Michael Sullivan - The emerald storm

Unlike what she had managed in the past, this was completely new. Something she did not even know was possible. Casting an enchantment on herself was a frightening prospect. What if there were rules against such things? What if the source of the Art forbade it and imposed harm to those that tried? She never would have attempted it under different circumstances, but she was desperate. Still, having done so, having succeeded, she felt thrilled. She had invented it. Perhaps no wizard had ever managed such a thing!

"Your Grace!" Edith Mon was caught by surprise coming around a corner where they nearly collided. She carried a stack of sheets in her arms and nearly lost them. "Forgive me, Your Grace! I-I-"

"Think nothing of it, my dear." The, my dear, at the end of the sentence came out unconsciously-it just felt right. Hearing it, sent a chill through her, which proved it was pitch perfect. This might be fun if not for the mortal fear.

A thought came into her head. "I have heard reports that you've been treating your staff poorly."

"Your Grace?" Edith asked looking nervous. "I-I don't know what you mean?"

Arista leaned toward her, with a smile that she knew from experience would appear all the more frightening for its friendly, disarming quality. "You aren't going to lie to my face, are you Edith?"

"Ah-no, sir."

"I don't like it, Edith, I don't like it at all. It breeds discontent. If you don't stop I will need to find a means of correcting your behavior. Do you understand me?"

Edith's eyes were wide and she nodded her head, as if it were hinged too tight.

"I will be watching you. I will be watching very closely."

With that, Arista left Edith standing frozen in the middle of the corridor, clutching her bundle of sheets.

The guards at the front entrance bowed and opened the doors for her. Stepping outside, her senses were alert for any sign of trouble. She could smell the bread in the ovens of the bake house. To her left, a boy chopped wood, and ahead of her two lads shoveled out the stable, placing manure in a cart no doubt for use in the garden. The afternoon air was cold and the manure steamed. She could see her breath puffing in steamy clouds as she marched between the brick chicken coop and the remnants of the garden.

She reached the north tower, opened the door and entered. A Seret Knight with a deadly looking sword strapped to his belt stood at attention. He said nothing, and she did the same while looking about.

The tower was cylindrical with arched windows that allowed light to stream in and gleam off the polished stone floor. A tall, arched frame formed the entrance to the spiral stair. Across from it, a small fireplace provided heat for the guard. Covered in cobwebs, a wooden bench stood beside a small empty four-legged table. The only unusual thing was the stone of the walls. The rough-hewn rock of the upper portion of the tower was lighter in color than the more neatly laid, darker stone beneath.

The knight appeared uncomfortable at her silence.

"Is everything all right here?" Arista asked, going for the most neutral thing she could think of.

"Yes, Your Grace!" he replied enthusiastically.

"Very good," she said, and casually shuffled to the stairs and began to climb. She glanced behind her to see if the guard would follow, but he remained where he was without even looking in her direction.

She went up one flight and stopped at the first open cell. Just as Amilia reported, it appeared long abandoned. She checked to make certain the cell door would not lock and then carefully closed it. She got on her knees and quickly drew the circle and the runes.

She placed the blonde hairs on the floor, lining them up in rows. Picking up several pieces of straw, she twisted them tightly into a rope-stalk. She repeated the phrase she had used for weeks and instantly the top of the straw caught fire, becoming a tiny torch. She recited the location spell and touched the flame to one of the hairs. It heated up like a red coil and turned to ash. Arista looked for the smoke, but there was none. She glanced around the room confused. She looked at the smoke coming off the straw; it drifted straight up. There was no wind, no draft of any kind in the cell.

She tried again with the second hair. This time putting out the straw, thinking its smoke might be interfering. Instead, she cast the burn spell directly on the hair, followed by the location incantation. The hair turned to ash without a trace of the familiar light-gray smoke.

Was something about the tower blocking her spell? Could it be like the prison where they kept Esrahaddon? The Old Empire had placed complicated runes on the walls, blocking the use of magic. She looked around. The walls were bare. No, she thought, she would not have been able to cast the burn spell if that were the case. For that matter, she guessed her Saldur guise would have failed the moment she entered.

She had only one hair left. She considered moving to a different room, and then the answer dawned on her. She recited the spell once more, then picking up the last hair and holding it between her fingers, she burned it.

There it was! The smoke was pure white now and spilled straight down between hs like a trickle of water. It continued to fall until it met the floor, where it immediately disappeared.

She stood in the cell trying to figure it out. According to the smoke Gaunt was very close and directly below her, but there was nothing down there. She considered that perhaps there might be a door in the fireplace. No, she concluded, the opening was too small. There simply was nothing else below her except-the guard!

Arista gasped.

She checked her hands, reassured to see the wrinkled skin and ugly rings, and went back down the stairs to the base of the tower. The guard remained standing statue-like with his helm covering every trace of his features.

"Remove your helm," she ordered.

The knight hesitated only briefly, then complied.

She knew exactly what Degan Gaunt looked like from his image in Avempartha. The moment he removed his helm her hopes disappeared.

She forgot herself for a moment and sighed most un-Saldur-like.

"Is there something wrong, Your Grace?"

"Ah-no, no," she replied quickly, and started to leave.

"I assure you, sir, I told her nothing of the prisoner. I refused to speak a single word."

Arista halted. She pivoted abruptly, causing her robes to sweep around her majestically. The dramatic motion had a visible impact on the guard and she finally understood why Saldur always did that.

"Are you certain?"

"Yes!" he declared, but doubt crossed his face. "Did she say differently? If she did, she's lying."

Arista said nothing but merely continued to stare at him. It was not an intentional act; she was merely trying to determine what to say next. She was not sure how to form her statement to get the knight to talk without being obvious. As she stood there formulating her next words, the knight broke under her stare.

"Okay, I did threaten to unsheathe my sword, but I didn't. I was very careful about that. I only pulled it partway out. The tip never cleared the sheath I swear. I just wanted to scare her off. She did not see anything. Watch." The knight pulled his sword and gestured toward the floor. "See, nothing."

Arista's eye immediately focused on the large emerald in the pommel and she bit her tongue to restrain herself. It all made sense. There was only one thing still to learn. It was a gamble, but a good one she thought. She asked, "Did Gaunt like his soup?"

She held her breath as she waited for his answer.

"He ate it, but none of them have ever liked it."

"Very good," she said, and left.

When Arista returned, Modina did not speak a word. After admitting her, the empress stared at the vision of Saldur cautiously. Arista started to laugh, then rushed forward and gave her an unexpected hug. "We've found him!"