Magister Prism, the Temple's head Archivist, was normally at her desk. Today Dirge found her by the window, a pensive frown hovering between her browridges as she watched warframes conduct training exercises outside. Uraya's small garrison was on high alert, thanks to increasingly harsh Senate crackdowns on supposed dissidents, and rumors of a growing rebel faction called the Decepticons.
She smiled wanly. "Hello, Dirge. What brings you here?"
"Magister," Dirge acknowledged with a slight bow. "I seek guidance."
"I cannot assist with your choice of specialty," she warned.
"It's not that." He glanced around, making sure they were alone. "I fear I may have harmed someone."
"Harmed?" She sat on a reading bench, motioning him to do likewise.
Dirge sat stiffly, fists on his knees, and told her. First of his encounter with Rattlewing, and then of an incident the previous orn in which he'd collided with a young Zelator. The priest-candidate had been rushing, late for class, his arms laden with datapads. When Dirge had caught him to prevent him from falling, he'd felt it—again. The same, sickening blackness he'd felt with Rattlewing. Later he'd learned that the Zelator, who'd been named Ironspice, had taken his own life shortly after.
She frowned. "You believe you caused these deaths?
"I do not know. I fear it, though."
"Give me your hands."
When Dirge did so, he was relieved to feel only the smooth metal of her palms.
"Quiet your mind and spark," she instructed.
He did his best, trying not to think of Rattlewing, Ironspice, or the roar of artillery.
"I sense a rare gift in you," she said eventually, her blue gaze serious. "Not one of causing death, but of sensing when it is imminent."
"Rattlewing knew of this?"
"It was his gift," she explained. "It was the reason he hid himself in the Crypt, avoiding contact with others. I may have been his only friend." An explosion drew her gaze toward the window, and a shiver ran across her doorwings. She sighed. "The gift of prophecy is a heavy burden, one I would not wish on anyone. However, I do not believe Rattlewing knew you had it. He was considering you for apprenticeship due to your Sigma alone."
Dirge suddenly felt cold. "I must go," he said, rising.
"Wait. I have something for you. Follow me."
She led him along the passages between stacks of ancient, handwritten datascrolls to a small alcove near the back. It was dark, being far from the windows, and reeked of age. She ignited a filament lantern. "That one," she said, pointing.
Dirge flew up to retrieve the manuscript in question. "The Deathtouch," he said, reading its title. "By Crypt Master Rattlewing."
"That is what he called his gift," she said. "He wrote of it so that others might have a better understanding."
When Dirge tried to give her the document, she pushed it back into his hands. "Keep it," she said. "I believe it has been waiting here, just for you."