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.
Yes, it’ll be all right, he concluded. Things always work out in the end. At least, that is what Yolric always used to say.
Yolric had been the wisest of them all and had been passionate about the world’s ability to correct itself. Esrahaddon’s greatest fear when the Old Empire fell had been that Yolric might side with Venlin. That the emperor’s descendant still lived proved Esrahaddon’s master had not helped the Patriarch find the emperor’s son when the boy had been taken into hiding. Esrahaddon allowed himself a grin. He missed old Yolric. His teacher would be dead now. He had been ancient even when Esrahaddon was a boy.
Esrahaddon stretched his legs and tried to clear his mind. He needed to rest, but rest had eluded him for centuries. Rest was enjoyed only by men of clear conscience, and he had too much innocent blood on his hands. Too many people had given their lives for him to fail now.
Remembering Yolric opened the door to his past, and through it emerged faces of people long dead: his family, his friends, and the woman he had hoped to marry. It seemed his life before the fall had been merely a dream, but perhaps his current state was the real dream, a nightmare that he was trapped in. Maybe one day he would wake and find himself back in the palace with Nevrik, Jerish, and his beloved Elinya.
Did she somehow survive the destruction of the city?
He wanted to believe so, no matter how unlikely. It pleased him to think that she had escaped the end, but even that thought gave him 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?
He needed to stop thinking this way. What he had told Arista was true: the sacrifices they made were insignificant when compared to the goal. He should try to get some sleep. He rose and headed back toward the inn. A cloud covered the moon, snuffing out what little light it cast. As it did, 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 with a growing wetness.
I’m bleeding.
“Venderia,” he whispered, and instantly his robe glowed, lighting up the square. 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 porch 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 and confront his attacker, who walked casually toward him. The wizard concentrated. He spoke again, and 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 nothing, but 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?”