The Emerald Storm Page 3

  ***

  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.

  The princess opened a window, washed the runes off her desk, and sat looking out over the city. At this time of night nothing moved on the streets below. She contemplated the significance of finding the heir. Knowing he lived might have meant something to her once, but her beliefs in the teachings of the church were shattered long ago.

  To Esrahaddon the heir meant everything. Since leaving Gutaria, the wizard had dedicated his life to finding the emperor’s descendent, even coercing Arista into assisting him with a spell cast in Avempartha to identify the heir and his guardian. The guardian she recognized immediately as Hadrian, however the heir she had never seen before. The blonde-haired image was just a face until after the Battle of Ratibor when she learned he was Degan Gaunt, the leader of the Nationalists. There was no doubt the New Empire was responsible for his disappearance, and the smoke confirmed he was alive and held somewhere to the north. She stared at the wall where the smoke disappeared.

  Why should I care about his obsession?

  To her surprise, she felt no satisfaction from the wizard’s death. On more than one occasion, she wished him harm but now there was only sadness, pity, and regret.

  She wanted to stop thinking about what he had said, and how he had spent his last breaths delivering to her secrets he had carried for a thousand years. She felt he presented her with sparkling gems of immeasurable worth, but without his knowledge they were nothing more than dull pebbles.

  “They will come.”

  What did that mean? Who was coming?

  “Without the horn everyone dies.”

  everyone? Who is everyone? He couldn’t mean everyone, everyone—could he? Maybe he was just babbling. People do that when they are dying, don’t they?

  She remembered his eyes, clear and focused, holding on like…Emery.

  “There’s no time left. It’s up to you now.”

  “Only you know now—only you can save…”

  “This is crazy,” she said aloud to the empty room. I can’t possibly go in search of the heir. The empire has him and they’ll kill me on sight. Besides, I’m needed here.

  Arista’s kingdom was at war against the New Imperial Empire and she was steward of Rhenydd and mayor of Ratibor. A hastily assembled committee had appointed her to what was supposed to be a temporary position. She accepted under the condition that she would resign after the immediate threat of the Imperial Army passed, and arrangements made for a proper election. Weeks went by, the imperials had retreated to protect Aquesta, yet election seemed forthcoming.

  If Arista wanted, she could declare herself high queen of Rhenydd and the citizenry would cheer her. She could permanently reign over a kingdom larger than Melengar and be rich as well as beloved. Long after her death, her name would endure in stories and songs—her image immortalized on statues and in books.

  She glanced at the neatly folded robe on the corner of her desk. They had brought it to her after Esrahaddon’s burial. The sum of the wizard’s entire worldly possessions amounted to just this piece of cloth. He devoted everything to his quest and after nine hund years, he died without fulfilling his mission. Exactly what his mission was nagged at her. Loyalty to the descendent of a boy ruler from a millennium ago could not drive Esrahaddon so fanatically—she was missing something.

  They will come.

  The color of the smoke indicated Gaunt was not far away, likely within a few days travel. To find him, she would need to recast the spell and follow its trail.

  But then what?

  “We are obligated to seek no recognition, fame, nor fortune.”

  When Esrahaddon spoke those words, she did not really listen, but now she could hear nothing else. Arista made her decision and stuffed the only possession she cared for, a pearl-handled hairbrush from Tur Del Fur, in a sack. She wrote a letter of resignation and left it on the desk. Reaching the door, she paused and glanced back. Somehow, it seemed appropriate…almost necessary. She crossed the office and picked up the old wizard’s robe. It hung gray and dull in her hands. No one had cleaned it, yet she found no stain of blood. Even more surprising, no hole marked the passage of the bolt. She wondered at this puzzle—even in death the man continued to be a mystery. Slipping the robe over her dress she was amazed that if fit perfectly despite the fact that Esrahaddon had been over a foot taller than herself. Turning her back on her office, she walked out into the night.

  The autumn air was cold. Arista pulled the robe tight and lifted the hood. The material was unlike anything she had felt before—light, soft, yet wonderfully warm and comforting. It smelled pleasantly of salifan.

  She considered taking a horse from the stables. As mayor, no one would begrudge her a mount. But she had resigned. Wherever she was going, it could not be too far and a long walk suited her. Esrahaddon indicated a need for haste, but it would be imprudent to rush headlong into the unknown. Walking seemed a sensible way to challenge the mysterious and unfamiliar. It would give her time to think. She guessed Esrahaddon would have chosen the same mode of travel. It just felt right.

  Arista took out a water skin, the one she had used traveling with Royce and Hadrian, and filled it at the square’s well. She had plenty to eat. Farmers, who objected to providing for the soldiers, always found some food to place as a small tribute on the steps of City Hall. Most she gave to the city’s poor, which only resulted in more gifts. She helped herself to a few rounds of cheese, two loaves of bread, and a number of apples, onions, and turnips. Hardly a king’s feast, but it would keep her alive.

  She slipped the full water bag over her shoulder, adjusted her pack, and headed for the north gate. She was conscious of the sound of her feet on the road and the noises of the night. How dangerous—even foolhardy—leaving Medford had been, even in the company of Royce and Hadrian. Now, just a few weeks later, she set out into the darkness alone.

  She knew her path would lead into imperial territory—the New Empire would not hide Gaunt in Rhenydd. Traveling alone, she hoped to avoid attention. Once she knew where he was held she could send word to Hadrian and leave the rest to him. After all he was the guardian and Gaunt was his problem not hers. Confident this was the right choice, she quickened her pace through the city streets.

  “Your Highness,” the north gate guard exclaimed at her approach.

  She smiled sweetly at the man. “Can you please open the gate?”

  “Of course, My Lady, but why? Where are you going?”

  “For a walk,” she replied.

  The guard stared at her incredulously. “Are you certain? I mean…” He looked over her shoulder. “Are you alone?”

  She nodded.

  The guard hesitated briefly then relented and drew back the bar. Putting his back against the giant oak doors, he slowly pushed one open.

  “You need to be careful, My Lady. There is a stranger about.”

  “A stranger?”

  e A fellow came to the gate just a few hours after sunset wanting in—a masked man in a hood. I could see he was up to no good so I turned him away. Likely as not, he’s out there somewhere waiting for me to open
at sunrise. Please be careful, Your Highness.”

  “Thank you, but I’m sure I’ll be fine,” she said, while slipping past him. Once she was through, the gate closed behind her.

  Arista stayed to the road, walking as quickly and quietly as she could. Now on her way, she felt exhilarated despite the dangers that lay ahead. Leaving Ratibor without farewells was for the best. They would have insisted she appoint a successor and remain for a time to counsel whoever was selected. While she did not feel enough urgency for a horse, she felt a delay that long would be a mistake. Besides, she could not risk an imperial spy discovering her plan and placing sentries to capture her.

  In at least one way she felt safer on the road than in her office—she was confident no one knew where she was, and this anonymity was as comforting as the old wizard’s robe. Ever since Esrahaddon’s death, she worried if she too might be a target. Esrahaddon’s assassin had escaped capture. The only trace was an unusually small crossbow discovered in an East End Square rain barrel. She felt certain the killer was an agent of the church sent to eliminate a lingering threat. She was Esrahaddon’s apprentice, had helped defeat the church’s attempt to take Melengar, and led the revolt in Ratibor. Surely the church wanted her dead as well.

  Before long, she spotted the flicker of a light not far off the road—a simple campfire burning low.

  The man turned away at the gate? Could he be the assassin?

  She kept her eyes on the fire while carefully walking past. She soon cleared a hill and the light disappeared behind it. After a few hours, the excitement of the adventure waned and she found herself yawning. With several hours until dawn, she pulled a blanket from her bag and found a soft place to lay.

  Is this what each night was like for Esrahaddon?

  She had not slept outdoors since the trip with Royce and Hadrian. Memories surfaced of that first night she had cried herself to sleep and she wished her two escorts were with her now. She imagined Royce disappearing into the trees to search the area as he had at every camp. Even more, she wanted Hadrian there by her side. She pictured him with a lopsided grin making that awful stew of his. He could always make her feel safe. She remembered how he held her on the hill of Amberton Lee and at the armory after the Battle of Ratibor. Soaked in rain, mud, and Emery’s blood, his arms held her up. She never felt so horrible and no one’s embrace had ever felt so good.

  “I wish you were here now,” she whispered.

  Laying on her back she looked up at the stars. Millions spanned the sky scattered like dust over the immense heavens. Seeing them, she felt even more alone. Closing her eyes she drifted off to sleep.

  Chapter 2

  The Empty Castle

  Above Hadrian’s head, the wooden sign rocked in the morning breeze displaying a thorny branch and a faded bloom. Weathered and worn, imagination would be required to determine that the flower depicted was a rose. The tavern it announced displayed the same haphazard charm of necessity as the other buildings along Wayward Street. The crooked length of the narrow road was empty. Autumn leaves scattering in the wind and the rocking sign marked the only movement.

  The lack of activity surprised Hadrian. At this time of year, Medford’s Lower Quarter usually bustled with vendors selling apples, cider, pumpkins, and hardwood. The air should have been scented with wood smoke. Chimney sweeps should have been dancing across rooftops as children watched in awe. Instead, the doors of several stores were nailed shut—and to his dismay, even The Rose and Thorn Tavern lay dormant.

  Hadrian sighed as he tethered his horse. Skipping breakfast in exchange for an early start had left him eager for a hot meal eaten indoors. He expected the war to take its toll and for Medford to be affected, but he never expected The Rose and Thorn to—

  “Hadrian!”

  He recognized the voice before he turned and saw Gwen, the lovely Calian native, looking more like an artisan’s wife than a madam in her sky-blue day dress. She swept down the steps of Medford House, one of the few businesses open. Prostitutes were always the first to arrive and the last to leave. Hadrian hugged her, lifting her small body. “We were worried about you,” she said. “What took you so long?”

  “What are you doing back at all?” Royce called as he stepped out on the porch. The lithe and slender thief stood barefoot, wearing only black pants and a loose unbelted tunic.

  “Arista sent me to make sure you made it all right and were able to convince Alric to send the army south.”

  “Took you long enough. I’ve been back for weeks.”

  Hadrian shrugged. “Well, Alric’s forces laid siege to Colnora right after I arrived. It took me a while to find a way out.”

  “So, how did—”

  “Royce, shouldn’t we let Hadrian sit and eat?” Gwen interrupted. “You haven’t had breakfast, have you? Let me grab a shawl, and I’ll have Dixon fire the stove.”

  “How long has the tavern been closed?” Hadrian asked, as Gwen disappeared back inside.

  Royce raised an eyebrow and shook his head. “Not closed. Business has just been slow, so she opens for the midday meal.”

  “It’s like a ghost town around here.”

  “A lot of people left, expecting an invasion,” Royce explained. “Most who stayed were called to serve when the army moved out.”

  Gwen reappeared with a wrap around her shoulders and led them across the street to The Rose and Thorn. In the shadows of an alley, Hadrian spotted movement. People slept huddled amid piles of trash. Unlike Royce, who easily passed for human, these shabbily dressed creatures bore the unmistakable angled ears, prominent cheekbones, and almond eyes characteristic of elves.

  “The army didn’t want them,” Royce commented, seeing Hadrian’s stare. “No one wants them.”

  Dixon, the bartender and manager, was taking chairs off the tables when Gwen unlocked the doors. A tall, stocky man, he had lost an arm several years ago in the Battle of Medford.

  “Hadrian!” he shouted in his booming voice. He stopped work to extend his good hand. “How are you, lad? Gave ’em what for in Ratibor, eh? Where you been?”

  “I stayed to sweep up,” Hadrian replied, with a wink and a smile.

  “Denny in yet?” Gwen asked Dixon, stepping past him and rummaging through a drawer behind the bar.

  “Nope, just me. I figured, why bother? All of you want breakfast? I can manage if you like.”

  “Yes,” Gwen told him, “and make some extra.”

  Dixon sighed. “You keep feeding them and they’ll just keep hanging around.”

  She ignored the comment. “Did Harry deliver the ale last night?”

  “Yup.”

  “Three barrels, right?”

  As Gwen talked with Dixon, Royce slipped his arm around her waist and gave her a gentle squeeze. The fact that he loved her was no secret, but Royce had never even held Gwen’s hand in public before. Seeing him with her, his friend looked different. It took Hadrian a moment to realize what it was—Royce was smiling.

  When Gwen followed Dixon into the pantry to discuss inventory, Royce and Hadrian resumed the task of pulling chairs off tables. Throughout the years, Hadrian had likely sat in each one and drunk from every wooden cup or pewter tankard hanging behind the bar. For more than a decade, The Rose and Thorn had been his home, and it felt odd to be just visiting.

  “So, have you decided what you’ll do now?” Royce asked.

  “I’m going to find the heir.”

  Royce paused, hold the chair inches above the floor. “Did you hit your head during the Battle of Ratibor? The heir is dead, remember?”

  “Turns out he’s not. What’s more, I know who he is.”

  “But the nice priest told us the heir was murdered by Seret Knights forty years ago,” Royce countered.

  “He was.”

  “Am I missing something?”

  “Twins,” Hadrian told him. “One was killed, but the midwife saved the other.”

  “So, who is this heir?”

  “Degan Gaunt.”


  Royce’s eyes widened and a sardonic grin crossed his face. “The leader of the Nationalist Army, who is bent on the New Empire’s destruction, is the imperial heir? How ironic is that, and how unfortunate for you seeing as how the Imps snatched him up.”

  Hadrian nodded. “Yeah, it turns out that Esrahaddon has been helping him win all those victories in Rhenydd.”

  “Esrahaddon? How do you know that?”

  “I found him in Gaunt’s camp. Right before the Battle of Ratibor. Looks like the old wizard was planning to put Gaunt on the throne by force.”

  The two finished with the chairs and took seats at a table near the windows. Outside, a lone apple seller wheeled a cart past, presumably on her way to the Gentry Quarter.

  “I hope you’re not taking Esrahaddon’s word about Gaunt being the heir. You can never be sure exactly what he’s up to,” said Royce.

  “No—well, yes—he confirmed the heir was alive, but I discovered his identity through Gaunt’s sister.”

  “So, how do you plan to find Gaunt? Did either of them tell you where he is?”

  “No. I’m pretty sure Esrahaddon knows, or at least has a good idea, but he wouldn’t tell me, and I’ve not seen him since the battle. He did say he would need us for a job soon. I think he’ll want help rescuing Gaunt. He hasn’t been around here, has he?”

  Royce shook his head. “I’m happy to say I haven’t seen him. Is that why you’re in town?”