“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.