The Emerald Storm (The Riyria Revelations #4)

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 Mawyndul? 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?