Rich Wulf - Flight of the Dying Sun

“Understood,” Zamiel said. “How soon before your flagship can be repaired?”

“Binding a new elemental is a long and difficult process,” Marth said. “Only the Zil’argo gnomes have truly mastered it, and coercing a skilled craftsman into assisting us could be difficult. It may be months before the Moon flies again.”

“But not an insurmountable problem,” Zamiel said. “What of Tristam Xain?” He looked at Marth curiously.

“Still alive, for now,” Marth said.

The prophet looked at Marth quietly, his question unspoken.

“I have called in a favor,” the changeling said. “Shaimin d’Thuranni has agreed to aid us.”

“A single assassin where your entire crew failed?” Zamiel asked, rising and pacing slowly about the cavern. “I do not like that.”

“He is a Thuranni,” Marth said. “They do not fail.”

“I know of his family’s reputation,” Zamiel said. “Even without their dragonmarks, their deadly cunning is without parallel. All the same, you must have a great deal of faith in this man to entrust an outsider with your enemy.”

“We have a history,” Marth said. “Thuranni House upholds its obligations. He can be trusted.”

“Very well,” Zamiel said, though he sounded unsatisfied. “And what remains for us to do before the Legacy is complete?”

“It is already complete,” Marth said, his voice distant. He reached beneath the folded jacket that lay by his side and drew out a small cylinder.

It was an unimpressive, simple thing-an unadorned tube of pure black metal that seemed to absorb light. It was no longer than a foot, no thicker than a man’s wrist. Yet the prophet’s eyes widened when he sensed the power lurking within it.

“That is a working replica of the Legacy?” Zamiel said in a hushed voice. “How is that possible? I thought that Ashrem’s remaining notes were imperfect, that there were still pieces of the mystery that remained to discover.”

“There are,” Marth said. “Yet I am not completely bereft of skill with artifice. I have taken what we have learned and made deductions, filled the gaps with my own knowledge. I believe that I have reproduced the Legacy much as Ashrem intended. It is unstable, imperfect, but workable.”

“Then why are you still concerned with Xain and the others?” Zamiel asked with an excited chuckle. “They can no longer bar you from your destiny. Let us proceed to Sharn and remake the world as it should be.”

“No,” Marth said, shaking his head vigorously. “Not yet. The time is not right. The Legacy is not yet ready to use on the scale we intended. Even more curious, its purpose remains unclear.”

“You know its purpose, Marth,” Zamiel said. “You know better than anyone, save Ashrem himself.”

“Yes,” Marth said, “but I still don’t know why a man like Ashrem d’Cannith would ever create such a thing. It does not seem right. It makes no sense. I do not trust it, and an untrustworthy tool cannot be put toward such an important task. If the Legacy has a hidden purpose, something other than what I expect, then how can I rely upon it to perform as I desire?” The changeling sighed. “I suppose my babblings must not make a great deal of sense to you, prophet.”

“More than you realize.” Zamiel chuckled. “Perhaps you are right to be wary. A test may be in order.”

“Agreed,” Marth said. “Though I must be cautious. I cannot test the Legacy in an uninhabited area, or there will be no way to determine if it truly produces its effects on the scale we intend. Yet if I reveal its power too recklessly, the threat it represents would be diminished. If others are aware of what the Legacy can do, they might prepare against it and find ways to defend against it.”

“True,” Zamiel said. “But Eberron is a vast place, populated with many ignorant fools. Surely there must be some area where you could test the Legacy and no one of consequence would witness it, or have any reaction other than pointless panic.”

“Surely,” Marth said quietly, but his voice was troubled.

“I leave it to you,” Zamiel said. “The appropriate opportunity will present itself in time.”

The prophet bowed and receded into the darkness without a sound.

Power.

Power was a commodity that wavered under scrutiny and invariably waned when it was revealed. True dominance could not be measured merely by the possession of power but also by one’s willingness to keep that power in secrecy until it was needed. Such was a lesson Zamiel had long ago learned, and thus he was cautious, even in Marth’s presence. The prophet valued Marth-as much as he was capable of valuing anyone other than himself-but that was no reason to be lax. Caution was key. The Prophecy appeared to favor Marth. The Prophecy was never wrong. However, it could be misread. Zamiel had no illusions about his own fallibility. He had been wrong too many times before to indulge such arrogance. Entrusting too much faith in fickle mortals was a waste of time, and thus he concealed the extent of his knowledge and abilities even from allies such as Marth.

And so it was that the prophet walked a good distance from the caverns before drawing upon his magic. He spoke a single word, and then was somewhere else. Zamiel stood in the shadows of a dirty stone building, leaning slightly off balance from the passage of time and shoddy construction. Cities were a curious thing. There were too many sights, sounds, smells, all colliding at once. With so much clamoring for attention, to even try to pay attention was pointless. Focus on one thing and it would quickly be supplanted by another, equally meaningless sensation. It was all so … temporary. Zamiel squinted his nose in annoyance and ignored it all.

A presence close behind drew the prophet’s attention. He peered over his shoulder just as a heavy wooden board collided with the back of his head. The prophet fell to one knee from the force of the attack. A second blow struck him across the back before he recovered his senses enough to turn and pluck the weapon from his assailant’s hand. An unshaven man in shabby clothing stared in blank surprise, his hands now grasping empty air. Zamiel rose unharmed, looming much taller than he had only seconds before.

“Why did you attack me?” Zamiel asked, his voice shining with curiosity. His eyes gleamed with a strange eagerness.

The dirty man turned and ran. Zamiel smiled faintly and watched him depart. He weighed the possibility of stopping the vagrant, perhaps even killing him for the unprovoked attack, but what purpose would that serve? It wasn’t as if the man had accomplished anything, and it was not Zamiel’s duty to remove garbage from these human streets. He dropped the wooden bludgeon amid the piled refuse and stepped out of the alley.

Better to be done with his business and be gone than to waste undue time. He strode through the city with a purpose, his sharp eyes flicking from one person to the next, analyzing their worth and then discarding them. The crowd unconsciously parted around him, never taking note of his presence and returning to their business after he passed.

The prophet turned a corner and entered a broad thoroughfare, sloping upward to the north. The streets were cleaner, more orderly. Marble representations of the Sovereign Host loomed over the passing citizens, looking down with expressions of love, determination, or patient indifference. Zamiel paused to study the craftsmanship, allowing himself a small smile as he approached the man who waited in the shadows of Kol Korran’s sculpture.

“A fitting place for us to meet,” Zamiel said, looking up into the eyes of a broadly grinning dwarf. “God of wealth, commerce. Patron of merchants, bankers, thieves, and all those who desire more than they deserve. I can only wonder why the Host would allow someone like Kol Korran in their midst. Like mortals, I can only assume they will allow any manner of devil in their midst as long as he proves sufficiently useful, and fear that he would be far more dangerous as an enemy.”