Rise of the Seventh Moon: Heirs of Ash, Book 3 (9 page)

“Don’t try to speak, Omax,” Tristam said. The artificer extended one hand, hands shining with a pale white light. The energy danced from his fingertips onto the warforged’s metal skin, sparks of magic winding through the damaged structure. “Just hold on.”

Omax nodded and lay back. The light in his eyes faded to almost nothing.

“You needed my help, Tristam?” Ijaac Bruenhail said. The dwarf looked around the inside of the tent. He gripped his morningstar in one hand, as if expecting a fight.

“Get his legs,” Tristam said. “Help me get him back onboard.”

The dwarf groaned at the idea of carrying Omax but did as requested. With some effort they carried the dense warforged to the stretcher and hauled him back aboard the ship. Once aboard, Tristam and Ijaac carried him out of the hold, laying him on the deck next to the ship’s helm. The rest of the crew had gathered, watching Tristam with varying degrees of confusion. Pherris Gerriman was tending the ship’s controls but spared Tristam a vexed glance.

“Korth?” the gnome captain asked.

“Aye,” Tristam said, digging in his bag again. “We need raw materials to repair this much damage.”

“Gavus Frauk,” Dalan said. “You intend to take him to the golemwright.”

“To the golemwright’s shop, anyway,” Tristam said. “I wouldn’t let Frauk touch Omax.” The artificer drew a length of thick metal wire out of his satchel. “The Canniths don’t build
warforged anymore, but they build golems out of the same materials. Frauk will have what we need to fix a warforged—and he owes us.”

“Can Omax hang on long enough for us to reach Karrnath?” Seren asked, looking at the warforged with a worried expression.

Tristam fixed one end of the wire into the scar bisecting Omax’s chest. He spoke words of magic, fusing it to the warforged’s body. “That’s where
Karia Naille
’s favor comes in,” Tristam said. He held out the other end of the wire, weighted down with an improvised adamantine hook. He swung it in a few quick circles and hurled it straight up, latching it around the tall strut that embraced the ship’s fiery elemental ring.

“What are you doing, Tristam?” Aeven asked.

“The Dragon’s Eye drew upon a raw elemental force,” Tristam said. “I don’t entirely understand what it is—but I know what it does. I want
Karia Naille
to share her elemental energies with Omax. Let the fire we saw in Zul’nadn flow into him. That power was used to preserve the entire world once. We can use it to keep Omax alive.”

Tristam closed his eyes and concentrated. The ship’s elemental ring burned brilliant blue in reply. That same light extended the length of the thick cable. Omax’s back arched, and a deep groan erupted from him. His eyes shone with searing blue energy. Crackling blue sparks erupted from every joint in his damaged body. Tristam extended his hands, grasping Omax’s shoulders. The light in his eyes receded to its normal hue, though faint sparks of blue electricity still crackled across his body. Omax lay still once more.

“
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.”

S
EVEN

I
n 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.

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.”