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

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 thechangeling’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,