Rise of the Seventh Moon: Heirs of Ash, Book 3

by Wulf, Rich

“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.

  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.”

  “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 someth
ing 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.”