Free Skein of Shadows by Marsheila Rockwell Page A

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, Sabiraturned 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 humanbody.”
    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