Rise of the Seventh Moon: Heirs of Ash, Book 3 (10 page)

So that was why Ashrem suddenly developed a curiosity about the Draconic Prophecy. Norra moved closer to the strange monk, studying his robes and mannerisms. Norra did not subscribe to any particular theology, but she was aware of the customs and symbols of many religions throughout Khorvaire. This man bore the trappings of none of them. Who was he, and how had Ashrem found him?

Or had this man found Ashrem?

“Strange,” Ashrem said. His tone was sharp and suspicious. “In my studies here, everything I read assures me that the predictions of the Draconic Prophecy are inevitable. Why would a prophet be required to help them come to pass?”

Zamiel chuckled. “Why is it that men of reason always seek to bind faith with logic?”

Ashrem glared at the prophet.

“Your mind is the sort that cannot move forward without answers,” Zamiel said. “So consider this metaphor. Within any forest sprouts a wealth of edible fruits and grains. This happens with or without mortal interference. Yet a farmer can cultivate those plants and see to it that their growth benefits as many as possible.”

“So you see yourself as a farmer?” Ashrem asked.

Zamiel grinned, showing perfect white teeth. “Yes,” he said. “I cultivate destiny, so that it will have the greatest benefit.”

“To whom?” Ashrem asked.

“To Eberron.”

“I have difficulty believing that anything beneficial could be cultivated from what I have seen,” Ashrem said.

“So you found something of Markhelm’s?” Zamiel asked, suddenly alert. “Knowledge of his journey survived?”

“I found his final journal,” Ashrem said, hesitant.

“Tell me what you have learned,” Zamiel said. “Please.”

Norra watched Zamiel warily, disturbed by the eager light in the prophet’s eyes.

Ashrem scowled. “His writings were buried so deeply that the archivists were only dimly aware of their existence. How did you even know of Morien Markhelm? His history is extremely obscure.”

“No mortal who walks in Argonnessen is ever truly forgotten,” Zamiel said, growing obviously more excited. “Tell me more.”

“If you wanted to know more, why didn’t you seek Markhelm’s story for yourself?” Ashrem asked.

“I knew the truth would be of greater value to you than to me,” the prophet said. “You are a respected scholar. You may travel the world’s libraries unimpeded. I am …” he chuckled. “I am a lunatic prophet. I cannot access institutes of higher learning as you can. I was fortunate to even be permitted this audience with you.”

Ashrem folded his arms tightly against his chest and paced across the map. He gazed at the dark continent dominating the southeast corner of the map. He stared past it, out the leaded window at Sharn’s vast cityscape where towers reached for the sky. “I cannot help but doubt the veracity of what I read,” Ashrem said. “The dragons do not tolerate mortal visitors. I would think that
if a man had seen what Morien claimed to see, it would be widely celebrated in the academic community, not buried in a forgotten corner of a library such as this.”

“Certain circumstances decreed otherwise,” Zamiel said.

“What circumstances?” Ashrem said.

“Madness,” Zamiel said. “Politics. The things that always serve as the bane of great men.”

“Explain,” Ashrem demanded.

“Morien was the sole survivor of his expedition,” Zamiel said. “The barbarians who guard the Argonnessen coasts deposited him on a trading vessel, feverish and near death.”

“They released him?” Ashrem asked. “Such mercy seems uncharacteristic. The natives are notoriously merciless toward any who venture into dragon lands.”

“It was no mercy,” Zamiel said. “The barbarians believed that Morien disturbed something which should not have been disturbed, an ancient power that slew his crew. Markhelm had taken a great curse into his soul, a curse that devoured his mind. To kill him would release that curse upon the dragon lands. So the barbarians forced the sailors to take Morien home with them. They hoped that when Morien died, his curse would merely consume the foreign lands that had sent him.”

“So he was an accursed madman?” Ashrem asked.

Zamiel smiled faintly. “Or perhaps a genius,” Zamiel said. “Once Argonnessen was safely out of sight and the captain was preparing to toss him overboard, Morien made a miraculous recovery.”

“He feigned madness?” Ashrem said.

“Quite possibly,” Zamiel said, smiling faintly. “He returned to Morgrave University. I thought he might have recorded his findings here.”

“He did,” Ashrem said. “Though the journal looks as if it were written hastily.”

“A rush to record his findings, no doubt,” Zamiel said.

“So why were his discoveries buried?” Ashrem asked.

“Sannis ir’Morgrave, Master of the University at the time, hated Markhelm,” Zamiel said. “The details of their rivalry are immaterial, but suffice it to say there was a lady involved who preferred adventurers to scholars. It is thus no surprise to me that Sannis would have hidden Morien’s discoveries. Presumably, he never even read the journal, but buried it deep within the archives so that Markhelm would never receive due recognition.”

“Nonsense,” Ashrem said, shaking his head slowly. “Why wouldn’t Morien simply take his findings to a competing university?”

Or, Norra wondered, why hadn’t Sannis destroyed the book? She wished this were not merely an illusion so that she could question the mad prophet herself. Ashrem was a brilliant man, but he always asked the wrong questions. The prophet’s story did not add up. She folded her arms across her slim chest and watched with growing frustration.

Zamiel shrugged. “Perhaps he feared that Morgrave would declare him a liar, and the academic community would shun his findings. Perhaps after recording his discoveries once he could no longer remember them clearly enough to record them in detail a second time. Or perhaps …” Zamiel trailed off, his eyes flickering across the map.

“Perhaps what, prophet?” Ashrem said.

“Perhaps Morien Markhelm reconsidered the wisdom of writing down what he had seen,” Zamiel said. “Perhaps he felt that a dragon’s secrets are better left secret.”

Norra rolled her eyes. A ludicrous answer, but then Ashrem was a dreamer, willing to buy into the dramatic. She would find out nothing more useful if the prophet retained this approach. Knowing Ashrem, he would allow it.

“Dangerous secrets,” Ashrem said. “You sent me here seeking those same secrets, prophet.” He glared at Zamiel.

“We worry a great deal about what may be, Ashrem,” the prophet said. “Let us worry over what we know, not what we might know. I will not lie. The knowledge we seek is deadly. If you fear the wrath of Argonnessen, then walk away. I shall bother you no more. But consider that the secrets of dragons can grant incredible power. Perhaps even the power to end this war.”

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.

“Leave, Ashrem,” Norra said, though she knew he could not hear. “Leave this manipulative charlatan behind.”

“Morien mentioned something called the Legacy,” Ashrem said. “An artifact crafted countless ages ago when dragonkind ruled Eberron.”

“Yes,” Zamiel said.

“You know of it?” Ashrem demanded, looking at the prophet.

“It was a tool so powerful it could alter the world,” Zamiel said. “Its power created the Boneyard in the Talenta Plains, ending a war between dragonkind and the demons of Khyber. It nullified the very magic that was the demon horde’s lifeblood.”

“And slew the dragons as well,” Ashrem said.

“Only because dragons are creatures of magic,” Zamiel said. “Humans are not. Think of it, Master d’Cannith. Such power could neutralize the magical weapons that allow the Five Nations to fight one another—but leave the people alive.”

“Foolishness,” Ashrem said. “Wars existed long before airships and warforged. Without magic, men would still kill one another.”

“But the wars of times past were not as savage as this one,” Zamiel said. “You have seen the signs, Ashrem. You know if your
family and others like them do not cease to pursue the use of magic as a weapon that the situation will only escalate. Things can grow much worse than they are now.”

“So you want me to prevent the Five Nations from destroying themselves by creating an even more dangerous weapon?” Ashrem sneered. He pulled the door open with a creaking wooden cough.

“You have been trying to end this war for how long now?” Zamiel said. “What progress have you made?”

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.

Zamiel’s dark eyes narrowed. “Then there is something more,” he said. “Something you have not told me. What did you see in Markhelm’s report?”

“Markhelm found sections of the Draconic Prophecy transcribed on the walls of a cavern deep in Argonnessen,” Ashrem said, pulling away from the door. “He transcribed them in his reports in perfect detail. That was how he learned of the Legacy, but there was something more.” Ashrem’s expression became troubled.

“The future is often troubling,” Zamiel said. “Especially when we learn our part in it. Tell me.”

“It isn’t that,” Ashrem said. “These weren’t mere words. When I looked at Markhelm’s transcriptions, it was as if I heard a voice in my mind. I saw things that were impossible.”

A vision, Norra reflected. Much like this one?

“The Prophecy spoke to you?” Zamiel asked, growing obviously more excited. “A rare but not unprecedented occurrence. Tell me what you saw, Master d’Cannith! Please.”

“I saw a mortal rebuild a weapon once wielded by ancient dragons,” Ashrem said. “I saw him use it against the nations of Khorvaire, destroying their weapons, rendering them helpless. I saw this man cursed as a traitor. I saw him flee into exile.”

“But what became of Eberron?” Zamiel asked. “Did the vision show you what came next?”

“Bereft of their magic, the Five Nations knew terrible hardship,” Ashrem said. “In the end, this hardship unified the people. There was peace again.”

“Disturbing,” Zamiel said. “I think I would turn away as well, if I saw such a thing. Why risk everything, only to be forsaken by those I had saved? It seems pointless.”

Ashrem smiled bitterly. “For peace?” he said. “It would be well worth it. And most of those who were once my friends have already forsaken me.”

“But you still hesitate?” Zamiel asked. “Why?”

“I know enough about magic to know such visions can be faked,” Ashrem said. “What if the vision was false?”

Zamiel frowned. “A trap?” he said. “To what end? Who would do such a thing and why?”

Ashrem scratched his thin beard in irritation. “I do not know,” he said. “Something simply doesn’t sit right. I feel very strange.”

“We speak of a tool forged thousands of years before mankind walked the earth, a weapon that shattered an army of immortal demons,” Zamiel said. “We speak of defying every nation in Khorvaire. We speak of ending the war itself. I should hope you feel strange; this is not the sort of matter one engages lightly.”

“Perhaps,” Ashrem said.

Norra found it telling that Zamiel insisted on calling the Legacy a tool, not a weapon.

“It is not my intent to compel you to do that which you do
not wish to do,” Zamiel said, bowing his head in a gesture of humility. “I know only that my studies of the Prophecy led me to you, Ashrem d’Cannith. I have offered my guidance. Whether you choose to accept that offer, I leave to you. How you choose to fulfill your destiny is your decision.”

“Is it?” Ashrem asked with a bitter laugh. “I thought the Prophecy was inevitable.”

“It is,” Zamiel said.

“Then how can I truly have any choice?” Ashrem said. “If this is my destiny, will it not unfold whether or not I choose to embrace it?”

“The Prophecy is inevitable, but it is also inscrutable,” Zamiel said. “Mortal interpretations, even those of learned individuals like me, are frequently flawed. Sometimes even a perfect interpretation of its manifestations makes little sense without the context of hindsight.”

“What use is a prediction that makes no sense until it has transpired?” Ashrem asked.

“I said sometimes,” Zamiel said. “In your case, the manifestation that led me to you was relatively clear. I was instructed to seek a senior craftsman, a man who can breathe life into stone, a man cast from his house for setting his sword aside.” Zamiel smirked. “You helped create the first warforged, thus granting life to stone. Your pacifist leanings have earned you the disfavor of your house, a form of self-imposed exile. Such words are open to interpretation, but they describe you aptly.”

“But they may just as equally apply to someone else,” Ashrem said. “Someone a thousand miles from here or someone not yet born.”

“Perhaps,” Zamiel said. “You cannot do what I do for any length of time without the ability to admit being wrong.”

“So the Prophecy has foreseen everything, but our ignorant
inability to understand it gives us the illusion of free will?” Ashrem asked.

Zamiel laughed. “You are a cynical man.”

Ashrem shrugged into his robes.

“The point is this. The Prophecy guides us, but our choices are our own,” Zamiel said. “If you wish, I can guide you to other manifestations and help you interpret them. You may find wisdom there. Or you can choose to pursue the secrets of the Legacy alone. Perhaps you might even choose to ignore this altogether and hope that the war ends without your assistance.” The prophet watched Ashrem in silence for a long time. “But I doubt a mind as keen as yours will be able to set this puzzle aside. An ancient device capable of unraveling all magic? If you do not seek it out, Ashrem d’Cannith, you know that someone else will. Someone less noble and selfless than you.”

Norra looked into the strange prophet’s copper eyes. They were dark, unreadable. Was the man issuing a threat or stating a fact? The prophet knew his audience. That much was certain. He mixed fact and mysticism to Ashrem’s unique taste, adding in just a dash of flattery to inspire the old man to taking up his cause. Norra found she hated Zamiel, even though she had never met him. His style of manipulation reminded her of Dalan, but it was a great deal more sinister. If Zamiel had truly guided Ashrem all those years ago, he had been wise to hide himself from her.