Rich Wulf - Rise of the Seventh Moon

But something didn’t look right. Norra knelt and studied the floor. This was not a recent map. By the state of the borders, it seemed to illustrate the state of the Last War years ago, roughly the same time Ashrem had come to study here.

She felt another shift in her surroundings. Suddenly a man stood beside her. He was thin, almost gaunt. His features, once fine, were now pale and sallow. His shoulders slumped in his loose tan robes. He looked as if he had been handsome, perhaps in his youth, but time and stress had worn on him. His dark hair and thin beard were shot with gray. His eyes were haunted as he stared at his feet, concentrating on the scribbled borders of Cyre. He wrung his hands within his sleeves.

Norra drew away quickly, but he didn’t notice her at all. It took her several seconds to realize that she recognized him. It was Ashrem, as he looked many years ago. She looked from Ashrem to the map again. This was some sort of illusion-a reflection of the past.

In the shadows between the bookcases, something moved.

“Who is there?” Ashrem demanded. “I told your headmaster I preferred to use these chambers for private study.”

“And the headmaster has respected your wishes,” replied a calm, sibilant voice. “But I am not a student.”

“You,” Ashrem said in a low voice. He turned to face the speaker, hands balled into fists within his wide sleeves. “Step into the light.”

There was a shift in the darkness as the speaker nodded in compliance. He stepped forward, revealing a small bald man in robes of burnished copper. His face twisted in a bemused grin.

“Who are you, monk?” Ashrem demanded.

“You know me, Ashrem,” the man said, mildly confused. “Do not feign ignorance.”

“And do not misunderstand my question,” Ashrem said. “I know your name, Zamiel. I want to know who you are to know what you know. You are no simple monk, as you claim.”

Zamiel. Tristam had demanded Norra tell her what she knew of a Zamiel and was shocked when she knew nothing. He had never explained what significance the name bore, other than that he was a prophet. She listened carefully.

“You do not tell me how you can craft marvels of magical artifice, yet I accept you have mastered mysteries I scarcely understand,” Zamiel said. “So it is with me. I am a servant of the Draconic Prophecy. I sought you out to aid you in fulfilling your part of the Prophecy, Master d’Cannith. That is why I gave you Morien Markhelm’s name. I did not know what ultimately became of him, but I knew one of your allies could help you find his legend.”

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.”