Rich Wulf - Rise of the Seventh Moon

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 things,” 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.”