Aside from Arcadius and him, no human wizards remained, and the two of them were pitiful representatives of the craft. Arcadius was nothing but an old hack, what Cenzars used to refer to as a faquin, an elven term for the most inept magician—knowledge without talent. Faquins never managed to transition from materials-based alchemy to the kinetic true version of the Art.

Esrahaddon did not consider himself any better. Without his hands, he was as much a magical cripple as a physical invalid. Now, however, with Arista’s birth into the world of wizardry, mankind once again possessed a true artist. She was still a novice, a mere infant, but given time, her talent would grow. One day she would become more powerful than any king, emperor, warrior, or priest.

Knowing that she could hold sway over all mankind was more than a little disturbing. During the Old Empire, safeguards had existed. The Cenzar Council had overseen wielders of the Art and ensured its proper use. They were all gone now. The other wizards, his brethren and even the lesser mages, were dead. With him essentially castrated, the church thought they had eliminated the Cenzar threat from the world. Now a true practitioner of the Art had returned, and he was certain no one understood the danger this simple princess posed.

He needed her, and though she did not know it yet, she needed him. He could explain the Art’s source and how they had come to use it. The Cenzars had been the guardians, the preservers, and the defenders. They had kept secrets that would protect mankind when the Uli Vermar ended.

When Esrahaddon had learned the truth so long ago, he had felt relieved that it would not be his problem to face, as the day of reckoning was centuries away. How ironic that his imprisonment in the timeless vault of Gutaria had extended his life to this time. What had once been forever in the future was now but months away. He allowed himself a bitter laugh, then walked to the center of the square to sit and think.

His plan was so tenuous, so weak, but all the pieces were in their proper places. Arista just needed time to master her feelings and then she would come around. Hadrian knew he was the Guardian of the Heir, and he had proved himself worthy of that legacy. Then there was the heir, an unlikely choice to be sure, but one that somehow made perfect sense.

Yes, it’ll be all right, he concluded. Things always work out in the end. At least, that is what Yolric always used to say.