“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.”
“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.”