Rich Wulf - Rise of the Seventh Moon

“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.