Michael J. Sullivan
The emerald storm

Chapter 1

Assassin Merrick Marius fitted a bolt into the small crossbow before slipping the weapon beneath the folds of his cloak. Smoke-thin clouds drifted across the sliver of moon leaving him and Central Square, shrouded in darkness. He searched the filthy streets lined with ramshackle buildings looking for movement but found none. At this hour, the city was deserted.

Ratibor may be a pit, he thought, but at least it is easy to work in.

Conditions had improved with the recent Nationalists' victory. The imperial guards were gone, and with them went the regular patrols. The town lacked even an experienced sheriff as the new mayor refused to hire seasoned men or members of the military to administer so-called "law and order." She opted instead to make do with grocery clerks, shoemakers, and dairy farmers. Merrick found her actions ill-advised but expected such mistakes from an inexperienced noble. Not that he was complaining-he appreciated the help.

Despite this shortcoming, he admired Arista Essendon's accomplishments. In Melengar, her brother, King Alric, reigned and as an unwed princess she possessed no real power. Then she came here, masterminded a revolt, and the surviving peasants rewarded her with the keys to the city. She was a foreigner and a royal, yet they thanked her for taking rule over them. Brilliant. He could not have done better himself.

A slight smile formed at the edge of Merrick's lips as he watched her from the street below her window. A candle still burned on the second floor of City Hall, even at this late hour. Her figure moved hazily behind the heavy curtains as she left her desk.

It will not be long now, he thought.

Merrick shifted his grip on the weapon. Only a foot-and-a-half long, with a bow span even shorter, it delivered none of the stopping power of a traditional crossbow. Still, it would be enough. His target wore no armor, and he was not relying on the force of the bolt. Venden pox coated the serrated metal tip. A deplorable poison for assassination; it neither killed quickly nor paralyzed the victim. The concoction would certainly kill, but only after what he considered an unprofessional span of time. He had never used it before and only recently learned of its most important trait-venden pox was invulnerable to magic. Merrick had it on good authority that the most powerful spells and incantations were useless against its venom. Given his target, this would prove essential.

Another figure entered Arista's room, and she sat abruptly. Merrick imagined she had just received some interesting news, and he was about to cross the street to listen at the window when the tavern door opened behind him. A pair of patrons exited, and by the sway of their steps and the volume of their voices they had obviously drained more than one mug that night.

"Nestor, who's that leaning against the post?" one said, pointing in Merrick's direction. A plump man with a strawberry nose whose shape matched its color squinted in the dim light and staggered forward.

"How should I know?" said the other. The thin man's mustache still glistened with beer foam.

"What's he doing here at this time 'a night?"

"Again, how should I know, you wanker?"

"Well, ask him."

The tall man stepped forward. "Whatcha doin', mister? Holding up the post so the porch doesn't fall down?" Nestor snorted a laugh and doubled over with his hands on his knees.

"Actually," Merrick told them, his tone so serious it was almost grave, "I'm waiting to appoint the position of Town Fool to the person who asks me the stupidest question. Congratulations. You win."

The thin man slapped his friend on the shoulder. "See, I've been telling you all night how funny I am, and you haven't laughed once. Now I'm getting a new job…probably pays better than yours."

"Oh, yeah, you're quite the entertainer," his friend assured him as they staggered off into the night. "You should audition at the theater. They're gonna be doing The Crown Conspiracy for the mayor. The day I see you on a stage, now that will be funny."

Merrick's mood turned sour. He had seen that play several years ago, and while the two thieves depicted in it used different names he knew they portrayed the exploits of Royce Melborn and Hadrian Blackwater. Duster, as Royce was known when Merrick and him were assassins for the Diamond, used to be best friends.

Their friendship ended seventeen years ago, that warm summer night when Duster murdered Jade. Although he was not present, Merrick had imagined the scene countless times. That was before Duster had his white dagger, back when he used a pair of curved black-handled kharolls. Merrick knew Duster's technique well enough to picture him silently slicing through Jade with both blades at once. The blood would have run down her body, slicking her dark night-work tunic and pooling at her feet as she slowly crumpled. Merrick did not care that someone else set up Duster or that he did not know his victim's identity when it happened. All Merrick knew was that the woman he loved was dead and his best friend had killed her.

Decades had passed, and still Jade and Duster haunted him. He could not think of one without the other and he could not bear to forget. Love and hate welded together forever, intertwined in a knot too tight to untie.

Loud noises and shouts from Arista's room brought Merrick back to the present. He checked his weapon then crossed the street.

"Your Highness?" the soldier asked, entering the mayoral office. Princess Arista looked up from her cluttered desk, her hair a tangled mess and her eyes wreathed in shadow. She took a moment to assess her visitor. The man in mismatched armor displayed an expression of unabated annoyance.

This is not going to go well, she thought.

"You sent for me?" he asked with only partially restrained irritation.

"Yes, Renquist," she said, her mind catching up with his face. She had hardly slept in two days and had difficulty concentrating. "I asked you here to-"

"Princess, you can't be summoning me like this. I have an army to run and a war to win. I don't have time to chat."

"Chat? I wouldn't call you here if it wasn't important."

Renquist rolled his eyes.

"I need you to remove rmy from the city."

"What?"

"It can't be helped. Your men are causing trouble. I'm getting daily reports of soldiers bullying merchants and destroying property. There has even been an accusation of rape. You must take your men and bivouac them outside the city, where they can be controlled."

"The men only want what is rightfully theirs. They risked their lives against the Imperialists; the least this lousy city can do is feed them. Now you want me to take away their beds and the roof over their heads as well?"

"The merchants and farmers refuse to feed them because they can't," Arista explained. "The empire confiscated the city's reserves when the Imperialists took control. The rains and the war destroyed most of this year's crops. The city doesn't have enough to feed its citizens, much less an army. Fall is here, and cold weather is on its way. These people don't know how they will survive the winter. They can't take care of themselves with a thousand soldiers raiding their shops and farms. We're thankful for your contribution in taking the city, but your continued presence threatens to destroy what you risked your lives to liberate. You must leave."

"If I force them back into camps with inadequate food and leaky canvas shelters, half will desert. As it is, many are talking of going home for the harvest season. I shouldn't have to tell you that if this army disappears, the empire will take this city back."

Arista shook her head. "When Degan Gaunt was in charge the Nationalist Army lived under similar conditions for months without it being a problem. The soldiers are becoming complacent here in Ratibor. Perhaps it is time you pressed on to Aquesta."

Renquist stiffened at the suggestion. "Gaunt's capture makes taking Aquesta all the more difficult. I need time to gather information and I'm waiting for reinforcements and supplies from Delgos. Attacking the capital won't be like taking Vernes or Ratibor. Aquesta is a Warric city and the seat of the empire. The Imperialists will fight to the last man to defend their empress. No. We need to stay here until I'm fully prepared."

"Wait if you must, but not here," she replied firmly.

"What if I refuse?" His eyes narrowed.

Arista put the parchments she was holding on the desk but said nothing.

"My army conquered this city," he told her pointedly. "You hold authority only because I allow it. I needn't take orders from you. You are not a princess here, and I am not your serf. My responsibility is to my men, not to this city and certainly not to you."

Arista slowly rose.

"I am the mayor pro tem of this city," she said, her voice growing in authority, "appointed by the people. Furthermore, I am steward and acting administrator of all of Rhenydd, again by the consent of the people. You and your army are here by my leave."

"You are a princess of Melengar and a foreigner! At least I was born in Rhenydd."

"Regardless of your personal feelings toward me, you will respect the authority of this office and do as I say."

"And if I don't?" he asked coldly.

Renquist's reaction did not surprise Arista. He was a career soldier who served with King Urith, as well as the Imperial Army, before joining the rebel Nationalists when Kilnar fell. When Gaunt disappeared, Hadrian appointed him commander in chief, a position far higher in rank than Renquist could ever have hoped for. Renquist was finally realizing the power he possessed and starting to assert himself. She had hoped he would demonstrate the same spirit Emery had shown but Renquist was not a commoner with the heart of a nobleman. If she did not take action now, Arista would face a military overthrow.

"This city just liberated itself from one tyrant, and I won't allow it to fall under the heel of another. If you refuse to obey me, I'll replace you as commander."

"And howo d you do that?"

Arista revealed a faint smile. "Think hard…I'm sure you can figure it out."

Renquist continued to stare at her, then his eyes widened in realization and fear flashed across his face.

"Yes," she told him, "the rumors about me are true. Now take your army out of the city before I feel a need to prove it. You have just one day to remove them. Scouts found a suitable valley to the north. I suggest you camp where the river crosses the road. It is far enough away to prevent further trouble. There is plenty of water, fish, and wood for fires. By heading north, your men will feel they are progressing toward the goal of Aquesta, thus helping morale."

"Don't tell me how to run my army," he snapped, although not as loudly, nor as confidently as before.

"My apologies," she said, with a bow of her head. "It was only a suggestion. The order to leave the city, however, is not. Good evening to you, sir."

Renquist hesitated, his breath labored, his hands balled into fists.

"I said good evening, sir."

He muttered a curse and left, slamming the door behind him.

Exhausted, Arista slumped in her chair.

Why does everything have to be so hard?

Everyone wanted something from her now: food, shelter, assurances that everything would be all right. The citizens looked at her and saw hope, but Arista could see little herself. Plagued by endless problems and surrounded by people, she felt oddly alone.

There was not a single person in Ratibor whom she had known for longer than a month, and she longed for a familiar face. Arista missed Hilfred. After suffering burns in her service over two years ago, her once ever-present bodyguard had left without a word. She also missed her brother, Alric, and hoped he could forgive her for disobeying him. Perhaps her success in taking Ratibor would lessen his anger. Most of all, Arista missed Royce and Hadrian, a common thief and a rogue swordsman. To them, she was nothing more than a wealthy patron, but to her, they were nothing less than her closest friends.

Arista laid her head on her desk and closed her eyes.

Just a few minutes catnap, she told herself. Then I will get up and figure out how to deal with the shortage of grain and look into the reports of the mistreatment of prisoners.

Since her appointment, a hundred issues demanded her attention such as who was entitled to harvest the fields of the farmers lost in battle. With food in short supply and harsh autumn weather threatening, she needed a quick solution. At least these problems saved her from thinking about her own loss. Like everyone in town, Arista remained haunted by the Battle of Ratibor. She bore no visible injury-her pain came from a memory, a face seen at night when her heart ached as if pierced. It would never fully heal. There would always be a wound, a deformity, a noticeable scare for the rest of her life.

When she finally fell asleep, thoughts of Emery, held at bay during her waking hours, invaded her dreams. He appeared, as always, sitting at the foot of the bed, bathed in moonlight. Her breath shortened in anticipation of the kiss as he leaned forward, a smile across his lips. Abruptly he stiffened, and a drop of blood slipped from the corner of his mouth-a crossbow bolt protruding from his chest. She tried to cry out but could not make a sound. The dream had always been the same, but this time Emery spoke. "There's no time left," he told her, his face intent and urgent. "It's up to you now."

She struggled to ask what he meant, when- "Your Highness." She felt a gentle hand jostle her shoulder.

Opening her eyes, Arista saw Orrin Flatly. The city scribe, who once kept track of the punishment of rebels in the Central Square, had volunteered to be her secretary. His cold efficiency had given her pause but she relented, realizing there was no crime in doing one's job well. Her decsion proved sound and he had turned out to be a loyal, diligent worker. Still, waking to his expressionless face disturbed her.

"What is it?" she asked, wiping her eyes and feeling for tears that should have been there.

"Someone is here to see you. I explained you were occupied, but he insists. He is very…" Orrin shifted uncomfortably, "hard to ignore."

"Who is he?"

"He refused to give his name, but said you knew him, and claims his business is of utmost importance and he must speak to you immediately."

"Okay." Arista nodded drowsily. "Give me a moment and then send him in."

Orrin left, and in his absence she smoothed the wrinkles from her dress to ensure her appearance was at least marginally presentable. Having lived the life of a commoner for so long, what Arista deemed acceptable had reached an appallingly low level.

To replace her bloodstained gown she borrowed a frock from Mrs. Dunlap. Despite a seamstress's attempt to alter it, the garment remained a poor fit. Designed for an elderly matron, with a tall, stiff collar and heavy stays, the dress was not at all flattering. Checking her hair in a mirror, she wondered where the Princess of Melengar had gone and if she would ever return.

While she inspected herself the door opened. "How may I help-"

Esrahaddon stood in the doorway, wearing the same flowing robe whose color Arista could never determine. His arms, as always, were lost in its shimmering folds. His beard was longer and gray streaked his hair, making him appear older than she remembered. She had not seen the wizard since that morning on the bank of the Nidwalden River, when he admitted to orchestrating her father's death.

"What are you doing here?" she asked her warm tone icing over.

"I am pleased to see you as well, Your Highness."

After admitting the wizard, Orrin had left the doors open. With a glance from Esrahaddon, they swung shut.

"I see you're getting along better without hands these days," Arista said.

"One adapts to one's needs," he replied, sitting opposite her.

"I didn't extend an invitation for you to sit."

"I didn't ask for one."

Arista's own chair slammed into the back of her legs causing her to fall into it.

"How are you doing that with no hands or sound?" she asked, disarmed by her own curiosity.

"The lessons are over, or don't you remember declaring that at our last meeting?"

Arista hardened her composure once more. "I remember. I also thought I made it clear I never wanted to see you again."

"Yes, yes, that's all well and good, but I need your help to locate the heir."

"Lost him again have you?"

Esrahaddon ignored her. "We can find him with the basic location spell I taught you."

"I'm not interested in your games. I have a city to run."

"We need to perform the spell immediately. We can do it right here. Right now. I have a good idea where he is, but time is short and I can't afford to run off in the wrong direction. So, clear your desk and we can get started."

"I have no intention of doing anything of the sort."

"Arista, you know I can't do this alone. I need your help."

The princess glared at him. "You should have thought of that before you arranged my father's murder. What I should do is order your execution."

"You don't understand. This is important. Thousands of lives are at stake. You can't allow childish notions of personal feelings to stand in the way. This is larger than your loss. It is larger than the loss of a hundred kings and a thousand fathers. Do you think I enjoyed it? Any of it? You forget-I lost my life as well. I had parents of my own, friends, and-" he caught himself and continued. "All of them are gone now. Do you think I enjoyed rotting in a prison for a thousand years? Yes, I used you and your father escape. I did so out of necessity-because what I protect is more important than any single person. It's why I haven't sought revenge for the destruction of the Old Empire, for the murder of my emperor, or even the loss of my hands.

"Arista, as a wizard, you must understand personal vengeance and gain are barred to you. We are obligated to seek no recognition, fame, nor fortune. A wizard must work for the betterment of all-and sacrifices are always necessary. Now stop this foolishness…we are running out of time."

"I am so happy not to be of service to you," she smirked. "I can't bring back my father, and I know I could never kill you, nor would you allow yourself to be imprisoned again, so this is truly a gift-the opportunity to repay you for what you took from me. Your thousand year imprisonment and the loss of your hands will be for nothing, because you made the mistake of callously arranging my father's death."

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 wasn'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 Mawyndule 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.

Arista watched the foul-smelling, chalk-colored smoke drift as the strand of blonde hair smoldered. There was no breeze or draft in her office, yet the smoke traveled unerringly toward the northern wall where it disappeared against the stone and mortar.

A spell of location required burning a part of a person. Hair was the obvious choice, but fingernails or even skin would work. The day after Esrahaddon's death, she requested delivery of any personal belongings left behind by the missing leader of the Nationalist Army. They sent over an old pair of Degan Gaunt's worn muddy boots, a tattered shirt, and a woolen cloak. The boots were useless, but the shirt and cloak held treasures. Scraping the surface, she found dozens of blonde hairs, and hundreds of flakes of skin, which she carefully gathered and placed in a velvet pouch. Convincing herself she merely wanted to see if it would work, she cast the spell with no intention to act on the results. Now she was unsure.

The princess opened a window, washed the runes off her desk, and sat looking out over the city. At this time of night nothing moved on the streets below. She contemplated the significance of finding the heir. Knowing he lived might have meant something to her once, but her beliefs in the teachings of the church were shattered long ago.

To Esrahaddon the heir meant everything. Since leaving Gutaria, the wizard had dedicated his life to finding the emperor's descendent, even coercing Arista into assisting him with a spell cast in Avempartha to identify the heir and his guardian. The guardian she recognized immediately as Hadrian, however the heir she had never seen before. The blonde-haired image was just a face until after the Battle of Ratibor when she learned he was Degan Gaunt, the leader of the Nationalists. There was no doubt the New Empire was responsible for his disappearance, and the smoke confirmed he was alive and held somewhere to the north. She stared at the wall where the smoke disappeared.

Why should I care about his obsession?

To her surprise, she felt no satisfaction from the wizard's death. On more than one occasion, she wished him harm but now there was only sadness, pity, and regret.

She wanted to stop thinking about what he had said, and how he had spent his last breaths delivering to her secrets he had carried for a thousand years. She felt he presented her with sparkling gems of immeasurable worth, but without his knowledge they were nothing more than dull pebbles.

"They will come."

What did that mean? Who was coming?

"Without the horn everyone dies." everyone? Who is everyone? He couldn't mean everyone, everyone-could he? Maybe he was just babbling. People do that when they are dying, don't they?

She remembered his eyes, clear and focused, holding on like…Emery.

"There's no time left. It's up to you now."

"Only you know now-only you can save…"

"This is crazy," she said aloud to the empty room. I can't possibly go in search of the heir. The empire has him and they'll kill me on sight. Besides, I'm needed here.

Arista's kingdom was at war against the New Imperial Empire and she was steward of Rhenydd and mayor of Ratibor. A hastily assembled committee had appointed her to what was supposed to be a temporary position. She accepted under the condition that she would resign after the immediate threat of the Imperial Army passed, and arrangements made for a proper election. Weeks went by, the imperials had retreated to protect Aquesta, yet election seemed forthcoming.

If Arista wanted, she could declare herself high queen of Rhenydd and the citizenry would cheer her. She could permanently reign over a kingdom larger than Melengar and be rich as well as beloved. Long after her death, her name would endure in stories and songs-her image immortalized on statues and in books.

She glanced at the neatly folded robe on the corner of her desk. They had brought it to her after Esrahaddon's burial. The sum of the wizard's entire worldly possessions amounted to just this piece of cloth. He devoted everything to his quest and after nine hund years, he died without fulfilling his mission. Exactly what his mission was nagged at her. Loyalty to the descendent of a boy ruler from a millennium ago could not drive Esrahaddon so fanatically-she was missing something.

They will come.

The color of the smoke indicated Gaunt was not far away, likely within a few days travel. To find him, she would need to recast the spell and follow its trail.

But then what?

"We are obligated to seek no recognition, fame, nor fortune."

When Esrahaddon spoke those words, she did not really listen, but now she could hear nothing else. Arista made her decision and stuffed the only possession she cared for, a pearl-handled hairbrush from Tur Del Fur, in a sack. She wrote a letter of resignation and left it on the desk. Reaching the door, she paused and glanced back. Somehow, it seemed appropriate…almost necessary. She crossed the office and picked up the old wizard's robe. It hung gray and dull in her hands. No one had cleaned it, yet she found no stain of blood. Even more surprising, no hole marked the passage of the bolt. She wondered at this puzzle-even in death the man continued to be a mystery. Slipping the robe over her dress she was amazed that if fit perfectly despite the fact that Esrahaddon had been over a foot taller than herself. Turning her back on her office, she walked out into the night.

The autumn air was cold. Arista pulled the robe tight and lifted the hood. The material was unlike anything she had felt before-light, soft, yet wonderfully warm and comforting. It smelled pleasantly of salifan.

She considered taking a horse from the stables. As mayor, no one would begrudge her a mount. But she had resigned. Wherever she was going, it could not be too far and a long walk suited her. Esrahaddon indicated a need for haste, but it would be imprudent to rush headlong into the unknown. Walking seemed a sensible way to challenge the mysterious and unfamiliar. It would give her time to think. She guessed Esrahaddon would have chosen the same mode of travel. It just felt right.

Arista took out a water skin, the one she had used traveling with Royce and Hadrian, and filled it at the square's well. She had plenty to eat. Farmers, who objected to providing for the soldiers, always found some food to place as a small tribute on the steps of City Hall. Most she gave to the city's poor, which only resulted in more gifts. She helped herself to a few rounds of cheese, two loaves of bread, and a number of apples, onions, and turnips. Hardly a king's feast, but it would keep her alive.

She slipped the full water bag over her shoulder, adjusted her pack, and headed for the north gate. She was conscious of the sound of her feet on the road and the noises of the night. How dangerous-even foolhardy-leaving Medford had been, even in the company of Royce and Hadrian. Now, just a few weeks later, she set out into the darkness alone.

She knew her path would lead into imperial territory-the New Empire would not hide Gaunt in Rhenydd. Traveling alone, she hoped to avoid attention. Once she knew where he was held she could send word to Hadrian and leave the rest to him. After all he was the guardian and Gaunt was his problem not hers. Confident this was the right choice, she quickened her pace through the city streets.

"Your Highness," the north gate guard exclaimed at her approach.

She smiled sweetly at the man. "Can you please open the gate?"

"Of course, My Lady, but why? Where are you going?"

"For a walk," she replied.

The guard stared at her incredulously. "Are you certain? I mean…" He looked over her shoulder. "Are you alone?"

She nodded.

The guard hesitated briefly then relented and drew back the bar. Putting his back against the giant oak doors, he slowly pushed one open.

"You need to be careful, My Lady. There is a stranger about."

"A stranger?" e A fellow came to the gate just a few hours after sunset wanting in-a masked man in a hood. I could see he was up to no good so I turned him away. Likely as not, he's out there somewhere waiting for me to open at sunrise. Please be careful, Your Highness."

"Thank you, but I'm sure I'll be fine," she said, while slipping past him. Once she was through, the gate closed behind her.

Arista stayed to the road, walking as quickly and quietly as she could. Now on her way, she felt exhilarated despite the dangers that lay ahead. Leaving Ratibor without farewells was for the best. They would have insisted she appoint a successor and remain for a time to counsel whoever was selected. While she did not feel enough urgency for a horse, she felt a delay that long would be a mistake. Besides, she could not risk an imperial spy discovering her plan and placing sentries to capture her.

In at least one way she felt safer on the road than in her office-she was confident no one knew where she was, and this anonymity was as comforting as the old wizard's robe. Ever since Esrahaddon's death, she worried if she too might be a target. Esrahaddon's assassin had escaped capture. The only trace was an unusually small crossbow discovered in an East End Square rain barrel. She felt certain the killer was an agent of the church sent to eliminate a lingering threat. She was Esrahaddon's apprentice, had helped defeat the church's attempt to take Melengar, and led the revolt in Ratibor. Surely the church wanted her dead as well.

Before long, she spotted the flicker of a light not far off the road-a simple campfire burning low.

The man turned away at the gate? Could he be the assassin?

She kept her eyes on the fire while carefully walking past. She soon cleared a hill and the light disappeared behind it. After a few hours, the excitement of the adventure waned and she found herself yawning. With several hours until dawn, she pulled a blanket from her bag and found a soft place to lay.

Is this what each night was like for Esrahaddon?

She had not slept outdoors since the trip with Royce and Hadrian. Memories surfaced of that first night she had cried herself to sleep and she wished her two escorts were with her now. She imagined Royce disappearing into the trees to search the area as he had at every camp. Even more, she wanted Hadrian there by her side. She pictured him with a lopsided grin making that awful stew of his. He could always make her feel safe. She remembered how he held her on the hill of Amberton Lee and at the armory after the Battle of Ratibor. Soaked in rain, mud, and Emery's blood, his arms held her up. She never felt so horrible and no one's embrace had ever felt so good.

"I wish you were here now," she whispered.

Laying on her back she looked up at the stars. Millions spanned the sky scattered like dust over the immense heavens. Seeing them, she felt even more alone. Closing her eyes she drifted off to sleep.