Rise of the Seventh Moon: Heirs of Ash, Book 3 (35 page)

“Thank you, Eraina.”

The paladin smiled. “Omax was the one who carried you out of the
Moon
,” she said. Her face hardened. “Is what Seren said true? Is Marth dead?”

“He fell out of the
Seventh Moon
with Seren’s dagger in his heart,” Tristam said.

“Are you sure?” she pressed, unconvinced. “Couldn’t this be another one of his tricks?”

“I don’t think so,” Tristam said. “He was badly weakened. He’d used most of his defensive magic to protect himself from Omax. He didn’t have anything left to protect himself. Even if he had, he wouldn’t have given up so easily. He would have done everything he could to stop us from saving Sharn.”

Eraina gave him a long, piercing look. “So this is the end, then,” she said. “Bishop Grove’s killer has finally met justice.”

“Does that mean you’re leaving?” he asked.

“That depends on you,” she said. “This is the last clue remaining.” The paladin took a thick book from atop Tristam’s desk and handed it to him.

Tristam looked at the cover curiously.
The Wanderings of Morien Markhelm: A Journey into Argonnessen
.

“What is this?” Tristam asked.

“The book that Norra Cais was studying shortly before she was murdered,” Eraina said. “Zed found it.”

Tristam blinked. “Murdered?” he asked. “By who?”

“Zed thinks that Zamiel is responsible, and I agree,” Eraina said. “At this point, we may never know for sure.”

Tristam set the book to one side and rubbed his eyes roughly with his good hand. He suddenly felt weak and alone. He and Norra had often had their differences, but that changed nothing. Another part of his past, another friend, was gone forever. When he closed his eyes he saw Marth staring up at him with Orren Thardis’s face, falling to his death.

“I wish I’d never heard of the Legacy,” Tristam whispered hoarsely. “I wish I had never heard the name Ashrem d’Cannith. I wish I had never been a part of this.” He looked up at Eraina. “So many people have died because of this, Eraina. Where does it end?”

Eraina knelt beside him, clasping his hand in both of hers. Her dark blond hair fell over one eye. She looked at him with a strange, sad smile. “The last few months have been a difficult time for me, Tristam,” she said. “To a paladin, an adventure such as this is not easy. We must see the world in absolutes, but the world is rarely so simple. We must always do what is just. What is right. We must seek out evil and destroy it without hesitation. But who is evil? Is Dalan d’Cannith evil? He manipulated us all from the start, but his ends were just. Was Kiris Overwood evil? She wanted nothing more than to save the man she loved. Was Norra Cais evil? She led her crew to their doom but did so in a mad gamble to save all of Eberron. Was Shaimin d’Thuranni evil? He was the portrait of a soulless killer, but in the end he sacrificed all. Was Marth evil? As mad as he was, he believed he was a patriot until the end, restoring the world to its natural state. It has been difficult for me to find absolutes.”

“I don’t think there are any,” Tristam said.

“But you are wrong,” she said. “This dragon, the prophet Zamiel, is a being of incredible evil. Every obstacle we have faced, every trial we have overcome, has been of his design. We do not know why or how he has orchestrated all of this, but I can tell you this, Tristam. For the first time since I boarded this ship, my path is clear. I recognize evil, and I know what we must do. We must face him and end him—or all of this has been for nothing. You wish to know where all of this ends? I can tell you.” She released his hands and stood, looking down at him from her full height. “It ends with us.”

“What if I can’t find him?” Tristam asked. “Or what if I do, but I can’t find a way to beat him?”

“Then do not fail,” she said. “May Boldrei’s wisdom be with you.”

The paladin turned and exited the cabin, leaving Tristam alone with the strange book. He stared at the cover for a long time. Crude Draconic runes covered its surface. The volume looked truly ancient. Tristam plucked his spectacles from his desk and placed them on his nose as he opened the book and began to leaf through the journal.

The pages were covered with cramped scribbling in three languages. Tristam’s eyes hurt just looking at them. From what he could determine, Markhelm was some roguish explorer of his age, determined to unlock the hidden mysteries of the dragon continent.

Tristam leafed through the pages impatiently. To his eye the book read as nothing more than bad fiction written by an unsteady hand. Why would Norra be interested in such a thing? Why would this be the last remaining evidence of her existence?

As he leafed through the book, he noticed something strange. A Draconic rune on a certain page was circled in bright red ink.
He noticed nothing strange about it until he read the word in his mind.

Tristam’s stomach turned as the room changed. He was now standing in the center of a shadowy study. His splint and sling were gone. A map of Khorvaire was painted on the floor, with colored chalk marking name and boundary changes. Tristam peered about in confusion.

A pale, gaunt man in loose, tan robes stood beside him. It was Ashrem d’Cannith, but younger than Tristam remembered him. Beside the resemblance to his master, the image was strangely familiar.

“Who is there?” Ashrem demanded, glaring at a shadowy corner. “I told your headmaster I preferred to use these chambers for private study.”

“And the headmaster has respected your wishes,” replied a calm, sibilant voice. “But I am not a student of this campus.”

“You,” Ashrem said in a low voice. He turned to face the speaker, hands balled into fists within his wide sleeves. “Step into the light.”

There was a shift in the darkness as the speaker nodded in compliance. He stepped forward, revealing a small bald man in robes of burnished copper. His face twisted in a bemused grin.

“Who are you, monk?” Ashrem demanded.

“I am a lie,” the man said.

Tristam stared, confused. The voice was no longer Zamiel’s.

It was Norra’s.

“This is a trap,” Ashrem said, also speaking with Norra’s voice. “Left behind by the prophet, in hopes that you would find it, Tristam.”

“But I have altered its purpose,” she went on, speaking through Zamiel’s lips again. “I do not know who or what this prophet is, but he is powerful. He uses tools such as this book to
manipulate mortals into rebuilding the Legacy—for though he understands its purpose better than any other, he does not possess the expertise necessary to recreate it.”

“He uses those who wish to prove themselves,” Ashrem continued. “Those who wish to be heroes and are arrogant enough to believe it is their destiny to be so.”

“Though Ashrem read this book, he never saw this vision,” Zamiel said.

Ashrem glared at the prophet. The two men still moved as if they were having whatever conversation Norra had replaced.

“He was never intended to see this vision,” Zamiel continued. “This vision was left for you, Tristam. I think that Zamiel predicted that you would defeat Marth and go on to research the Legacy on your own.”

“He knew that you would follow the same path Ashrem did,” Ashrem added. “And the traps were ready—as they were in Zul’nadn.”

“Remember your vision there,” Zamiel grinned, showing perfect white teeth. “The white dragon expected you, remember? Such visions were intended to dupe you into believing this was your destiny. That you, like Marth and Ashrem, were a conqueror.”

“Why?” Tristam asked.

“To what benefit?” Ashrem asked.

“I do not know,” Zamiel said, smirking.

“But I believe this is not the only time he has done this,” Ashrem continued.

“I believe that Zamiel manipulated or even forged passages of the Draconic Prophecy itself,” Zamiel said, looking at Ashrem with sudden eagerness. “He knew that most of his pawns would be too eager to grasp their ‘destiny’ than look too closely.”

“But this time he erred,” Ashrem said.

“And I think that is why Ashrem truly chose you,” Zamiel added, an eager light in his eyes.

“Because, in the end, Ashrem began to see the pattern,” Ashrem said with a scowl. “After Vathirond, he began to suspect he had been manipulated. That was why he dismantled the Legacy.”

“But he knew that Zamiel would try again,” Zamiel said. “Most likely with one of his students.”

“Much simpler, after all, to use pawns he already knew,” Ashrem added.

“But Zamiel’s knowledge of the Prophecy is not entirely fiction,” the prophet said. “Somehow he knew of the Day of Mourning before it came. He forced Ashrem to make an impossible choice—leading to his doom.”

Ashrem folded his arms tightly against his chest and paced across the map. He gazed at the dark continent in the southeast corner, then stared out at Sharn’s cityscape. “This leads me to wonder who or what this prophet truly is, and how he could do what he seems to have done.”

“This isn’t possible,” Tristam whispered. “How can someone alter the Prophecy itself? Someone would know.”

“The more ridiculous the lie, the more likely it will be believed,” Zamiel said, seeming to answer his question.

“It is human nature,” Ashrem said.

“We all wish to believe it is our destiny to be great,” Zamiel added. “The prophet feeds his pawns just enough truth to gain their trust.”

“Then destroys them with lies,” Ashrem finished.

“From references in this journal it seems even its author was a pawn,” Zamiel said. “Morien Markhelm was guided by an old scholar who told him what to expect in Argonnessen.”

“Without the scholar’s guidance,” Ashrem said, “he would surely have perished in the depths of the dragon lands and be
unable to say where to find caverns inscribed with the Prophecy.”

“But how could any mortal scholar know what to expect in Argonnessen?” Zamiel said. “No one has ventured deep within its reaches and returned. But somehow, the scholar knew where to find what he sought, yet was loath to journey there. Instead he sent Markhelm to do his research. He convinced Morien it was his destiny to be the first to see the dark continent.”

“I wonder how many others ‘destined’ to be the first died on that foolish quest,” Ashrem said.

“Before Markhelm finally returned with what Zamiel sought,” Zamiel added. “This raises a disturbing question—if Zamiel is old enough to have lived a century ago and knows the secrets of Argonnessen, what manner of creature is he?”

“Guess I finally figured out something before you did, Norra,” Tristam said wryly.

“A dragon, I think,” Ashrem said.

Tristam sighed.

“It would explain why the one in Zul’nadn served him,” Zamiel said. “So be extremely careful, Tristam.”

“For if Zamiel can weave such an illusion,” Ashrem said.

“He could be capable of anything,” Zamiel finished.

“He may even be aware that I have viewed this,” Ashrem said.

“In which case,” Zamiel said, “I will soon be dead. I have dispatched a Speaker Post asking for help, but I do not believe it will arrive in time. I cannot rely on Petra. I will not drag him into this. I leave you this message, for I believe this is one place that Zamiel may be too arrogant to check.”

“Perhaps I am too paranoid,” Ashrem said, shaking his head slowly, “but that trait has served me well so far.”

“What do I do, Norra?” Tristam whispered, though he knew she could not answer.

“Look to the Prophecy,” Zamiel shrugged, surprising him. “The true Prophecy. Whatever Morien found in Argonnessen—Zamiel wanted to know. It must be important.” Zamiel’s eyes flickered away across the map.

“It is inscribed in this book,” Ashrem said.

“I have found the passages,” Zamiel said. “They mark the last seven pages of this book, but the dialect is so obscure that even I cannot read it.”

“Zamiel would surely have translated it for you in time,” Ashrem said. “Once it served his purposes.”

“Whatever is held within is his true goal,” Zamiel said. “Among all the lies and manipulations, it is the one bit of true destiny you will find in this mad scrawl. You must find someone who can read it.”

Ashrem’s frown deepened. He turned his back to the prophet, walking swiftly toward the door. Wizened fingers rested upon the brass handle. Ashrem stood there, unmoving, for a long moment.

“Such knowledge is rare in this day,” Ashrem said. “Even many wizards and artificers find little use in reading this rare and ancient dialect.”

“Even Ashrem …” Zamiel said.

“… could not read it,” Ashrem finished.

Tristam glanced back and forth between the two illusory figures. He understood that Norra had to do what she could to hide her message within the prophet’s illusion, but hearing them both speak in her voice was becoming unsettling.

“But he occasionally encountered such things,” Zamiel said. “And that was why, among Ashrem’s most trusted colleagues, he retained one that was an expert on ancient languages—especially those most commonly used in prophetic texts which were so significant to the church.”

“Brother Llaine Grove,” Ashrem said.

“Who is dead now,” Zamiel said. “Llaine’s knowledge, however, did not die with him. There was a girl, a ward of the church, whom he personally raised and trained. He loved her like a daughter.”

“And she loved him,” Ashrem said. “So much that she chased his murderer across Khorvaire.”

“Eraina,” Tristam whispered.

“Show the book to the paladin, Tristam,” Zamiel said. “Perhaps she will find what you seek.”

“Tell Ijaac I am sorry for the deaths of his friends.” Ashrem sneered. Though it was obviously a reaction to whatever dialogue Norra had replaced, it struck Tristam as strange. Ashrem pulled the door open with a creaking wooden cough.

“Farewell, Tristam Xain,” Zamiel said. “Good luck.”

Ashrem’s fingers tightened on the brass handle. He glared over his shoulder at the prophet.

“I apologize, Master d’Cannith,” Zamiel said, bowing his head. “I did not mean to insult your good works. I did not anticipate that you would be the sort to shy away from knowledge. I cannot believe you would fear this opportunity.”

“Knowledge does not frighten me,” Ashrem said grimly.