The Emerald Storm (The Riyria Revelations #4)

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.