Rise of the Seventh Moon: Heirs of Ash, Book 3 (4 page)

“Why were you in that rail station?” Marth demanded.

“I am a reflection of Ashrem d’Cannith,” he said. “Like a ghost, I was bound to protect the
Dying Sun
until the last Heir of Ash arrived.”

“The last Heir of Ash?” Marth asked. “Tristam Xain?”

“Yes,” the vision said. “Xain has been chosen … as have you.”

“Chosen by whom?” Marth demanded. “How can you tell?”

“I do not know,” Ashrem said. “There is a glow about you, an aura of importance. You were approved by my maker.”

“Who made you?” Marth demanded.

“The Mourning made me,” he answered. “I am woven of forgotten magic, like the living spells that haunt Metrol.”

“Lies,” Marth hissed. “You are reciting an answer that means nothing.”

He tightened his grip on the wand, causing sparks of green flame to erupt from the tip and scour the illusory figure’s form.
The visage of Ashrem doubled over in pain but did not scream.

“Tristam may believe your idiot ravings, but I lived in the Mournland for months,” Marth said. “I know the magic and creatures that dwell there. Living spells have no intelligence. They are mindless predators, suited only to hunt. You bear none of their mad, destructive appetites. The magic that composes you is far more complex. Neither are you a true ghost. You are a programmed illusion, albeit a powerful one. You were intended not only to guide, but to activate and maintain the extensive wards that protected that rail station. Someone designed you specifically so that the
Dying Sun
would not be stolen or destroyed. Someone placed you there so that you could aid in its eventual repair.”

The phantom’s eyes widened with a strange, silent horror as he absorbed the truth of his existence. Marth leaned close, his eyes only inches from the tormented illusion. He spat each word with spiteful, deliberate venom. “Who. Made. You?”

“My memory is … unreliable,” the illusion said, shuddering. The admission brought it great discomfort. “I cannot say. If I truly am neither a living spell nor the ghost of Ashrem, then I would assume Ashrem d’Cannith himself had a hand in my creation?”

“Wrong,” Marth said. “I know the weave of his magic, and you are no creation of his.” The changeling sighed. “I almost wish that you were. I had hoped there was some chance that he survived the Day of Mourning.” Marth continued to study the figment for a long moment. “But perhaps there is a chance after all, and you are proof. You are quite an accurate reproduction of the original. You knew of my wife and children when you faced me in Metrol. Your creator would have required access to Ashrem’s memories to know such things. I know you were not in that train station on the day I fled Cyre, so you must have been created afterward.” Marth turned over the possibilities in his mind.

The floating shade of Ashrem d’Cannith watched the changeling cautiously. Its eyes hardened in intense concentration. The wand in Marth’s hand glowed brightly, then crackled with a sudden pulse of energy. The changeling looked at the weapon in surprise, sensing the buildup of energy. A blazing flash of green fire filled the room.

When it faded, Marth was entirely unharmed.

“What did I do?” the vision said, voice quavering. “How did that happen?”

“Fascinating,” Marth said. With a thought, he dismissed the residual power surging through the wand. The amethyst crystal went dark. “You used the same enchantments that allowed you to command the wards in Metrol to turn my own magic against me. You might have killed me, were I less cautious.” He stared into the vision’s eyes. “Look into your memories, creature. You know that Ashrem would not have attacked me in such a cowardly manner. The one who created you did not wish the true secrets of your creation to be revealed, but he was careless. The magic that composes you is familiar to me now.”

“What am I?” the illusion wailed. He held up his arms, staring at the empty space where his hands should have been. “Why do I remember these things?”

“You are a memory whose time will soon be past, now that your purpose is complete,” Marth said, leveling the wand at the center of the illusion.

The figment gave a sad smile. “Then we are much the same, Orren Thardis.”

Marth scowled. “I have learned all I can from you.”

“Then do what you must.”

A hiss of green fire erupted from the tip of Marth’s wand. The illusion’s tormented eyes were, for a brief instant, peaceful. Then the shade of Ashrem d’Cannith was torn apart, rent into sparkling motes of light. The residual energy was absorbed back into the
changeling’s wand for later study. He tucked the weapon back into his coat. The truth made no sense, but it was undeniable. The creator of that illusion was the same person who had set Marth upon his path.

Zamiel.

The prophet had guided Ashrem once. When Ashrem had proven useless, he offered his guidance to Marth. Was this illusion, deep in Metrol, the prophet’s form of insurance? It was disturbing. To think that the prophet expected him to fail was disheartening. What bothered Marth more was that, while Zamiel obviously had magical abilities, he had never revealed anything on the scale required to create such an illusion.

Who was the prophet?

As Marth turned to leave, he noticed his reflection on the surface of the ship’s core. He was struck by memory, recalling the many times he had seen his own reflection here in ages past. The face that stared back at him now was unfamiliar. The difference was greater than the raw burn scars that crawled up the left side of his face. He looked into his own eyes and was taken aback by the cruelty there.

He remembered the illusion’s mocking words when it saw him at Metrol—
Kresthian would be ashamed to see what you have become. Your sons weep for their wretched father
.

Their deaths had removed all purpose from his life—all purpose save revenge. Hate consumed Marth. One by one, he had inflicted that hate upon those who had wronged him, but at what cost? How many more orphans had he created? How many more widows? Ashrem d’Cannith had shown him mercy, given him a second chance to help mend this twisted world that had murdered his family. Ashrem taught him that the Last War was their true enemy. It was the Last War that had ruined his life and destroyed his family.

For a time, Marth had reclaimed that life. The changeling
became something more than a deranged killer. At Ashrem’s side, he had brought some measure of peace to this world.

But it wasn’t Ashrem d’Cannith who ended the Last War. The good they had done had all been for nothing. The unthinkable destruction wrought by the Day of Mourning was the only thing that opened Khorvaire’s eyes to the truth.

It was all so pointless.

Marth had fought for his nation, and was betrayed. His nation murdered his family.

Marth had fought for peace, and was betrayed again. The Mourning murdered his homeland.

Zamiel had shown him what seemed to be the truth. The people of Eberron didn’t want to be saved. It was the nature of mortals to destroy themselves. To resist war and chaos only prolonged things—but the world could still be saved. The Draconic Prophecy proved that history was cyclical. Great empires rose to rule the world. They were inevitably corrupted from within and destroyed themselves. The world was always reborn from those ashes, heralding a new golden age. Now it was time for the world to be reborn again. The Legacy would be the catalyst of that rebirth.

The Legacy awaited … here. Marth’s fingers brushed the warm surface of the ship’s core again. Marth would be the herald of the new age.

But now, with his goal nearly in his grasp, the changeling wavered. How many innocents would suffer for what he had done? How many like Kresthian? How many like his sons? Had he come too far to turn back?

It was not the ship that had changed. It was he. He was no longer the man he once was. The illusion was right. They were the same. Both of them had been programmed by forces they could not comprehend to serve a purpose they did not
understand. If Ashrem d’Cannith had taught Marth anything, it was that it was never too late for redemption.

The changeling climbed back out onto the deck. He had been ready to command the helmsmen to turn about but stopped himself. The air was still. The land beneath him was gray and dead. Crawling mist shrouded the cities. Ruined buildings clawed at the sky, monuments to a forgotten nation. To see Cyre in such a state pained him.

Perhaps Marth had changed, but so had this world. This was not the Cyre he knew. This was not the world he knew.

“Captain?” the helmsman said, looking at him curiously.

“Nothing,” Marth said. “As you were.”

The helmsmen nodded and returned to his work. Marth scowled down at Cyre’s ruined landscape. A world that could do this was not worth saving.

T
HREE

T
he town of Gatherhold had been transformed into a frenzy of activity by Gerith Snowshale’s arrival, though Gatherhold was always a frenzy of something. The town was a central meeting place between the nomadic tribes. Halflings from across the Talenta Plains came here to rest, trade, socialize, fight, tell stories, and frequently all of the above. With the cold season approaching, most of the tribes had returned to their own territories, but a substantial number of permanent residents remained. Even at the busiest of times, the arrival of an airship was quite an event.

The combined weight of Gerith’s news and the roguish reputation of his tribe made him an instant celebrity. He alerted the citizens to the
Mourning Dawn
’s impending arrival and the delicate cargo she bore before blowing kisses to the young girls and flying away on the glidewing’s back. Gatherhold responded to his warning with the eager urgency only halflings can muster. The built a docking tower in less than two hours. A small army of diplomats, merchants, and curious children gathered to welcome the visitors.

The healers of House Jorasco pitched a conical tent at the base of the tower. A few more opportunistic merchants moved their carts closer to the new tower so that the visitors could see their wares more easily. When the
Mourning Dawn
descended from the cloudy skies, Gatherhold was ready.

It had been two days since the airship had landed at the halfling settlement, but much of the novelty hadn’t worn off. The villagers always stopped as they passed, staring up at the strange vessel surrounded by her ring of searing blue flame. Ijaac Bruenhail emerged from the vessel at least twice a day, shouting fiercely in Dwarven as he shooed away the latest group of youngsters who had snuck aboard.

While Gatherhold had greeted its visitors with the boisterous hospitality for which the halflings were famous, the ship’s crew was quiet and somber. Even Gerith was a shadow of his usual adventurous self. The scout hadn’t even appeared since their arrival, most likely retreating to explore the countryside on his own.

Seren Morisse climbed down the tower’s rope ladder and hopped onto the dusty road. She wished she could have visited Gatherhold under happier circumstances. The town was a blaze of color and activity. She wanted to explore, to meet people, to know more about the curious tribes that could produce someone like Gerith, but now was no time to do it.

Seren wore a simple black tunic, dark cotton breeches, and no obvious weapons. It was some small comfort, considering the circumstances, to be in a safe place. She could hear the rhythmic chanting of the healers within the tent, accompanied by the lilting music of a flute. A haggard figure in a long coat sat beside the tent’s entrance, slumped on an overturned crate. He buried his face in his hands, unkempt sandy-brown hair spilling between his fingers.

“How is he, Tristam?” Seren asked.

The artificer didn’t answer.

“Tristam?” she repeated.

Tristam jerked forward and looked up at her with surprised, bloodshot eyes.

“You can’t see him yet, Seren,” he said groggily. “Mother Shinh
only wants one visitor at a time, and Dalan is in there now.” The words tumbled out of his mouth in a single, jumbled slur. Seren barely understood him.

“Tristam, have you slept?” she said, concerned.

“Yes. You just woke me up,” he said wryly.

Seren gave a disapproving frown, but she had more urgent matters on her mind. “How is Omax?” she asked, nodding at the tent.

Tristam glanced away uneasily. “Not good,” he said. “I’ve never seen him so badly hurt. Even when I found him buried under the monastery. I’ve seen dead warforged in better shape than he is now. The healers say he was hiding a lot of damage from us, Seren.”

“Can they fix him?” Seren asked.

“I don’t know,” Tristam said. “Their medicine doesn’t affect him, but a few of them have real healing magic. That helps a little. I did as much as I could for him, but after a while they saw that I was just getting in the way. They chased me away and told me to rest.”

“So why didn’t you return to the ship?” she asked.

Tristam gave a crooked smile. “I was going to,” he said. “I just sat down here to get off my feet for a moment and dozed off.”

She sighed, hooked an arm under his, and dragged him to his feet. He staggered heavily, trying not to lean on her and failing. She looked up the rope boarding ladder carefully, then back at him. So that was why Tristam hadn’t gone back to his cabin. He was so exhausted he could barely stand, let alone climb a precarious ladder.