by Wulf, Rich
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 thing
s,” 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.
It took Tristam a moment to realize that Ashrem and Zamiel were speaking in their own voices again. Whatever message Norra had left for him, it was over now. He felt a lump rise in his throat. In a way, this illusion had been Norra’s last words. Again, he wished he could have done something to save her.
Instead, he would ensure her death had not been for nothing.
Tristam extended his senses outward, piercing the illusion that surrounded him. He watched as Zamiel and Ashrem moved around him, seeing through their forms until he found what he sought. The weave of the magic was nearly identical to the illusory Ashrem that Tristam had encountered in Metrol. All of it had been a lie, meant to manipulate Tristam into taking up where Marth and Ashrem had left off.
But why? To what purpose? Why did Zamiel seem to wish mortals to create and use the Legacy?
The illusion faded, leaving Tristam in his bed again. There was only one person who could answer that question now.
“Eraina!” he called, struggling out of his bed. He grabbed Zed’s crutch, struggling to find his balance and hold the thick journal in the same hand. He limped down the corridor to find Eraina’s cabin open, but she was not inside. Instead he found her in the hold, kneeling in meditation beside Omax and Ijaac. They opened their eyes as he entered.
Tristam looked at Ijaac with some surprise.
“What?” Ijaac asked, blushing slightly. “A dwarf isn’t allowed to seek inner peace?”
“Tristam, are you all right?” Eraina asked, looking at him in concern.
Omax rose and grasped Tristam’s hand with one shoulder. In his excitement, the wounded artificer hadn’t even realized how close he was to falling over.
“The book,” Tristam said, flipping the pages open and holding it out toward her. “Can you read this?”
Eraina looked at the journal warily as she took it from Tristam’s hands. “What is this about, Tristam?” she asked.
“I’ll explain later,” he said. “Can you read it?”
“I think so,” she said. “It looks like the same dialect in the caverns beneath Fort Ash. I …” Eraina trailed off as she studied the text. She sat down on a barrel and stared at the pages more intently.
“Eraina, what is it?” Ijaac asked.
“I’m not sure,” Eraina said. “That all depends on if what I’m reading is true or not.”
“I thought you could tell what was true from what wasn’t,” the dwarf said, worried.
Eraina read in silence for several more minutes, ignoring the dwarf’s comment. Tristam leaned against a crate of rations, propping his injured foot on a barrel. Omax watched impassively. Ijaac returned to his meditation.
“It’s a transcription of the Draconic Prophecy,” Eraina said. “From the notes in the margins, this passage was originally discovered in a cavern guarded by a powerful flight of copper dragons. The author repeatedly expresses his thanks for a friend’s aid in informing him how to slip past the guards and magical protections. He doesn’t say who the friend is.”
“Zamiel,” Tristam said.
Omax looked at him in surprise. “Zed said that the book is over a century old, Tristam.”
“That’s really not surprising,” Eraina said. “Dragons are effectively immortal. They tend to live until something kills them.”
“What else does it say, Eraina?” Tristam asked.
“The actual prophecy is rather simple,” she said. “It begins by speaking of the past, recalling the battle between dragonkind and the demons, where the Legacy would be born on the plains of bone.”
“The battle that created the Boneyard,” Tristam said.
“But it also says that in creating the Legacy, the dragons awakened something powerful and ancient and drew its attention to this world,” Eraina said. “It is referred to as the Timeless, but it is a being with no true name. Its strength could be seen through the Dragon’s Eye. Each time the Legacy is used, a piece of its soul becomes trapped in this world forever. Though it has all the power any being can desire, it wishes for more.”
“More?” Ijaac asked. “What more could it need?”
“An end to solitude,” Omax said. “The Timeless must be the same being that I have sensed each time the Legacy is used. What becomes of the pieces of its soul after they enter our world?”
“It does not say,” Eraina said, glancing from page to page. “It jumps abruptly. I think a page has been removed.”
“Zamiel wanted to keep the rest of the truth for himself,” Tristam said.
“The next part sounds quite a bit like the vision you had in Zul’nadn,” Eraina said. She frowned. “A few details are significantly different. You won’t like this.”
“Tell me,” Tristam said.
“It speaks of a conqueror, wise, powerful, and immortal,” she said.
Tristam frowned. “In Zul’nadn, the conqueror was mortal.”
“I warned you,” she said. “The conqueror will be one who has walked long in shadow, one who has denied his own kind and been cast out from his homeland. Though he has never touched the Legacy, he has witnessed and mastered its power.”
“So Zamiel isn’t looking for a conqueror,” Tristam said. “He is the conqueror. He was just looking for a pawn to craft the Legacy for him so he could fulfill his own destiny.”
“When the Legacy burns the sky,” Eraina said, “the Timeless will begin to awaken.”
“Referring to Marth’s attack on Sharn,” Tristam said.
“The veil between our worlds will grow thin,” she continued. “The last Heir of Ash will take up the Legacy and restore what has been shattered as the moon burns around him.”
“Hm,” Ijaac said grimly. “Sounds like that part has already happened, too.”
“What happens next?” Tristam asked.
“One moon must pass for each that has fallen,” Eraina said.
“Seven days,” Omax said. “For the Seventh Moon.”
“Then the plains of bone will know the touch of the Timeless,” she continued. “The conqueror will seek him, and they shall become one. The conqueror’s enemies will recognize their weakness and be forever laid low.”
“Ouch,” Ijaac said. “Sounds like we’re destined to lose.”
No,” Tristam said fiercely. “Zamiel has lied to further his own ends before. Khyber, you already said part of the transcription is missing. We have no way of knowing what the missing section says.”
“Or if what we have seen is even genuine,” Omax said.
“Omax is right,” Eraina said. “All of this could be a trap, Tristam.”
“Maybe,” Tristam said, “but right now we have nothing else. Zamiel didn’t expect me to find that book just yet. He killed Norra to keep it a secret. He probably didn’t expect the prophecy to be fulfilled so soon, either. If the Boneyard really is manifest zone bordering on whatever realm this Timeless dwells in, maybe we can use the Legacy the same way we did in Zul’nadn. Maybe we can close it off from our world forever. We have one last chance.”
The others looked at Tristam dubiously.
“At this point we have nothing left to lose,” Tristam said. “If the prophecy is true, then it will resolve itself with or without us and we’ve already lost. I don’t believe that. I believe we still have a chance to stop Zamiel. It’s just as you said, Eraina. It ends with us.”
Ijaac looked at Tristam dubiously. “We have less than seven days, Tristam,” he said.
Tristam stood and limped toward the ladder. He climbed to the upper deck with some difficulty. Pherris looked up from where he had been napping beside the helm.
“Master Xain,” he said, beaming happily. “Good to see you on your feet.”
“Captain,” Xain said, nodding respectfully. “Can we fly from Sharn to the Boneyard in seven days?”
“If we leave now, fly full speed without any breaks, keep the wind behind us, and cut directly through the Mournland,” the gnome said dubiously.
“Good,” Tristam said, nodding eagerly. “When can we leave?”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Zed was no expert where matters of airship maintenance were concerned. He preferred to leave those sorts of matters to Pherris and Tristam. Though he trusted their judgment, he was beginning to worry. The elemental ring that surrounded the ship had subtly begun to shift, day by day. What once burned a brilliant blue slowly changed. The flames now seethed a murky indigo. The deck rattled noticeably under their feet. Tristam often hurried around the deck, checking the struts and adjusting things.
Passing over the Mournland without incident was a small blessing. The creatures that roamed that place appeared, for the most part, to be bound near the earth. Zed sometimes noticed shifting spirits swimming in the mists far below them, but nothing attacked them directly. Dalan spent that entire day locked in his cabin, unwilling to look upon his homeland again. In contrast, Omax had stood at the rail the entire time, staring down at the thick mists. Once they crossed the border into the Talenta Plains, Omax returned below deck to meditate.
