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

he noticed his reflection on the surface of the ship’s core. He was struck by memory, recalling the many times he had seen his own reflection here in ages past. The face that stared back at him now was unfamiliar. The difference was greater than the raw burn scars that crawled up the left side of his face. He looked into his own eyes and was taken aback by the cruelty there.
    He remembered the illusion’s mocking words when it saw him at Metrol—
Kresthian would be ashamed to see what you have become. Your sons weep for their wretched father
.
    Their deaths had removed all purpose from his life—all purpose save revenge. Hate consumed Marth. One by one, he had inflicted that hate upon those who had wronged him, but at what cost? How many more orphans had he created? How many more widows? Ashrem d’Cannith had shown him mercy, given him a second chance to help mend this twisted world that had murdered his family. Ashrem taught him that the Last War was their true enemy. It was the Last War that had ruined his life and destroyed his family.
    For a time, Marth had reclaimed that life. The changelingbecame something more than a deranged killer. At Ashrem’s side, he had brought some measure of peace to this world.
    But it wasn’t Ashrem d’Cannith who ended the Last War. The good they had done had all been for nothing. The unthinkable destruction wrought by the Day of Mourning was the only thing that opened Khorvaire’s eyes to the truth.
    It was all so pointless.
    Marth had fought for his nation, and was betrayed. His nation murdered his family.
    Marth had fought for peace, and was betrayed again. The Mourning murdered his homeland.
    Zamiel had shown him what seemed to be the truth. The people of Eberron didn’t want to be saved. It was the nature of mortals to destroy themselves. To resist war and chaos only prolonged things—but the world could still be saved. The Draconic Prophecy proved that history was cyclical. Great empires rose to rule the world. They were inevitably corrupted from within and destroyed themselves. The world was always reborn from those ashes, heralding a new golden age. Now it was time for the world to be reborn again. The Legacy would be the catalyst of that rebirth.
    The Legacy awaited … here. Marth’s fingers brushed the warm surface of the ship’s core again. Marth would be the herald of the new age.
    But now, with his goal nearly in his grasp, the changeling wavered. How many innocents would suffer for what he had done? How many like Kresthian? How many like his sons? Had he come too far to turn back?
    It was not the ship that had changed. It was he. He was no longer the man he once was. The illusion was right. They were the same. Both of them had been programmed by forces they could not comprehend to serve a purpose they did notunderstand. If Ashrem d’Cannith had taught Marth anything, it was that it was never too late for redemption.
    The changeling climbed back out onto the deck. He had been ready to command the helmsmen to turn about but stopped himself. The air was still. The land beneath him was gray and dead. Crawling mist shrouded the cities. Ruined buildings clawed at the sky, monuments to a forgotten nation. To see Cyre in such a state pained him.
    Perhaps Marth had changed, but so had this world. This was not the Cyre he knew. This was not the world he knew.
    “Captain?” the helmsman said, looking at him curiously.
    “Nothing,” Marth said. “As you were.”
    The helmsmen nodded and returned to his work. Marth scowled down at Cyre’s ruined landscape. A world that could do this was not worth saving.

T HREE
     
    T he town of Gatherhold had been transformed into a frenzy of activity by Gerith Snowshale’s arrival, though Gatherhold was always a frenzy of something. The town was a central meeting place between the nomadic tribes. Halflings from across the Talenta Plains came here to rest, trade, socialize, fight, tell stories, and frequently all of the above. With