“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 sacrificed 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.
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.”