“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.”
“Does your brotherhood encourage such blasphemy, monk?” the man said, eyes widening in surprise.
“The members of my brotherhood, for lack of a better name, think for themselves,” Zamiel replied with some amusement. “We respect the gods, as we respect all things powerful and ancient, but we do not fear them. The gods are content to remain distant from the world, seeking nothing more than the adoration of small minds. They did not create this world. They do not control this world. Their wrath cannot be predicted or assuaged. There is no more sense in fearing them than there is in fearing a thunderstorm-the storm will do as it wishes whether one fears it or not. Likewise, there is no reason to cower before divinity.”
“You should not say such things,” the man said, glancing at Kol Korran nervously.
Zamiel chuckled darkly. “My words make you uncomfortable, spy?” he asked. “Then let us speak of something else.”
“Yes,” the other man agreed, glancing about quickly, “but not here.” He ducked into the alley between the statues of Kol Korran and Boldrei. The prophet followed, shrugging his arms into his thick sleeves as he walked.
“There is little point in such measures,” Zamiel said as he stepped into the shadows. “If I do not wish us to be overheard, it will not happen.”
“If you say so,” the man said. “Forgive me if I’m a little more careful than you. I have a reputation in this city.”
“Naturally,” Zamiel said, with an indulgent smile. “Now share with me what you have learned.”
“The Karia Naille makes her port in Vulyar,” the man said.
“Vulyar?” Zamiel replied. “Why such a remote location?”
“The ship was badly damaged in battle,” he replied. “They put in for repairs lest it collapse upon itself. I don’t know for sure how it became damaged. I was not told.”
Zamiel frowned thoughtfully. “Do you think they suspect your betrayal?”
“I am beyond suspicion,” the man said with an arrogant laugh. “The last message was short because there was little need for an in-depth report.”
The man fell silent. Zamiel sensed he was waiting for him to inquire further, keeping a valuable revelation in reserve, savoring it. The prophet resisted the urge to roll his eyes and indulged the game a bit further. Tools like this were easier to use when they felt some measure of control. “Why no need for a report?” he asked.
“Because my contact will soon be arriving personally,” the man said.
The prophet smiled. This was good news. “The Karia Naille is coming to Korth?” he mused.
“As soon as she is relatively airworthy,” he said. “Several of her crew members, including my contact, have business here. She should be in port here for at least a week.”
“Very interesting,” Zamiel said. He reached into the pocket of his left sleeve and drew out a small, dense bag. He pressed it into the spy’s palm, and he accepted it eagerly. “May your house prosper,” he said.
The spy nodded eagerly. “How soon?” he asked. “When will the war begin anew?”
“You will know when I do, my friend,” Zamiel said, allowing himself a small smile.
Zamiel’s contact nodded eagerly and stepped away, pausing only to glance around for eyes and ears that were not there. The prophet watched him go with a bored, patient smile. As soon as he was alone in the alley, he spoke another word of magic and was gone.