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

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 thatif 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