by Rich Wulf
“That you’re so distrustful of divine magic,” Tristam said. “Eraina’s healed us all countless times.”
“It is no matter of trust,” Norra said. “I simply don’t have much use for gods. Any power that cannot be relied upon to function in a logical and predictable manner is ultimately useless.”
“But wasn’t Llaine Grove one of your friends?” Tristam asked. “He was a cleric of Boldrei.”
“He was a colleague,” she said. “My opinions on religion were well known to him. It was the subject of more than one protracted debate.” She smiled bitterly at the memory. “What do you want from me, Xain?”
“I want to know how you built a working replica of the Legacy,” Tristam asked. “In all my research I never even came close.”
“My skill is greater than yours, Xain,” she said, shrugging.
“No,” Xain said, with such intensity that Norra’s eyes widened. “This is more than just artifice. The Legacy can unmake magic. You don’t figure that sort of thing out on your own, Norra. How did you learn how to build it?”
“I think you already know the answer to that question, Xain,” she said. “You just don’t want to accept it.”
“Tell me,” Tristam said.
“Fools like Gavus Frauk believe that Ashrem’s Legacy was flawed,” she said. “That it was uncontrollable, untested, and that its wild magic created the Mournland. It’s not true.”
“Then what is the truth?” Tristam asked.
“Ashrem had a working version of the Legacy for years,” she said. “I helped him build it. The original Legacy was fused with the elemental heart of Seventh Moon. He used it, secretly, at least six times that I remember—crippling armies, breaching magical defenses, silently granting the advantage to one side or another as he steered the course of the War.”
“That’s impossible,” Tristam said. “All that Ashrem ever wanted was peace.”
“Yes,” Norra said. “The Legacy was the instrument of that peace. Brother Llaine Grove was his moral compass, advising him on how to use the Legacy with minimal loss of life. I advised him on arcane matters, determining where the loss of magic would hamper the war’s progress the most.”
Memories of the Draconic Prophecy flashed through Tristam’s mind. He envisioned the mortal conqueror wreaking destruction upon the world, but this time that conqueror had Ashrem d’Cannith’s face. He could find no words. He only stared blankly at the floor, absorbing Norra’s words. He didn’t want to believe her.
“Ashrem was no fool, Tristam,” she said. Her voice was softer now, no longer as harsh and arrogant as before. “He was a good man in the midst of a desperate, impossible war. I do not know how he learned the secrets of the Legacy, but he seized the opportunity to fight for a better world.”
“Who is Zamiel?” Tristam asked quietly.
“I do not know that name,” Norra said.
Tristam’s face flushed with sudden anger. He rose from his seat, scowling down at Norra. “You are lying,” he said, his voice a low growl. “I am done being misled and manipulated. Tell me everything you know. Tell me who the prophet Zamiel is. What part does he play in this?”
Norra’s eyes widened. “Xain, this has taken a turn from discussion to mad rambling,” she said. “Please back away from me or leave this cabin. I will not endure your threats.”
“Threats?” he snapped. “I haven’t threatened you.”
She arched an eyebrow and glanced down at the shimmering crystal wand he held in one hand. He did not remember drawing the weapon. He mumbled a hushed apology and tucked it back into his belt. He sat down on the stool, burying his face in his hands.
“Do you see now?” she said quietly. “The real danger is not the Legacy—it is within us. Power exaggerates our normal human frailties. Even the noblest soul can be consumed by rash anger. With power like the Legacy at our disposal, a rash act can end entire nations. Ashrem did not hide the Legacy from you because he did not trust you, Tristam. He hid it from you because he did not wish to burden you with such a terrible responsibility.”
“Don’t try to reassure me, Norra,” Tristam said, looking up at her weakly. “I’m not even sure what sort of person Ashrem d’Cannith was anymore.”
“He was the same as anyone,” she said. “A good man who made mistakes. Are you familiar with Vathirond?”
“No,” Tristam said.
“Vathirond is a city at the northeastern tip of Breland,” she said. “Throughout the war it served as a military outpost, situated as it was directly between Thrane and Cyre. Near the end of the war, the Brelish army had amassed a particularly devastating force of airships, prepared to drop heavy infantry units deep within Cyre’s borders. Breland was a powerful force in the war at the time, and though they avoided conflict with Cyre, Ashrem received reports that a large force was moving south through Thrane, prepared to ally with the Brelish forces and strike a destructive new offensive into Cyre. Ashrem used the Legacy to cripple the Brelish airships, hoping that the Thrane soldiers would no longer see any value in the alliance and withdraw.”
“What happened?” Tristam asked.
“The Thrane general was a particularly vicious servant of the Silver Flame,” she said. “He saw Vathirond’s weakness as opportunity. He quickly forged an alliance with the Cyrans, offering them a chance to strike back at Breland’s arrogant might. Together, they invaded Vathirond from both sides. The Brelish soldiers were defenseless. Without their magic, they were unable to even issue a speaker post to call for reinforcements. By the time help arrived, the city was in flames. Over three quarters of Vathirond’s populace died at the hands of the Thrane invaders and their Cyran allies. Through it all, Ashrem could only watch and realize that the blood of the fallen was on his hands. It was on that day that he dismantled the Legacy and determined to never use it again. The potential for grave errors like Vathirond was simply too high. Its secrets would die with him.”
“And with you,” Tristam said.
“I know only fragments,” she said. “Ashrem only taught me enough to assist him, never enough to build the Legacy on my own. He did not trust me that far. Truth be told, I was relieved that the replica I built actually functioned properly.”
Tristam blanched. “You weren’t sure it would work?”
“Not entirely,” she said, “but I was sure enough to take the risk.”
“What if it had failed?” Tristam asked.
“What if the Fellmaw hadn’t fallen for your ruse?” she asked. “We both gamble much, Xain.”
“Except that my crew knew the risk they were taking, Norra,” he said. “Yours did not—and now everyone but you and Ijaac are dead.”
“You have no idea how heavily that weighs upon me, Tristam,” she said. “Pray to your selfish, petty little gods that you never have to make such a sacrifice.”
Tristam sighed and said nothing, clasping his hands and slouching on his stool.
“So what do we do now?” Norra asked.
“We return to Dalan and find out what he has learned,” Tristam said. “Hopefully he will have found something by now.”
“That’s not what I mean,” Norra said. “I mean what happens to me? I do not wish to remain on this ship.”
“You were ready to die to destroy Zul’nadn, but now you won’t help us?” he asked.
“Your captain does not want me here,” she said. “None of you particularly like me. I am not needed here.”
“But you know more about the Legacy than anyone save Marth,” Tristam said.
“And that is what worries me most,” she said. “Will you let me leave this ship, knowing what I know? I am a danger to you, Xain.”
Tristam frowned. He could force her to stay. He could threaten her. Better yet, he could just delay her until Dalan returned. If anyone could find a way to obligate Norra to remain and share her expertise, it was he. The Host knew Dalan had already done the same with half the crew.
“You would have given up your life to keep the L
egacy from being reborn,” he said at last. “I do not believe you would rebuild it. Do as you will, Norra. Live your life as you wish. I will not interfere.”
Norra gave him a long, thoughtful look. She laughed softly, drawing a confused look from Tristam.
“Did I say something funny?” he asked.
“You reminded me of Ashrem,” she said. “The same odd mix of doubt and confidence. Do not worry, Xain. I do not intend to leave you to fight Marth alone—but you do not need two artificers on this ship, especially when your skills are quite adequate.”
“Adequate,” he said wryly. “Thank you, Norra. So what do you intend to do?”
“I will return to Morgrave University,” she said. “Ashrem began his studies of the Draconic Prophecy there. Perhaps I can find the path that originally led him to the Legacy. In the meantime, you can continue pursuing Marth in a more direct manner. I will contact you if I learn anything.”
“We may be difficult to reach,” Tristam said. “Even I do not know where we will go next.”
“Send me a post whenever you will be in a port for an extended length of time,” she said. “I will reply as quickly as I am able.”
Tristam nodded as he rose. “Very well, then,” he said. “I will leave you to your rest, Norra.”
She closed her eyes and sat back against the wall.
“Thank you for repairing Omax,” he said, still standing at the hatch. She seemed to already be asleep.
Tristam closed the hatch, running one hand through his tangled hair as he walked down the corridor. As usual, answers had only brought more questions. Discoveries only bred doubt. What was the Legacy? Who was Zamiel? What was Ashrem’s part in the Draconic Prophecy? Was he right to just let Norra Cais leave?
The last question he quickly pushed away. He would not force her help. He would not become like Dalan, playing games with other people’s lives.
A heavy thump from deeper in the cargo hold drew Tristam’s attention, along with an oddly dank smell. He looked up to see Ijaac sitting between two large crates, wearing a loose tunic and loose cloth trousers. His morningstar and armor sat in a heap beside him. He removed his other heavy boot and massaged his bare feet with a blissful moan.
“Ijaac?” Tristam said curiously.
“Sorry about the smell, Master Xain,” Ijaac said. “Feels like I’ve been running for days. Good to get a real chance to rest.”
“You can have a cabin if you want,” Tristam said. “We still have one to spare.”
“No thanks, Master Xain,” Ijaac said, looking down the corridor pensively. “The cabins all have portholes.”
“Portholes?” Tristam asked, “and call me Tristam, please.”
“Aye,” Ijaac said nervously. “If I don’t have to look at the sky, it bothers me less to be so high up in it.”
“You’re afraid of heights?” Tristam asked.
The dwarf’s face flushed. “Afraid is a strong word, Tristam,” he said. “Call it cautious.”
“Cautious,” Tristam agreed with a laugh. “Well, I can ask Gerith to find something to cover the porthole if you like. Better than sleeping in the hold.”
“That’d be wonderful,” the old dwarf said. “I’d be much obliged.”
“So I take it we’ll be dropping you off in Stormhome as well?” Tristam asked.
Ijaac looked up at Tristam, blue eyes wide. He quickly returned his attention to his feet, sighing deeply. “I suppose the Dawn has steel enough to defend her,” he said. “If you don’t need this old dwarf, I’ll be happy to go on my way. Have to admit I’ll be sad to leave.”
“You want to stay?” Tristam asked, surprised.
Ijaac looked up again, smiling through his thick beard. “Tristam, I saw what happened back in Zul’nadn. You were free and clear. I’d given you the time you needed to escape. There aren’t many men who’d run back past a raging dragon to save a man they’d just met.”
“What else could I do?” Tristam said. “I couldn’t leave you there.”
“And that’s what I mean,” Ijaac said, snapping his fingers. “I’m your dwarf, Tristam Xain, till you need me no more.”
Tristam was stunned by the unexpected show of confidence. With all of the doubt and confusion that their journey to the Frostfell had heaped on him, the dwarf’s earnest trust was an odd relief.
“Thank you, Master Bruenhail,” he said finally. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you like.”
Ijaac grinned and continued rubbing his feet.
TWENTY-ONE
The prophet absorbed the scene below with extraordinary calm. Truth be told, calm was the only emotion he felt he could appropriately muster. Anger would have been a waste of energy. Sadness was beneath him—regret was a burden for weak minds. Instead, his mind focused with a fierce intensity as cool as the frozen plains that surrounded him.
He stood on an icy precipice, looking down into the valley where Zul’nadn had been. It was a yawning chasm now. Churning, oily smoke boiled from its depths. One side of the giant’s skull still rose from the earth, like a shattered eggshell. The rest was gone. When he heard Mercheldethast’s call, he expected trouble. The dragon never summoned him lightly. He had not expected this. He could sense magic—raw, random, fluctuating magic as it echoed through the pit. He had not expected this, and he did not enjoy being surprised.
He continued staring earnestly into the jagged pit, as if expecting the temple to rise back out of the depths and rebuild itself.
Zamiel climbed down and slowly walked toward the smoking crater. He could have moved much more swiftly if he chose, but there was no need. This was a situation best observed with care. He had no idea who could have done this or how. It galled him to underestimate an enemy. He searched his surroundings cautiously as he advanced. In the distant southern sky he saw the crackling green mass of clouds that was the Fellmaw. The storm was a powerful entity, but it could not have done this. Zamiel squinted as he studied the play of lightning through the storm’s heart. His sharp eyes picked out a hint of blue light within the storm, a ring of fire moving swiftly away.
“Karia Naille,” he whispered.
A low gurgling rolled through the jagged rocks in reply. Zamiel paid it no mind. He could feel dead eyes watching him from the shadows. As stupid as the ghouls were, they had long since learned not to rouse his wrath. Zamiel was, in turn, content to leave the undead beasts alone as long as they avoided him. They were useful in dissuading the occasional curious explorer from Zul’nadn, and had proven ridiculously difficult to exterminate. No matter how many of them he killed, they always returned to infest the temple again. Apparently at least a few of them had even survived whatever catastrophe had consumed the valley. Zamiel idly wondered if the undead would just wander the Frostfell aimlessly forever, but he had greater concerns.
Tristam Xain. They boy had grown from a minor irritant to a serious threat in a short time. Until now, Zamiel had always assumed it was some failure of conscience or indecision on Marth’s part that had always allowed Xain to escape. Now he was not so sure. If Tristam Xain had destroyed Zul’nadn, what else was he capable of? Had he listened to the Prophecy and seen its visions? Did he know about the destiny of the conqueror?
The Prophecy was never wrong, but it could be misread…
The other mortals who entered Zul’nadn had all reacted predictably. The Prophecy was very strong in the depths of Zul’nadn. It wanted to be heard. It wanted to be fulfilled. It would speak to any candidate who was even remotely acceptable, painting images of a terrible future. Those who endured the visions invariably replied in one of two ways—either seduced or repelled. Ironically it was the latter sort who Zamiel had always found the most pliable. Those who were repelled by the destiny of the conqueror were willing to make the greatest sacrifices to avoid it—and with each sacrifice lost a bit more of their souls, making them easier to control.
None of them had done anything like this, with outright defiance, destroying the Prophecy itself rather than bec
ome a pawn of destiny. This changed everything.
Zamiel stood at the edge of a broken cliff, extending one thin arm from his robes. The black smoke curled around his fingers. His dark eyes narrowed as he studied the patterns of magic. They were broken and confused, but still quite obvious to his eyes. The means by which Zul’nadn had fallen were all too familiar. It was impossible. Xain had no access to any such power, but Zamiel knew better than to distrust his senses.
The prophet glanced to one side, his eyes catching sight of a glimmer amid the debris. He knelt, sifting the snow away and picking up a flat shard of ice. Not ice, in fact, but a sleek white scale. It shone in the cold light of the Frostfell sun, gleaming brilliantly in Zamiel’s hand. One edge was ragged and dark, as if broken in a fire.
The prophet’s lips parted, and he released a mournful cry. The words were strange and alien, fragments of a language never invented by man. He closed his eyes as he listened to the call echo on the wind. He bowed his head when there was no reply. Mercheldethast knew better than to ignore his call. Such a creature would not endure capture. The white dragon must be dead. Bitter anger threatened to shatter Zamiel’s intense calm and he threw back his head, bellowing with such fury that large chunks of crumbling ice fell from the cliffs into the void. As the prophet’s roar faded, he heard the claws of ghouls scampering to get away.
With a sigh, Zamiel collected his rage, swallowing it down, burying it with the rest. Mercheldethast had been a loyal if occasionally dull ally. Endless vigil over a frozen wasteland had been a duty well-suited to such a creature. The white dragon’s loss would not be forgiven. Zamiel tucked Mercheldethast’s scale into his robe and stepped out over the cliff’s edge. He fell, long sleeves of his robe spreading outward and fluttering in the air like broad wings. The smoke swallowed him, enveloping him as he fell. For several seconds there was nothing but darkness as the wind whistled past the falling prophet.
Zamiel landed on the blasted earth at the base of the pit with a thunderous crash. He knelt with hand braced against the earth, but was unharmed. He stood, copper fire curling around one hand to light the depths. He was surrounded by broken ice, stone, and bone. Sparks of orange flame sputtered in the black as the vestigial remains of the Draconic Prophecy attempted to reflect Zamiel’s light. The writings were unreadable now, destroyed along with Zul’nadn and Mercheldethast.
