Rise of the Seventh Moon: Heirs of Ash, Book 3

by Wulf, Rich

  “Closed?” Dalan asked, surprised.

  The guard looked up, then back at Dalan. “Everyone has been advised to remain indoors,” the guard said.

  “They’re not indoors,” Dalan said, gesturing at the students.

  “They’re stupid, rebellious children,” the guard said, sighing. “No reasoning with them. Seriously, it’s not safe in the streets and I can’t let you in. Go back wherever you came from.”

  “That’s the problem, isn’t it?” Dalan replied, looking nervously at the sky. “We arrived just as this strange crisis began, and have nowhere else to stay. We are guests of the university. You can’t possibly turn us back out into the street with rubble falling from the sky.”

  Zed looked at Dalan blankly, wondering what the man was planning.

  The guard folded his arms and gave Dalan a sidelong look. “I wasn’t aware of any arriving guests,” he said.

  Dalan looked at Zed insistently. “Did you remember to post ahead and tell them when we’d be here?”

  Zed looked at Dalan.

  Dalan sighed. “Did you?” he asked.

  “What kind of question is that?” Zed snapped. He enjoyed the slightly annoyed look in Dalan’s eyes as he wondered if the inquisitive would play along. “Of course I did. I have the receipt here somewhere.” He began digging in the pockets of his coat.

  “That shouldn’t be necessary, Zed,” Dalan said with a chuckle. He smiled and looked at the guard again. “There you have it. There’s no problem on our end. We told Master Ghein well in advance of our arrival.”

  “Ghein?” the guard asked, looking mildly revolted. “Petra Ghein?”

  Dalan nodded. “We had arranged with Master Ghein to conduct a series of lectures. Our appointment has been in place for months.”

  “That explains it,” the guard said, rolling his eyes briefly. “Listen, Master Ghein isn’t exactly the keenest member of the faculty. If you wished to arrange a lecture, you really should have contacted one of the—”

  “He seemed keen enough when I spoke to him,” Dalan interrupted, puffing out his chest as if the guard had personally insulted him. “He informed me that the headmasters were most eager to hear what the Wayfinder had to say. If you feel differently, then perhaps we should take it up with your supervisors.”

  “Listen, I never said …” The guard blinked. “Who is the Wayfinder?”

  “Wayfinder Ijaac Bruenhail,” Dalan said, gesturing at Ijaac. The dwarf bowed, beaming proudly. “Famous archaeologist and explorer. One of the few men living to visit the Frostfell and return.”

  The guard looked at Ijaac blankly.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of him,” Dalan said.

  “You saying you’ve never heard of me, boy?” Ijaac repeated dangerously. “I don’t have to take this kind of abuse. I’m a public figure! I’d wager I’m in a few of the textbooks these rugrats are carrying!” He stepped toward the guard, one hand tightening on the haft of his morningstar.

  The guard glanced around the courtyard, looking for anyone else who could get him out of this. “My apologies, Master Bruenhail,” he said softly, hoping not to draw attention from any of the students. “Please don’t make a scene. I don’t know who made the mistake, but perhaps you should take it up with Master Ghein. I’m sure he can resolve everything.”

  “Ah!” Dalan brightened. He placed one hand on Ijaac’s shoulder, pulling the dwarf back a step. “At last we make some progress. And where can we find Master Ghein?”

  “This way,” the guard said, waving for them to follow.

  “Are you sure he’ll be in his office today?” Zed asked.

  “What do you mean?” the guard asked.

  “All the trouble going on,” Zed said. “I wouldn’t be sitting around reading on a day like this. I’d want to go check on my family.”

  “University rules are strict,” the guard said bitterly. “In times of crisis, the headmasters believe it is even more important that we continue traditions as usual. And Ghein doesn’t have any family that I know of. He’s a reclusive sort.”

  Zed noticed that the guard walked very briskly as he led them on their way. He frequently looked back to make sure they hadn’t become separated. He finally arrived at a small office deep among the bookshelves and knocked on the door.

  “Yes?” came a voice from inside.

  “Some visitors to see you, Master Ghein,” the guard said.

  “Thank you, good sir,” Dalan said to the guard. “You’ve been most helpful.”

  The guard mumbled something unintelligible and fled into the maze of shelves without another word.

  “He was eager to be rid of us,” Zed observed.

  “I can’t imagine why,” Dalan said with a smug grin. He opened the office and stepped inside.

  A small, middle-aged man in a dull gray robe sat behind a desk within the small office. He pulled off his spectacles and studied them calmly. His eyes widened when Omax entered.

  “Master Ghein,” Dalan said. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Who are you?” the librarian demanded nervously. “If you work for Radcul, I already told him I don’t know anything.”

  “Radcul?” Dalan asked. He was visibly annoyed to be thrown off track.

  “Local crimelord and mercenary boss,” Zed explained. “Listen, Master Ghein, we don’t have anything to do with Baron Radcul and we don’t have a great deal of time. We’re the crew of the Mourning Dawn, and we’ve come looking for Norra Cais. She has information that we might need, and she told us you would know how to contact her.”

  “The Mourning Dawn?” Petra asked. His face turned ashen. “I’m sorry … So sorry.”

  “What is it?” Dalan demanded. “Why are you sorry?”

  “Norra is dead,” he said. “She was found in her apartment several days ago. Her neck was broken. Radcul’s thugs have claimed responsibility. I know she owed them a great deal of money …”

  “But you have your doubts,” Dalan said.

  “Norra was too smart for Radcul,” Petra said. “I’m sure she could have avoided him forever. I’m sure he only claimed responsibility to save face.”

  “So who killed her?” Omax asked.

  “She was researching something,” Petra said. “I don’t know what it was, but I could tell it was important. She was scared. For Norra, that’s saying something. She was never scared of anything. It was the same thing that drove her to journey to the Frostfell.”

  Zed frowned. “Damn,” he said with a sigh. “She never told you anything?”

  Petra shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said. His eyes glistened, and he stopped for a moment to catch his breath. “I think she was trying to protect me from whatever ended up killing her.”

  “Useless,” Dalan grumbled. “How entirely useless.” He turned and stormed out of the office. Ijaac and Omax followed, but Zed lingered behind.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Master Ghein,” Zed said. “I knew Norra. She must have cared a great deal for you to trust you so much.”

  Petra gave a wry smile. “That sort of thing was always relative where Norra was concerned,” he said. “I fear what I felt for her was not mutual, but yes—she trusted me more than most.”

  “I wish we could have helped her,” Zed said. He turned to leave.

  “Wait,” the librarian said. “Did Norra have anything to do with what happened over the city today?”

  Zed looked over his shoulder.

  “It’s just that it’s such a strange coincidence,” Petra said. “A bizarre magical weapon attacks the city and you show up almost immediately, looking for her. After everything else, I find it strange.”

  “You’re safe here in your libraries, Master Ghein,” Zed said. “Do you really want me to tell you the truth?”

  “I suppose not,” the librarian said, looking away sheepishly. “It’s just that …” He looked at Zed intently again. “Were you friends with her?”

  Zed smirked. “That sort of thing
was always relative with Norra,” he said. “Honestly, I didn’t like her. She was arrogant, abusive, and short-sighted. But when it came down to it, she did the right thing. That’s more than a lot of people can say. I wish I could have been here to help her.”

  Petra ducked under his desk to retrieve something, then quickly stood. He moved toward Zed, carrying a thick book. “Here,” the librarian said. “Take this with you.”

  “A book?” Zed asked, accepting the thick volume carefully. “What is it?”

  “Some obscure thing,” he said. “I’m the only one who remembers it; the library will never even know it’s gone. Norra spent a great deal of time reading it. After a while, she began leaving it here in my office so that no one else would check it out of the library. Maybe it’s important?”

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

  “Maybe,” he said. “Thanks, Master Ghein.”

  The librarian said nothing. He returned to his desk and watched with a hollow stare as Zed closed the door. Zed hurried to catch up with the others as they walked out of the library.

  “Do you think it was Zamiel who killed her?” Dalan asked.

  “I’m almost positive,” Zed said. “Radcul is vicious but stupid. Norra could have evaded him forever. Zamiel tried to kill Eraina and me when we found out he had been altering the Draconic Prophecy. He boasted about killing others who had learned too much as well. Maybe Norra discovered something he didn’t want us to know.”

  “To tell the truth, I’m having a hard time feeling sorry for her after what she did to my crew,” Ijaac said. “Feel like a right bastard for admitting it, but there it is. If she hadn’t treated everyone like rubbish, maybe someone would have helped her when she needed it.”

  “Ijaac, that isn’t helping,” Zed said.

  The dwarf shrugged.

  “I blame myself for this,” Dalan said as Zed reached him. “Seren worried that Norra might be in danger, but I chose to fly to Nathyrr first instead.”

  “There was no way you could have known, Dalan,” Zed said. “Sharn was much farther away. You only did what seemed logical. Not to mention that Ghein said she was found days ago. You wouldn’t have arrived in time to help her.”

  Dalan shrugged, finding little solace in Zed’s words.

  “I’m surprised you care so much, Dalan,” Zed said.

  “I am not incapable of compassion or regret, Arthen,” Dalan said sharply. “Do you find it so odd that when I cause someone to die it troubles me? What is that you’re carrying?”

  Zed held open the book and flipped through pages filled with a mad, jumbled scrawl. “Not sure,” he said. “The librarian gave it to me. Maybe Tristam can make sense of it. To tell the truth, I almost hope it’s useless.”

  “Why do you say that?” Dalan asked.

  “Looks like a book about the Draconic Prophecy,” Zed said. “I hate prophecy. I hate being told that I have no choice, that what I do doesn’t matter.”

  “They say that the Prophecy is never wrong, only misinterpreted,” Dalan said. “To me, that only means the Prophecy is sometimes wrong, but the scholars are too embarrassed to admit it.”

  Zed laughed. “I hope you’re right, Dalan.” He considered that for a moment. “Unless the Prophecy says we’re destined to stop the prophet and have long, happy lives. Then I’ll support every bit of it.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Tristam opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling of his cabin. For several minutes, he couldn’t remember what had happened or how he came to be here. The last thing he could recall was leaping from the Mourning Dawn, clutching the life ring and narrowly missing Marth’s warship, only to see Shaimin’s grapple catch the bottom of the Seventh Moon as she passed overhead.

  He sat up slowly. His left arm hung in a sling and felt entirely numb. His lower right leg was bound in a splint. He gasped in pain when he tried to turn his head; fire burned in the muscles of his neck and down his left shoulder. The rest of his body throbbed with a general ache. His homunculus sat at the edge of the bed, offering him a small cup of water. Tristam accepted it and drank gratefully.

  Memories of the battle on the Seventh Moon slowly returned. He remembered Marth’s fall from the Seventh Moon. He remembered setting the ship’s core to overload and explode in a desperate attempt to save Sharn. He remembered being thrown into the bulkhead and buried in wreckage as the ship collided with Skyway. He remembered praying that the others had escaped as his vision began to dim. Then he remembered the wreckage being torn away by thick metal fingers and a pair of shimmering blue eyes staring down at him.

  “How do you feel, Tristam?” Eraina asked. The paladin sat on a stool in the far corner of the cabin, watching him carefully. Her face was wan and exhausted.

  “Amazed to be alive,” he replied, passing his cup back to the little construct.

  “You very nearly weren’t,” Eraina said. “You still have a broken arm, and your ankle is sprained badly. I did what I could. Only time can do the rest. Zed left you the crutch he made back in Talenta.” She nodded at the crude shaft of wood leaning against the bookcase.

  “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 s
acrificed 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.