The Emerald Storm (38 page)

When Arista opened the door, the guard stared at her stunned. “Your Grace! I didn’t see you come in.”

“You should be more watchful then,” Arista said, frightened at the sound of her own voice—so familiar and yet so different.

The guard bowed. “Yes, Your Grace. I will. Thank you, Your Grace.”

Arista hurried down the stairs, self-conscious and fearful as she clutched three strands of hair in her left hand and a chunk of chalk in her right. She felt exposed walking openly in the hallways after hiding for so long. She did not feel any different. Only by looking at her hands and clothing could she see evidence that the spell had worked. She was wearing imperial robes and her hands were those of an old man, with thick gaudy rings. Each servant or guard she passed nodded respectfully, saying softly, “Good afternoon, Your Grace.”

Growing up with Saldur practically as her uncle had at least one advantage—she knew every line of his face, his mannerisms, and his voice. She was certain she could not perform a similar illusion with Modina, Amilia, or Nimbus, even if she had them in front of her for reference. This took more—she
knew
Saldur.

By the time she reached the first floor of the palace, she was gaining confidence. Only two concerns remained. What if she ran into the real Saldur, and how long would the spell last? Stumbling through what had to be an advanced magical technique, she worked solely by intuition. She knew what she wanted, and had a general idea how to go about it, but the result was more serendipity than skill. So much of magic was guesswork and nuance. She was starting to understand that now and could not help but be pleased with herself.

Unlike what she had managed in the past, this was completely new. Something she did not even know was possible. Casting an enchantment on herself was a frightening prospect. What if there were rules against such things? What if the source of the Art forbade it and imposed harm to those that tried? She never would have attempted it under different circumstances, but she was desperate. Still, having done so, having succeeded, she felt thrilled. She had invented it. Perhaps no wizard had ever managed such a thing!

“Your Grace!” Edith Mon was caught by surprise coming around a corner where they nearly collided. She carried a stack of sheets in her arms and nearly lost them. “Forgive me, Your Grace! I—I—”

“Think nothing of it, my dear.” The,
my dear
, at the end of the sentence came out unconsciously—it just felt right. Hearing it, sent a chill through her, which proved it was pitch perfect. This might be fun if not for the mortal fear.

A thought came into her head. “I have heard reports that you’ve been treating your staff poorly.”

“Your Grace?” Edith asked looking nervous. “I—I don’t know what you mean?”

Arista leaned toward her, with a smile that she knew from experience would appear all the more frightening for its friendly, disarming quality. “You aren’t going to lie to my face, are you Edith?”

“Ah—no, sir.”

“I don’t like it, Edith, I don’t like it at all. It breeds discontent. If you don’t stop I will need to find a means of correcting your behavior. Do you understand me?”

Edith’s eyes were wide and she nodded her head, as if it were hinged too tight.

“I will be watching you. I will be watching
very
closely.”

With that, Arista left Edith standing frozen in the middle of the corridor, clutching her bundle of sheets.

The guards at the front entrance bowed and opened the doors for her. Stepping outside, her senses were alert for any sign of trouble. She could smell the bread in the ovens of the bake house. To her left, a boy chopped wood, and ahead of her two lads shoveled out the stable, placing manure in a cart no doubt for use in the garden. The afternoon air was cold and the manure steamed. She could see her breath puffing in steamy clouds as she marched between the brick chicken coop and the remnants of the garden.

She reached the north tower, opened the door and entered. A Seret Knight with a deadly looking sword strapped to his belt stood at attention. He said nothing, and she did the same while looking about.

The tower was cylindrical with arched windows that allowed light to stream in and gleam off the polished stone floor. A tall, arched frame formed the entrance to the spiral stair. Across from it, a small fireplace provided heat for the guard. Covered in cobwebs, a wooden bench stood beside a small empty four-legged table. The only unusual thing was the stone of the walls. The rough-hewn rock of the upper portion of the tower was lighter in color than the more neatly laid, darker stone beneath.

The knight appeared uncomfortable at her silence.

“Is everything all right here?” Arista asked, going for the most neutral thing she could think of.

“Yes, Your Grace!” he replied enthusiastically.

“Very good,” she said, and casually shuffled to the stairs and began to climb. She glanced behind her to see if the guard would follow, but he remained where he was without even looking in her direction.

She went up one flight and stopped at the first open cell. Just as Amilia reported, it appeared long abandoned. She checked to make certain the cell door would not lock and then carefully closed it. She got on her knees and quickly drew the circle and the runes.

She placed the blonde hairs on the floor, lining them up in rows. Picking up several pieces of straw, she twisted them tightly into a rope-stalk. She repeated the phrase she had used for weeks and instantly the top of the straw caught fire, becoming a tiny torch. She recited the location spell and touched the flame to one of the hairs. It heated up like a red coil and turned to ash. Arista looked for the smoke, but there was none. She glanced around the room confused. She looked at the smoke coming off the straw; it drifted straight up. There was no wind, no draft of any kind in the cell.

She tried again with the second hair. This time putting out the straw, thinking its smoke might be interfering. Instead, she cast the burn spell directly on the hair, followed by the location incantation. The hair turned to ash without a trace of the familiar light-gray smoke.

Was something about the tower blocking her spell? Could it be like the prison where they kept Esrahaddon? The Old Empire had placed complicated runes on the walls, blocking the use of magic. She looked around. The walls were bare. No, she thought, she would not have been able to cast the burn spell if that were the case. For that matter, she guessed her Saldur guise would have failed the moment she entered.

She had only one hair left. She considered moving to a different room, and then the answer dawned on her. She recited the spell once more, then picking up the last hair and holding it between her fingers, she burned it.

There it was! The smoke was pure white now and spilled straight down between hs like a trickle of water. It continued to fall until it met the floor, where it immediately disappeared.

She stood in the cell trying to figure it out. According to the smoke Gaunt was very close and directly below her, but there was nothing down there. She considered that perhaps there might be a door in the fireplace. No, she concluded, the opening was too small. There simply was nothing else below her except—the guard!

Arista gasped.

She checked her hands, reassured to see the wrinkled skin and ugly rings, and went back down the stairs to the base of the tower. The guard remained standing statue-like with his helm covering every trace of his features.

“Remove your helm,” she ordered.

The knight hesitated only briefly, then complied.

She knew exactly what Degan Gaunt looked like from his image in Avempartha. The moment he removed his helm her hopes disappeared.

She forgot herself for a moment and sighed most un-Saldur-like.

“Is there something wrong, Your Grace?”

“Ah—no, no,” she replied quickly, and started to leave.

“I assure you, sir, I told her nothing of the prisoner. I refused to speak a single word.”

Arista halted. She pivoted abruptly, causing her robes to sweep around her majestically. The dramatic motion had a visible impact on the guard and she finally understood why Saldur always did that.

“Are you certain?”

“Yes!” he declared, but doubt crossed his face. “Did she say differently? If she did, she’s lying.”

Arista said nothing but merely continued to stare at him. It was not an intentional act; she was merely trying to determine what to say next. She was not sure how to form her statement to get the knight to talk without being obvious. As she stood there formulating her next words, the knight broke under her stare.

“Okay, I did threaten to unsheathe my sword, but I didn’t. I was very careful about that. I only pulled it partway out. The tip never cleared the sheath I swear. I just wanted to scare her off. She did not see anything. Watch.” The knight pulled his sword and gestured toward the floor. “See, nothing.”

Arista’s eye immediately focused on the large emerald in the pommel and she bit her tongue to restrain herself. It all made sense. There was only one thing still to learn. It was a gamble, but a good one she thought. She asked, “Did Gaunt like his soup?”

She held her breath as she waited for his answer.

“He ate it, but none of them have ever liked it.”

“Very good,” she said, and left.

When Arista returned, Modina did not speak a word. After admitting her, the empress stared at the vision of Saldur cautiously. Arista started to laugh, then rushed forward and gave her an unexpected hug. “We’ve found him!”

Led by a fast walking Tenkin warrior, the few remaining members of the
Emerald Storm’s
crew made their way down from the Palace of the Four Win
ds through a series of damp caves to the base of the blackened cliffs where the surf attacked the rock. In a tiny cove, a little sloop waited for them. Smaller and narrower than the Dacca vessel, the ship sported two decks but only a single mast. Wyatt rapidly looked the ship over, declaring it sound, and Poe checked for provisions, finding it fully stocked for a month-long trip.

They quickly climbed aboard. Poe and Hadrian cast off while Wyatt grabbed the wheel. Derning and Royce ran up the mainsail and loosed the headsail, which billowed out handsomely. The power of the wind just off the point was so strong that the little sloop lurched forward, knocking Poe off his feet. He got up and wandered to the bow.

“Look at them. They’re everywhere,” he said, motioning out at the hundreds of black sails filling the harbor like a hive of bees.

“Let’s just hope they let us through,” Derning said.

“We’ll get through,d Hadrian told them. He was seated on a barrel holding Wesley’s hat, turning it over and over. Hadrian had refused to leave Wesley and Grady in Erandabon’s hands. Their bodies had been brought aboard for a proper burial at sea. He kept Wesley’s hat. He was not sure why.

“He was a good man,” Royce said.

“Yes, he was.”

“They both were,” Derning added.

The tiny sloop was a bit hard to manage with just the five of them, but it would be ideal once they picked up Banner and Grieg in Dagastan. She was a fast ship and they were confident they could reach Tur Del Fur in time. The armada of Tenkin and Ghazel ships looked to be still gathering.

“Jacob, trim the foresail, I’m bringing her over two points,” Wyatt snapped as he gripped the slick ship’s wheel. “And everyone jump lively, we’re in the Ba Ran Archipelago and this is no place for slow witted sailors.”

The moment they cleared the cove they understood Wyatt’s warning. Here the sea was a torrent of wave-crashed cliffs and splintered islands of jagged rock. Towering crags rose from dense fog, and blind reefs of murderous coral lay in ambush. Currents coursed without reason, rogue waves crashed without warning, and everywhere the dark water teamed with sweeping triangles of black canvas—each emblazoned with white slashes that looked vaguely like a skull. The Ghazel ships spotted them the moment they cleared the point and five abruptly changed course and swooped in.

The black ships of the Ba Ran Ghazel made the Dacca look like incompetent ferrymen as they channeled through the surf and flew across the waves.

“Run up the damn colors!” Wyatt shouted, but Royce was already hauling the black banner with white markings that stretched out long and thin.

There was a brief moment as Hadrian watched the approaching sails that he cursed himself for trusting Erandabon Gile. But after the colors were hoisted, like a shiver of sharks the sails peeled off, swirling back around to resume their earlier paths.

Wyatt cranked the wheel until they were pointed for Dagastan and ordered Royce to the top of the masthead to watch for reefs. No one spoke after that, except for Royce who shouted out obstacles and Wyatt who barked orders. It only took a few hours before they cleared the last of the jagged little islands, leaving both the archipelago and the black sails behind. The little sloop rolled easily as it entered the open waters of the Ghazel Sea.

The crew relaxed. Wyatt set a steady course. He leaned back against the rail, caught the sea spray in his hand, and wiped his face as he looked out at the ocean. Hadrian sat beside him head bowed while he turned Wesley’s hat over in his hands

Erandabon had sent a messenger to Hadrian as they left the arena. The search for Allie had produced no results. All previous shipments had been delivered to the Ghazel weeks ago. He knew females, especially young ones, were considered a rare delicacy. She was dead, likely eaten alive by a high-ranking goblin who would have savored the feast by keeping the girl conscious as long as possible. For Ghazel, screams were a garnish.

Hadrian sighed. “Wyatt…I have something to tell you…Allie…”

Wyatt waited.

“Allie is dead. As part of the deal, I made Gile investigate. The results weren’t good.”

Wyatt turned to gaze once more at the ocean. “You—you made that part of the deal? Asking about my daughter?”

“Yeah, Gile was a little put out but—”

“What if he had said no?”

“I wasn’t going to accept that answer.”