Rise of the Seventh Moon: Heirs of Ash, Book 3 by Rich Wulf

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 knewof 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