Michael Sullivan: The emerald storm

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.