part of an ancient tapestry, though the writing was different from that of the other bits of Prophecy she’d seen.
“Then again,” ir’Dayne said, as if reading her mind, “since it’s written in a little known dialect of the ancient giants, I can understand why some of the others think differently. But I thought you should know about it, since it may change the nature of your mission.
“Her fate known e’re she graced the womb
Her birth signals her people’s doom
Her blood that both of stone and shield
The world will be her killing field.”
CHAPTER SIX
Wir, Barrakas 4, 998 YK
Stormreach, Xen’drik.
It doesn’t necessarily mean what you think it means, you know.”
Sabira didn’t look over at the inquisitive, instead keeping her gaze on the city of Stormreach spread out below them. As the Seeker skimmed through the air toward Falconer’s Spire, Sabira couldn’t help but marvel, as always, at the architectural medley that was Stormreach. Remnants of giantish ruins, scavenged hulls from sunken ships, floating towers reminiscent of Sharn, Thrane curves and Karrnathi angles all coexisted in a surprisingly cohesive tapestry of colors, textures, and shapes. It was, in its own very peculiar way, beautiful.
Though she’d only been gone a couple of months, it still seemed as if the city had reinvented itself entirely in that time, with walls and buildings springing up where she didn’t remember there being any before. But that was the way of Stormreach, as it was of the inhabitants who lived here-constantly changing, ever growing, always surprising. It was what attracted so many explorers and adventurers to this vast continent, and what kept them coming back. No matter what it had been like when they left, they could be guaranteed it would be different when they returned.
In many ways, the city was the exact opposite of places like Krona Peak and Frostmantle in the Mror Holds, which prided themselves on constancy, and even some of the older human cities like those in Karrnath, too steeped in tradition to change easily, let alone willingly. Natives of Sharn, on the other hand, might find the city’s growth a bit too staid for their tastes, which probably explained why it had taken so long for groups like the criminal Boromar clan to find their way to Xen’drik’s shores. But that was changing now, too, and the city that had once been little more than an outpost for outcasts was becoming a metropolis in its own right. Where would the castoffs go when that happened? Farther south, into the jungles and desert? Even farther, to the edges of civilization, like Everice and Frostfell?
It wasn’t just idle musing on her part-the farther those who’d broken the law ranged, the farther Marshals like her would have to go to find them, wherever they were in Eberron.
Or under it.
The Lyrandar piloting the Seeker swung her expertly over the harbor, giving his passengers a magnificent view of both the lighthouse and the giant Emperor Cul’Sir with his double handful of light spearing up into the heavens. They passed over the Marketplace with its iconic red tent and then docked smoothly at Falconer’s Spire under the watchful eye of Zerchi the Spire-Keeper.
As they waited for the gangplank to be lowered, Sabira turned to Greddark, finally deigning to respond to his comment.
“And what do I think it means?”
The dwarf cocked a blond brow at her tone.
“Oh, I don’t know… that you’re destined to destroy everything and everyone?”
“Well, see, that’s the funny thing. First the Prophecy was referring to Tilde, and then Tilde failed to regain the artifact-or only partially succeeded, at any rate-and now suddenly it refers to me. And if I don’t make it back, then they’ll find someone else… Granite d’Deneith from Lakeside, maybe. That’s how prophecies and oracles and auguries work-they predict what someone in power decides they’re going to predict, and even if they don’t, they’re made to. It’s all a bunch of superstitious nonsense-something I’d think a self-proclaimed inquisitive and artificer would know.”
Greddark frowned.
“Prophecy is just another form of magic, which both artificers and inquisitives use quite liberally. Why wouldn’t I believe in its power?”
“Precisely. You use magic and make it do what you want it to. Just as people like ir’Dayne and Breven use Prophecy to do what they want it to.” She looked at him askance. “If the Prophecy is real, then whatever it predicts is going to happen regardless of what we do, so why bother with it at all? Unless you want to use it to control what other people do.”
Greddark laughed and shook his head in mock amazement.
“Aggar was right about you. You are a dwarf in a human body.”
Sabira snorted.
“Better than a human in a dwarf’s body, Sir Shortbeard. And what was that back in Sharn, anyway? ‘Make mine tea.’ Tea? Really?”
After ir’Dayne had dropped his “end of the world” bombshell, he’d succumbed to a long coughing fit, making further conversation impossible. When he’d recovered, he’d summoned Hendra, who’d taken them to a small sitting room while the Wayfinder wrote out a quick letter of introduction to his cohort, Brannan ir’Kethras. Hendra had offered them drinks while they waited. Sabira had requested Frostmantle Fire. Greddark had asked for Silverleaf tea.
“It’s a drink that stimulates without dulling the senses or loosening the tongue,” he responded haughtily. “Something quite beneficial in my line of work-and in yours, too, I would imagine.”
“Like I said,” Sabira replied smugly. As far as she was concerned, the dwarf had just proven her point for her.
She was saved from having to hear his response by the airship captain, another Lyrandar.
“Wayfinder Kupper-Nickel can take you the rest of the way from here, if you can afford him. He’s the warforged lurking around the base of the docking tower-can’t miss him.”
Sabira nodded her thanks to the fair-haired half-elf, then headed down the gangplank, Greddark in tow, fuming.
Wayfinder Kupper-Nickel was not, as it turned out, lurking at the base of Falconer’s Spire, but Loghan d’Deneith was. The mustached and goateed lieutenant called out to her as she and Greddark passed by.
“Sabira! Change your mind about helping me with my little problem?”
She paused, considering. She wasn’t going to help him, of course-the idea of leaving the Gladewatch garrison undefended in an attempt to lure the area’s raiders into an ambush was lunacy, and not something she wanted any part of. But Loghan might know where the warforged Wayfinder had gotten off to, so it might actually be worth a few moments of her time to speak to him, just this once.
“Still not interested in leading soldiers to their untimely deaths just so you can try to jump ranks, no. But if you help me with something, I might be able to recommend a few men who are a little more suicidal than I am.”
“Done!” he said, a little too eagerly for her taste. “What do you want to know?”
“Have you seen Kupper-Nickel?”
The Deneith man arced a curious brow.
“Headed out to the desert? What for?”
“My dwarf friend here’s spent a little too much time underground; Rhialle over in the Jorasco enclave prescribed some sun. Now, do you know where the Wayfinder is or not?”
“I’m pretty sure he headed over to the Cannith enclave, probably the Burnished Bull. Warforged seem to like it there; I guess because it’s where all the artificers go to drink.”
“Probably because they serve tea,” Greddark muttered, but Sabira pretended not to hear him.
