Politics of the Redoran

by Timsup2nothin

Third in the Arvil Bren series.

1. Chapter 1

Politics of the Redoran

I've had little to write. Blissful nights with Ahnassi, busy but ordinary days in the guild halls; seldom any detail of note. But Vvardenfell, and my destiny, do not wait.

I have been successful at binding the objectives of Great House Redoran and the Mage's Guild. Under Trebonius the guild struggled. His emphasis led us in directions that aggrandized him with the high council in distant Cyrodiil. Many apprentices labored at impossible tasks, or had none. My own experience with solving the riddle of the Dwemer aside there was little accomplished. Supporting the defense of Maar Gan has set us in a different direction, a direction that means little in Cyrodiil, but brings us actively into the awareness of the Dunmer.

The Dunmer, when they think of mages, think of the Telvani. Xenophobic, ensconced in their towers, motivated only by their own mysterious impulses; the Telvani have not given Dunmer society the ready access to magecraft that the guild represents. It falls to us. A welcome void that we have begun to fill. The spreading blight provides endless opportunity.

Things are progressing particularly well in Ald-ruhn. Edwinna has her apprentices traveling throughout Redoran territory, honing their skills while serving the people; battling the blighted monsters of Red Mountain. The gratitude of Theldyn Virith, the hetman of Ald Velothi, has taken a most tangible form. The dreugh hunters of his coastal fishing village contributed two pounds of valuable wax from their prey as reward for dispatching a particularly nasty school of slaughterfish that was plaguing their docks. Alchemists throughout the halls are exploring the magical properties of this rare substance.

Through the efforts of the guild my own star has risen in the house, and I have been promoted to the rank of Lawman. To advance further will require the sponsorship of a council member, and tomorrow I will be in Ald-ruhn to address this. I have been keeping my distance, as Athyn Sarethi suggested, though I have kept in contact through Neminda. He has continued to investigate how he became a target of the Morag Tong. Perhaps he has reached some conclusion, or perhaps he has reached a point where he needs my assistance. In any event he has sent for me.

Leaving for Ald-ruhn will take me away from my own insoluble confusion. Hopefully with distance will come some sort of clarity. Picking at the knot on a near daily basis has given no solution.

Ranis, my mentor in the guild, has tried to help. Mages she apprenticed with in her youth, friends and close confidants, have long since gone to dust. In many cases her own apprentices have risen to their peaks, then eventually withered and died. In an organization where there are relatively few elvenkind her longevity has given her a close proximity to the issues of aging and death.

I also shared many mugs with my friend Nelos. For him the issue is as personal as it is for me. He never expected his Dunmer heart to be stolen by a mortal, but now he grapples with a future in which his beloved Maurrie will age and be lost to him. He has an advantage. This consequence was there for him when they met.

I am the Nerevarine; preserved from age and death. From natural death. If I succeed and Dagoth Ur is defeated I will be the savior of Vvardenfell. My reward will be an eternity of loss; loss of my own beloved Ahnassi. Or not. Deep in my mind I am beginning to hear whispers; a foul voice that I must ignore. Dagoth Ur is immortal, even by Dunmer standards, also the Tribunal. In my moment of triumph, if it should come to pass, I will have access to the heart of Lorkan. Will I be able to turn my back on its power? The power to save my love?

Day 2: Mystery of the Morag Tong

The Morag Tong are assassins. They are neither shy nor clandestine; they are assassins and proud of it. In Morrowind they are not criminals, they are a vital part of great house society. The great houses have always battled for supremacy in Dunmer affairs, in fact the division with the Dwemer and the fall of House Dagoth could be seen as just another chapter in this continuous struggle. The services of the Morag Tong allow this struggle to take place without breaking out into civil war.

Assassination is legal, but there are rules. The Morag Tong has very strict limitations. Any member of a great house who stands in the way of another house's ambitions may find their name on a writ of assassination. Obviously, being a member of the ruling council of House Redoran would suggest any number of possible enemies who would want Athyn Sarethi dead. Closer examination only deepens the mystery though. Sarethi's views are very moderate as Redorans go.

I pondered the issue as I walked into Balmora this morning, but only got more puzzled. I've had Ranis Athrys examining the question there. She is a Dunmer, and the Athrys family is not unfamiliar with the intrigues of the courts of Mournhold. With the conflict with House Hlaalu over the Caldera land grab right at the boiling point the capital of Hlaalu territory seemed a good place to seek the solution, but she could not help.

"Sarethi would not seem a likely target," she said. "He would confront the Hlaalu if there were hard evidence they had conspired with the Empire, but who wouldn't? The Hlaalu certainly have more likely targets on the Redoran council."

"More likely targets?" I asked.

"If Miner Arobar was Lord of the South Gash he would be screaming for war, for example," she said. "If Lady Morvayn weren't so busy with the defense of Maar Gan she would be more of a concern for the Hlaalu as well."

"Could one of the Redorans think Sarethi's more moderate position is somehow in their way? Do they really want a war?"

"I don't think anyone wants a war Archmage. Besides, the Tong will not be involved in maneuvering inside the council."

"They won't?" I didn't understand.

"The Morag Tong will only accept a writ on a rival house. Whoever contracted Sarethi's death, they aren't a Redoran." That seemed conclusive, but it still nagged at me as I climbed onto the guild guide platform and transported to Ald-ruhn.

When I arrived at the council chambers under Skar I was led into a small meeting chamber. Athyn Sarethi greeted me warmly. "Your guild has been most helpful. Our house is in your debt."

"I am proud to call it my own house, Lord Sarethi. No debt."

"I appreciate your loyalty Arvil Bren. We are always surprised with retainers who are not Dunmer." I appreciated the way he avoided the word 'outlander'. "To me it seems you just joined the house. Sometimes we forget that your lives pass so much faster that your perspective is much different."

I think I made good progress on having him sponsor me as a house cousin, but the conversation turned in a different direction. I tried to have the patience that a Dunmer would have naturally, with a lifespan measured in centuries rather than years. Arethi actually was displaying some impatience himself.

"My son is late," he said suddenly. I didn't quite follow, but as it turns out his son has been in Balmora and has some light to shed on who has taken Sarethi as an enemy. Too much information perhaps. He has disappeared. Instead of the expected son we were visited by a member of Sarethi's household staff, bearing a written message.

Sarethi exploded. He threw the message in front of me, which I took as permission to read it. More an order to read it I suppose. From the Morag Tong, a complaint that Sarethi had sent his son to investigate them, or so it seemed.

"He found something. Someone is nervous," Sarethi said. "I need you to find him."

"You think the Tong didn't just kill him?"

"That isn't from the Morag Tong," he said. "Even if they were offended, which they wouldn't be, they would not take action against him. The Tong has honor. They would not act without a writ. If they would, they would be taking action against whoever is behind this hoax," he gestured disdainfully at the message. "That they would be offended by."

I had not thought that things could get any more confusing. I think that was the deepest point. Sarethi began to explain there.

"The writ against me was taken by a petty Hlaalu noble," he said. "The Hlaalu would consider it 'business', and they do not look deeply at right or wrong where business is concerned. The Morag Tong, however, takes their rules very seriously. My son proved to their satisfaction that that noble had been paid to issue the writ; paid by a Redoran."

"That's not a legal writ, is it?"

"No, it isn't. The writ on me is cancelled and the Hlaalu has been executed."

"By the Tong? I thought they couldn't act independently."

"It is in the contract," he explained. "If you contract with the Morag Tong, there is a requirement that you follow the law, under penalty of death."

"So who is the Redoran?" I asked.

"I don't know. My son might have known. I'm sure he knows now. Whoever it is has him. You must find him."

"Where do I look?"

"He is somewhere under Skar. My enemy is on the council."

Day 3: Bolvyn Venim, Archmaster of the Redorans

Athyn Sarethi did not tell me where to look for his son. There are shops under Skar, buried deep below the bottom of the great emperor crab's shell. There are shops, but not many. Mostly 'under Skar' refers to the council chambers and the great manors of the council members. Logically, it is not a shopkeeper who has set themselves against Lord Sarethi. Advice rose up in my mind. Advice I had been given about being named Hortator. Those who are in power are the most resistant to change.

Sarethi has seniority, and he is widely respected. Among the common Redorans, and sometimes even among the guards, I have heard him referred to as the 'last best hope of the Redorans'. He could, perhaps, lead the house. The people would support him, the guards would not oppose him, the council might agree...but Bolvyn Venim, currently the Archmaster of the house, would certainly not welcome the change. How much would he resist?

Edwinna, my guild steward here in Ald-ruhn, seemed a likely place to start an inquiry.

"Yes, I've met him," she said. From her face I guessed that meeting the Lord of Ald-ruhn was not a welcome part of her duties. She confirmed that. "He is a complete Dunmer bigot." Beyond that impression there was little she could say. How far he would go to maintain power within the house could not be seen from the outside.

I went to the council chambers and approached Neminda, carefully. Sarethi is her patron, but clearly in her position as manager of the house she would have to stay on the right side of the Archmaster. Not an easy task if he is strongly against outlanders, as Edwinna had suggested. He is. Neminda confirmed it, and I found out for myself.

"I've been looking into the assassination attempt," I told her.

"Good. He has survived the Morag Tong three times," she said. "It is not like them to miss. They will take no chances next time."

I did not pass on to her that it seemed there would not be a next time. "It is hard to imagine an enemy of the house choosing him as a target. He looks to be next in line, and easier to deal with than the Archmaster. Seems like the other houses would be targeting Bolvyn Venim rather than Athyn Sarethi."

"I know," she agreed.

I pressed, indirectly. I could not suggest that Venim was behind the plot, but I could lead her to examine the differences between her patron and the Archmaster. In those differences she could look for a reason for Sarethi to be targeted rather than Venim. I could look for reasons Venim would think Sarethi such a threat that he would want him eliminated.

Neminda herself represents the problem. Outlanders. Sarethi is the most forward thinking council member when it comes to outlanders. Incorporate them into the house; support us when we subject ourselves to Dunmer rule; he is trying to find ways to coexist with the Imperial presence. Venim would run us out, even Neminda. He might be open to the prophecy of the Nerevarine, at least the part about driving out the outlanders. He is in for a rude awakening.

Eventually, I could not find any reason not to suspect Venim. All that was left was to meet him myself. Neminda scheduled an appointment for me.

The entry hall of Venim manor is spectacular. Crimson garbed servants bustled about, and guards clad in heavy armor of Dwemer metal stood at motionless attention flanking an inner door. Rich tapestries adorn the walls and lush foliage rises to the high vault of the ceiling from a planter in the center. I was led to a bench and told brusquely to wait. My first thought was that the bench was selected for appearance rather than comfort. After meeting Venim I corrected that. The bench was probably selected specifically because it is so uncomfortable.

The Archmaster himself is as impressive as his surroundings. He entered through an inner door, and the immobile guards snapped to an even greater attention, if that was possible. I rose gratefully from the bench. I greeted him with the respect due the Archmaster of my house. He looked at me with disdain and brushed an invisible speck from his ebony breastplate. "You have impressed some in the house," he said, making it clear that he was not one of them, "and I understand you have some rank in some outlander guild."

I was actually speechless. I had not expected to be welcomed like an old friend, but I have gotten used to being the Archmage of Vvardenfell. He laughed in my face. "You are surprised?" he said. "You think I should be impressed by you, wizard? Your outlander guild means nothing to me. To me you are just another outlander taken into my house like a mongrel nix hound. Neminda says you are investigating the Morag Tong's attempt on Lord Sarethi's life. So investigate. Elsewhere." He spun on his ebony booted heel and stalked away, the high ridge of red hair bobbing over the otherwise clean shaven grey scalp.

I did the only thing I could do to accomplish the purpose of my visit. "Lord Sarethi's son found some useful information," I said to the retreating back. "I expect I'll have it all sorted out soon." There was the slightest break in his pace, and one of the guards let their eyes dart to a door on my right. Not really evidence, but I'm convinced. I need to get through that door.

Day 4: Guards and doors

I woke up this morning from a fitful sleep. Throughout the night I was caught up in thoughts of the door. Yesterday I was certain that Varvur Sarethi would be found behind the right hand door of Venim manor's entry hall. I am still certain, but there was no way to be certain enough. I couldn't just walk into the private home of the Archmaster of the house and start blasting his guards.

I spent the morning at the guild hall, catching up on reports. Plans came and went. None seemed workable. I went to Sarethi manor for lunch, burdened with doubts.

"If you are right the council will be torn apart," Sarethi said.

"I'm as certain as I can be without getting through that door. The Archmaster must have some way to explain himself though. There would be no way to explain to you, obviously, but he would have to have something he could tell the other council members. Some accusation he could make. He would have to be able to say your son was arrested, not abducted."

"And you would be taking a great risk. Helping a prisoner escape is much different than rescuing a councilman's son."

"Yes," I agreed. "A great risk with a great reward, possibly." His eyes narrowed. I realized too late that that sounded very...mercenary. "What I meant Lord Sarethi, is that house Redoran would be much more comfortable for a Breton like myself if someone other than Bolvyn Venim were the Archmaster of the house. If he has abducted your son, and if that can be proven to the rest of the council, it would be a boon to me."

"Someone other than Bolvyn Venim. Delicately put Arvil Bren. I must admit that the fall of Bolvyn Venim is attractive to consider. But mostly I want my son back. Get him out of there."

My concerns mounted as I returned to the guild hall. Am I being set up? Sarethi's pawn for bringing down Venim? I decided that my plan would include some assistance from Sarethi. If he is going to benefit he would have to take some of the risk. If he refused, that would tell me something. He didn't.

Sarethi had no trouble coming up with a reason to visit the Archmaster. He stumbled at the door quite naturally. A humbling experience no doubt. I slipped through the open door while he gathered his balance. One of the great difficulties of invisibility is that people get very interested in doors that open by themselves.

By the time the spell wore off I was well hidden in the planter. That gave me nothing more than a good view of the door on the right side of the entry hall. The door to the left leads to the guard quarters. That was pretty obvious when the guards changed shifts. The short hallway opposite the entrance leads to the inner quarters of the Venim family. Unfortunately the guards flanking that hallway had no lapse in their attention. Even when the room was briefly left completely empty they stood stiffly at attention; no conversation, no sitting on the uncomfortable benches...no opportunity to open the right hand door unobserved.

Disguises. I teleported out of the planter. I chose a moment when the entry hall was filled with chattering servants. The slight popping sound should have gone undetected. I considered using an intervention spell that would have dropped me at the temple in Ald-ruhn, but gave myself an excuse to come home instead. I am still haunted by the short time I will be able to spend with Ahnassi, and the long life that stretches beyond that for me.

It was a good excuse. I appeared at my target mark in the hallway of the house. The hallway is my storage area. I turned slowly in a circle, assessing all the armor I have collected. The standard issue bonemold of a Redoran guard; I could piece that together. The closed face helmet would hide me well enough. Unfortunately Venim's personal guards seemed to be uniformly arrayed in heavy armor of Dwemer metal. I could be anonymous in the guard's mail, but wouldn't blend in.

Dwemer metal plate. I have a full set of that as well. No help there either really. Going to an armorer and asking for a set of 'Dwemer plate armor' is a misunderstanding. My Dwemer metal plate is serviceable, but not an effective disguise. Every set is different. The Dwemer seldom made armor. The Dwemer were sorcerers, not warriors. Armorers, particularly good armorers, cobble together sets of armor from scrap pieces that are gathered from fallen centurions. I've done it myself, though my skills don't measure up to Wyan in Balmora. Venim's guards can probably recognize each other just as well from their distinctive armor as from each others faces.

I have to get through that door. I can't just walk in there and start killing guards. Magic. Magic is the answer.

Day 5: Murderer or pawn?

Magic. As a Breton my life has been lived within the swirling mists that magic reveals reality to be. Many wizards, the former Archmage Trebonius for example, lean heavily on the destructive power that can be unleashed by their spellcraft. My own craft has always been more subtle. The school of alteration lends itself to changing reality; making objects heavier or lighter, water breathable as air or solid as earth, forming armors of air or elemental energies. I could not resort to destruction to effect a rescue, so I looked the other direction; into the even more subtle school of illusion.

I bid a lingering farewell to Ahnassi and transported myself into Balmora. When I appeared in the courtyard of the temple I quickly surveyed my surroundings, and finding my arrival unobserved called on the shadow shield to make myself invisible. I did not want anyone to wonder at the Archmage of Vvardenfell visiting Nine-Toes the Hunter. Neither of us is identified as a member of the Blades and we both prefer to keep it that way. I reappeared on his upper balcony and ducked quickly inside.

"Arvil Bren! It is our pleasure to greet you!" hissed the Argonian.

"The pleasure is mine Nine-Toes." I struggled again with the pronouns. Argonians refer to themselves in the plural so naturally that it is sometimes difficult not to follow suit. I have been told that to do so would be an insult, but find myself struggling. "I need some guidance my friend."

"As when you were merely an apprentice it is our pleasure to serve." Nine-Toes was my first mentor in the Blades.

"You have used your mastery of illusion to make me invisible before," I began. "I am skilled enough to manage that quite well on my own now, but there are challenges."

"Many; for those who are not practiced," said Nine-Toes.

"Yes. " It is surprising how important it is to see yourself when you move. Picking up an object with an invisible hand is an exercise in clumsiness. "There is a huge difference between being invisible and acting invisibly."

"You speak a truth Arvil Bren. Objects that move on their own, doors that open and close by themselves, sounds without origin; since most people are familiar with the powers of illusion these things are not mysteries, they are evidence."

"So here's my problem," I said, and outlined the situation.

Some time later Nine-Toes stepped out onto his balcony, pacing in the restless way of the Argonians. Through the door he left open I made my own invisible exit, gliding past him without a collision. I let the invisibility lapse in the temple court while casting a minor noise making spell. The soft popping sound of the spell matched my sudden appearance. Anyone noting my arrival and hearing the sound would think 'teleportation'. Nine-Toes had stressed that illusion is less about being undetected than about misdirected detection. I bustled to the guild hall and took transport to Ald-Ruhn.

Heem-la is another Argonian, and a spellsmith. Since I already knew a couple of basic invisibility spells it was not difficult for him to create a spell for me that would allow me to turn another person invisible. He is Edwinna's highest ranked subordinate and took great satisfaction in being of service, but I insisted on paying him the going rate for his craft. I also paid Tanar a fair price for the belt she enchanted for me.

Nine-Toes had said "don't waste invisibility when anonymity will serve", and I was well prepared to follow that guidance. While most of my alchemy studies were directed at the magical properties of various substances I had learned many other useful things. Substances that will stain my pale Breton skin a fair imitation of the Dunmer's grey hues are not uncommon. With the full bonemold armor and closed helm of a Redoran guard my darkened hands completed the picture well enough to pass at a distance. I avoided any close contact, where I would be given away by the lack of gleaming red eyes peering out through the slit of my visor.

"Misdirection can take many forms," Nine-Toes had said, "and often the more physical the form the better." A Redoran guard entering the great shell Skar was nothing remarkable, and it was not difficult to make my way to the vicinity of Venim manor. A word of activation and my belt produced a fine distraction, a towering atronach from the dimension of elemental fire. Any of the guards who failed to notice the ruddy glow and roaring flames could not escape my shout of "wizardry!" as I drew a gleaming but non-descript silver longsword and slashed it about. The atronach charged the manor door and smashed it open before it went down under a barrage of blows from the guards who swarmed around it. Who would notice one guard more or less? I disappeared and slipped into the manor through the smoldering wreckage of the doorway.

The second atronach never stood a chance. It materialized between the front door, where the guards had hardly drawn breath or had time to think since the first one had fallen, and the planter where I had quickly secreted myself. It charged towards the inner quarters and was met by the two heavily armored guards there. The Redoran regulars swarmed after it in its futile assault. During the brief tumult no one could say which armored Redoran had opened the right hand door to shout a warning, but by the time additional members of Venim's personal guard had charged into the room the fight was over. Again, who would notice one guard more or less? I slipped invisibly down the hallway beyond the door.

In a large chamber at the heart of the right wing of the manor I found a guard who had not responded to the alarm at the front door. Instead she had taken a position in another hall, listening closely and with her sword sweeping gently from side to side. It seemed odd that she should guard an empty hall, and I immediately wondered if the tapestry at the far end might conceal the object of my invasion. I crept to an upper balcony. Another bit of Nine-Toes guidance; "to master illusion you must master yourself, a powerful illusion must be built on a foundation of patience."

I waited upstairs. Retainers returned from the fracas at the entry. They began a careful search of the area, long spears sweeping about, prodding into corners. I levitated down into their cleared area, avoiding the guarded stairways, then watched silently as they moved on to clear the upper floor. Eventually they were satisfied and returned to their routine. The woman, who the others called Malsa Ules, took a key and stepped behind the tapestry. Checking on the prisoner. Again I waited.

Locks are based on small objects that hold larger objects in place unless they are repositioned correctly by the appropriate key. No lock can stand against sufficient mastery of alteration. The tumblers of the lock on the door behind the tapestry lost their substance and the bolt slipped freely through them. I ducked into the cell beyond.

I took my time explaining the escape plan to Varvur Sarethi. The difficulties of operating invisibly would be greatly compounded when there were two of us. The problems were balanced though, by knowing where we were going.

We crept invisibly down the hallway. Malsa Ules paced at the opening ahead of us, spear waving unpredictably, sharp ears listening. We pressed flat to the wall and waited for our distraction. The spell of silence I had cast in Varvur's cell expended its limited power, and the guard's head snapped around. The fire I had started in the cell had silently grown to an inferno, and when the spell lapsed it was fairly roaring. Smoke was beginning to curl from the tapestry hanging in front of the open cell door. She charged down the hall, and we fled as soon as she had passed.

The guards in the entry hall had no time to react when the inner door burst open. A Redoran guard rushing through and out the front door made no sense, obviously, but in the seconds it took for me to pass through with my invisible charge close on my heels there was little they could do. I threw in a confusing but true shout of 'fire!' for good measure. I continued to shout once I had cleared the door, again bringing the guards swarming, giving my own armored self some cover as Varvur slid invisibly under the rope railing and tumbled down the steep slope of the shell. In the great open space under Skar it was very easy to get lost. I levitated away from the catwalks and winked into invisibility.

As planned, Lord Athyn Sarethi stepped out of his manor to investigate the uproar, leaving the door open behind him. I made enough noise from high in the dome to keep the guards attention as Varvur raced home. Eventually Sarethi gave in to the guards urging, and for his own safety returned to his manor and locked the door behind himself. How long the guards raced about with their spears waving I have no idea. I teleported home.

Bolvyn Venim had accused Varvur Sarethi of murder, a charge Varvur may not be able to defend himself against. Venim would claim he held Varvur quietly during the investigation to protect Sarethi. Sarethi would claim Venim had taken his son to prevent disclosure of the plot on Sarethi's life. Either way, I am firmly stuck in the middle of a struggle for the ultimate power of the Redoran council. I hope I've backed the right guar in this race.

Day 6: A good name

The council is in an uproar. Bolvyn Venim and Athyn Sarethi look to me like they could come to blows at any moment. Venim's guards were on edge, the regular guards assigned to the council hall were on edge, and I was happy to wait outside the chambers during most of the meeting.

I returned to Ald-ruhn this morning, openly. Though I am not yet considered a cousin of the house, and would not even consider openly pursuing the title of Hortator, I have developed a degree of respect and reputation. Sufficient reputation that the council has chosen me to lead an expansion project at Bal Isra.

Bolvyn Venim was clearly opposed, but his grip on the council is slipping. With the murder of Bralen Carvaren hanging over Varvur he is in no position to make any accusations so Sarethi did not openly denounce Venim for his misuse of the Morag Tong, but Sarethi is certainly emboldened by his own knowledge. With his leadership my growing popularity with the rest of the council was enough to carry the debate.

The rancor at the council meeting left no doubt that I am firmly in Sarethi's camp. I considered the diplomacy of accepting his invitation to return with him to Sarethi manor after the meeting, but Venim's baleful glare showed that I had nothing to lose.

"It seems I've made an enemy," I said as we entered the manor.

"Yes. Fortunately you have made more friends. Venim can be a powerful adversary. No one knows that better than I do. Thankfully he has other problems on his mind. So do I." We continued our conversation as we passed into the guard quarters. "I can't believe that Varvur would kill Bralen Carvaren," Sarethi said. "They were friends. Good friends."

"Venim wouldn't have used that pretext to grab him if he didn't think he could make it stick," I said.

"True. And unfortunately Varvur is not much help." He opened a door and we entered Varvur's room.

The younger Sarethi looked much more in his element, dressed in the rich brocades of a Redoran noble rather than the ragged prison garb he sported yesterday, but his eyes were haunted. "Thank you again for rescuing me kinsman," he said as he rose.

"You are welcome sir," I replied.

"Rescue is just a beginning though," said Lord Sarethi. "Varvur, we have to get your name cleared. And you have to help."

"I wish I could father. I am so sure that I didn't kill Bralen, but these dreams..."

I was looking around the room. To my surprise a sixth house ash statue stood atop a chest near the door. "Dreams?" I asked.

"I have vivid dreams...dreams where I am killing Bralen...but they started before Bralen was killed...we laughed about them. But then he really was killed."

"And when you remember the dreams you wonder if one of them wasn't a dream," I guessed.

"Yes." His face fell. "I don't know. I can't believe it could be real, but the dreams are so realistic...all of them..."

"Where did you get this?" I asked, gesturing to the ash statue. The red gem eyes glittered evilly in the torchlight.

"It..." he hesitated. "It was a gift." He seemed puzzled.

"A gift? When did you get it?"

"I...have I always had it?"

His father looked concerned. "I've never seen it," he said. "Or anything like it."

"I have. It's a symbol of the Sixth House cult. Who gave it to you?"

"So strange," said the young Sarethi. "I can't remember. It's like it has always been there."

The elder Sarethi didn't need to hear any more. "Arvil Bren, take the statue to the temple. Lloros Sarano is a good friend of our family. Have him examine this thing. Perhaps he can shed some light." He sat next to his son, looking stricken.

I delivered the statue. The priest, Sarano, will have to make a more detailed examination, but at first glance believes the statue may have somehow controlled the younger Sarethi. I reported that much to Lord Sarethi and returned home. We did not discuss anything further as he was anxious to return to his son, but I doubt that Varvur will ever be a credible witness to Venim's wrongdoings.

Day 7: Strange strangers

Nerevarine, Hortator, Archmage of Vvardenfell; none of my titles, either current or hoped for, would be honored by my current state of drunkenness. Languishing in Ebonheart hoping for an audience with Duke Vedam Dren, staying in an inn frequented by off duty Imperial Legions, it just seemed to be the thing to do. A break.

This morning I certainly saw when the need to take breaks is ignored too long. I spent much of the day in company with a trader I met on the road, Teris Raledran. Company, I think, is what Teris desperately needed, though initially he suggested traveling together for safety on the road to Vivec. He insisted on compensating me for protecting him and his companion Rollie, even though the Vivec Road through the Ascadian Isles is still among the safest stretches in Vvardenfell.

It didn't take long to realize that Teris needed a break, or at least someone to talk to. He probably doesn't think so. He included Rollie in the conversation as much as he included me. Rollie is a guar. Needless to say he was not talking, a condition that Teris attributed to Rollie being 'shy with strangers'. I wanted to scream 'he isn't talking because he is a GUAR!', but I refrained. It takes all kinds.

For my trouble I was led to a fantastic shop located incongruously in the canalworks of the foreign quarter of Vivec. Agrippina Herrenia has the finest inventory of clothing I've seen in Vvardenfell, much of it apparently delivered on the back of Rollie the Guar...who Agrippina has also never heard speak.

At any rate, after a brief check at my office in Vivec I delivered myself to Castle Ebonheart. I successfully got myself placed on the Duke's agenda for tomorrow and checked myself into the Six Fishes. The food is good, and the huge Nord behind the bar pours with a very liberal hand, making it no surprise that the place is a favored haunt of the legions.

Fortunately the garrison here in Ebonheart seems to be mostly Cyrodiils. Far more refined than the numerous Orcs recruited for the frontiers, and much easier to drink with. I should be able to make tomorrow's appointment with a minimal hangover.

Day 8: Power of the Hlaalu

I have received a land grant from the Duke. Since the land is in Redoran territory and the grant was approved by the Redoran administration that was really a forgone conclusion, but the experience has certainly given me an insight into the governance of the Imperial province.

The Dren family has a long relationship with House Hlaalu, and it seems clear that Duke Vedam Dren would not be impartial in a dispute. The outrages of the Cammona Tong, for example, would certainly meet greater resistance if the head of the Tong were not the Duke's own brother. This level of corruption would be completely intolerable, but the Empire bears the brunt of the costs and I have little interest in their problems. Dagoth Ur and the blight are problem enough. I must keep an eye to the future however. If the Empire withdraws House Hlaalu will be far more vulnerable, and House Redoran must be poised to rise.

So I find myself performing a service for Archmaster Bolvyn Venim, even though the Archmaster is the key opposition to my own rise in the house. Our house has two key points that strengthen our position; superior warriors and honorable behavior. That honor is being widely smeared by the Hlaalu.

The rumor is that Bolvyn Venim is having an adulterous affair with the wife of another Redoran council member. I have heard nothing of this in Ald-ruhn, and cannot imagine such a rumor spreading elsewhere without being heard at the source. Such a smear could easily be a Hlaalu ploy. Perhaps it is only paranoia, but I even thought I saw a bit of a smirk from the Duke when he mentioned the 'honor of House Redoran'.

So I am here in Balmora. The Eight Plates, the Southwall, the Lucky Lock-up, the Council Club; a thorough pub crawl in the company of my old friend Arathor. The gregarious Bosmer provided the perfect opportunity to hear all the gossip, and clearly the source of the rumors about Venim was a petty Hlaalu noble, Ondres Nerano. I paid him a late visit.

"Either prove your words, or pay for them," I challenged, after I had explained why I was there. I briefly hoped there would be proof...proof that could bring Venim down. But there was none.

"I don't have to prove anything about Redorans," Nerano blustered.

"No you don't," I countered "It seems odd though. I would think you would want to. I'm returning to Ald-ruhn in the morning. If I return with this rumor it will go nowhere, but if you have proof it would surely disrupt House Redoran. So the only reason I can see for you to not produce proof would be that you don't have any."

"Nor do I need any! I don't fear the overblown reputation of Redoran warriors, and I certainly don't fear you."

A duel was obviously in the offing. Killing a Hlaalu noble in the middle of Balmora would have been a problem, and would have done little to reduce the already prevalent rumor. A non-lethal duel would serve better, and terms were quickly agreed upon.

Arathor served as my second, and a member of Nerano's household was his. We all agreed that truth would obviously side with the victor, so if I won Nerano would publicly apologize for repeating a tale which had now been proven to him to be false. For my part if he won I would provide him with 'confirmation from a member of house Redoran' that the story was true.

Nerano proved to be a stout pugilist. The Hlaalu pride themselves on their skill with short blades, which tends to train them for quickness of hand. Fortunately my own practices with the spear and heavier armors gave me a base of endurance that my months of traveling on Vvardenfell have raised to a high standard.

He circled steadily to his left, firing stinging jabs. I slipped most of them, but must admit that they hurt when they connected. When I did slip past the jab he would quickly cover up, with his forearms protecting his head and his elbows in tight, preventing serious blows to the body. A most frustrating foe.

Frustrating, but not unbeatable. I'm sure that he has beaten many other fighters who impatiently wore themselves out with useless blows against his arms, but tonight he met a wiser opponent. When he covered up I backed off rather than let him lean his weight against me and wear me down. Sneaking my own jab between his hands after I backed off eventually broke him down. A cut opened above his left eye, and drizzling blood began to cloud his vision.

Blinking furiously he stepped up his own attack, packing flurried combinations behind the consistent jab. I counterpunched effectively while slipping most of his blows. Eventually he had to yield. The honor of the house has been redeemed.

Day 9: Will they ever learn?

I awoke this morning in my room at the Southwall Cornerclub, thinking that the honor of House Redoran had been safely restored. I had not finished breakfast before I found out that I had just gotten started. Hibasi, the local contact for the thieve's guild, slid into the opposing chair at my table with feline grace and ruined my day.

"Arathor tells me you fought a duel last night," she purred.

I nodded, wondering what this was leading up to.

"I am surprised."

"Why? I've been accepted by the Redoran House. Nerano was slandering our Archmaster. He needed a good thrashing."

"And no one better than you to do it."

Life with Ahnassi, my own Khajiit, has taught me to penetrate the well known inscrutability. Well known, but not real. I think it's an offshoot of that even more false idea; 'they all look alike'. Anyway, I could see that Habasi was amused, and had a 'secret'; the most prized possession of a Khajiit. "What?" I asked, knowing that she would not give me the smallest piece without significant wheedling, and that she would not let me go until I had gotten the whole story.

Eventually I dug out the story. Habasi's surprise was not that I was upholding the House honor, but that I had come for Nerano. His tale of infidelity may have been embarrassing to the Archmaster, but Meril Hlaano has been directly attacking the honor of the House at its core. Apparently he has 'explained' House Hlaalu's success in Caldera as a result of clandestine bribes and common lowly behavior by Redorans.

So I returned to the Eight Plates for lunch. Meril Hlaano, another bottom feeder from house Hlaalu, was indeed holding forth in the bar.

"Interesting theory," I interrupted as I slipped up behind him.

He took in the bruise on my cheek and got cocky. "More than a theory, outlander."

"You might want to be careful who you call 'outlander'. Your own house is accepting us now, and so is mine."

"The Empire is here, and wealthy. House Hlaalu knows how to make the best of that."

"House Redoran doesn't look at things the same way. They only accepted me because I could meet their requirements; honor, for example. Something you should develop. Quickly."

"Says who, outlander? Give me a name so I can talk about you too."

I grinned. A Hluulu guard stepped close. "Excellency," he said, "you have heard the story of the destruction of the Dark Brotherhood in Mournhold?"

"Of course," the petty noble snapped. "The outlander assassins were swept by the Mage's Guild."

"Not exactly," the guard said. "It was the Archmage of the guild, but at the time he was not the Archmage. That was later, after he killed the previous Archmage in a duel. I would have thought that after he came back with a stack of Dark Brotherhood chainmail that would stagger a pack guar that the Cyrodiil would have turned the guild over peacefully."

"Dark Brotherhood chain? You can get that anywhere. Every armorer in Balmora has it."

"They all got it from me," I said quietly. "I had so much it was impossible to keep from saturating the market."

"From you?" His eyes widened.

"Excellency, this is Arvil Bren, the Archmage of Vvardenfell," said the guard. "I didn't want a duel on my watch, Archmage, especially during my lunch," he said after Hlaanu had beaten a hasty retreat.

"No problem," I said. "Keep him quiet?"

"Agreed. I respect my own House, of course, but there is no doubt that the Redorans have their honor."

Day 10: Redoran Canton

I have returned to Vivec. Even though Ald-ruhn is the Council seat of House Redoran, the Canton in the capital houses many of the critical functions of the house, including the treasury. I met with Faral Retheran concerning the finances for the Bal Isra project, and ended up dining with her at the Flowers of Gold Cornerclub. She is an excellent and dedicated member of the house, but I suspect the comforts and style of Vivec City suit her better than the frontiers of the Ashlands, even buffered by the manor district under Skar.

We feasted on a spectacular dinner, from a menu that would not have been presented to me had I not been in her company. As the Archmage I command a certain respect in the capital, but the Flowers of Gold is in the heart of the Redoran Canton. Like the foreign quarter canton the huge structure rising out of the bay is a city unto itself. The common laws of the capital apply, but the cantons operate by their own unwritten rules. Now that I have been introduced to the proprietor and staff as a respected member of the house I will enjoy the full services, but before that the reception at the Flowers would have been chilly at best. To solidify my position I opted to stay here tonight and enjoy the accommodations.

As expected, I will be bearing the brunt of the costs for Bal Isra myself. The benefits will far outstrip the costs however. Though I will not tolerate slaves or slavers, I will be holding a manor title that gives me rights over the surrounding area and its tenants. Since I am not concerned with profiting from the land I expect I will not find it difficult to be popular with those tenants, and they will provide a level of security for myself and Ahnassi. A Breton holding title is a huge step for the Dunmer. A Khajit as lady of the manor signals the completion of a revolution in their society. It is a great day.

Unfortunately it is a day that has not yet reached a safe sunset. Faral accepted it. Living here in Vivec, which has always been the most cosmopolitan city in Vvardenfell, smoothed the way. She did not soften her words in the slightest with her predictions though. "Bolvyn Venim will not live to see the day that an Outlander holds such a title," she said. I wondered if this was an almost treasonous comment, but she clarified it quickly. She insisted that I deposit the full funds for Bal Isra with her in the morning, since she believes Venim will kill me before it is completed.

Naturally, with a charming dinner companion and a brain full of flin, the strong, smooth liquor of the Empire, I let dead whiskers get my tail in a crack, as Ahnassi would say. In the morning, after depositing the funds, I will be going on a 'little errand' for Faral Retheran. A little errand to claim three priceless artifacts from the tomb of a family that has shifted its loyalties away from House Redoran in recent generations. The expectation is that the ancestral ghosts of the Redas will relinquish the items to a Redoran. I find that doubtful. I suspect those who have been previously dispatched on this errand would agree. None of them have returned.

Day 11: A long ride and a worn cloak

I have secured a bed at The Pilgrim's Rest in Molag Mar without being recognized. Not much of a feat, since I have never been here before, but Vvardenfell is a small island in some ways and I have developed a reputation. I am proud to have been accepted by House Redoran, and could have expected an appropriate welcome from the Redoran garrison here, but I think it will be best in the long run if I complete my errand and be on my way without being noticed. How to accomplish that was nagging me as soon as my eyes opened.

I arose this morning with the dawn and enjoyed a brisk walk through the rising mists of Vivec City. The Redoran compound is directly adjacent to the foreign quarter, and it is amazing how far I had to walk to get from the Golden Flowers to the guild headquarters. When I stepped out the doorway on the waistworks level of the Redoran Canton I could easily have hit the waistworks door of the foreign quarter with an arrow, or even a well thrown knife, but to get there involved the ramps down to the lower promenade, then the bridge across, and more ramps back up to the top. I arrived refreshed, exercised, and hungry for breakfast.

The guild headquarters is flourishing out of the shadow of the Archmage. Malven invited me to join the breakfast table, where the light chatter defied the consequence of the guild's headquarters. As I had suggested breakfast was held separate from the trials of the day. Afterwards the guild steward accompanied me to my office. "Always good to see you Archmage. The most recent report from Balmora is here." She added a folder to the stack on my desk; not an unmanageable pile, but larger than I would have preferred. I tucked the entire stack into my pack. "You'll be leaving I take it?" she said with a slight smile.

"As always, Malven. When I put you in charge I said I couldn't do what I do best if I was tucked away in this hall, and you do quite well without me under foot."

"The guides keep me, and the other stewards, apprised of your whereabouts...at least most of the time, Archmage. Are you keeping yourself well? Ranis has told me about your propensity for travel when you were a journeyman, but we worry that your Breton constitution might wear out on us."

"I've been...upgraded, you might say Malven. Don't worry." As I said that, and hefted my pack, heavy with reports, I was picturing a sleepless night, and not looking forward to it. Is there a limit to the endurance my brush with the corprus has given me?

I had the guides teleport me to Ald-ruhn, where I hurried into the council hall and met with the Redoran architect, Galsa Gindu. She will begin construction on the Bal Isra stronghold immediately. I left, emerging from the great emperor crab shell called Skar into surprisingly bright sunshine streaming down from a cloudless blue sky. Ald-ruhn, being in the Ashlands, has been scourged by the ashstorms blowing down from Red Mountain, and it was a pleasant surprise to see a pretty day.

I have a theory that if you let enough problems pile up they will start to solve each other, and the clear skies pushed some of the swirling pieces into place. More than the clear skies, I suppose, it was the sight of the silt strider port towering over the walls of the city. I cocked my head in thought, and as if by divine intervention one of the great creatures appeared. Its six long tapering legs devoured the distance in a blink, and I was still watching as it sidled up to the port.

I raced back to the guild hall, where I still keep the room that Edwinna gave me long ago. I left my staff and wrapped myself in a battered cloak. The stacked reports fit nicely in a well worn travel bag from my pilgrim days. I shouted a quick "Molag Mar" to Edwinna as I scurried out the door.

Travel by strider is, of course, nowhere near as fast as teleporting, but it is surprising how fast those long legged beasts can go. I had time enough to skim all the reports and draft some notes for the guild stewards that I dropped off while changing caravans in Balmora, then gave them a careful, but relaxed, review. When the daylight failed the task was complete, and I could enjoy the night sky from the rolling back of the strider as it plunged on through the darkness. I arrived rested, unremarked, and with my duties as Archmage up to date. The striders carried me over half the length of Vvardenfell.

Perhaps I will have to thank Dagoth Ur for the timing of this one beautiful day.

Day 12: Confidence

Nerevarine...Moon and star...Azura's chosen...

All of those identities swirled through my mind as it dredged up from the blackness. I opened my left eye. The other was crusted shut with dried blood. I remembered the swirl of purple magica engulfing me, the falling axe.

A sharp hiss from my right caught my attention, and I tried to turn my head. Searing pain howled as my head flopped sideways, and I saw Ahnassi's striped face as the blackness smashed over me again.

Archmage...Archmage...

I opened my eyes, both of them. The blood had been cleaned away.

Ranis stood over me. "You have to get control," she said sternly, concern clouding her red eyes. She glimmered, as if through a thin veil of energy. The blackness rose again, more slowly.

Arvil Bren...

I didn't open my eyes immediately, savoring the new clarity of this return to consciousness. Slowly I raised the lids. Without moving my head I scanned the room; my room, Ahnassi's house. She paced, slowly, at the foot of the bed. Her tail dragged with exhaustion. "Ahnassi." My voice was a croak.

She rushed to my side, grabbing a small vial from the night table. I recognized the tang of a restorative potion, and my eyes drifted shut once again.

Life...

"He finally gathered sufficient awareness." The gravelly voice of an Orc. Sharn gra-Muzgob.

I opened my eyes again. Healing magica washed over me in a soothing stream. I smiled my thanks at the tusked green face.

"You've been surrounded by resistance and reflection for days, ever since you appeared." Ranis' dark face slid into view, the red eyes deeply weary. I could feel the exhaustion inside me. The fires of magica that normally glowed within were banked to dim embers. "Ahnassi kept you from bleeding to death through more conventional means. She was the only one who could touch you." Scorch marks on the ceiling; someone else had obviously tried. I hoped they were alright.

A low profile; lightly armed; in keeping with my pilgrim disguise. Over-confident, I had charged the golden saint with my shortsword. The Daedric guardian's mocking laughter still rings in my ears, and my dreams are plagued by the flash of the great glass axe.

But I still live.

Day 13: Return to the tomb

I again took the silt strider to Molag Mar. Today I hurried through the morning mists of the Ascadian Isles to the strider port just north of Vivec City and reached Molag Mar around noon. This time the ride was somber. My overconfidence shattered, I was plagued by doubts. I wondered if this errand was too far off the path of the Nerevarine, if Azura had guided the golden saint's hand in an effort to put me back on course. No matter. I knew I could not move forward without returning to the tomb. If nothing else, failure would lose the support of the Redoran treasurer, a fatal blow to my quest to be called Hortator.

I did not enter Molag Mar, or follow the trail that had led me to the tomb the first time. I left the strider port and levitated over the ridge to the south, descending directly before the stone arch that marked the entrance. By speeding on my course like an arrow in flight I left no room for hesitation or doubt.

I crept silently down the stairs. The door at the bottom of the stair stood slightly ajar. I pushed it gently with the tip of the ebony spear I had armed myself with for this rematch. The chamber within was spattered with gore. The golden saint, mightiest of the Daedric servants, obviously considers cleaning up to be a task for lesser beings. The spot where I fell was marked by a pool of blood, dried to blackness in the torchlight.

The golden saint, with its great glass axe, was absent. A storm atronach paced the chamber. I charged, the sharpened ebony point sheared through the binding mists, and the elemental energies burst their bonds in a roar of thunder. The misty form writhed as the atronach tried to maintain its unwelcome presence in the mortal plane, but a crushing overhand blow from the ebony shaft drove it to the floor, where it stilled and began to dissipate.

I had been knocked to my knees by a similar blow from the saint's axe. The volcanic glass axe had cleaved through my shoulder and deep into my chest. In a sense I too had dissipated, gulping the recall potion I carry for the most dire emergencies. I have no idea how Ahnassi kept me from bleeding to death when I appeared at the house. Released from my conscious control the magica stream that channels through me had wrecked havoc, but perhaps it helped keep me alive, even though it had overwhelmed all efforts to heal my near dead body.

I had no time for these considerations as I stood in the entry chamber of the tomb. A daedroth burst into the chamber from the columned passage leading into the depths. A bolt of green ichorous magica streamed from its taloned hands, and I dodged towards the exit as it splashed off the walls.

The daedroth leapt in pursuit, crocodile jaws snapping. Using my position on the stairs to bring my weight down with the blow I drove the spear through the heavy scales of its hide. It roared in pain and fury and released another blast of poison. I countered with a resistance spell, leaving the spear lodged in the beasts heaving chest, and backed rapidly up the stairs. Clawing at the heavy spear that hampered its climb kept the daedroth from charging after me, and I rained arrows upon it from the top of the stair until it lay dead.

In a small chapel off the entry chamber I found two of the three artifacts that Faral had sent me to recover. Had I found the third I may have left the tomb rather than seek vengeance on the golden saint. I was not conceding to fear, I was just willing to leave the creature with its victory. Perhaps.

Marshalling my courage I crept further into the tomb. The steps from which the daedroth had emerged were wide and shallow, with a row of columns down the center holding a high arched ceiling. I checked carefully behind the pillars. A passage led deeper, and I pressed on.

The passage ended in a gallery, a wide balcony surrounding a central stairwell. A scamp, one of the least of the Daedric servants, scurried about. The creature was barely tall enough to be seen over the stone parapets. I crouched low, nocked an arrow in the Bone-biter bow, and rose slowly in the shadowy arch of the passage. The arrow caught the scamp just below its pointed ear, a bare inch above the parapet.

The stairs descended from an opening in the parapet, flanked by stone trioliths faced with gold. Just below the floor level dark waters lapped at the stone steps. I placed a small offering on each of the shrines. The water was cold.

Aided by a water breathing spell I searched the depths until I found a narrow passage. I felt through the darkness until it opened into a wider hall with a higher ceiling. A stair led up out of the water at the far end, but I wanted to see more. A spell of buoyancy to counter the weight of my equipment brought me to the small pocket between the ceiling and the surface of the dark water. I could see into a large chamber above the stair.

Clawed feet crossed my view in an oddly hopping gait, followed by a dragging segmented tail that ended in a fearsome stinger. I eased forward to see more of the monster, hoping that it would again cross my field of vision; a strange thing to hope for. Above the clawed feet rose a shapely female figure, marred by huge bat-like wings and crowned with a visage of furious hatred.

My early training in archery came, fortunately, from friends of my adopted father. Friends of unsavory character made in the thieves' guild. While I learned the traditional erect stance of the bowman that young nobles are taught, I also was trained in the more subtle stances that stealth may demand. I crouched on the steps with the water lapping around my chest, holding my bow horizontally to keep both limbs free.

The nightmarish creature of the void died of rage. The shrieking face twisted in fury. The venomous tail lashed the water in front of me. The taloned feet sliced through the air like razor sharp daggers. But the great buffeting wings held the creature out of the passage. In its madness it could not manage to fold its wings to enter, and in its outrage it could not stay away from the narrow opening despite the hail of arrows that eventually dropped it to the stone floor.

The creature did not have the calm malice of a golden saint. I did not realize the depths of that icy resolve. The saint could stand idly as the monster battered itself against the constraints of the chamber. It watched as the monster collapsed with its icy blood flowing from a dozen wounds. It lurked in the shadows of the chamber until I had crept in to prod the lifeless creature with the ebony spear. The whistle of the falling axe alerted me, but not really in time.

Once again the great glass axe struck. Once again my lifeblood splattered the unfeeling stone of the Redas tomb. Once more the dry triumphant laughter of the golden saint rang in my ears. This time though I kept my feet. Holding my lifeless left arm clamped to my body with my right hand I fled the chamber, instantly turning the watery passage redly opaque as I dove off the stair. I clung to consciousness and gulped a restorative potion that began a rapid healing process. As soon as my arm began responding to my control I started casting additional spells to hasten my recovery.

The saint pursued me into the water; a mistake on its part. Magica swirled and flowed, freeing my movements from all encumbrance while the water slowed the glittering arc of the great axe. I struck the armored chest with my open palm and the warrior was enveloped in magical flame and a blinding scalding steam. It recognized its error and began a thrashing retreat from the clinging water. A second spell of destruction again veiled its sight with steam as well as blistering the metallic skin. Beneath the billowing steam and blood clouded waters I struck with my shortsword, severing golden tendons from the heel, reducing the mighty warrior to a crawl as it returned to the chamber.

I stood over the fallen foe without malice. I dispatched it quickly, without a sense of revenge, and without weaving the spells that would have trapped its energies in a soulgem. Although it would be of great value in my enchantments, I chose not to bear the reminder of my close brush with death.

A large ash pit dominated the chamber, and gleaming on the lip of it rested the Redas waraxe. I seized this third relic and slowly wove the spell of recall. This time my appearance at home was triumphant, to Ahnassi's great relief.

Day 14: Cheats and deceits

I brought the Redas artifacts to Vivec City this morning. As I strolled the path from Pelagiad I pondered my next move. I expected that my success at the tomb would surprise and impress the treasurer, Faral Retheran, but probably not win her outright support. Whether to spend more time getting familiar with the Redorans of Vivec or return to Ald-ruhn was an open question. It was open until I arrived in the city at least.

The mid-morning sun streamed down as I crossed the bridge from the shore of the bay onto the wide decking of the foreign quarter canton. As usual there were heavily armed Ordinators pacing their rounds. They almost always recognize me, and since I am known to have completed quite a few pilgrimages in the Temple they normally give me a friendly greeting. Much to my surprise I walked past two Ordinators who seemed to barely notice me. They were engrossed in animated conversation! Not like Ordinators at all! As I passed I heard one saying "...certainly not like a Redoran to...", but I couldn't make out the rest. I picked up my pace. Whatever had happened, it seemed better to get information from Faral in the treasury than gossip on the streets.

I got information that was accurate, but it certainly wasn't good. Last night the arena had filled with boisterous spectators, anxious to witness a duel to the death between a couple of minor nobles. Most disputes are settled in a less final, less dramatic fashion. A duel to first drawn blood is common. Death matches, being infrequent, draw a huge crowd. In the honor bound society of the Dunmer great houses it is unthinkable that someone would not show up. But the crowd was disappointed last night; Rothis Nethan, a minor noble of House Redoran, did not appear for the match. It was hard to say if Faral was more shocked or apoplectic.

"It is an outrage against the honor of our house!" she fairly screamed.

"Yes." Clearly, she was right, so I agreed quickly. Not quickly enough. Her eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets before I could get my one word out. "There must be some explanation," I continued.

That was a mistake. I thought a vein in the side of her neck was going to burst. "Explanation? Ex...pla...na...tion! There is NO explaining! If he were dead, maybe, but he isn't. He is holed up at the Flowers of Gold! If YOU think there is an explanation YOU talk to him. I have a report to draft to the council!"

I took that as an invitation to leave and scurried for the door.

At the Flowers of Gold I found Rothis Nethan alone at a corner table. The black looks he was getting from the other patrons accounted easily for his being alone, the similar look from the lass behind the counter accounted for the bare table in front of him. I pulled a chair from a nearby table and sat.

"Sitting with me is liable to get you killed outlander," he said stiffly.

I shrugged. "That's why I sat with my back to this wall," I said. He grunted, a non-committal noise. Clearly he did not want company. "What happened?" I asked.

"Listen, four people have already told me that Brethas Deras rescheduled our duel for tonight. I don't need another messenger."

"I'm not a messenger. Actually, that's news to me. I assume you plan to be there."

His hand leapt to the dagger at his belt. "Have a care outlander..." he began, but his words trailed off. "I suppose after last night I have no right to defend my honor," he finished, and his hand fell away from the silver hilt.

"A man can always defend his honor, but I meant no offense. I'm just trying to understand what happened, and what is happening."

"What happened I don't understand myself," he said. "I was resting in my room, reading, trying to keep my nerves loose as the hour closed. I could not imagine falling asleep, but somehow I must have. The innkeeper says they knocked at my door. When I didn't answer they assumed I had left for the arena. I could not have slept so soundly! But apparently I did." I didn't know what to make of this tale, and I suppose he read my silence as disbelief. "No one else believes me either. I can't even buy healing potions to use tonight."

"Healing potions?" I asked.

"Yes, that was our agreement. Healing potions only, no other spellcraft. No armor. Daggers. I will gut the wretched Hluulu, but it is likely too late to restore my reputation. And, as I said, the Temple here in the compound won't even sell me potions."

"I'll take care of that," I offered.

He was obviously grateful. I avoided any questions that may have arisen at the temple by getting the potions at the guild hall. I watched him throughout the afternoon to make sure nothing prevented him from defending the honor of our house a second time. I only wish I had seen the tendrils of the plot that were drawing him to his death.

Once he was secured in the antechamber below the arena to await the appointed hour I returned to the treasury, armed with solid assurances that the duel would take place as scheduled...as rescheduled, anyway. Faral was considerably calmer, and agreed to my company at the festivities.

We took our seats far above the arena floor. As a highly ranked official of the house Faral holds a reserved box, and the view was excellent. Trebonius, my predecessor as Archmage, had demanded such a box for himself, alienating most Dunmer, who considered such a privilege being given to an Imperial guild a direct affront to their traditions. I had released the claim shortly after leaving Trebonius dead in this very arena.

The sands of the arena were roughened by the hands and feet of tumbling acrobats; entertainment while the onlookers streamed to their seats, then smoothed again by men with large rakes and brooms as the announcer strode to the center of the ring. From his sleeve he drew the agreements of the duel, and began to read.

He had not gotten far when a voice shouted from the stands. "The odds makers said this was a no armor duel...with daggers!" I was trying to make sense of what the announcer had just said myself, and was glad for the interruption.

The announcer clearly wasn't. "That was LAST night," he bellowed, glaring in the direction of the offending voice. "After the failure of one of the contestants to appear new terms were agreed upon." He read on and my confusion grew. I should have thought. If Rothis had failed to appear, who had agreed to new conditions? I had no time to ponder.

The doors opened at opposite ends of the arena. From the door to our left Rothis leapt onto the sand. He was nimble, landing in a crouch with his two silver daggers raised at the ready. He wore a tight shirt tucked deeply into his trousers to allow him freedom of movement. There was a momentary pause as the crowd gaped, then there was a gasp as the Hluulu noble Brethas Deras strode from the door to our right. He was clad in full bonemold battle armor, a great two handed sword whirling above his helmeted head! Even from the height of our seats I could see the venomous glow of the blade. All allowed under the terms of the 'rematch', and no one had told Rothis!

Rothis neither ran nor flinched, much to the honor of our house. It was no duel, it was a slaughter.

Day 15: The enemy strikes

This morning at the Flowers of Gold the only topic of conversation was last night's debacle at the arena. Rothis died honorably, which doesn't change that he is dead. The Hlaalu, Brethas Deras, was completely within the agreements of the duel, and no one can say that his victory wasn't honorable. To those who saw it, particularly my fellow Redorans, it seems tainted, but that really doesn't make a difference. As I said, Rothis is dead. One less to stand against Dagoth Ur.

I don't think the Hlaalu are intentionally in league with Dagoth Ur, I just think the interminable house wars play directly into his plans. I was considering this over a breakfast of kwama eggs and guar bacon when a messenger burst into the dining room and rushed to my table. He did not have the air of good news about him. The loss of a minor house noble in Vivec is not a good thing, but it didn't rock House Redoran to its foundations. The rivalry with the Hlaalu is inconvenient, but it has gone on for a long time and is not likely to be our downfall. Death reaching into the very home of a member of our house council must be the work of Dagoth Ur. I left immediately for Ald-ruhn.

Chaos met me when I stepped off the guild guide platform. Potions of protection, cures of disease, enchantments of all kinds; keeping the flood of customers orderly was an unfamiliar task in Edwinna's guild hall. Even though most residents of Ald-ruhn are not actually members of House Redoran they are generally devout, and favor the temple for their purchases. As the Archmage I had to be pleased that business was booming, but the dire cause weighed against me. The creaking of the roof told me that I could look forward to a raging ash storm when I stepped outside, adding to the general malaise.

The townspeople are doubting the Redoran's ability to protect them, and with good reason. If the manor house of a councilor can be overrun by corprus monsters, right here in the capital, where is security? If councilor Brara Morvayn's own husband can be killed and consumed, who is safe? I found the council in emergency session, and was not allowed to enter. I went to Sarethi manor and waited for my patron to return.

"It is a dark day for our house Arvil Bren," he said by way of greeting.

"How is Lady Morvayn?" I asked.

"Well. As well as could be expected. She and a few retainers have established a temporary residence in her offices at the council hall. She was out of town. Her husband was less fortunate."

"So he is dead?"

"Dead. Or worse. Their house is overrun. Some of their personal guards escaped the carnage. They have the corprus disease. Bolvyn Venim believes that we cannot order guards into the house. In the face of the corprus they may refuse and we will have a general revolt. I offered to lead them myself, but he has forbidden it. He says we cannot have the council exposed to corprus."

"He's right. He also knows that if you were successful while he cowers in his manor his grip on the council would be broken." I had not the least doubt that that was part of Sarethi's motivation when he volunteered.

"He isn't cowering. What is there to do? I have no more idea than he has."

I had an idea, but I wasn't ready to say so. "Lord Sarethi, I met the Lady of Maar Gan not long ago. If I went to her offices now would she see me?"

His red eyes, which have seen a great deal over his centuries, narrowed. "She is distraught, but perhaps. Almost certainly if I accompany you." He was ahead of me already. How I will ever be able to sail the undercurrents of a Dunmer council I cannot guess. Centuries of experience; they have centuries of experience.

We were quickly allowed entry, and settled comfortably. It took a while for the Lady to join us, understandably. She was composed, but beneath the thin surface clearly distraught. I was shocked by her first words.

"I should have taken you more seriously," she said as soon as she saw me.

"My Lady?" I was completely thrown off balance.

"Red candles. You told me about red candles. The sixth house cult and red candles. One of my servants favored red candles, but I didn't pursue it with her. Now my husband is dead."

"Where is the servant?" Sarethi asked.

"Dead also, I assume. The guards say she didn't make it out of the house when those monsters appeared."

"Did they describe these monsters?" I asked. The description was clear enough. Not monsters. People, people far gone with corprus disease.

"I have battled them before," I said. "In the corprusarium at Tel Fyr they can be treated."

"Treated? There is no cure for corprus," Sarethi said.

"Divayth Fyr has a cure." They both looked at me, disbelief clear on their faces. "It has only worked once," I said. "It worked on me."

"The legend of the Nerevarine," Sarethi said. "Despite all you have done for me, and the house, you are on dangerous ground Arvil Bren."

"The Nerevarine?" Lady Morvayn said, puzzled. "What brings that up?"

"In the Ashlander legends the Nerevarine overcomes the corprus disease Brara," Sarethi said. "Claiming to have been cured is a heresy."

"Claiming to be the Nerevarine is heresy. I survived Fyr's cure is just a surprising fact. A fact that is overwhelmingly important right now." I faced Sarethi. "Venim says you can't enter Morvayn Manor, and he might be right, you might catch the corprus if you did. I won't catch it." I turned. "Lady Morvayn, it would be my honor to reclaim your home."

I was pleased that the conversation had taken what I thought to be a turn beyond Sarethi's expectations, but I could see that he was already cycling through the consequences and complications. "This is Ald-ruhn. Bolvyn Venim is the local authority..." he said.

"You know he will refuse," I said.

"We are talking about MY home," said Lady Morvayn as she pressed a key into my hand. A feral grin flashed across Sarethi's face. I would risk my life, Venim would lose face, and Lady Morvayn would bear his displeasure. Sarethi was the master and I was the pawn. Again.

Day 16: Morvayn manor

Lady Morvayn will not be returning to Morvayn manor any time soon. It would be safe enough, but I suspect there are too many bad memories, and they are too fresh.

I ate breakfast with Sarethi this morning. Every conversation with the wily council elder leaves me wondering if he is advancing my cause or I am advancing his. I suppose our paths are basically parallel. The harder times get for House Redoran the easier it gets to swing council members to our respective causes. In any case Bolvyn Venim is our common obstacle. I'm sure Sarethi is maneuvering him into challenging me to a duel.

It was left to me to talk my way past the guards at the manor. It wasn't difficult. Having a home in Ald-ruhn taken over by fell creatures certainly affronts their sense of honor. Their main concern, of course, was the corprus disease. Having heroes and adventurers assault the house only to add to the number of infected monsters within is certainly no solution. I couldn't very well tell the devout guards about the real source of my immunity, so I left them with the impression that the mage's guild has solved the corprus problem...at least as far as master wizards and archmages go.

The ground level of the opulent manor gave little evidence of the corruption lying below, but I could sense it. The corprus is more a curse than a disease; a construct of magica and malevolence. I could feel swirling eddies in the everpresent flows of magica. I stepped back outside and suggested to the guards that they should establish themselves a little further from the building.

I entered again, and crept to the door that led down into the main portion of the manor. The stairs descended into a sitting room or library. I slipped through the maze of overturned chairs being careful not to make too much noise rustling through the litter of torn pages. The living areas of the manor were basically abandoned, Dagoth Ur's creatures had established themselves in the darkened storage areas, which were now bathed in the sullen glow from dozens of red candles.

The corprus victims were busily engaged in mindless activity, but there was obviously some guiding intelligence at work. The intricate designs of House Dagoth adorned walls and floors, drawn in dried blood. Tapestries had been hung, and hunks of corprus meat lay on crude altars. I felt among the threads and tendrils of magica being woven around these icons and found a warped familiarity.

The guild guides do not actually cast teleportation spells, they maintain a system that amounts to tunnels of magica connecting the various halls. The sense in Morvayn manor was similar, though incomplete. I have no doubt that if I had not intervened there would soon have been a portal constructed, and probably one of the dagoths would have been established right in Ald-ruhn. In my own sorrowful experience the dagoths have the power to call down the corprus on their enemies with immediate effect. The signs and artifacts that were already in place were a danger, but the presense of a dagoth would have been a disaster.

I was not fooled by the slow hulking of the corprus stalkers. Their numbers and the regenerative capabilities that stem from their infection made a physical assault precarious at best. I considered my arsenal of spells, but opted for a well designed scroll. The scroll is often thought to be a crutch, an access for those with little command of magica to spells that would otherwise be beyond them. There is more truth in this than not, but that is far from their only purpose. My confrontation with the stalkers gives a perfect illumination.

There are spells that are designed to lower the resistance to various destructive energies. Personally, the main use I have for this branch of the school of destruction is lighting campfires. A spell of vulnerability to fire works wonders with firewood, even green or wet wood. There are those who use these spells in combat, but I have found that I seldom have the time. Scrolls can combine multiple effects in a single casting, a casting made very quick since much of the magica is already focused by the arcane symbols of the scroll.

I stood in a shadowy alcove under the stairs and readied a hellfire scroll. The combined effects worked to perfection, and struck in a sequence far faster than I could have cast the spells individually. A field blossomed around the huddled monsters. The channels of magica amplified the effects of the subsequent spells. The next wave of magica thus struck with much greater power, desiccating everything in the area to tinder dryness. Even the oozing sores of the corprus monsters dried and cracked in an instant. The scroll left no chance to appreciate the preliminary effects though, as the room erupted in a volcanic blast of searing magical flame. The scroll, bereft of the long pent magical power it had released, crumbled to dust in my hands. Just to be sure of an effective cleansing I launched a couple additional balls of flame into the room.

The corprus, and the eventual passage of a dagoth, were products of the arcane symbols, the altars, and the candles, which had been safely eliminated, but I was left with a mystery. What had led a loyal servant, who had been with the Morvayn's for centuries, to begin gathering these icons of evil? Why would anyone call down the curse of corprus on themselves and those around them? The answer stood on a stack of crates in another room.

The glittering gem eyes seemed to follow me as I entered the chamber. Made from the ash of Red Mountain, sealed with the red wax of Dagoth candles, the ash statue oozed with strange power. It was frighteningly similar to the statue that had apparently possessed Varvur Sarethi to kill one of his best friends. These statues are a danger, setting the stage for invasion or worse. I must find out how they are being introduced into the homes of the finest families of the Redoran house.

Day 17: Dunmer magic

This morning I took the statue to Lloros Sarano at the temple. "Another one?" he said when he unwrapped it.

"Yes. Different. Different effects anyway."

He studied it closely. "Physically they are very similar, but not exact. I would say made by the same craftsman." He set the statue carefully on a small pedestal and slowly passed his hands up and down along its sides.

"I could sense the enchantment, but no details."

"Could you now, master wizard?" he said with a smile.

Sarethi laughed from the doorway. "I didn't want to interrupt your examination Lloros."

The priest laughed also; a friendly laugh. "I had not actually begun, Athyn. I'll get started shortly." He glanced back and forth between us. The message was clear. Sarethi and I made a graceful exit.

"Lloros is a scholar," Sarethi said as we made our way to the great emperor crab shell known as Skar that shelters the manor district of Ald-ruhn. "His sense of magica is different from yours."

"How?"

"You, human mages in general, you direct what you think of as streams of magica, streams that can alter, destroy, conceal. Most Dunmer do not pursue control of such streams. Have you noticed that the Telvanni do things differently than your own mages?"

"The Telvanni...blend is the best word I suppose...spells from what we consider different schools. In ways that seem, in most ways, grossly inefficient, at least coming at them from our traditions."

"That is because they do not come at them from your traditions. The Telvanni are Dunmer. Their traditions are the same as the Temple; the same as my friend Lloros. He is studying the magica in the statue. You know it is there, but you can't identify it. It isn't a stream. It is threads, carefully woven threads. Threads put together into a net that ensnares the minds of those around it."

"So he will be able to sort out why the statue Varvur had led him to kill, while this statue led the Morvayn servant to construct a shrine."

"Perhaps. Or perhaps the difference was not in the snare but in the snared."

I went back to the guild hall and teleported to Balmora. Sarethi's examples and explanations were a layman's view of the differences between experts, but they had given me a glint of insight...or at least opened a question in my mind. I spent much of the day closeted in Ranis' office. A Dunmer, risen to high rank in the guild, she could explain in depth and detail that made sense to me...eventually. If I have to duel a Telvanni at some point I will be much better prepared.

Late in the afternoon a tap came at the door. Ajira opened the door far enough to slip her head through. "Ranis. Good friend Arvil Bren. There is a message from Ald-ruhn."

The council has been in session most of the day, and is holding an extended meeting tonight. Acrimoniously, no doubt. Sarethi wants me to meet him at his manor tomorrow. Apparently Lloros has made some headway with the statues and their spells. His message suggested that I avoid being seen.

Day 18: Ald-ruhn after dark

I spent most of the day observing Lloros Sarano as he worked with Varvur Sarethi. I didn't interrupt him, but he took frequent breaks to let Varvur's mind settle so I did have a chance to ask some questions. Apparently, while the statues snared the minds of their owners the owners left their own imprints on the enchantments of the statues. By comparing the two the priest had isolated the threads of magica that had impacted Varvur's mind, and his delicate administration of restorative magica was designed to bring back Varvur's memory.

I was impressed. Sharn gra-Muzgob is the guild's most skilled student of the school of restoration. She can direct a powerful stream of magica in a virtual explosion of healing. She could reattach a severed head before it hit the ground, but undoing the tiny scars in Varvur's mind is an entirely different world.

Between council sessions Athyn Sarethi would return to the manor to check on the progress, and also to keep me up to date on whatever he thought I needed to know. I am fully aware that what he thinks I need to know is whatever keeps me on a path that works for him, but again, our intentions are at least parallel if not the same. My own experience tells me that when he says Venim is furious about events at Morvayn manor that he is telling the exact truth. There's no question that slipping invisibly into Skar as he recommended was a wise choice. When he had completed his work I left even more surreptitiously.

I waited until late in the evening. The swirling ashstorm engulfed the purple glow of magica as I teleported myself to the temple courtyard, and I quickly lost myself in the darkness. With the storm raging it was not difficult to avoid the patrolling guards in the streets, but I needed to get inside unidentified. A quick trip to Balmora was called for.

At the Southwall Cornerclub I am always welcome. I think Habasi still holds out hope that I will actually join the thieve's guild. I quickly explained my needs, without going into too much detail about my objectives. The Rat in the Pot is the headquarters of the guild in Ald-ruhn, and even my friends would be hard pressed to help me if they knew that was the target of my infiltration.

Armed with only a common dagger I had no intention of getting in a fight. I suppose I should have expected otherwise, given the reputation of the Rat in the Pot. The club where, according to Varvur's cleared memories, he had won the ash statue in a dice game; a club that is generally avoided by the good citizens of Ald-ruhn.

The bartender didn't recognize me as I unwrapped the turban that had protected me from the blowing ash, as well as completely obscuring me from any guards I passed in the street. The art of disguise is meeting the expected. My rough dark clothes and soft boots, the turban, the well-used hilt of a dagger peeking from the ragged sash around my waist; the combination spoke of a road-weary thief struggling to stay above begging; no surprise at the Rat. The location and costume establish a mental trend, a trend that would prevent any recognition of my face.

After a couple of drinks, purchased with much grumbling about prices and recounting of well worn coins, I managed to find my way into the dingy room below the bar. The players in the dice game opened a narrow space, making room grudgingly for what looked to be a rather ragged new mark. I did not disappoint, playing rather badly and losing, but bemoaning my small losses as if they were my last coins.

In fairly short order I had 'successfully' lost the contents of my small coin pouch, and was reduced to pleading with the other players to be allowed to bet more bulky goods. Reluctantly I produced a dagger crafted from the chitinous hide of an ashland beetle. "I have a few Ashlander artifacts in my bag," I said, holding my voice low. A Dunmer who was not actually in the game looked on with sudden interest, and the other players introduced Galtis Guvron, suggesting that he might buy something from me to restore my stake in the game.

I settled at a corner table with my newfound fence. Though trafficking in Ashlander artifacts isn't illegal it is certainly frowned upon outside the lower circles, and I doubted that there would be more than one person involved in such business even in this dive. I argued and bargained over the worth of the dagger and a few other bits and pieces, then let slip the reason I had come to Ald-ruhn. "I've heard that there are some new items coming out of the Ashlands. My usual buyer would pay handsomely for such a novelty."

Galtis kept his face blank, but there had been a brief flicker of something, I was sure of it. "I've seen nothing new," he said. "The Ashlander life hasn't changed for millennia. They are not innovators." He waved at his sack, which now contained the handful of chitin tools and such that I had brought. "These are relatively new, but they could just as easily have been made by the ancestors a hundred generations ago."

"Apparently it is some new religion. Some sort of idol worship. I've heard they have some kind of statues made of ash, with glowing red..." Before I could finish I was hit hard in the chest by the table's rough edge. Galtis had leapt to his feet and a dagger was flashing in his hand.

"Who?" he shrieked. "Where did you hear this, and why come here?" The dagger slashed towards my face and I rolled out of my chair. I came to my feet with my own dagger in hand. The other patrons closed in a circle around us to watch. His reaction to the mere mention of the statues was a sufficient indication of guilt, and I wouldn't feel bad if I had to kill Galtis, but I wanted more information. I wasn't going to get it. Asking a lot of questions would have brought even more questions from the onlookers. Besides, Galtis clearly had every intention of killing me out of hand, so it was better to save my breath.

An explosive outburst of magica would have been completely out of place and out of character, but it seems like there is someone hawking potions of dubious value on every streetcorner, so a swig from a battered vial didn't raise any eyebrows. No one needed to know that the contents had been brewed by one of the finest alchemists in Vvardenfell to provide a substantial boost to my quickness and reflexes. That ended any possibility of getting information though. I had to strike immediately and with deadly intent. One of the biggest differences between a quality potion and the streetcorner swill is the duration of the effects. I couldn't stretch out that battle riding the benefits of the potion. My ragged persona would expect only a brief burst of speed and would feel pressed to take advantage, so I did.

I stood over Galtis' fallen body with my dagger point low, but ready. The circle of spectators stood warily, but did not approach. "To the victor go the spoils," I snarled. I snagged whatever obvious pouches were attached to his belt, then checked inside his jacket, where I found a folded bit of parchment.

Being an unknown I could assume that my welcome was overextended when I killed one of the regulars. The Rat is no stranger to knife fights I suppose, and had their own manner of disposal for the remains. I quickly left them to it.

The parchment is coded, I think. Either that or it's just scrawling. I left it for Lloros. Hopefully the scholar will be able to make something of it. For my part I will be getting out of town. A chance to get in favor with another member of the council has arisen. Since I have dropped yet another notch with Bolvyn Venim that is obviously important.

Day 19: Under construction

I set out this morning from Ald-ruhn. Lord Hlaren Ramoran, another member of the council, has dispatched me to Gnisis to collect taxes. For some reason the regular packet has not arrived, and with Ald-ruhn and the council in chaos he cannot go himself. I'm concerned that there may be more to this delay than just disruption in delivery. With all the Redoran's attention turned to Red Mountain the outlying areas may be thinking they can assert themselves for some reason. I hope that I can convince the hetman that things are normal, and he and the collection of taxes need to be also.

Before I get to Lord Ramoran's territory though, I am inspecting my own. Strange to write those words. Not long ago I was a pauper, and a prisoner; now I am a titled landholder. A manor house. Remarkable.

Actually, it is just the shell of a manor house so far, but I am certainly appreciating the shelter it provides tonight as the ashstorm rages outside. Bugdul gro-Kharbush, the foreman, assures me that it will be completed as scheduled even though they are a bit behind right now. The early stages of the construction went a bit slowly. Even the great strength of the orcs on gro-Karbush's crew could not progress quickly against the blowing ash that seems to get more and more frequent. Now that they are mostly working inside he is driving them hard.

Because of the storm I did not have much opportunity to assess my domain. Not much assessment required, really. The sand, the tangles of trama vine, the spires of ancient rock carved into eerie shapes by the ceaseless wind; it is the ashlands. My time with the Urshilaku has brought me into a communion with this vast wilderness, and I will be an honorable steward of this region.

That stewardship is yet to be approved by Bolvyn Venim. Though his specific approval is not required, as the head of the council he is the one who actually signs the title orders. According to Sarethi this will be the first time he will be signing an order by direction of the council that he himself did not initiate, or at least strongly support. He could refuse. By house law the council will then have to face the question of whether to install a new head of the council or reverse their decision on the issue.

Sarethi would opt for stripping Venim of his position, no question, but the others who support me would probably not go that far. They wouldn't yet. Lady Morvayn perhaps. I still have much to do, and this is only the first step. Hlaalu, Telvanni, the four tribes; building the storm against Red Mountain is a long trial. I must endure, like the rocky spires of my newfound lands.

Waxing philosophical must be cut short. The construction crew is setting aside their tools. It is always a shock to see the reverence Orcs have for their tools, be they armor and warhammer or saw and chisel. But once the tools are carefully set for the night, in the way of Orcs the sujamma will flow, and there will be no more to write...or no sense to write it at least.

Day 20: Day lost to the storm

The ashstorm raged all day. At least I know my manor will be able to withstand the worst. This storm may not have been the worst, but I hope my head never suffers so badly again. How can Orcs drink so much sujamma, then be up before dawn pounding with hammers? Bugdul gro-Kharbush seemed sympathetic, but that didn't keep him from driving his crew at full speed.

Ashstorms. They seem to be getting progressively worse. A substantial part of the Redoran territory, including my own lands, is on the verge of becoming uninhabitable. When the temple allotted districts of Vvardenfell back to the Dunmer great houses it is clear that the Redorans got the tailmeat of the guar. I suppose that at the time, with the ghostfence promising to hold back the blight, it didn't seem so bad, but the current circumstances show it in a poor light.

Bolvyn Venim, in his youth, led the house to Vvardenfell. The conflict over that decision ended with Venim as the leader of the council and the former leader dead in the arena. On one hand I'm hoping the Hortator question does not require bloodshed to get an answer. On the other, there must be a growing undercurrent against Venim's leadership now that the weakening ghostfence has placed the house directly in the path of Dagoth Ur's wrath.

Bugdul gro-Kharbush gave me a view from another, unexpected, side of the situation. The powerful Orc has been assembling his crew over the last few years, but has been doing construction work for the Redorans since shortly after his arrival in Morrowind, an opportunity that he would likely not have had without the renewed threat from Red Mountain. In the more hospitable lands of the Hlaalu construction relies on the labor of slaves, and of course the Telvanni build by using their magic to warp living plants to fill their needs. In better times the Redorans also used slaves, but the Khajit, even though they long for the warm sands of their homeland, are ill suited to the harsh ashlands, and the amphibious Argonians even less so.

The hardy Orcs, as evidenced, can actually build shelter against the blowing ash in the midst of the storm. Their nature makes them useless as slaves though, obstinate in the face of even the harshest abuse, and equally impervious to kindness and any other gentle motivation. Bugdul filled a growing need as conditions deteriorated, and without him construction of my stronghold would be impossible. He has given me a new respect for Orcs that might give me a different experience tomorrow in Gnises; hopefully tomorrow. Most of the legion there are Orcs, a situation that I now understand a little better.

I must continue on my mission. If the unrest in the house cannot be relieved, it must at least be directed. Bolvyn Venim led us here; it can be laid at his feet if need be.

Day 21: A mistake with good results

Once the storm cleared it was an easy jog over the mountains into the West Gash. Lord Ramoran's territory is certainly more inviting than mine. Trees and grasses replaced the sand and thornbushes of the Ashlands. I would not trade for the political challenges though. I thought to get some insight into those challenges before approaching the Hetman, Abelmawia, by visiting Baladas Demnevanni. I should have known better.

When I asked Baladas if he had heard anything about a tax revolt he immediately said no, but there was a slight catch in his voice and a grin that led me to press him. "Well, I don't know anything about your Redoran taxes, since I don't pay them," he said.

"You don't?"

"No. Since this tower is technically a Velothi artifact my taxes go directly to the Emperor," he said and paused, then finished "when I pay them." After a little coaxing the curmudgeonly wizard admitted that most times when the legion sent someone to collect from him he locked them in the dungeon. General Darius apparently has tax revolt problems of his own. The swirling currents of Vvardenfell politics crash together in a veritible malestrom in Gnisis.

"Well, I'm no great fan of the Imperial Legion," I said with a smile, "nor the Empire in general for that matter."

"Ah, but Arvil you are the Archmage of the imperial guild. How could you say such a thing about your noble leader, whom we are all honored to serve?"

"Sarcasm Baladas?" I said with a chuckle. "Such a well known spokesman for Great House Telvanni should probably be more careful, you could be misunderstood. Fortunately I know that the Telvanni are fully supportive of the Emperor in all that he does."

"Arvil, you need a few more centuries of practice before you try to challenge me at wordplay. Perhaps if I had met some of your Breton ancestors in my youth...or were they still living in caves then? Unfortunate that your brief mortal span gives you no chance of actually developing your wit, you show glimmers of promise."

We laughed together as friends do, which would no doubt be a surprise to so many in our various orders. Telvanni and Redoran, Dunmer wizard and Imperial Archmage; we cross many boundaries. In the moment I took a chance on testing our friendship with one more boundary, that between Great House glory and Ashlander tradition.

"I may have more time than you would expect, Baladas," I said, bringing my tone into a more serious note.

He caught the change and looked at me, intensity narrowing his gleaming red eyes. "What?"

"I'm looking ahead to a long life Baladas, a very long life."

"How long do you have in mind?"

"Well, if I can avoid some violent demise something like forever," I said quietly.

"Forever?"

"It's Azura's gift," I said, drawing my hand from my pouch, where I had slipped on the ring.

"Moon and Star," he gasped.

We talked far into the night. He agrees that I took the wise course by going first to the Redorans, though he wishes there had been some way that I could have chosen House Telvanni. Once I have been named Hortator by House Redoran he will support my petition to House Telvanni. Of course once again I am confronted by the question of who is really helping who. Telvanni councillors do not share a city like the Redorans, because most of them are locked in ancient blood feuds with each other. Having Baladas' support doesn't mean I won't have to kill most of his rivals to get his house behind me.

Day 22: Renewed acquaintance

This morning I set out to get a feel for Gnisis. Before I approach the Hetman I thought I'd talk to the people a bit and see what public opinion might be. If there is a widespread desire for revolt there may not be much that Abelmawia will be able to do about the taxes.

I started out browsing the merchant stalls near the temple. On my previous adventures in Gnisis I was on errands for the guild; merely a journeyman if I recall. I did not present a very memorable picture then I suppose. In any event I was not recognized. When I identified myself as a Redoran housecousin I was given due respect, though clearly there was some surprise, and even doubt, that such a rank would be given to an outlander.

That doubt boiled over as I conversed with the woman running a stall filled with what could be called 'general merchandise'. When I approached she was talking to a man...elf I should say; a Dunmer. I took him to be a customer, and signaled that she could complete her business with him as I was in no hurry, but their conversation stopped. There was something awkward in the sudden silence; a furtive undercurrent that reminded me of other days and other places. He wasn't a customer. He was a supplier. A supplier either of regular goods delivered tax free, or possibly goods that were not on open display due to their illegality; a smuggler.

As our eyes met there was the unspoken challenge that hangs over such men. Something in my face or posture tripped his alarms, and he knew that I knew. But at the same time there was something else; a familiarity that we both also recognized.

"The Redorans have...taken...a new view on outlanders," he said. He might has well have said that they had sunken very low with their new view, it was clearly written on his face.

"Some outlanders," I replied, letting the slur fall as if it was just another word to let him know I would not rise to that bait. "The only Dunmer who completely close their minds are the Cammona Tong, but they are just back alley cut-throats, not house councillors." I expected that to raise a response, since the Tong justify themselves as standing for the Dunmer ideal of self rule, and are usually quick to point to their close ties with the leadership of House Hlaalu. He let it pass without a twitch of an eyebrow. Either he was not Cammona Tong, or he had a strong desire to hide it and a good degree of self control.

"It doesn't take a criminal syndicate to get on the wrong side of the empire around here," he sneered. "Just surviving seems to be enough."

"The mine..." I said, groping in my memory. "Is the mine still closed?"

"Most times. The legion lets most people work just enough to keep us from starving but not enough for anyone to avoid being hungry. They say the lower levels, the really productive levels, are too dangerous; protecting their precious Dwemer ruin..."

"Quiet Hainab," the merchant hissed. "You may think you can outrun the Orcs, but I have a shop to keep." In my memory pieces were clicking into place.

"Hainab. Hainab the miner."

"Former miner," he said with a sneer. "I said they let most people work. Not me. They blamed me for the death of one of their precious Orcs, even though they had no proof, so there's no work for me."

"So you became a smuggler. A real smuggler; more than just sneaking into the mine." Smuggling had treated him well in some ways. Like myself he was much better dressed. In other ways it had not been kind. There was a hard edge to him that had not been there, and the shadowed, haunted look of a basically honest man pushed into less than honorable work. "There are ways to be responsible for a death even if your hand doesn't hold the blade, but I'm sorry you were blamed. That Orc was not worth the ruining of your life."

"What do you know about it outlander," he said heatedly, then a puzzled look came over his face. "The Breton..." He looked more carefully at my face. "It is you, Breton," he finished.

"Well! Breton certainly sounds better than outlander. How about if I buy you a drink and we talk about what has befallen us since last we met?"

"You'll have to buy it here," he said. " I don't frequent the tradehouse."

"The trail south of town?" I asked. He nodded quickly and was on his way.

This time I was much more wary, and he did not take me by surprise. Perhaps he has gotten past needing the pretense of an ambush. "Ridiculous that they could blame me," he said as he stepped from the bushes. "There was no way I could have stood up to that Orc demon...then."

"Hard lessons since then?"

"Many," he said. "And many scars."

"And the burden of many corpses," I suggested. The man had grown up, spent centuries, in a mining village, living the simple life of a miner. The scars on his conscience marked him clearly; more clearly than whatever scars his shirt might conceal.

"You seem unburdened," he grated.

"You said it yourself. That Orc was a demon. A thief stealing from all sides; the legion, the empire, the miners...probably whoever he sold the artifacts to. I have regrets about some that I've killed, but not him."

"I shed no tears for him either, but I regret that the end of his life and the ruin of my own did no good."

"The miners ended up with nothing," I said, "even the ones who do get to work."

"Right. The artifacts were gone, but most of the mine is still closed off. The general was furious that a soldier was killed, and never really got to the bottom of what had happened, so he doesn't see things in the same way you and I do. He sees the closure of the mine as fair punishment."

"How did you get blamed? And how are you still here?"

"I was conspicuously in the town while you were in the mine, and there was no way to convict me of the crime, so I'm a 'free man'...but the Orcs blame me. I had to learn to move fast...and kill. Then the Cammona Tong decided I was competition, and I had to learn to move faster...and kill more."

"War is at hand," I said. "Moving fast will serve you well, and it's better to kill than be killed, especially by the likes of the Cammona Tong, or the minions of House Dagoth."

"House wars," he sneered. "They make no difference. Redoran, Hlaalu, either one will turn their people over to the empire as long as they get to keep their manors. You think House Dagoth would do any worse?"

"I know they would," I said. "I've seen it myself."

We stood beside the trail. Neither of us had asked for the violence that fills our lives. I have come to terms with it. There are killers far worse than me, and true evil in the world. Hainab's life had changed the first time he crossed my path. I hoped it would again, this time for the better.

"You would do better if you got away from here," I said.

"How? I know the coast. I know the people; who I can trust. I wasn't raised to be a smuggler...or a killer..."

"I know." I pressed a bag of coins into his hands. "Your people will need the skills you've learned. All of your people. Catch the caravan to Ald-ruhn. No one will know you there. There's an Ashlander turned merchant, retired. You'll find him at the Ald Skar. He can tell you how to survive with the Ashlanders, and where to find the Urshilaku. Speak to Zabamund. Tell him you are friend to clanfriend Arvil Bren."

I don't know if he will go. I don't know if he will survive the journey, or the coming war. I only hope that he will find there was a good reason that he had to learn to fight.

Day 23: Arrangements

As expected, there was really not much the Hetman could do about the taxes. It's not really like a revolt. The townspeople of Gnisis just have no money with the eggmine shut down. Abelmawia may have wanted the taxes paid, but he wasn't terribly concerned. It took some digging to sort out why not.

"Where was Lord Ramoran when the legion shut down our mine?" he finally burst out. "If this village gets protection we get it from the legion, not Great House Redoran." I suppose I was shocked, and it showed. "Pardon, Lord Bren. I have been loyal to the Redoran banner for centuries, but the people here ask me these questions and Lord Ramoran hasn't been giving me any answers for them."

"Here's an answer for them. A question you can ask in return. Who is going to protect them if the legion goes back to Cyrodiil?"

"The house Lords can barely protect themselves! Ald-ruhn is being overrun by monsters from Red Mountain and the Redoran forces are at Ghostgate, and Molag Mar, and who knows where else, but they...are...not...here!"

"Those places; those are the key points that contain the biggest danger we face. The legion can come and go; the legion can call it a success if House Dagoth is contained to Vvardenfell. It's your home and mine that are lost, not theirs, not the Emperor's. This village, far from Red Mountain; the battle against Dagoth Ur won't be fought here. But if Ghostgate falls, or the exaggerations you hear about Ald-ruhn turn into the truth, then we are all lost. Your people think Lord Ramoran should have his eyes turned on you, but his eyes are on Red Mountain, as they should be."

"All well and good," he said, "but ultimately it doesn't matter. There's nothing to pay with. General Darius is not likely to be impressed by your arguments and open the mine."

There wasn't much more for me to talk to the Hetman about. I went to the local tradehouse, headquarters of General Darius of the Death's Head legion.

"Those people killed one of my men!" he bellowed as soon as I mentioned opening the mine.

"General, 'your man' was living down in the mine, shirking his duty, selling off..."

"He was guarding a valuable find! Historical artifacts! Who knows what may have been learned? These miners that you are so concerned about could have been working on the excavation for years, but they had to steal from the Emperor. I have nothing for them, or for you. You've gone native Breton, that's your problem."

"I don't know who did your investigation, or where you got your ideas, but I can tell you that none of the villagers had anything to do with killing that theiving Orc...and he wasn't guarding any interests but his own. He and his partners took out everything they thought was of value, there was nothing to guard but the secret."

"And how would you know?" he roared.

"I was there. I killed him."

Veins popped out on his forehead and his neck. For a moment I couldn't help but think of Trebonius. It must be a common trait with angry Cyrodiils. He got some semblence of control before he spoke. When he did his voice was icy. "What did you say?"

"I said I killed him. I killed the Orc in the eggmines. There were no artefacts left in the ruin. Your Orc had a crew from before he joined the legion. They cleaned it out."

"You just admitted to killing a trooper. Why should anything else you have to say matter?"

"Because it's the truth, for one thing. Your trooper was removing artefacts from a Dwemer ruin. A ruin that should have been turned over to the Mage's Guild as soon as it was found. The guild heard rumors and sent me here to investigate. When I tried to enter the ruin your trooper made the mistake of trying to stop me."

"So you killed him."

"It was him or me. And if I hadn't shown up when I did your Orcs could have lost us one of the most important finds in history. Fortunately they were so busy with Dwemer metal trinkets they missed the most valuable thing that they found."

"What?"

"A book. A book that revealed the truth of what happened to the Dwemer."

"You found this book?"

"I did. It's in the hands of the mage's guild, no thanks to your troopers."

"Doesn't change that you killed a trooper in my legion," he said.

"No, it doesn't. It also doesn't matter. I'm the Archmage of Vvardenfell. You can report to your superiors, they can complain to the guild council in Cyrodiil, they can look for someone to come here to replace me or promote someone here. They won't find anyone there who wants to come to Vvardenfell to die, and my stewards are more interested in containing the local threats than pleasing the council."

"So you think you can take matters into your own hands because we're out here on the frontier," he said.

"Don't you?" I shifted my eyes deliberately to his sword, then looked him directly in the eye. "You could extract justice for your fallen soldier right now."

I watched his eyes. I had no desire to fight a General in the legion, but it was really up to him. Apparently he felt the same way. After a minute that seemed to stretch endlessly he said "Well, if he was stealing the artefacts I suppose justice has already been served."

"Not for everyone. The miners have been suffering ever since, and by rights they should have gotten some benefit from the find."

"That's too bad. Everything was looted so there's nothing for them, unless you plan to give the book back."

"No, but there is something I can do, as long as you open the mine and let them get back to work."

At dinner Baladas laughed until I thought he would fall out of his chair. "It's probably just as well you fell in with the Redorans Arvil," he finally gasped. "Any Telvanni worth the name would have roasted the pompous fool and been done with it. Then the miners could fend for themselves. See how long they like that before they come crawling for protection to Ald-ruhn. But not you. You end up hiring the whole town."

Most of the town, I guess. I contracted with the mine for kwama eggs, scrib jelly and meat; enough to feed a substantial population in and around my stronghold. That gets the miners back to work. The legion will provide security for shipments into the Ashlands; a source of extra funding that makes keeping the mine open in the general's best interest. Overall a very satisfactory solution.

Day 24: Lord Ramoran

I took the caravan back to Ald-ruhn this morning. I needed the time to reflect. Collecting the meager taxes was not a difficult task in itself, but some of the questions asked in Gnisis rode my shoulders, taking the spring from my step. Red Mountain, and the defense of Ald-ruhn; with these important matters I had explained away the long absence of Ramoran from his domain. But I was beset by doubts about the Lord of the West Gash. When I arrived in Ald-ruhn I had resolved to set aside my concerns. Getting the support of Lord Ramoran, and the rest of the council, must take precedence.

I delivered the taxes to Ramoran manor, under Skar. The splendid mansion and Lord Ramoran's gleaming armor of Dwemer metal again gave me pause. What sort of Lord could live thus while turning a deaf ear to the trials of his people?

He took the bag of drakes without enthusiasm. "Thank you Arvil Bren. Did the Hetman say anything about the delay?"

"Yes he did. The mine has been shut down by the legion, and the people just didn't have the money."

"Oh. Well, I suppose they could have been forgiven their taxes for a year..." His voice trailed off strangely.

"Lord Ramoran," I began tentatively. There was something very strange about his reactions. I had thought that he was miserly, an autocrat squeezing his people, but he didn't seem all that interested in money either. "I cleared up the problem with the legion and got the mine reopened. The taxes were paid out of an advance I gave them to supply my stronghold at Bal Isra..."

"Very good. I'm glad it all worked out," he said distractedly.

"Lord Ramoran, your people are...concerned. They would no doubt welcome some reassurances from you..."

He sighed deeply. "The weight of leadership is not what I expected it to be Arvil Bren, though I never really wanted it. I have risen to power, and wealth, but it came too late to get me what I really wanted, so it is all hollow now. As you take command of Bal Isra keep your eye on what is truly important."

I thought of Ahnassi. I wasn't sure of exactly what he meant, but something in his voice and the set of his jaw made me think he had to be thinking about a woman. "Whoever you lost, now we must stand against Red Mountain or we will lose all."

He shook himself. "I know. Lately I have just been consumed. I must know what happened to her. In my youth I...could not meet her family's expectations. They are held in great esteem in Vivec, and even though I came from a noble family in the West Gash they thought me little better than an Ashlander. Now I am Lord of the West Gash, but they refuse to speak of her."

"What is her name?" I asked.

"Navilie Saren," he replied.

The way to gain Lord Ramoran's support is clearly obvious, and I hope it will also restore him to the leader that he was in his rise to power. In these times the House needs that from him. I depart for Vivec City in the morning.

Day 25: Old Redoran society

After writing in my journal last night I looked around my room at the guild hall in Ald-ruhn and heard the sad voice of Lord Ramoran echoing in my ears. I could not rest, and opted to use my recall spell and come home. Waking up this morning in my own bed with Ahnassi curled against my side purring softly reminded me just how much is at stake.

The walk through the Ascadian Isles to Vivec also refreshed me. The glorious trees towering against the sky, the crystaline water of the innumerable lakes; it is so different from the Ashlands, or even the more hospitable West Gash. How the Hlaalu managed to get possession of it in the districting no one will ever know, though it no doubt involved some shady dealings.

When I arrived in Vivec City I went directly to my office and sorted quickly through the latest mountain of reports and requests. Most of the reports come from my guild stewards and provide me with information, some of immediate value, some that I will likely need at some point. Their few requests are almost always well reasoned. The rest of the paperwork, mostly requests, comes from the council headquarters in Cyrodiil. Usually these are of no value whatsoever, and are couched in the most condescending and demanding terms. I am tempted to make a stamp that says 'can't do this due to the Emperor's embargo, perhaps you've heard of it' and have an apprentice stamp and return everything that comes from the mainland.

My tasks complete and my desk cleared I was ready to start the search for Navilie Saren. I called for Malven. As the guild steward it is part of her job to keep up on the significant families and individuals of the city. She met my expectations.

The Sarens are an old and powerful family, with long standing ties to Great House Redoran. In fact, a Saren elder served as the Redoran ambassador to the temple here in Vivec before Vvardenfell was reopened. My first thoughts upon hearing that were that he didn't do the best job of it, since House Redoran ended up with a tract of mostly Ashlands. That wasn't the most relevant part of the story though. The Saren family expected, understandably, that the move to Vvardenfell would have a great effect on their own standing with the house, and apparently there was even some talk of a seat on the house council. Their fall from such lofty goals seems to relate to my quest. I continued my research. Malven's view, as a Dunmer who has left the conflicts of the great houses to serve with the guild, served to fill in details that the archives of annual Red Books in the Vivec temple library left unsaid, but with her help I was able to reconstruct events, at least in theory.

In the rough and tumble days of the recolonization, power within the house shifted more towards Bolvyn Venim, who had seized the council chair on the strength of his position on the move. The Sarens, being already established here, detracted from the consolidation of his base of support. To stave off any division Venim pushed through a restructuring of the council that awarded seats to those who were financially and physically capable of wresting a secure stronghold from the wilderness of the Redoran district, which effectively excluded the old guard of Temple loyalists who were already serving the house here in Vivec, and at Ghostgate and Molag Mar. Among the new rising stars was Hlaren Ramoran. This background of internal conflict within the house put the Sarens squarely on the opposite side from Ramoran, so I'm sure his attentions to their daughter were not welcomed.

Once I exhausted the other resources I went to the Saren home in the plaza of the Redoran canton. Even though they lost the power struggle they live in an opulent manor and continue to play a vital role in the relations between the House and the temple. Tiros Saren was not happy about meeting me. With Bal Isra under construction perhaps I am cut in the same rising star mold that embittered him against Hlaren Ramoran so long ago.

"We do not discuss Navilie. She is a disgrace to our family." That was all he had to say when I told him that she was the reason for my visit. Eventually, through a combination of applying pressure as a representative of the council and a liberal bribe I got his tongue loosened.

Navilie runs a shop out of a squalid apartment on the canal level of St. Olms canton. Canal level apartments open directly to the outdoor decking that surrounds the cantons. The temple, which collects rent on all property in the city, tries to maintain a level of piety and decency but even so there will always be areas where certain vices flourish in a city of this size. The canal levels of St. Olms and St. Delayn cantons are rife with the petty criminals that can be found in the underbelly of any city.

Tiros Saren had called her business a 'consignment shop', and perhaps among her wares there were some goods that had been placed there to be sold by the owners. Much of it, I suspect, was reclaimed from the trash bins and sewers of the city after being cast off by the higher strata of Vivec society. It was sadly appropriate that Navilie Saren, herself cast off by that upper strata, would find such a nitch for herself in the swirling currents of canal level society.

"I cannot allow Hlaren to see me," she said. "If he has attained any wisdom along with his position he would know that my disgrace is far too great and he would reject me anyway. If he has not I would be his ruin."

"Being cast out by your family because they disapproved of a suitor, that isn't such a disgrace that it can't be overcome. Being a shopkeeper, even of such a shop as this, is a respectable trade. Not everyone can dine at the tables of the nobility. Hlaren wouldn't be the first council member to be involved with a shopkeeper, and not likely the last."

"Shopkeeper," she laughed a dry, bitter laugh. "You think I can make a living hawking these low cast offs? Battered bits of armor, threadbare clothes; sometimes these are needed by the desperate, but how much do you think the desperate can pay? My family threw me out, just like they would throw out anything else that might be sold in this shop. When I was first cast out I was the only commodity I had to trade, and I'm still the most valuable. I cannot tell you how many times I've been bought and sold. You still think I'm fit for a lofty councilman?" The bitterness fled from her features, shut off like a light, replaced with a lascivious grin filled with wanton promise. "But perhaps fit for his outlander errand boy, for the right price."

I fled. I don't know what I will tell Ramoran, but I couldn't face him if I had that on my conscience.

Day 26: War Council

Looking back on this day I think I might have been avoiding the issue of reporting back to Lord Ramoran. I woke up this morning in my office at the guild headquarters, slowly climbed the stairs, looked at the guild guide platform, and did not get teleported to Ald-ruhn. Instead I walked back down the stairs and slumped at my desk.

"Did you find the one you seek, Archmage?" Malven asked as she passed by after breakfast. It was a simple question, and she obviously expected to get a simple answer. She didn't break stride until she heard my non-committal grunt in response. "Hmmm?" she said as she turned. "That was not the decisive Archmage we have all gotten familiar with."

"I found her Malven," I admitted, "but I don't really know what to do with her."

Her raised eyebrow was a question, but I didn't really think discussing the situation with her would give me any clue what to tell Lord Ramoran. She hovered over my desk, wondering what to do now that she had stopped. I couldn't just sit there all day doing nothing, but I did not want to get up and go. Following her gaze to the brown book on my desk gave me a straw to grasp. "Yes, that's the current book of the Telvanni," I said. "Send messages to the other stewards and see if they can be here this afternoon." She hustled out of my office relieved.

I picked up the book that I had gotten from Baladas. Each great house publishes an annual book, detailing their progress for the previous year and their agenda for the next. Among the useful information in the manual are the names and residences of all the current council members. I let my eye drift down the list.

Malven returned promptly. "Skink has some things to juggle in his schedule, but can be here before dinner. The others have no problem with meeting then. Will that work for you?" I nearly leapt from my chair. "That will be fine," I said. She nodded and went to finalize the planned meeting, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I could tell myself that I was staying on guild business, not just hiding from Lord Ramoran.

I left the guild hall and wandered through the city. The mists rising from the waters surrounding the cantons hung in the air, and glistened on the stone surfaces of the decks and ramps. The nearly endless lifespan of the Dunmer make childhood a very brief interlude, so there are few children to see in Morrowind. I thought of bright laughing Breton children, who would be skidding down the damp slick ramps endlessly. I am now one of those immortals, not just walking among them, and mated to a Khajiit. There are no happy Breton children in my future either.

I stood on the lowest decking of the Hlaalu compound near the bridge. A kagouti on the distant shore browsed among the comberry bushes. I watched the huge creature, recalling the first I had encountered. At that time, new to Vvardenfell, it was all I could hope for to drive the monster away without being killed. Had my limited skill with the spear guided it to the beast's mighty heart, or had it just been good fortune? "That one is too close to the trail," came a voice at my shoulder. I turned to see the gilded helm of an Ordinator.

"The kagouti?"

"Yes. Suffering from the yellow tick as well it seems," he said. The kagouti was balanced on one massive leg, clawing a raw, bloody patch behind its ear with the talons of the other. He hefted his mace, but seemed hesitant.

"This is going to make a mess of your uniform," I suggested.

He sighed behind the mask. "Has to be done though. The yellow tick will torment the poor creature until it claws itself to death, if it isn't driven into a mad rage first. We can't have that." He took a reluctant step towards the bridge.

"Wait," I said. Ordinators are well known for their skill in combat, and I had no doubt that this plucky individual would end the kagouti's torment, but getting clubbed down with repeated blows of the mace did not seem a merciful death.

A golden glow seeped from my palms, and I pressed my hands together briefly, then drew them rapidly apart. The glowing magica stretched, coalesced, bent. With a soft pop it solidified into a powerful Daedric longbow. I caught it deftly as the weightless magica transitioned into solid form. I drew a shaft from the unobtrusive quiver that is always concealed beneath my robe.

"Do not make the beast angry, Wizard," said the Ordinator.

"I won't," I whispered as the wisp of magical bowstring feathered against my cheek. With a hiss the string snapped through the air and the shaft was away. Motor memory guided my hands and a second arrow was on the string before the first reached its distant mark. Reflex, but in this case unnecessary. The Kagouti fell silently as the razor sharp broadhead burst through its eye into the walnut sized brain. Death came instantly, and painlessly, dropped like a thunderbolt from the cloudless sky. "And it's Master Wizard, or Archmage," I added absently. "Arvil Bren to my friends." I extended my hand as the bow returned to its own Daedric realm with an audible pop. "There won't be much blood if you want to drag the carcass away, but mudcrabs are immune to the yellow tick and I would assume they will make short work of it."

"Yes, I'm sure they will," he said, turning an eye to the water. "Thank you... Master Wizard." He couldn't quite bring himself to the familiarity of my name, but he did shake my hand. I have come a long way from the 'outlander scum' that I was called in my first trip to Vivec. I picked up lunch from the Flowers of Gold, guar steak sliced thinly on a hard roll, and took it to the temple courtyard of the High Fane, and basked in the sunshine while I ate. An idyllic day, overall.

My 'council of war' was anticlimactic. The guild is as ready as it will ever be, but if pressing my claim to the Hortator title of House Telvanni calls for blood to be shed it will certainly fall to me to shed it. My stewards promise that they can fend off any retaliation, at least in the short term. It is well that the legions have not withdrawn. Skink's chapter would not survive without the shelter of Wolverine Hall. I will have to move against the Telvanni with haste.

Day 27: Back to Ald-ruhn

I have returned to Ald-ruhn, but still have not reported to Lord Ramoran. I don't yet know what I'm going to tell him about his lost love. I have an appointment with him tomorrow, so I will have to figure out something.

I was too busy to give the matter much thought today. When I teleported in to the guild hall I was told Edwinna was holding a message for me. It was from Lloros Sarano at the temple. I listened to the ash-storm howling outside as I read his request. Rather than push through the swirling ash I opted to use an intervention spell to reach the nearby temple courtyard. A wasteful display of magica perhaps, but I just wasn't ready for the grit that inevitibly works itself under the armor and collects in the corners of the eyes.

Lloros had decoded the note I recovered from Galtis, the gambler who had given Varvur Sarethi the ash statue. The note was instructions regarding distribution of the statues, as could have been expected. The biggest difficulty of decoding it had been that it was written in an ancient dialect, a dialect common in house Dagoth. The priest had traced the origin of the note to a commoner, Hanarai Assutlanipal. I consulted with the Redoran guard about her.

She lived in one of the numerous small houses in Ald-ruhn, paid her rent on time and drew little attention to herself. So little attention that no one we spoke to was quite sure how she made her living. I did not envy the junior guardsmen who were dispatched into the ash storm early in the investigation to keep a watch on her home. I envied them even less when one of them burst breathlessly into the guard headquarters.

He reported that two men had been seen leaving the house under cover of the storm. When the guards approached them they had fled into the ash with a trio of guards in close pursuit. Our breathless informant had been sent to report, and get assistance. We rushed out into the blowing ash, spears at the ready, and sped eastward towards the slopes of Red Mountain. We did not go far before we heard the shouts for help, cutting thinly through the howling wind.

One guard stood over his two fallen companions, who writhed on the ground. I let the guard captain ask the questions, listening absently as I kept a wary eye roving through the blowing ash around us. The two fallen guardsmen were showing the signs of rapidly advancing corprus, evidence of a Dagoth somewhere nearby. The description of the two men clearly marked them as dreamers. The dreamers had split up, with the lucky guard pursuing one while his two companions apparently followed the other into an ambush. The captain quickly drew out this summary of events while arranging litters to bring his fallen guardsmen to the temple.

A short time later we sat in his office. "Two good men lost; a dark day Arvil Bren."

"That's not the worst of it," I said.

"You'll want a raid on the house, I assume."

"Yes, but I'll do that myself. Corprus is too dangerous. I have a certain...resistance. Keep your men clear. But before we worry about that, you need to put a watch on your lucky guardsman."

"He's at the temple with his fallen comrades, waiting to bring me word when Lloros Saranen completes his examination. Why do I need to watch him? Do you think he might have been exposed to the corprus?"

"No, I'm sure he was not. Here is a question though. If the two dreamers knew they were running towards a Dagoth who would ambush their pursuers, why would they have split up? The Sixth House has sleepers everywhere captain, never drop your guard." With that ominous warning I stepped out into the storm.

A new group of guards held a loose perimeter around Hanarai Assutlanipal's hut. They were understandably nervous. "She is inside," one said quietly as I approached her.

"Well done," I replied. "It falls to me to go in and get her then."

Subtlety had gotten me nowhere with Galtis at the Rat In the Pot. I also thought that making an impression on the guards might be a good thing. Perhaps really I was just irritated by the ash that had slithered down into my boots and was slowly chafing the skin off my ankles. I combined a powerful opening spell with a massive discharge of elemental lightning and blasted Hanarai Assutlanipal's door off its hinges.

The woman was not intimidated, and rushed me as I charged through the splintered doorway. I sidestepped the slashing dagger and crashed my fist, encased in a Daedric gauntlet, against her temple. She dropped like a slaughtered guar, and I kicked the dagger away as her fingers uncurled from the hilt. I called in the guards and they led her away. Behind a locked door in the basement of the house I found a Sixth House shrine, and crates of ash statues.

Later, at the Temple, I sat in Lloros' chamber emptying the grit from my boots into his wastebasket. It seems uncouth, but is actually accepted in Ald-ruhn as a neccessary common practice.

"You were right about that guard," he said. His voice was dispirited.

"What happened?"

"The captain ordered a watch on him, but by the time they got here he had gone. They went looking for him, but didn't raise a general alarm. He made a stop at the jail...chatted up one of the guards there about taking her to the guar races. She didn't think much of it, but apparently he slipped a knife into Hanarai Assutlanipal's cell. She cut her own throat before I could interrogate her. The guard has disappeared."

Not the most successful day. The ash statues, at least, have been destroyed.

Day 28: Redoran Council

I arrived at the council chambers for my appointment with Lord Ramoran, only to find that he had been called to a council meeting. I stood for a moment trying to decide whether to wait or have a messenger sent when he returned. There was no decision to make.

"Your presence at the council meeting is required," the page said. There was an ominous edge to her words.

I appeared at the main door of the council meeting room. Another page slipped inside to inform the council of my arrival. As the door quickly opened and closed, I could hear a brief burst of raised angry voices. Tempers were clearly coming to a boil.

The page returned. "The council will be taking a break. When they return they will be wanting you," he said.

I wandered the halls. As the bells rang, recalling the council into session, I saw Lord Ramoran. I fell into step beside him as we headed towards the meeting room. "Did you find her?" he asked.

I didn't want to lie. I also saw no point in telling him the truth. "The woman you loved is no more, sir. My deepest condolences to you and her family."

"Sad," he said after a moment. "I suppose I always knew in my heart that she was dead." We walked into the meeting hall and I was satisfied. In his heart, dead was the best thing for her to be.

Getting Lord Ramoran on my side could not have come at a better time. Otherwise I might have found myself writing this in a cell. I was summoned to the council as part of Venim's response to the ash statue crisis, and his intent was clearly to put some sort of blame on me.

"You!" Bolvyn Venim roared as soon as everyone had gained their seats. "You have risen rapidly through the ranks of our house with your outlander magic and trickery, but now you have made a mistake! Others may be easily mislead as to your motives, but I will brook no interference in Ald-ruhn! We have guards. They have responsibilities. Your involvement has left them crippled with uncertainty! Sleepers! Indeed! How do we know the danger among us is this 'sixth house', not your own imperial guild, wizard?"

"By using your brains, sir. I have served the house faithfully. The mage's of my guild provide for the defense of Maar Gan. The local temple called on me to investigate the ash statues. I was happy to help, since I know there is a war coming. My guild stands ready to fight House Dagoth. You lead the house I have chosen to serve. Are you preparing to lead our house to war, or are you keeping it divided against itself to maintain your own power until Dagoth Ur strips it from you?"

His red eyes blazed, and bulged above the dusky cheekbones. "You dare!" He glared around the chamber, expecting far more support than he got.

"Yes, I dare. The war will come, like it or not. Your petty politics cannot be what leads the house when it does. It is war, the time of the Hortator."

He actually laughed. "Hortator? And who might this Hortator be outlander?" Again he glanced around, stopping at his greatest rival. "Sarethi! Surely even you would not stoop to this...outlander! Even if you think you can wrest control of this council from me, House Redoran will have an outlander Hortator over my dead body!"

It wasn't exactly a challenge, but Sarethi is enough of a politician to twist the words. "A duel to the death Bolvyn? Are you sure you would go that far?"

"I will slit your rotten carcass Sarethi!" he screamed.

"Your duel is not with him, Venim. It is with me. I will be Hortator. If it must be over your fallen corpse, so be it."

"I do not duel with wizards outlander. Save your talk for your own guild's challengers. This is a house matter."

"And this is my house. I am well aware of the Redoran rules of dueling. Rules you have promoted to keep the wiser, more thoughtful members of the council in check. I will follow your rules Venim, and show everyone that the day of the politician has ended. It is war Venim, the hour of the Hortator is at hand!"

With the support of Morvayn and Ramoran, Lord Sarethi took over the council, pending resolution of the duel. I left Ald-ruhn directly, establishing myself in my offices in Vivec, safe from any 'accident' that would prevent my appearance at the arena tomorrow. The betting has already begun.

Day 29: Dead?

"Arvil Bren is a dead man."

That's what the banner high on the south side of the arena said. I think they were Telvannis. Venim saluted them with his huge Daedric katana. I just tried to ignore them. This duel was a much different event than my previous experience in the Vivec arena. Then there was a crowd, as any spectacle will bring, but mostly they turned out for the novelty of watching a couple outlander wizards; they didn't really care who won. Tonight the crowd was beyond standing room only, with people shouting from the doorways to those who could not make it inside. And almost all of them wanted Venim to win.

The differences started becoming obvious this morning when I went to the arena to register, and received the rules of the duel. 'No enchantments of any sort' called for a quick trip to Pelagiad. I considered going with a lighter armor, since I would be without my pants of strongleg, but assumed that Venim would be armed with some sort of Daedric weapon that would shear through anything but the heaviest armors like they weren't even there. As the saying goes, sometimes you just have to put on the heavy tin suit and slug it out. Or in this case the heavy ebony suit. I walked back to Vivec. I didn't want to wear myself out, but I did want to get adjusted to moving under the heavy weight, and without the boots of blinding speed.

I also had to seriously consider my choice of weapon. At the time I didn't really know how Venim would be armed or what style he would adopt, but Sarethi had told me that Venim was trained in the Akiviri style so the dai katana was not a complete surprise. My own ability with the long swords has greatly improved through my adventures, and living with a Khajiit has given me ample opportunity to practice the Akiviri styles myself. I considered my own Daedric katana, hefting the wickedly sharp curved blade. I also swung the great two-handed claymore sword a few times. The Daedric edge, with the great mass of the sword behind it, would cleave through any armor that Venim could come up with, but swinging that weight is more appropriate for the great berserker strength of an Orc or a Nord, and calls for a certain durability since the wielder can assume they will suffer some wounds in the process.

Eventually I opted to step away from my Daedric armory. The ebony shaft of the spear was familiar in my hands. As I walked back to Vivec I took comfort from the years of practice stretching all the way back to my youth. My father always preferred the spear. He liked to stay out of reach of his opponents. A wise sentiment, and as I considered Venim's likely fury it had definite appeal.

Sharn gra Muzgrob arrived from Balmora shortly after I got back to the guild headquarters. Each duelist is allowed a stand by, who provides healing to the victor as soon as the loser is dispatched. I probably did not gain great acceptance by having the green skinned Orc at my side in the arena. Venim had a high ranking member of the Tribunal Temple; a much better political choice. While not a benefit politically, there is no healer I would rather trust with my life than Sharn.

Eventually the appointed hour arrived. Unlike my duel with Trebonius, this was a formal occassion and honor had to be preserved. Rather than immediately blasting away when the doors opened we both stalked out into the arena for a round of introductions and proclamations. I was awed.

The applause for Venim thundered down on us when he was introduced. Despite the differences of the interminable great house wars it was clear that he was highly favored over an outlander. When the announcer proclaimed that the conflict at the source of the duel was my claiming of the title of Hortator a hush fell over the arena. I looked up into the sea of red eyes and saw the enormity of my task. To be the war leader of the Redorans would require the defeat of their greatest warrior, and even then I could not be certain that Sarethi would hold to his promise of support. Nor could I think that the Redoran people would fall happily into line behind me. Looking up at the Redoran box I could see him sitting in the center seat of the council chairman; his temporarily, at least until the end of the duel. If Venim won Sarethi was bound to relinquish the seat, if not it was his. He was perhaps the only Dunmer in the arena hoping I would emerge victorious, other than my own guild members.

Sarethi rose for the final formality. Venim and I are both Redorans. As acting chair of the council Sarethi could have forbidden the duel. As the announcer clearly explained this option I considered consequences, but immediately put it from my mind. Even as the temporary head of a great house he could not really do it. This crowd had gathered for a show, I cannot imagine their vengence if Sarethi had denied them.

Similarly, when Venim was given an opportunity to withdraw his opposition to my claim there was no way the crowd would allow it. My own opportunity to withdraw my claim was also a mere formality. The final preliminaries completed, Venim and I backed to our respective entries, and the announcer strode out of the arena. A great gong sounded with a dull reverberation and the crowd fell silent.

We circled, both of us moving to our left. There was no rush. I sized up my opponent. He moved smoothly, quickly, on the balls of his feet despite the great weight of his ebony armor. He grasped the dai katana, with its long hilt that counterbalanced the huge blade, in a proper two handed grip. The tip of the blade traced lazy figure eights in front of him. High on his left, down to his right, up and then back down as it crossed back to his left. For my part I kept my spear at the ready in a quarterstaff grip. I intended to fend off his first few attacks, concentrating on defenses.

He waited for a waver in my attention, so I gave him one, flicking my glance quickly to the crowd behind him and back. As I expected the languid motion of his blade exploded into a kinetic frenzy. I had timed my glance as the blade rose on my right and prepared for an overhand stroke. I leapt to my right as I swept the blade past me with the butt of my spear and we resumed our circling, now both moving to our right.

"Fine parry, outlander," Venim grunted.

"Skill with the spear honors the Redorans," I replied.

The crowd had uniformly sucked in their breath at the first clash of arms, and sighed it out as we spoke.

"They are waiting to cheer for your death," my opponent taunted.

"They will have a long wait."

"Perhaps, but if all you can do is circle and parry they will eventually be satisfied."

With that he brought another overhand blow from my right. There had not been a trace of warning in his even voice. I dropped to my right knee and slapped his blade up with my spear, letting it whistle harmlessly over my head. Against a lesser foe I would have tried to sweep my spearpoint across him as the force of his blow spun him away to my left. I held back, noting how quickly he spun full circle, ending with the huge blade in a vertical parry. Instead I concentrated on bouncing back up from my knee as quickly as possible. The circle stopped.

"The Telvanni Mouths are all in the Telvanni box," Venim observed. "I haven't seen all of them in one place for centuries. They came to see you die. You should be honored."

"If anything could unite the Telvanni it's their opposition to my guild."

"And you would be our Hortator. We already have conflicts over territory with the Telvanni. You want outright war with them for our house?"

"I will be their Hortator as well."

He almost laughed. "You try to get me off guard with jokes outlander? You will have to kill them all. Then the mouths will succeed to power and you will likely have to kill them too."

Again he struck on the last word, and again there was no break or hesitation in his voice. This time the blow was a low sweep that came from my left, and it tested my strength to leap over the glittering arc. I tried to strike down at the passing blade as it cleared to my right. Had I made contact I could have forced the momentum of the swing to carry the blade into the sand and slowed his spin back to parry, but I was a split second slow.

"Nice try," he said with a haughty grin.

"That's one miss for me. I believe you are at three."

The grin disappeared into a snarl. A duel is a test of concentration as much as anything else. The first tiny crack had appeared, and it was on him. His next attack was preceeded by a sharp breath. The time to test the ebony spear had come, and I drove the point deep into the sand. His blade crashed against the shaft, but could not bite into the hardened volcanic material. As is typical of the Akaviri style he followed through in a spinning move, his wrists flexing to let the great blade drag past the planted spear. I was quite safe behind its thin shelter, bracing the shaft well above the arc of his blade.

"Stings a bit, doesn't it?" I asked calmly. I knew the answer. The ringing blow had fed back through the blade, and his hands would be slightly numb from the vibration. The desire to release the hilt and shake them to life one at a time would be gnawing at him for a few moments. I feinted a thrust with the spear to keep him from even considering creating such an opportunity. "That's four misses for you by the way. The faithful in the stands are hardly gasping any more. They are beginning to see that their champion is overmatched." That was really a stretch. The crowd was roaring their approval with every slash of his sword, but I was wearing on his patience and concentration.

One of my favorite things about the spear is that so many spearmen prefer it for the same reasons as my father. They like to stay out of reach of their opponents. Eventually Venim, like so many other veterans of many battles, came to expect that a spearman would tend to move away from an attack. In a duel anticipation is the ultimate weapon, but expectation is poison. After innumerable combinations of slashes and parries, sidestepped thrusts, and ringing clashes of hardened Daedric on ebony, the moment came.

I anticipated another low sweep from my left, and met it with a rapid spin. I stepped onto the butt of my spear with my right foot as I threw my left back and away from the blow. His blade sang down the shaft of the spear into the tight vee it made with the sand as I effectively rolled over the leaning shaft. Venim did not expect me to be coming at him, and with his own spin interrupted he was caught full in the face by the back of my armored left fist. I continued my rotation, following that initial smash with a punishing blow to the throat from the shaft of my spear. As he stumbled back I brought in the point and drove him off his feet, following with all my weight and momentum to drive the razor sharp needle of ebony through the flexible joint between his breastplate and the paldron on his left shoulder as his back hit the sand. I kicked the blade from his dying fingers.

He choked. I don't know if it was from the blow to his throat or on blood welling from his punctured lung. Through bloody foam , he gasped "What price this victory, outlander? You will bring the ruin of our house."

"No Venim. Go to your ancestors in peace. I swear to you that the safety of your house is assured by this. My oath, by moon and star."

He stopped struggling. Perhaps his ancestors soothed his departing spirit, or perhaps it was Azura. As his eyes closed a last word slipped from his lips. "Nerevar."

Perhaps Arvil Bren is indeed dead. Can this body really be shared?