The noise of the collapse, and the explosions of light, had woken several people in nearby buildings. Candles were lit in windows and doors opened onto the square.
“The regents bid me to tell you that your services are no longer required.” The man in the dark cloak smiled coldly. Without another word, he walked away, disappearing into the maze of dark streets.
Esrahaddon was confused. The bolt or dart lodged in his back did not feel fatal. He could breathe easily, so it had 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 Arista’s attention. She still sat against the office door as voices and shouts drifted from the square. What had happened was unclear, but the words he’s dying brought Arista to her feet.
She found a small crowd gathered on the steps outside. 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. As Esrahaddon lay on his back, a bolt beside him, his 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 Dr. 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 that of 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 were 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 blond 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 had requested delivery of any personal belongings left behind by the missing leader of the Nationalist army. Parker had sent over an old pair of Degan Gaunt’s worn muddy boots, a tattered shirt, and a woolen cloak. The boots had been useless, but the shirt and cloak held many treasures. Scraping the surfaces, she had retrieved dozens of blond hairs and hundreds of flakes of skin, which she carefully gathered and placed in a velvet pouch. At the time, she had convinced herself she merely wanted to see if the spell would work. When she had started the incantation, she had no intention of acting on the results. Now she was unsure what to do next.