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.”