I
Grimnir had good reason to be suspicious of Ancano as he headed up to the deceased elf's quarters in the Hall of Attainment: this was not the first time that the Thalmor agent had attempted to kill him. Only a day ago, in the bowels of Labyrinthian, another agent under Ancano's command had intercepted Grimnir and the others, and told him in no uncertain terms that Ancano wanted the Staff of Magnus in his possession—and them all dead.
The Dragonborn had killed him before he was able to finish his ultimatum.
"That was his room, right there," Tolfdir suddenly spoke up as they reached the end of the staircase. He was pointing at one of the beds off to the right.
There were no doors for the bedrooms here, merely a series of curtains for privacy. This was a fact that several students had pointed out in the past; Mirabelle had fiercely maintained that this apparent lack of security was actually a means of discipline. Curtains betrayed much more noise than doors, preventing the overly ambitious from creating anything illicit inside their bedroom—or the overly adventurous from conducting any torrid trysts.
As he drew back the curtain, however, and beheld the space beyond, Grimnir's first, immediate thought was that Ancano would never divulge in either of these things—at least not in a public space like this. The bedroom was absolutely spotless; the bed was made, with no wrinkles in the sheets at all. The desk looked freshly dusted, with an inkpot and three quills lying in one corner, across from a few sheaves of fresh parchment. And finally, the bookcase—filled with quite a few more books than most students cared to peruse—was as neat and orderly a one as Grimnir had ever seen. He thought old Urag down in the Arcaneum might even shed a tear if he could see the pristine state of these books and shelves.
To the outsider, nothing here looked as though it had ever been used. However, even this cursory glance told Grimnir that not only had this space been occupied in the past, but that great care had been taken to keep people from thinking that this room had once housed a Thalmor agent—either that, Grimnir thought, or Ancano was obsessively neat and clean in every respect. That was something he wouldn't put past any high elf—let alone him.
He studied the alcove with scrutiny. It didn't look as though Ancano had placed any sort of rune anywhere inside—another reason, Mirabelle had said, why these rooms used curtains over doors. It was much harder to place a rune on a soft, undulating surface than a rigid, unmoving one. But that was beside the point, as more often than not, runes had a tendency to stick out like sore thumbs to anyone who was looking for them, and Grimnir had been through enough Nordic tombs that he'd committed them all to memory.
"Certainly looks clean enough," Faralda remarked from alongside him. The Altmer instructor's normally amber eyes were faintly glowing pale blue: a scrye of some sort, he imagined, possibly a clairvoyance spell. "I don't think he expected us to search his lodgings at all."
Tolfdir didn't look so optimistic. "Or he did," he murmured, "and he's already disposed of anything that could connect him to Savos' death—and all that happened with it."
"No, Tolfdir," said Grimnir. "Ancano wouldn't go through all that trouble of telling me about this so-called 'grub' if that was the case. There's something in here," he said resolutely, "something we might even be able to use as evidence. I don't know what it is we're supposed to be looking for, but I'd stake my name on it."
Tolfdir coughed. "Then, if it isn't too much trouble," he said, "might Faralda and I return to the lecture hall? No doubt the rest of the student body needs to be calmed down after recent events."
Grimnir didn't see why not—he'd merely asked the two instructors to accompany him in the event Ancano had one more nasty surprise in store for him. And since Faralda and her scrye had judged the room clean of any runes or traps, there wasn't really any need for them to be around anymore.
He nodded to them. "Go on ahead," he said. "I'll join you once I'm finished here. I don't think I'll be more than a few minutes, anyway," he added, staring at the surgically clean room.
The two mages nodded, and left Grimnir to his own devices.
Once he heard their footfalls on the stairs subside, Grimnir crossed over to the bookcase, inspecting the titles closely. Nothing he found, however, jumped out at him: The Black Arts on Trial … Rising Threat: The Complete Series … N'Gasta! Kvata! Kvakis! …
Grimnir frowned as he picked up the last one, purely out of curiosity. But his heart sank as soon as his eyes fell on the first page—he had no idea what language that particular book was written in. It was worse than useless to him.
Next, he decided to look at the desk. The quills were laid out with their tips facing to the right. None of them looked as if they'd been used at all. Grimnir took one carefully, and peered at the tip. It was useless, though—whether they really hadn't been used, or had simply been wiped clean of ink, his eyes could not tell.
He grimaced. Detective work was not something he was used to doing—jobs like those, he thought, ought to be left to the professionals.
Grimnir moved on to the inkwell, again out of a passing sense of interest—and was promptly surprised at how light it felt in his hand when he tried to shake it. On impulse, he uncorked the bottle, and noticed that there was only a small amount of ink inside—less than half full, he guessed.
His uncertainty had suddenly vanished on the spot. So Ancano had indeed been inside this place, and had been using it. The cleanliness was just a front, Grimnir knew now—just like that half-empty inkwell. But …
He sighed. "What were you doing in here?" he murmured, half to himself.
Of course, the initial answer was obvious: he'd been writing something—which meant Grimnir ought to check the drawers under the desk. He did so—but saw nothing save for more rolls of yellowed parchment. But he was not fazed—a sixth sense of had gone off in Grimnir's head; he was on to something now, and he would not stop until he'd found what—
Wait.
Grimnir had been clearing out some of the stray parchment in the drawer when he saw it—the end of a small, sealed scroll, tucked surreptitiously within the frayed pieces of paper. The wax on the scroll was embossed with a seal he had not seen before—but it was the marking under the seal that caught his attention.
It was a highly stylized letter A.
Ancano.
Grimnir grinned. Now he'd found something.
He slit the letter open with a single finger, not even bothering to look for any signs of spellwork or tampering. The writing inside the scroll was incredibly flowing, but legible enough that Grimnir could make it out:
M'Alga has finally agreed to cooperate with us. You may proceed to the next phase of your assignment at your earliest convenience.
However, this novice you speak of may present a threat if he is not dealt with quickly. Do not make your move until you are certain he will not impede your progress. My sources tell me he has crossed us before, and already has inside knowledge of our procedures; therefore, should he intervene, terminate him with extreme prejudice.
This will be my final letter. I will know from here on in whether you are successful or not.
- C
Grimnir pocketed the letter, now more confused than ever. The only thing this seemed to tell him was that he had a fair idea of who this "novice" might be—but more importantly, that Ancano had indeed been acting on the orders of the Thalmor. It wasn't explicitly stated, of course; whoever this "C" was had attempted to be as secure as possible. But the tone of the letter was unmistakable.
And he had a name as well: M'Alga. Even this, however, didn't seem to help. Grimnir thought it might be a Khajiit name—he would have to check with J'zargo about that. But it would make sense; Elsweyr, the arid province of southern Tamriel where the Khajiiti people hailed from, was considered part of the Aldmeri Dominion. And the Thalmor had used Khajiit to do their dirty work before—indeed, they'd sent one to kill Grimnir not long after he'd broken into their embassy two years ago.
Other than that, he had nothing. He started on his way down, thinking he should tell Quaranir about what he'd found—
—only to leap back in surprise when he saw J'zargo on the other side of the door. The Khajiit's arms were crossed, his tail was swishing madly, and the grin on his mustachioed face told him he'd found a very juicy tidbit of information.
"How long have you been standing there?!" Grimnir cried out, holding a hand over his racing heart, trying to calm himself down.
Behind him, Onmund and Brelyna looked guilty as they shuffled their feet on the stone floor. "Sorry, Arch-Mage," Onmund eventually spoke up. "We … tried to stop him."
Grimnir shook his head in exasperation—not only because the position of Arch-Mage hadn't yet been set in stone, but also because in hindsight, he really should have seen this coming. It was often said about the Khajiit that once they sniffed out an opportunity, they would go to any length to attain it.
It was also said that the only thing more dangerous and unpredictable than a clever Khajiit, or a clever mage, was a Khajiiti mage, and in the short time he'd known him, Grimnir had seen J'zargo use both his wits and his magic in equal measure to become one of the most accomplished novices here at the College so far.
"I didn't find much anyway," Grimnir conceded, waving the note in front of them. He told them about what little he gathered, about the one name within the anonymous letter.
Predictably, J'zargo looked the most thoughtful mage present. "M'Alga … " he mused to himself, stroking his whiskers with a claw.
"We're thinking the same thing, aren't we?" Grimnir asked. "The Thalmor captured a Khajiit, and this Khajiit had something to do with the Eye of Magnus?"
J'zargo sighed, which made his impressive mustache flutter. "If this is a Khajiit, J'zargo does not recognize such a name," he muttered, but he grinned. "Although he would certainly love to find out. Another like Khajiit, who knew of the Eye's power—can you imagine?"
"I'm trying not to," Brelyna said alongside him with a wry grin. "That's a scary thought, and no mistake."
Onmund stifled a chuckle, and Grimnir couldn't help but join in. "Go ahead and jest," Grimnir said, "but this could be the difference between the Psijics possessing the Eye of Magnus—or the Thalmor repossessing it."
He strode out of the dormitories, and towards the Hall of the Elements. "We should find Quaranir," he said, "tell him what we found."
Not much had changed in the ten minutes since the four mages had left the Hall of the Elements, and reentered it once more. The Eye of Magnus was still dangerously spinning, with three of the Psijic monks apparently concentrated on keeping it in one piece.
Quaranir, however, was overseeing them, and so deep was he in his duty that Grimnir had to tap his shoulder to get his attention. The high elf turned around, not showing an ounce of surprise—in fact, his frown only looked deeper.
"You found something." It was not a question.
Without a word, Grimnir showed him the letter he had found in Ancano's desk drawer. Quaranir hardly seemed to glance at it before pocketing it for himself. But Grimnir could tell that the Altmer had gleaned something from this, judging by the way he narrowed his eyes—and he did not look happy about it.
"As to the name, I am … unsure," Quaranir told them. "However, I can tell you who sent that letter: Celeralmo."
J'zargo shrank back. Brelyna grimaced. Onmund, however, looked confused—and Grimnir imagined he had a similar look on his own face. "You say that like I should know who he is," he said.
"Considering the dealings you've had with the Thalmor, you would do well," Quaranir said, a warning edge to his voice. "Celeralmo is the High Justiciar of the Dominion—you might call him the Thalmor's head of state."
High Justiciar? Head of state? Now Grimnir was uneasy.
"If Ancano was acting under the orders of Celeralmo, as this letter suggests," Quaranir went on, "then there are greater forces at work here. Especially since Ancano's orders included silencing you."
"What I want to know is the name," Grimnir said. "M'Alga. Do you know who it is? What can you tell me?"
Quaranir shook his head. "Only that he or she seems to be affiliated with the Thalmor. Whether or not of their own free will, I cannot say."
"This one thinks this M'Alga may be another Khajiit," J'zargo piped up hopefully.
"You may be right," Quaranir said with a shrug, and J'zargo's whiskers rose despite the less-than-hopeful tone in the Psijic's voice. "I cannot help you here. You will have to pursue this line of questioning alone, I'm afraid."
Grimnir felt his heart sinking. If a member of the Psijic Order did not know, then who could?
The solution came to him like a bolt from the blue. Of course! "Wait!" he called out.
Quaranir was about to turn back towards the fluctuating Eye when Grimnir spoke up. "Maybe you can't tell us who this M'Alga is," Grimnir said. "But could you point us in the direction of someone who can?"
Quaranir considered this. "If you're suggesting the person I think you are," he eventually replied, "I could do more than point you—I could take you to him." His brow furrowed. "But first—other matters must be attended to."
He turned back towards the three Psijics, slowly nodding to each one in turn. Each one nodded back. "It is time for them to go," Quaranir told them. "The Order will not forget what you have done for us today, Arch-Mage."
And even before the last word had fallen from his lips, the three monks had begun to fade from sight, shimmering and distorting into clouds of multicolored light. Then the Eye began to glow and swirl around its center, and finally to shrink. In a matter of seconds, it was gone—vanished as though it, and the Psijics attending it, had never existed.
Grimnir, despite the present situation, felt a breath escape from his lungs that he forgot he'd been holding. The Eye of Magnus was gone. The College, Skyrim, and the world beyond, was safe.
"And now," Quaranir continued, "we will address matters elsewhere." He stepped back from Grimnir. "Arch-Mage, if you would please stand still. This spell is useful in situations like these—but some would argue that it is not worth the … discomfort."
Grimnir ignored the fact that he'd been addressed the way he had. "Discomfort?" he yelped—and then he understood. "You're not going to send me away, too, are you?"
"Are you versed in the art of long-distance teleportation?" Quaranir asked.
Wordlessly, Grimnir shook his head, confused beyond belief.
"Then I am doing no such thing. This spell, however, is much more reliable for what we must do," said the Psijic. His hands were beginning to glow with blue flame.
Before he could even think to bring up a ward, that blue flame was launched right for Grimnir. He felt a burst of blinding light, a wrenching sensation inside every part of his body at the same time, and then a feeling of infinite speed …
Alinor
It had often been said that the capital city of the Thalmor government was a reflection of its populace. The description was as literal as it was metaphorical: every last building—from the simple trading stalls in the marketplaces below, to the impossibly tall spires that soared hundreds of feet into the air, had been fashioned with the same purity of form.
There were neither corners nor straight lines in Altmer architecture; to the high elves, these were seen as impure and unnatural. The insectoid spires of the city did not simply sprout from the ground like new shoots of trees; rather, they became one with the land—they would begin flush with the ground, and then swoop to the heights at a near-vertical climb. The combination of malachite, quicksilver, and moonstone that made up most of these buildings—along with several other trade secrets known only to the Altmer—would collect every last spark of sunlight, and split it into its component colors, where they would spread in a display of beauty that outsiders found hypnotic.
Celeralmo I saw all this from his seat on the highest level of the highest tower of Alinor, and knew that it was good … and knew that it was pure.
The Highest and Most Eminent Justiciar of the Third Aldmeri Dominion sipped at a crystalline goblet of thick yellowish fluid—the distilled nectar of the Isgareth bees of Auridon. This insect had been found all over the Summerset Isle in the First Era, and was prized among the Altmeri for its nectar, which was said to greatly extend the life of its imbiber to the point of immortality—for as long as it remained inside the body.
This did not escape the notice of Man, unfortunately. They had been tempted by the legend, and they had come to Auridon to take its secret for themselves, and distribute it to the rest of the world … for a price. And as a result, the Isgareth bee had been hunted to extinction—or so Man had thought. The Altmer nobility had managed to retain a hive, and transplant it to Alinor where it would be safe from the taint of Man.
As he felt the warm nectar trickle down his throat, Celeralmo cursed the men of Tamriel for their arrogance. The secrets of the Isgareth bee had been out of their reach from the beginning—did they not see this? The lesser races were simply not meant to possess such a secret; they had drawn their lot in life, and if they had any purpose in life, it was to live the lot they were given, and no more.
But trust the nature of Man, to be content with his lot in life! Celeralmo thought bitingly. He sniffed haughtily at the notion, tossing aside a lock of long white hair … and yet, he mused, there was something paradoxical about the relationship between purity and impurity. There was no excuse for not keeping with purity, to be sure. In the olden times, it had not been uncommon for families to cull their own children, in order to maintain that elven purity. Rumors persisted the practice still existed today, behind the closed doors of the highest elven nobility.
They would never admit such things out loud, of course. Nevertheless, a part of Celeralmo—almost damnably—was grateful his line did not count itself among those special few. His eyes were so rare among the Altmer as to be nearly unique; he had never met another Altmer with eyes the same shade of sky blue as his. They had once been the subject of controversy among Celeralmo's many detractors saying that they made him look more like a Nord beast than a proper Altmer, and that if his family had had a grain of sense, they ought to have culled him from birth.
The insult had stung, but Celeralmo had quickly demonstrated that there was more to power than purity of blood. Within three days, his opposition had vanished under mysterious circumstances—and Celeralmo was unopposed to claim the post that he held to this day, almost two human lifetimes since he'd helped to secure the Summerset Isle for the Thalmor.
He smiled. Everything was as it should be.
Pure.
And then the room exploded in blue fire.
Celeralmo knew enough about teleportation spells to recognize their appearance, but he was still rattled nonetheless, and more than a little angry. It was considered very impolite to teleport into someone's dwelling without first calling ahead, for the love of Auriel—it must have been an outsider, he thought, and one who was new to his court at that; otherwise he would have received some request of audience before this.
Then the harmless blue flame dissipated, and Celeralmo saw the figure that had appeared within the center of his circular office—or at least, his translucent shade; this was no teleportation, he knew—merely a form of astral projection. No less difficult, but no more useful than actual teleportation.
The figure spoke. "Am I speaking to the High Justiciar Celeralmo?"
Celeralmo's nostrils flickered in irritation; he'd never visited the mainland of Tamriel save for the outlying port cities of Valenwood and Elsweyr, and even then he preferred to remain on his vessel, and allow whoever or whatever he needed to come to him instead of the other way around. But Celeralmo knew a Nordic brogue when he heard one, and immediately he was on edge.
Especially since he recognized the robes that the bluish shade of the Nord was wearing.
Ancano must have failed, then, he thought with another irritated sniff. This day was fast looking to be a bad one.
"Do you have an appointment?" Celeralmo asked, finally standing up from his desk, concealing the distaste for the shade of the Nord in front of him.
"I should have sent one on ahead," said the Nord, frowning. "Did it not get through to you?"
Celeralmo was just about to prepare a spell to send this blasted shade back to whence he came—and then a knock sounded on his door.
"Who is it?" he barked.
"A request of audience, Your Eminence," spoke the attendant on the other side of the threshold. "From the College of Winterhold, on behalf of Loremaster Nerien of the Psijic Order."
Psijics? Now Celeralmo was uneasy. The Psijics were a mysterious order of monks, considered by many Thalmor to be a rogue organization, to the point of illegality. Celeralmo was no exception, but he knew his history—and he knew that if the Psijic Order had become directly involved in any matter whatsoever, then it was not to be ignored.
"Very well," he sighed, holding in his response for as long as his dignity would allow him. "You may speak."
"My apologies for the lapse in communication," said the Nord mage. "I had prepared the request as a formality—first impressions and all that. But the Psijic Order insisted time was of the essence, and that I ought speak directly with the leader of the Thalmor."
Celeralmo narrowed his blue eyes. Perhaps it had been a trick of the light, but it almost looked as though the Nord was grinning at him. He sensed that the Psijics had done this deliberately, to toy with him—and cursed the monks for their arrogance.
The Altmer pretended to take a long draught of Isgareth nectar to hide the sneer on his face, before he replied. "Well, you speak to him now, Arch-Mage of Winterhold," he said irritably. "What was it you wanted to discuss?"
The Nord cleared his throat—a noise that made Celeralmo wince. "Before we move on to that topic, I believe introductions are in order. My name is Grimnir Torn-Skull—"
Celeralmo had chosen that moment to take an actual drink of nectar, and only his Altmer sense of propriety had kept him from spitting it out on his desk then and there. Grimnir Torn-Skull?! Multiple Thalmor had mentioned that name before—up to and including the First Emissary of Skyrim! Celeralmo remembered the missive Elenwen had sent to him barely two years ago regarding the infiltration of the Thalmor's embassy in Skyrim; he'd never believed she could be that angry in all the years he'd known her. This man was dangerous, perhaps the most dangerous in all of Tamriel—it certainly explained why Elenwen seemed to burn through death squads on a regular basis.
An agent of the Blades, and add to it, the Arch-Mage of Winterhold … Celeralmo had the uneasy notion that this was starting to look less and less like a social call. But still, he stiffened, exhaled, and released all his anxiety out of him—Grimnir was still talking, and Celeralmo had to at least pretend to look attentive to the concerns of a Nord.
"—Arch-Mage Aren was killed in the ensuing explosion," Grimnir went on, "and I was elected to succeed him after the situation had been resolved."
"Did you clear the decision with his advisor?" Celeralmo asked. "I assume Ancano survived this … explosion." If not whatever came after, he thought, gritting his teeth.
"Ancano is dead." Celeralmo knew the news was coming—yet Grimnir said the three words as if killing a Thalmor agent was nothing special. That enraged him even more, but the elf knew he had to keep it together.
"The Psijic Order endorsed my promotion," Grimnir went on, "but ultimately I left the decision to the senior staff of the College." He smiled. "The decision was unanimous."
Celeralmo swore under his breath again.
"Naturally, I took it upon myself to examine Ancano's quarters for anything that might explain his rationale," Grimnir went on. "Thus far, my search has been … unsuccessful. I did, however, find a letter mentioning the name M'Alga. The Psijics are unsure of what this could mean, but my associates believe he may be a Khajiit affiliated with the Thalmor, who may possess some knowledge of the Eye of Magnus. That was why I requested an audience with you, Your Eminence—I wanted to confirm for myself whether our hypothesis was true."
Celeralmo listened to this with a growing sense of amusement. That this Grimnir had intercepted at least one of his letters to Ancano was irritating, but not overly so. As far as the elf was concerned, the College of Winterhold's so-called hypothesis could not be further from the truth—it was almost laughable that they had come to that particular conclusion. A Khajiit who could comprehend the energies of Magnus himself—that was even more so!
Even the Psijics were in the dark as well—for Celeralmo, that was the best news he'd heard all day.
He held up a finger to indicate he needed one moment, then crossed over to a nearby bookcase and produced a massive tome after several seconds of searching—he didn't care to look at the title. Celeralmo made a show of leafing through the thousand or more pages of the book before he finally put it down, and heaved a theatrical sigh.
"I'm deeply sorry to have to tell you this," the elf eventually said to Grimnir, doing his absolute best to maintain his composure, "but I'm afraid you've gone to all this trouble for naught. As far as I know, there is no Khajiit by that name. The book you saw me with was the last census we conducted for the province of Elsweyr—and the name M'Alga did not appear a single time."
The smile had faded from Grimnir's face. "Double-check," he said shortly. "Look through previous censuses, throughout all of Tamriel if you must. This Khajiit, whoever he or she may be, could have information that may dictate the future of Nirn. I would be grateful if such a personage was found."
Celeralmo drew himself up to his full height. "Do you deny the records of the Thalmor?" he said dangerously.
"No," Grimnir responded, entirely unabashed. "I merely want your assurance that this matter will not go uninvestigated. After all, the Thalmor have just as much at stake in Nirn as the rest of its people. An oversight of this magnitude could have devastating consequences for us all."
If you only knew, Celeralmo thought.
"I'll be leaving now," said Grimnir. "From one leader to another, settling into a new post can take quite a while. I'm afraid it hasn't sunk in for me just yet." He gave a chuckle that the elf did not return.
" … Yes, well," coughed Celeralmo, "I will contact my associates in Valenwood and Elsweyr. Perhaps they might be more knowledgeable to your little problem. I will come back to you once I have more credible information," he added, thinking privately that it would be a dark day indeed before he saw the shade of this distasteful man again.
"Thank you, Your Eminence." Grimnir gave a small little bow. Then there was another burst of blue fire, and he had gone, leaving behind a Celeralmo who wasn't entirely sure how he should be feeling at this point.
"Melanwe!" he called out.
The Altmer from behind the door stepped in—a stately maiden with elegantly cropped hair. "Yes, Your Eminence?"
"Contact the Harbormaster at once. Inform him we are placing an embargo on all trade until further notice."
"The mainland of Tamriel, sir?" Melanwe was already scribbling on a sheaf of parchment.
"Everywhere," Celeralmo hissed. "The Psijic Order is already sniffing around. They know something is not right—and the College is privy to them now. We must keep them out … and more importantly, we must keep him in line."
Melanwe scurried out of his office to do his bidding, leaving Celeralmo to stew in his own emotions.
"That was … less than informative," Grimnir said the next morning in the Arcaneum. Quaranir had stayed only long enough to listen to what Celeralmo had told him, and then departed without a word—or a sound, or indeed any trace of where he'd teleported to. As for Grimnir, he had wasted no time in breaking in his new quarters; the nausea from the Psijic's astral projection spell had only worn off to a more manageable level when he'd fallen asleep, and only just now had he felt up to standing on his own two feet.
"But I'm almost certain Celeralmo is hiding something," continued Grimnir, while Faralda and Tolfdir listened to him. Brelyna, Onmund, and J'zargo were idling around the library; J'zargo was immersed in a dog-eared tome and chuckling to himself every now and again. "I'm speaking from experience here, Tolfdir: something is wrong."
"Oh, I believe you, Arch-Mage," the new Master Wizard of Winterhold said as he twiddled his thumbs. "I just have to wonder if maybe you've gotten the whole story. The truth is only as true as its source, you know."
Grimnir considered this. "Then maybe I should ask around. Surely someone at the College had some kind of contact with Ancano—even if it was minimal." He turned to the Altmer. "Faralda, what were your thoughts?"
"On Ancano?" The instructor of destruction looked annoyed as she repeated the name. "He never warmed up to me much. I'm just as much a high elf as he is—but I doubt he ever had the same thought."
Tolfdir snorted—a rare sound to hear from the normally kindly old Nord. "I can see that," he grumbled. "He never seemed to have a care for anything we were doing here—even if it concerned the Eye, of all things!"
Grimnir had remembered Ancano barging in on that lesson Tolfdir had given about the Eye, and doubted the old wizard would ever forgive the Thalmor for interrupting him in such a manner.
"I never really liked the way he looked at me," Brelyna suddenly chimed in. "I don't know if he expected me to blow myself up—or if I'd try and take him with me in the blast." Her voice suddenly became soft. "But I don't think he trusted any of us … especially with the knowledge of what he was doing."
Brelyna's statement, unfortunately, proved to set the tone for much of Grimnir's day. Everyone he approached seemed to have nothing at all to offer about Ancano—only that he was a person best avoided unless as a last resort.
"Had a feeling he wasn't what he claimed to be," Sergius Turrianus grumbled at his enchanting apparatus, while Grimnir hovered over his shoulder. "No advisor I know tries to butt in as much as he did. You should have heard the complaints I got from Mirabelle about how he was 'observing the proceedings' … "
"I only knew he was from the Thalmor," Enthir said in a hushed tone, as though wary Ancano was still alive and ready to spring out at him. "That was enough for me to stay out of his way—elves like me aren't held much more highly than the Nords, as far as they're concerned … "
Arniel Gane paced about his quarters-turned-laboratory with manic energy. "He kept on asking about my research," the Breton scholar rambled on. "If I hadn't know what he was really up to, I'd have thought the Thalmor were trying to steal my work! I never told him anything, of course," he smirked. "What I'm doing is far too important—can't breathe a word of it to anyone else."
Grimnir grunted—Arniel had been saying that even after he'd roped Grimnir into this project of his. He rose from his seat. "Thanks for your time … and let me know if you've made any progress on your end … "
By the time Grimnir got the answers he'd been looking for, it was almost nightfall, and he'd exhausted almost every available source in the College. He'd spoken to every instructor—save for Drevis; the illusion instructor was always hard to find, and experience with him in the past had told Grimnir that his current whereabouts in Morrowind were to be taken with a grain of salt—as well as every student and scholar he'd come across in the lecture hall and the dormitories.
And so he was quite thoroughly surprised when the last voice he'd expected to hear told him, "I hear you've been asking about Ancano."
Nirya was quite small for an Altmer—though she was still eye-to-eye with Grimnir, and her size belied her conniving, scheming demeanor. She associated with very few students and scholars in the College—a fact that most were completely fine with.
"I suppose you can tell me something about him?" Grimnir grumbled, as he sat down in the Arcaneum, where Nirya had spread her work over a table. It was late, and he was tired; traveling from one end of Tamriel to the other in a matter of seconds, even by astral projection, was not for the faint of constitution—neither, apparently, was incessant interrogation.
Nirya shrugged. "I never trusted him—he always looked like he was up to something. Most of us are, to be fair, but in his case, it wasn't good. What happened with him is exactly why we don't take in just anyone who can cast a few wisps of flame."
She paused, and wet her lip. "He was rather handsome, though—I will give him that much."
Grimnir made a noise that was somewhere between annoyance and disgust. That was not a picture he'd needed to have in his head at this late of an hour.
"I'd hoped I could come clean with him at the Frozen Hearth, the Loredas before Arch-Mage Aren was killed," Nirya went on, eyes misted over. "I found out from reading his schedule that he went there every Loredas for a drink. At least, that's what I thought at the time—but when I got there, I found Ancano talking with … him."
Grimnir suddenly perked up. "The Frozen Hearth?" he asked, referring to the inn of Winterhold—one of the few buildlings in Winterhold, save for the College, that was still standing in the wake of the Collapse. "Who was over there that he'd want to talk to?"
Nirya huffed. "Nelacar."
The name didn't sound familiar to Grimnir, and Nirya must have noticed.
"There was an … incident with the College before you came by," she said. Grimnir noticed how low her voice had dropped, and the normally devious Altmer looked quite nervous. "Very unfortunate. No one knows how far Nelacar was involved in it, but he was involved enough to get himself expelled. Now he spends his time at the inn in town—he plies his inferior spellwork to the visitors when he's not drunk himself into a stupor." She sniffed.
Grimnir leaned forward, now very intrigued. "What does Ancano have to do with all this?" he asked.
Nirya looked around conspiratorially, making sure Urag wasn't around—the Orc mage was almost as notorious for his temper as he was for his sense of hearing. "You never heard this from me," she whispered, "but it sounds like the Eye of Magnus was only a side project for Ancano. I overheard him in the Hearth that Loredas asking Nelacar some very … disturbing questions."
Side project?! "About what?"
Nirya was almost nose-to-nose with Grimnir now. "Necromancy."
Grimnir pulled back, now very worried—and equally confused, more than he'd ever been in the past two days. What was a Thalmor doing, dabbling in necromancy? The two seemed about as compatible as oil and water.
He turned to leave for the Frozen Hearth, only barely hearing Nirya call out behind him in a lilting singsong, "Oh—Arch-Mage, may I just say it's a pleasure to have you leading the College? If there's ever anything more I can do for you, please let me know!"
Grimnir could only groan. Maybe going down to the Hearth wouldn't be so bad—if he was honest, he needed a strong mug of mead right about now.
When Grimnir stepped inside the tavern half an hour later, however, he found a most unusual sight.
The atmosphere of the inn was unusually somber, even with the pretty blond-haired bard near the warm fire, playing a tune on her flute. The reason why was soon apparent: a Nord was at the front counter, sobbing openly into the chest of an Altmer—whom Grimnir assumed must be Nelacar. Both were clearly drunk, though the Nord was more so; at least Nelacar seemed to be capable of cogent speech.
"There, there, Ranmir," he slurred. "Clearly she—hic—wasn't worth your time—"
That only made Ranmir more disconsolate, and he turned away from Nelacar—only to tumble off his stool and onto the ground.
The bartender made a noise that suggested this hadn't been the first time it had happened. "Dagur!" she hollered. "Best take him home to Birna. I think he's suffered enough for one night." She threw a nasty look at Nelacar.
After Dagur had hoisted a blubbering Ranmir over his shoulder, and disappeared out of the front door, Nelacar downed something from a tiny vial, and some of the rosiness in his cheeks disappeared as he lifted himself up from his own stool, and back to his room.
He didn't see Grimnir walking up behind him until the Arch-Mage had already crossed the threshold, cornering him completely. Nelacar didn't shout out in surprise, but instead heaved a long-suffering sigh that told Grimnir he wasn't in the mood for idle chitchat.
"If I've told Dagur once, I've told him a hundred times," he grumbled, still a little disorientated from the effects of whatever he'd had to drink. "I don't care who wants to see me, or who they're working for—if they're a mage, I'm not interested in anything they have to say!"
Grimnir stepped forward. "I'm here about Ancano."
That sobered up the Altmer. "Who sent you?" he asked, suddenly wide awake and alert. Then his eyes fell on Grimnir's robes. "Oh, of course," he said sullenly.
He sighed again. "Look, Ancano didn't exactly give me much of a choice in the matter," Nelacar went on. "He threatened to spill my little secret to the Jarl if I didn't cooperate with him."
"Don't beat around the bush with me, Nelacar," Grimnir said bluntly—he'd had enough mystery for one day. "Tell me what you were doing with Ancano, and tell me now, or I won't be held responsible for my actions."
"Like that would change anything," Nelacar countered. He nodded outside. "You saw that Nord when you walked in, did you?"
Grimnir nodded.
"Terrible story," tsked the Altmer. "He was involved with this Breton, name of Isabelle. By all accounts, they had a happy life together—but it did get grating after a while, hearing each tell the other that their love could warm up this miserable place.
"A few days ago, though, Isabelle vanished. No trace, no note, nothing. And Ranmir, well … " Nelacar paused here, as if trying to find an appropriate word, before shrugging. "He unraveled. In less than a day, he'd gone from the happiest man in Winterhold to the town drunk."
"That would be around the time of the rupture, then?" Grimnir asked, referring to the events that had unfolded just moments after Ancano had seized the Eye, and Arch-Mage Aren had been killed. One of the strange anomalies must have killed her, he decided, and they'd yet to find a body.
"Oh, no, it was before that," replied the elf. "I still keep tabs on the College and where its students go, and it turns out quite a few were away from the grounds a day before the ruptures opened up. I presume that was when Ancano made his move—when the College was at its weakest."
That gave Grimnir pause. Then it must have happened while we were in Mzulft, he thought. This wasn't very helpful, either—between the obstructive Synod Council, the resident automata, and the population of Falmer that had moved in and called that Dwarven ruin home, it had taken Grimnir and his friends two whole days to clear out that damnable place, and determine the location of the Staff of Magnus using the machinery inside.
"So no one knows where Isabelle's gone?" Grimnir asked.
"They don't," Nelacar replied, indicating the inn outside his door. "And I don't think they'd want to know. See, Isabelle and Ranmir loved each other unconditionally. But even that can only get you so far—sooner or later, you need money … and those two needed a lot of money.
"They had a conversation just like that last Loredas, and it sounded like some strong drink was involved," Nelacar went on. "Ancano must have heard them, because after they turned in here for the night, I saw that elf write something down, and slip it under Isabelle's pillow. Ancano saw me looking, unfortunately, and he threatened me that if I ever told anyone what I'd seen there that night, he would make me watch him unmake your College stone by stone. The next morning, Isabelle was gone."
"Well, you don't need to worry about Ancano any more," Grimnir said reassuringly. "Anything you can tell me from here on out would be helpful. This Isabelle might possess some vital information—I need to know where she might have headed."
"Most likely someplace to find something valuable to sell," sniffed Nelacar. "I caught a glimpse of the note before Ancano put it under Isabelle's pillow. It mentioned a place called 'Hob's Fall'—I'm told it's a cave near that abandoned lighthouse far west—and to ask for someone called M'Alga."
Grimnir felt as if a bucketful of ice had been dumped into his stomach. That was the second time he'd come across that mysterious name, now. He'd hardly been one to believe in coincidence, and he wasn't about to start tonight.
Whoever this M'Alga was, he was dangerous.
He left the Frozen Hearth at a fast clip without bidding farewell to Nelacar, his mind focused entirely on this Hob's Fall place, and what (or who) might await him within.
But he was too focused to see that another, much darker pair of eyes lingered on him for a fraction of a second longer than might have been necessary. Then the moment had passed, and the bard continued to play as if Grimnir had not come through the door at all.
Next chapter: Grimnir uncovers a much bigger conspiracy than he could have imagined.
A/N: For those of you who've gotten far enough in Second Seed: Yes; that is who you think it is.