“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 something 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.”
“We speak of a tool forged thousands of years before mankind walked the earth, a weapon that shattered an army of immortal demons,” Zamiel said. “We speak of defying every nation in Khorvaire. We speak of ending the war itself. I should hope you feel strange; this is not the sort of matter one engages lightly.”
“Perhaps,” Ashrem said.
Norra found it telling that Zamiel insisted on calling the Legacy a tool, not a weapon.
“It is not my intent to compel you to do that which you do not wish to do,” Zamiel said, bowing his head in a gesture of humility. “I know only that my studies of the Prophecy led me to you, Ashrem d’Cannith. I have offered my guidance. Whether you choose to accept that offer, I leave to you. How you choose to fulfill your destiny is your decision.”
“Is it?” Ashrem asked with a bitter laugh. “I thought the Prophecy was inevitable.”
“It is,” Zamiel said.
“Then how can I truly have any choice?” Ashrem said. “If this is my destiny, will it not unfold whether or not I choose to embrace it?”
“The Prophecy is inevitable, but it is also inscrutable,” Zamiel said. “Mortal interpretations, even those of learned individuals like me, are frequently flawed. Sometimes even a perfect interpretation of its manifestations makes little sense without the context of hindsight.”
“What use is a prediction that makes no sense until it has transpired?” Ashrem asked.
“I said sometimes,” Zamiel said. “In your case, the manifestation that led me to you was relatively clear. I was instructed to seek a senior craftsman, a man who can breathe life into stone, a man cast from his house for setting his sword aside.” Zamiel smirked. “You helped create the first warforged, thus granting life to stone. Your pacifist leanings have earned you the disfavor of your house, a form of self-imposed exile. Such words are open to interpretation, but they describe you aptly.”
“But they may just as equally apply to someone else,” Ashrem said. “Someone a thousand miles from here or someone not yet born.”
“Perhaps,” Zamiel said. “You cannot do what I do for any length of time without the ability to admit being wrong.”
“So the Prophecy has foreseen everything, but our ignorant inability to understand it gives us the illusion of free will?” Ashrem asked.
Zamiel laughed. “You are a cynical man.”
Ashrem shrugged into his robes.
“The point is this. The Prophecy guides us, but our choices are our own,” Zamiel said. “If you wish, I can guide you to other manifestations and help you interpret them. You may find wisdom there. Or you can choose to pursue the secrets of the Legacy alone. Perhaps you might even choose to ignore this altogether and hope that the war ends without your assistance.” The prophet watched Ashrem in silence for a long time. “But I doubt a mind as keen as yours will be able to set this puzzle aside. An ancient device capable of unraveling all magic? If you do not seek it out, Ashrem d’Cannith, you know that someone else will. Someone less noble and selfless than you.”
Norra looked into the strange prophet’s copper eyes. They were dark, unreadable. Was the man issuing a threat or stating a fact? The prophet knew his audience. That much was certain. He mixed fact and mysticism to Ashrem’s unique taste, adding in just a dash of flattery to inspire the old man to taking up his cause. Norra found she hated Zamiel, even though she had never met him. His style of manipulation reminded her of Dalan, but it was a great deal more sinister. If Zamiel had truly guided Ashrem all those years ago, he had been wise to hide himself from her.
“I need time,” Ashrem said softly. “More time to study Markhelm’s writings and determine their legitimacy. More time to determine what I must do. I will need to seek others that can aid me.”
“House Cannith?” Zamiel asked.
“No,” the old man said, his voice hollow. He seemed to be resigning himself to a painful decision. “If this vision is true, I would not wish such a fate upon my family. Though they abandoned me, I cannot damn them. I must find others like myself-others who hate this war as much as I do. I must find people who have been forsaken. People with nothing left to lose.”
“Like me,” Norra said gravely. “No wonder you kept Tristam away from the Legacy. He had imagination with none of my bitter cynicism. He was always your favorite student, wasn’t he, Ashrem?”
“You are wise not to ignore your destiny, my friend,” Zamiel said, attempting to comfort the old man.
Ashrem d’Cannith looked at the prophet with a fixed, wary gaze. He exited the chamber, letting the study door creak shut behind him. A thud echoed through the shadowed chamber.
The moment Ashrem left, Norra Cais found herself seated in the dusty library again. Morien Markhelm’s book lay open in her lap. She felt a sense of dizziness from the shift in her apparent surroundings. She grasped the arms of her chair until the room stopped moving.
What had she just seen? Had it been some sort of message, left behind by Ashrem? A warning? If he wished to warn her about Zamiel, why hide it in a rune in a book she might never even read? Why not just tell her directly? Who had left this vision and to what purpose?