Rise of Empire (The Riyria Revelations #3-4)

“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 a basic location spell.”

“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’ve 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. This is larger than your loss. It’s larger than the loss of a hundred kings and a thousand fathers. You are not the only one to suffer. Do you think I enjoyed rotting in a prison for a thousand years? Yes, I used you and your father to escape. I did so out of necessity—because what I protect is more important than any single person. Now stop this foolishness. We’re running out of time.”

“I’m so happy to be of no service to you.” She smirked. “I can’t bring my father back, and I know I could never kill you, nor would you allow yourself to be imprisoned again. This is truly a gift—the opportunity to repay you for what you took from me.”

Esrahaddon sighed and shook his head. “You don’t really hate me, Arista. It’s guilt that’s eating you. It’s knowing that you had as much to do with your father’s death as I. But the church is the one to blame. They orchestrated the events so I would escape and hopefully lead them to the heir. They enticed you to Gutaria, knowing I would use you.”

“Get out!” Arista got to her feet, her face flushed red. “Orrin! Guards!”

The scribe struggled with the door, and it opened a crack, but a slight glance from Esrahaddon slammed it again. “Your Highness, I’ll get help,” Orrin said, his voice coming from behind the door.

“You need to forgive yourself, Arista.”

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

Esrahaddon got up and moved toward the door, adding, “You need to realize you didn’t kill your father any more than I did.”

After he left the room, Arista slammed the door and sat on the floor with her back against it. She wanted to scream, It wasn’t my fault! even though she knew that was a lie. In the years since her father’s death, she had hid from the truth, but she could hide no longer. As difficult as it was to admit, Esrahaddon was right.





Esrahaddon stepped out of City Hall into the darkness of Ratibor’s Central Square. He looked back and sighed. He genuinely liked Arista. He wished he could tell her everything, but the risk was too great. Even though he was free of Gutaria Prison, he feared the church still listened to his conversations—not every word, as when he had been incarcerated, but Maw-yndul? had the power to hear from vast distances. Therefore, Esrahaddon had to assume all conversations were suspect. A single slip, the casual mention of a name, and he could ruin everything.

Time was growing short but at least now there was no doubt that Arista had become a Cenzar. He had safely planted the seed, and the soil had proved fertile. He had begun to suspect her abilities on the morning of the Battle of Ratibor, when Hadrian had mentioned that the rain was not supposed to stop. He suspected Arista had cast the spell that had been instrumental to the Nationalists’ victory. Since then, he had heard the rumors concerning the new mayor’s unnatural powers. But it was only when she broke his locking charm, with just a simple wave of her hand, that he knew for certain that Arista finally understood the Art.

Aside from Arcadius and him, no human wizards remained, and the two of them were pitiful representatives of the craft. Arcadius was nothing but an old hack, what Cenzars used to refer to as a faquin, an elven term for the most inept magician—knowledge without talent. Faquins 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 that she could hold sway over all mankind was more than a little disturbing. During the Old Empire, safeguards had existed. The Cenzar Council had overseen wielders of the Art and ensured its proper use. They were all gone now. The other wizards, his brethren and even the lesser mages, were dead. With him essentially castrated, the church thought they had eliminated the Cenzar threat from the world. Now a true practitioner of the Art had returned, 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 explain the Art’s source and how they had come to use it. The Cenzars had been the guardians, the preservers, and the defenders. They had kept secrets that would protect mankind when the Uli Vermar ended.

When Esrahaddon had learned the truth so long ago, he had felt relieved that 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 had extended his life to this time. What had once been 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.

His plan was so tenuous, so weak, but all the pieces were in their proper places. Arista just needed time to master her feelings and then she would come around. Hadrian knew he was the Guardian of the Heir, and he had proved himself worthy of that legacy. Then there was the heir, an unlikely choice to be sure, but one that somehow made perfect sense.