Rise of the Seventh Moon: Heirs of Ash, Book 3 Read Online Free

abandoned seasoned his mood with sadness. There was no other way. The
Dying Sun
was a small ship, designed to support a small crew. For what Marth planned to do, he required a warship. He needed the
Seventh Moon
to rise again, her damaged elemental core replaced with that of her sister vessel. The idea of cutting out his first ship’s heart to power his warship pained him—but it was necessary.
    Marth opened the hatch that led into the ship’s core chamber, closing it behind him so that he would not be interrupted. A large cylinder of black metal dominated the small room. He stepped inside and touched the ship’s heart. The metal was warm, heated from within by the bound elemental.
    Tristam’s repairs to the damaged airship had been significant. Marth was impressed at the miracles the boy had performed in such a short period of time. When Marth had abandoned her in Metrol, she seemed irreparable. Yet even Tristam’s modifications were not what bothered him. It was something deeper.
    The mystery could wait. He had urgent matters requiring his attention.
    Marth reached into his long, black coat and drew out his amethyst wand. He passed it in a complex pattern, chanting words of power. Motes of stuttering, sparkling light projected from the end of the wand and scattered like insects. Marth gave another sharp command, and the energy froze in midair as if trapped by an invisible force.
    “Reveal yourself,” Marth commanded.
    The shining bits of light stirred, swirling around one another as they wove shapes in midair. The image of a humanoid figure formed, resembling an elderly human man. It was nearly transparent. Its arms and legs faded into nothing. The vision’s face was more haunted and lined with worry than Marth remembered, but it was still the face of Ashrem d’Cannith.
    “I thought I had been destroyed,” Ashrem’s visage said. “I thought I was free.”
    “I absorbed the magic that sustains you into my wand,” Marth said. “Destroying you would have been rash. You pose too many questions.”
    “Let me fade,” the vision whispered, his voice hoarse. “I have served my purpose.”
    “Then serve my purpose now, or linger in pain forever,” Marth said. “Tell me what I wish to know, and I will grant you the oblivion that you desire.”
    The changeling’s pale eyes shone green for the briefest instant. He stared deep into the illusionary figure, probing the threads of magic that bound it together. After nearly a minute, he was satisfied that his suspicions had been correct. The changeling’s shoulders slumped. Marth’s eyes filled with pity.
    “Why were you in that rail station?” Marth demanded.
    “I am a reflection of Ashrem d’Cannith,” he said. “Like a ghost, I was bound to protect the
Dying Sun
until the last Heir of Ash arrived.”
    “The last Heir of Ash?” Marth asked. “Tristam Xain?”
    “Yes,” the vision said. “Xain has been chosen … as have you.”
    “Chosen by whom?” Marth demanded. “How can you tell?”
    “I do not know,” Ashrem said. “There is a glow about you, an aura of importance. You were approved by my maker.”
    “Who made you?” Marth demanded.
    “The Mourning made me,” he answered. “I am woven of forgotten magic, like the living spells that haunt Metrol.”
    “Lies,” Marth hissed. “You are reciting an answer that means nothing.”
    He tightened his grip on the wand, causing sparks of green flame to erupt from the tip and scour the illusory figure’s form.The visage of Ashrem doubled over in pain but did not scream.
    “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