The Emerald Storm Read Online Free Page A

Esrahaddon’s 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 Doctor 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 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 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 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