Rich Wulf - Rise of the Seventh Moon

“ Karia Naille warns that what we attempt is dangerous,” Aeven said. “Such raw power could kill Omax as easily as it preserves him. She does not know how much a fragile form such as his can sustain.”

“Omax, fragile?” Ijaac scoffed.

“To an elemental creature such as Karia Naille , you are all fragile,” Aeven said.

“It’s all right,” Tristam said. “I know the ship doesn’t understand how he’s put together, but I do. I’ll stay here to help regulate the flow of power.”

“Korth is days from here, Tristam,” Dalan said. “You plan to watch him the entire time?”

“Yes,” Tristam said.

“I think that will do,” Pherris said gruffly. “I don’t doubt Master Xain has considered all the reasons why not to do this; there is no need to question him further. Omax is our friend. He deserves any chance we can give him. Unless one of you has a better idea how to save his life, I suggest we get on with this.” The gnome took the helm in both hands. “All hands, prepare for takeoff.”

In all her travels and studies, Norra Cais knew of only three places in all of Eberron that could truly boast larger libraries than that of Morgrave University. Despite her standard cynicism, she was impressed with the school’s wealth of knowledge. She had also come to appreciate Morgrave’s diversity. The masters of the school had long ago accepted that other colleges would always be afforded greater respect. Thus they were more willing to take measures to obtain information that other institutions might frown upon.

Master Larrian ir’Morgrave frequently hired independent experts to obtain prized volumes on behalf of the school. These explorers rarely had any real degree in their fields of study; sometimes their expertise consisted of good night vision, a sense of opportunity, and a crowbar. While the university did not officially condone theft, it did overlook the liberation of threatened manuscripts from areas of political turbulence. Depending on one’s point of view, nearly any part of Eberron could be reasoned to be an area of political turbulence. Many of the school’s most prized reference works had origins that were best not discussed. It didn’t matter. Morgrave University valued results. Its librarians were adept at removing bloodstains from leather and vellum.

The school’s collection of references concerning the Draconic Prophecy was particularly extensive. The Prophecy was a matter of keen interest to treasure hunters, as it often emerged in areas rich in valuable dragonshards. Those adventurers who failed to find the shards they sought often transcribed the Prophecy instead, knowing that the scholars in Dalannan Tower would pay a fair price.

Norra sighed as she tucked one of the heavy books back onto the shelf and consulted her list once again. Petra had been kind enough to translate the subjects of Ashrem’s research to a format she could actually read. There were dozens of books on the list. In the three days since her arrival, she had barely begun. The books she had already reviewed were all extremely basic. They told her nothing about the Legacy or how Ashrem had begun his path.

She leaned heavily against a bookcase, covering her eyes with one hand to fight the throbbing headache she was developing.

“Think, Norra,” she chided herself. “You’re missing something obvious here.”

She slid into a crouch against the bookcase and held the list close to her face, staring down at each name and date as if the secret lay there. She replayed the past in her mind, remembering the circumstances that led to Ashrem’s interest here. He had taken a sudden interest in the Draconic Prophecy, discussing it with her at length, musing that perhaps it might hold some key to ending the Last War. She had mentioned Morgrave as a resource, and Ashrem became interested. After a few months of study here, he suddenly set off on his journey to the Frostfell …

Of course.

Whatever had set Ashrem off seeking Zul’nadn wouldn’t be at the top of the list. It would be at the bottom-the last book he had read before urgently deciding the journey would be worthwhile. Her eyes scanned the list, widening when she found the title in question.

The Wanderings of Morien Markhelm: A Journey into Argonnessen .

She had never even heard the name Morien Markhelm before. If such a man had truly entered the land of dragons and returned to tell his story, why was it not more widely known? Perhaps it was a work of fiction.

She tucked Petra’s list into her vest and set out to find the answer.

The book she sought was not stored with the rest of the Draconic Prophecy references. The Morgrave library occupied nearly a dozen floors within Dalannan Tower. The most valuable references were safely stored in the upper levels, where security was tightest. The volumes most commonly accessed by the student body were stored on the lower levels, for convenience. The book she sought was apparently stored in the middle levels, an area seldom visited by anyone other than the wizards who occasionally refreshed the library’s maintenance spells. By the coating of dust on the bookcases here, even they were apparently infrequent visitors. She was forced to navigate with her own light, summoning a radiance from one of her rings with a whisper.

She found what she sought on a top shelf tucked in a far corner, next to a thin window that, if not for the grime, would have afforded an excellent view of the plateau. It was a thick volume, emblazoned with crudely scrawled Draconic runes. She took the book to a dusty chair and sat, using her ring for illumination as she turned the pages.

From what she could glean at a quick glance, the book had been written nearly a century ago. The author was an explorer who ventured into Argonnessen at the behest of Sannis ir’Morgrave, then master of the university. Morien had been the expedition’s only survivor. The book was written in a mad hodgepodge of the common tongue, Elven, and roughly sketched Draconic runes, in a cramped, tilted hand as if the writer was in a great hurry or a little mad. It almost reminded her of Petra’s crazed shorthand, though it was more legible. Norra sighed. Trying to decipher this would be a chore.

Yet as she turned the pages, something bothered her. It was like a flash of movement in the corner of the eye, something seen but not quite seen. Something was out of place. She studied the pages intently, turning back and forth, trying to find what she had glimpsed.

And there it was-a rune hidden among the Draconic scrawl that was not truly Draconic, but something else. It was the sort of symbol often used to mark magical creations with words of command. Even a trained eye might not notice it-Norra nearly hadn’t. Surely it wasn’t part of Morien Markhelm’s original text. Norra focused her senses upon the symbol. There was magic here. She let her fingertips brush the symbol and read the word of command aloud.

She felt a sense of nausea as the room shifted. She found that she was standing in the center of a darkened study. A map of Khorvaire was drawn upon the floor. She recognized the room as one of the university’s lower-level private studies. When Morgrave University was first built more than two centuries ago, this study’s marble floor was inlaid with a beautifully crafted map of the world. For whatever reason, the artist had left the map bare of all names and national borders. In recent decades, the students had begun to use the map to monitor the tides of the Last War. They added names and boundaries in colored chalk to the continent of Khorvaire, correcting them as they changed, adding names as nations arose from the fortunes of war. It looked like their work had been erased and redrawn of late, so often that the tiles were beginning to wear.