Rich Wulf - Rise of the Seventh Moon

“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.

“I need time,” Ashrem said softly. “More time to study Markhelm’s writings and determine their legitimacy. More time to determine what I must do. I will need to seek others that can aid me.”

“House Cannith?” Zamiel asked.

“No,” the old man said, his voice hollow. He seemed to be resigning himself to a painful decision. “If this vision is true, I would not wish such a fate upon my family. Though they abandoned me, I cannot damn them. I must find others like myself-others who hate this war as much as I do. I must find people who have been forsaken. People with nothing left to lose.”

“Like me,” Norra said gravely. “No wonder you kept Tristam away from the Legacy. He had imagination with none of my bitter cynicism. He was always your favorite student, wasn’t he, Ashrem?”

“You are wise not to ignore your destiny, my friend,” Zamiel said, attempting to comfort the old man.

Ashrem d’Cannith looked at the prophet with a fixed, wary gaze. He exited the chamber, letting the study door creak shut behind him. A thud echoed through the shadowed chamber.

The moment Ashrem left, Norra Cais found herself seated in the dusty library again. Morien Markhelm’s book lay open in her lap. She felt a sense of dizziness from the shift in her apparent surroundings. She grasped the arms of her chair until the room stopped moving.

What had she just seen? Had it been some sort of message, left behind by Ashrem? A warning? If he wished to warn her about Zamiel, why hide it in a rune in a book she might never even read? Why not just tell her directly? Who had left this vision and to what purpose?

It didn’t make any sense.

She had to know more.

Norra returned to the beginning of Markhelm’s journal and started reading.

Zed moved to the mouth of the alley and peered carefully around the corner. The mortuary was calm and quiet. Only a few passersby walked the streets. Most of them casually avoided the darkened building. The cart still waited outside the offices, hitched to a pair of horses.

“Must be delivering that cart soon,” Zed said.

“No sense in waiting any longer, then,” Eraina said. She waited a safe distance behind him, out of sight.

Zed nodded. “If things go wrong, I’ll try to signal you somehow.”

“I’ll look for screaming, random violence, and possibly fire,” Eraina said.

He gave her a hurt look. “I was thinking more of a whistle, you know?” he said, “Maybe pulling up one of the window shades and waving-but keep an eye out for those other things. Just in case.”

“I will,” she said. “Are you certain you wish to do this? It’s already fairly obvious they are working for Marth. We could approach this more directly.”

“But we don’t know how many there are or where their larger base is,” Zed said. “Let’s try diplomacy first. We might learn something.”

Eraina nodded. “Boldrei watch over you, Arthen.”

Zed looked at the paladin for a long, silent moment. “Thank you, Eraina,” he said finally.

He set out across the street, shrugging into his coat as he adjusted the weight of his sword across his shoulders. Hopefully he wouldn’t have to fight. His sword bore the markings of a Knight of the Silver Flame. As a war veteran, it lent him a certain air of legitimacy. Plus, the fact that it was one of the deadliest weapons in Eberron didn’t hurt-just in case diplomacy was insufficient.

Zed knocked on the door. A slit opened, and a curious eye stared out. “Are you Master Arthen?” a gruff voice demanded.

“I am,” Zed said, giving a short bow. “I am here to speak to Niam Kenrickson.”

The slit closed. The sound of a rattling lock followed. The door opened, and a large man waved Zed inside. The inquisitive strode into the mortuary, looking over one shoulder warily as the door slammed shut and bolted behind him. The doorman was nearly a foot taller than Zed and dressed in thick leather armor. A shortsword hung from a loop on his belt.

“Kind of thorough for an undertaker’s doorman, aren’t you?” Zed asked.

The guard stared at Zed with the bored, sullen stare shared by hired muscle the world over. He folded his arms and stood with his back to the door. Zed studied his surroundings. The mortuary lobby was sparse. The walls were of bare wood, with a floor to match. The boards were loose in several places. A single glowing stone hung from a cheap glass fixture on the ceiling. Black shades had been drawn over every window. In one corner, a rather incongruous looking vase of roses rested on a tall, crooked table. The sickly scent of chemicals and rotten meat hung in the air. A pair of double doors at the far side of the room led deeper into the mortuary. This place had been constructed cheaply, and the occupants apparently didn’t care.

The opposite doors opened and Niam Kenrickson entered, alongside six other men. One was dressed nearly identically to Niam, in a dark coat and cloak. He was short and squat where Niam was thin. The other five men resembled the guard, burly men in cheap armor. Zed noticed that Niam looked nervous while his counterpart looked angry. This was going to be bad.

“Yarold, you are overreacting,” Niam said, punctuating his remark with a nervous laugh. “This is unnecessary.”

“First the Lyrandar embargo against us and now this,” the shorter man said. He looked up at Zed. There was obvious anger in his eyes. “We shall see if I am overreacting. You are the Thrane war hero?”

“I don’t think too many people who knew me in the Last War would call me a hero,” Zed said, “but I was a Knight of the Silver Flame.”

“Indeed,” Yarold said. “How convenient for you to appear when you did.”

Zed blinked. “I don’t know what’s going on here, but it looks like you’re upset. I got into a fight with some guards, and Niam bailed me out of prison. He said I could pay back the favor if I came here. If that’s not the case, I’ll go.” Zed turned around but the guard had not moved from the door. The man rested one hand absently on his sword as his beady eyes flicked in Zed’s direction.