feel the heat of the inferno as the pillar surged, bathing the square in a yellow glow. At its center, the figure stood wreathed in blue tongues of flame but when the fire faded, the man continued forward, unharmed.

Reaching the wizard, he looked curiously at Esrahaddon—the way a child might study a strange bug before crushing it. He said nothingse ot revealed a silver medallion that hung from a chain he wore around his neck.

“Recognize this?” the man asked. “Word is, you made it. I’m afraid the heir won’t need it any longer.”

Esrahaddon gasped.

“If only you had hands you might rip it from my neck. Then I’d be in real trouble, wouldn’t I?”

The noise of the collapse and explosions of light woke several people in nearby buildings. Candles were lit in windows and doors opened on to the square.

“The Patriarch bid me to tell you, your services are no longer required.” The man in the dark cloak smiled coldly at the wizard. Without another word, he walked away, disappearing into the maze of dark streets.

Esrahaddon was confused. The dagger or dart he felt lodged in his back did not feel fatal. He could breathe easily, so it missed his lungs and was nowhere near his heart. He was bleeding, but not profusely. The pain was bad, a deep burning, but he could still feel his legs and was certain he could walk.

Why did he leave me alive? Why would—poison!

The wizard concentrated and muttered a chant. It failed. He struggled with his handless arms to weave a stronger spell. It did not help. He could feel the poison now as it spread throughout his back. He was helpless without hands. Whoever the man in the cloak was, he knew exactly what he was doing.

Esrahaddon looked back at City Hall. He could not die—not yet.

The noise from the street caught her attention. Arista still sat against the office door as voices and shouts drifted from the square. What happened was unclear, but the words “He’s dying” brought Arista to her feet.

She exited the front door and found a small crowd gathered on the steps. Within their center, an eerie pulsating light glowed as if a bit of the moon had landed in Central Square. Drawing closer, Arista saw the wizard. The light emitted from his robe, growing bright, then ebbing, then brightening again in pace with his slow and labored breath. The pale light revealed a pool of blood. Lying on his back, a bolt beside him, Esrahaddon’s face was almost luminous with a ghostly pallor, his lips a dark shade of blue. His disheveled sleeves exposed the fleshy stumps of his wrists.

“What happened here?” she demanded.

“We don’t know, Your Highness,” someone from the crowd replied. “He’s been asking to see you.”

“Get Doctor Gerand,” she ordered and knelt beside him, gently pulling down his sleeves.

“Too late,” Esrahaddon whispered, his eyes locked intently on hers. “Can’t help me—poison—Arista listen—there’s no time.” His words came hurriedly between struggles to take in air. On his face was a look of determination mixed with desperation, like a drowning man searching for a handhold. “Take my burden—find…” The wizard hesitated, his eyes searching the faces gathered. He motioned for her to draw near. When she placed her ear close to his mouth, he continued. “Find the heir—take the heir with you—without the heir everything fails.” Esrahaddon coughed and fought to breathe. “Find the Horn of Gylindora—Need the heir to find it—buried with Novron in Percepliquis—” He drew in another breath. “Hurry—at Wintertide the
Uli Vermar
ends—” Another breath. “They will come—without the horn everyone dies.” Another breath. “Only you know now—only you can save…Patriarch…is the same…” The next breath never came. The next words never uttered. The pulsating brilliance of his robe faded, leaving them all in darkness.