Into the Light

by Aurora Nova

Marcus of Whiterun, called Dragonborn, prepares to launch resistance against the final assault from the Aldmeri Dominion, to fight the Last Great War for the freedom of Tamriel. Fourth in a series; sequel to "Into the Maelstrom," "Into the Darkness," and "Into the Ashes."

2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Dinner had been concluded, and Dante couldn't remember eating a finer meal in a long time. The chefs at court in the White Gold Tower tended to over-season everything, and while he had long ago taught himself to cook, he kept mainly to recipes that required a minimum amount of ingredients and preparation, in case he was called away at a moment's notice. Even in his Guild's headquarters, in the Ayleid ruins beneath the Imperial City, only one or two of his 'little family' bothered to cook anything.

"You didn't lie," he told the Dragonborn. "That venison roast was excellent!"

Marcus merely gave a smug smile while Tamsyn beamed. "I'm so glad you liked it!" she enthused. "Cooking it low and slow is the key."

"I have a very fine bottle of Cyrodiilic Brandy in the drawing room," Marcus offered, "if you'd like to sample some of it."

"I would indeed," Dante nodded, and while Lydia and Gregor cleared away and Lucia helped with the dishes, Marcus and Tamsyn led their guest to a room off the main hall at the front of the house. The door was closed, and Tamsyn threw a Muffle spell at it. Barbas was lying in front of the fire and thumped his tail once by way of greeting.

"Just in case Lucia gets nosy," she explained. "I don't like hiding what we're doing, but she's too young to know everything. We have enemies that would love to get to us through our children."

Marcus gave a rumble deep in his chest. The look on his face was grim.

"That has been a problem?" Dante inquired.

"Just once," Marcus bit out shortly as he retrieved a bottle from a sideboard and poured two glasses. "The Thalmor haven't tried it again – yet."

"And we aren't going to give them the chance," Tamsyn said. "Blaise, Sofie and Alesan are wise enough to keep their mouths shut, but Lucia –" Here she gave an indulgent chuckle. "Lucia has never known a stranger. She's shy at first, but get her talking and she will babble on for hours."

Marcus presented a glass to Dante and seated himself across from the Breton. The Guildmaster raised his glass, but paused. "Arch-Mage, aren't you…?"

"No," she shook her head firmly. "Not while I'm pregnant." She gestured at her belly. "It's not good for the baby," she finished.

"Indeed?" Dante blinked. "I never knew that."

"It can be very detrimental," Tamsyn said firmly. "I'll stick with fruit juice for now, thank you." She poured herself a small glass of dark red juice from a container on the table by her side.

"Why don't you tell us why you're here, Councilor?" Marcus invited. He gave the man the benefit of his public title, but privately still mistrusted the thief under his roof.

"I'm here, as I believe I stated in my letter, to call in a debt," Dante said smoothly. "As your wife is already aware, and I'm sure you are as well, I helped her to escape from the Thalmor last year. The only thing I ask for in return is assistance in acquiring a certain Daedric artifact I learned about from my research."

"Tamsyn told me about that," Marcus said. "Mehrunes' Razor; the dagger of the Daedric Prince of Destruction. Why would you want that? And think very carefully before you answer," he warned.

"I'm not planning on turning into a Daedra worshipper, if that's what you mean," Dante frowned. "I couldn't care less about the Daedra than I do right now. That the Razor was forged by Mehrunes Dagon himself is, perhaps, not the best recommendation for wanting it." He shook his head. "No, my interest in the artifact is two-fold: first, it's supposed to be uncannily keen. It's rumored to never lose its edge. It's also rumored to be able to kill one's enemies with a single strike. As a thief and a rogue—" he didn't even attempt to hide his nature, "—that appeals to me."

"And the second reason?" Marcus rumbled, not convinced he should help.

"Mehrunes' Razor was said to be instrumental in helping the Mythic Dawn take out the Septim Empire," Dante said. "Now, I know I'm a thief, but I'm no murderer. It seems to me that killing Titus Mede the Second at this time, as Amaund Motierre attempted to do – at the Dominion's urging, by the way – would be a very bad idea. And I have my own reasons for wanting to keep the Emperor alive."

Both the Dragonborn and his wife exchanged looks. Marcus could guess what was going through Tamsyn's mind. This was, after all, the Grey Fox sitting in their presence, enjoying their hospitality. Tamsyn had already filled him in on what had occurred in the Riften Thieves' Guild with Mercer Frey. The former Guildmaster had murdered his predecessor and attempted one last great heist that would set him up for life. He might have succeeded, had Tamsyn not intervened. It didn't take a great stretch of imagination to know what heist Dante had in mind. The only difference, by his own admission, was that he was unwilling to commit murder to get it. The question remained, was this a good idea, and should they turn a blind eye? Would the Empire be better off with a thief and rogue on the Ruby Throne, or with whomever the Aldmeri Dominion decided to install? Marcus knew the answer to that question, and chafed at not having a better option.

"I have some disturbing reports here," Dante continued, patting the dossier with him, "that would seem to indicate that interest in the Mythic Dawn is on the rise."

"What reports?" Tamsyn asked, instantly alert.

Dante opened the dossier and pulled out several parchments. "This one," he showed them, "mentioned a 'Museum to the Mythic Dawn' opening up in Dawnstar. If I'm not mistaken, that's not that far from here."

"It's practically in our back yard," Marcus agreed, perusing the flyer.

"I know about this," Tamsyn said. "What makes you think Silas Vesuius wants to bring back the Mythic Dawn?"

Dante paused and stared at her. "I didn't tell you his name," he frowned. "How could you…?"

Tamsyn rolled her eyes. "I told you before, Master Greyshadow," she sighed in frustration. "I'm a Seer. I know things, okay?"

"Alright, then," Dante replied suavely, "if you 'know things,' why don't you tell me why Vesuius would want to bring back the Mythic Dawn?"

She glared at him, and Marcus half expected her to exclaim, as she had done many times before, that it 'didn't work like that.' This time, however, she surprised him.

"Vesuius' ancestors were members," she stated. "He would tell you that one of his closer ancestors was hand-picked to wield Mehrunes' Razor to assassinate Uriel Septim the Seventh. He would also tell you, if you ask him, that all his life he's felt a strange destiny awaited him, and that he thinks this is it. Honestly, I don't think he means any ill from it. I think he's just caught up in the glory of a misguided group of assassins who sought change on their terms. Having said that, he's a weak man, easily cowed and easily manipulated. If the Dominion is aware that he knows where all the pieces of the Razor are, in addition as to how to put it all together again, they might find it interesting enough to send someone to 'guide' him into the actions they want to see happen, like the premature death of Titus Mede the Second."

Dante stared at her for a long moment before carefully tearing the rest of his report in half.

"I guess I don't need this, then," he said with a self-deprecating smile.

"You might," Barbas replied, lolling out his tongue. "I wouldn't huck 'em in da fire just yet."

Dante started. He'd forgotten about the dog for the moment. "How…?" he managed to get out.

Marcus laughed. "He takes some getting used to," the Dragonborn replied. "Maybe a formal introduction will help. Councilor de Fer, this is Barbas, Daedric dog and companion to Clavicus Vile, who is currently out of favor."

"You don't need t' call 'im by dat alias," Barbas complained. "I'm not stupid. I know who he is."

"Sorry, Barbas," Marcus apologized with sincerity. "Keeping up pretenses in private helps prevent mistakes in public."

"I get it," the dog woofed. "I'm sorry I gave ya a toin before," he said to Dante. "I forget sometimes dat most people here have already accepted me as da Dragonborn's dog."

"I'll admit I've never met a Daedric dog before," Dante marveled, his mind already whirling with the possibilities this presented. "I'm pleased to make your acquaintance."

"Likewise," Barbas barked, wagging his tail. He settled back down by the fire, but didn't go back to sleep, and Dante realized it was no accident that Barbas had been allowed to stay in the room. Had his information been sensitive, and the dog unaware of the Dragonborn's agenda, he would have been shooed from the study. Clearly, the Daedric dog was in their confidence.

"Why don't you tell us what else you've learned," Tamsyn invited. She made a pass with her hands over the torn pages, which mended themselves back together instantly. She handed them back to him with a smile. "You might have information I wasn't able to See."

This suited Dante, and he relayed the information Reydin Glane had sent back from Valenwood.

"An heir to Valenwood?" Marcus wondered. "I thought the Thalmor stamped them out pretty thoroughly."

"That's what they wanted us to think," Dante nodded. "But Reydin tells me that one of the children escaped at that time. Mind you, this was almost two-hundred years ago, a couple of decades after the Oblivion Crisis, when the Thalmor swept into Valenwood and overthrew the tribal government."

"That would make this heir a couple centuries old," Marcus mused.

"Dat would make 'im really old," Barbas put in. "Bosmer don't live as long as dere Altmer cousins."

"The heir could have been a female, too," Tamsyn added. "Reydin's report doesn't say."

"I don't think he knows yet," Dante admitted. "He was still trying to run down leads when he sent me this."

"Is there someplace safe where you could take the heir, to protect him or her from the Thalmor?" Tamsyn asked.

"I have resources," Dante assured her. "Depending on whom we find – if we do before the Thalmor – there are places we can hide the heir where he or she won't be found until it's time to put them in charge."

"And what if this heir is completely incompetent?" Marcus argued. "We'd be worse off than before if they don't know a thing about running a country."

"There's also a possibility that the heir might sympathize with the Dominion," Tamsyn added. "Unlikely, if they knew the Thalmor were responsible for wiping out their family, but it is possible. Contacting and confiding in them could compromise our other operations."

"Let me worry about that," Dante said. "The main thing right now is to run down those rumors to see if there's any truth to them."

"What else have you learned?" Marcus asked.

"My agents in Elsweyr have informed me that some of the population there are disgruntled about the ties to the Dominion maintained by the Mane."

The Dragonborn looked puzzled. "I'm a bit lax on Khajiiti government," Marcus admitted. "What's the Mane?"

Dante gave a slight smile. "The Mane is a who, not a what," he explained. "The Mane is the ruler in Elsweyr. He is a unique Khajiit, born under a very specific set of moon phases and circumstances. It is said that there is only ever one Mane alive at one time, and some Khajiit believe that he is the same soul reborn again and again. Having said that, there are also stories of there being more than one Mane born in a generation, and the two fight it out for supremacy. At this point in time, we're fairly certain there is only one Mane in charge."

"And this Mane is aligned with the Dominion, you said?" Tamsyn asked.

The Breton rogue shrugged. "Loosely," he replied. "After the Oblivion Crisis, the Empire's hold on the territory known as Elsweyr was compromised, due to the lack of a successor to the Ruby Throne. The Khajiit took advantage of this and seceded from the Empire. They tried their own form of government for a time. Then the Void Nights occurred, when the moons of Nirn completely vanished."

"I remember reading about that," Marcus said. "I have a book called The Great War which touched upon that subject."

Dante made a mental note regarding the Dragonborn's intellect. The Great War was no simple child's novel. That the Dragonborn had read the book indicated a mind behind his warrior's appearance.

"I've read that book as well," Dante said now. "So you'll understand how important the moons are to Khajiit society. And how grateful they were to the Aldmeri Dominion when the Thalmor took credit for restoring the moons to the skies. They allowed themselves to become a Protectorate of the Dominion."

"Except that now life under Thalmor supervision isn't sitting so well with some of them," Marcus nodded.

"Has the Mane given any indication of wanting to separate from the Dominion?" Tamsyn asked.

"No," the Breton man replied. "Nor is he likely to. It would take a coup of the significance of the one that put his predecessor on the throne to force Elsweyr to switch sides."

"Even though the Altmer are more than willing to sacrifice thousands of Khajiit lives on the front lines of a pitched battle?" Tamsyn brooded.

Dante shrugged. "Even so. You have to understand the mind of the Khajiit. Though they are mostly regarded by humans with mistrust and suspicion, the Altmer have flattered and supported them, and they are unwavering in their loyalty to the faction that saved them from the Void Nights."

"But you said some aren't happy," Marcus pointed out. "Are they unhappy enough to demand change?"

"Possibly," the Guildmaster mused. "But it would take a larger percentage of the population than my agents were able to sound out. As it stands right now, we cannot count on swaying Elsweyr to our side."

"Drat!" Tamsyn frowned. "I was hoping we could make them see sense. We need to bring those other Provinces back into the Empire. Right now, we only have Cyrodiil, Skyrim and High Rock."

"And the Dominion has their home base of the Summerset Isles, as well as Elsweyr and Valenwood," Marcus added.

"What about Morrowind?" Dante asked.

Marcus shook his head.

"We can't count on their help," the Dragonborn answered. "At least, not at the moment. They feel the Empire threw them under the carriage during the Oblivion Crisis, leaving them to their own fate when all the gates opened. Black Marsh is pretty much of the same opinion. And Hammerfell certainly won't help. They suffered the most at the end of the Great War."

Dante thought of Saadia and felt a warming in his lower regions. "I wouldn't rule Hammerfell out just yet," he said, stroking the beard on his chin thoughtfully. "They hate the Dominion with a passion that's almost holy. They might agree to help in our time of need."

"We'd really have to offer them something they want badly enough to come back into the Empire," Marcus pointed out. "And since we haven't spoken with the Emperor about all of this yet, the point is moot."

"Is that everything?" Tamsyn asked.

"Not quite," Dante said, pulling out a single piece of parchment from his dossier. "I came across this in an Ayleid ruin used by the Dominion."

"What is it?" Marcus asked, taking the paper and reading it. "Aetherium?" he queried. "What's that?"

"I have no idea," the Breton rogue answered honestly. "But it seemed important enough to the Thalmor to send out small cadres of Justiciars to look for it."

"Oh, my various gods," Tamsyn breathed faintly. "We can't let them have that!"

Both men turned to look at her suspiciously.

"Arch-Mage?"

"Tamsyn?"

She threw them a glare of pure irritation. "Oh, don't look at me like that!" she exclaimed. "Of course I know what they're after!"

"I would really love to know how you know these things," Dante marveled. "You wouldn't happen to know how to predict dice outcomes or the turn of a card, would you?" He subsided as she glowered at him. "No, I guess you wouldn't give up that information, would you?"

"Tell us about aetherium, sweetheart," Marcus encouraged.

The term of endearment mollified the Arch-Mage, and she regained her composure.

"Aetherium is a very rare, very special luminescent mineral mined by the Dwemer ages ago," she explained. "It was reputed to have a strong magical aura, and some scholars believe it may have fallen from Aetherius itself. I have a book about it, called The Aetherium Wars, but I think I left it in my quarters at the College."

"And what makes this mineral so special?" Dante inquired.

"Well," Tamsyn said, "the fact that anything made with it was imbued with incredible power from the get-go was one reason. But it was such a hard metal to work with that conventional methods were unsuccessful. The Dwemer were required to build a very special forge just to create things from it."

"Where is the forge?" Marcus asked.

A strange look swept across the Arch-Mage's face. "It was lost to the ages," she replied, not looking at her husband. She didn't fool him. He was well aware that she knew exactly where the forge was but was choosing not to reveal it at this time. "Does that paper give any indication if the Dominion knows?" she asked.

Dante shook his head. "No," he replied, having seen the look but not understanding its nature. All he knew for certain was that the Arch-Mage was hiding something. "They apparently have no idea if this is real or simply a myth. The fact that they've taken it seriously enough to send people out looking for it, however, is always a cause for concern. If this is something that could be used against the Alliance, it stands to reason that it would be in our best interests to find it first."

"I don't think you have the time for that right now," Tamsyn replied. "Your first priority was to find Mehrunes' Razor. Or has that changed?"

He was being side-tracked, Dante knew. Clearly, the Arch-Mage knew more than she was letting on. The only possible reason for this was that she wanted the Alliance to be the ones to find this 'Aetherium Forge,' and not the representative of Emperor Titus Mede the Second. It rankled that she still didn't trust him, but he supposed that as long as the Alliance was aware of this situation, it didn't matter, as long as it was kept out of Dominion hands.

"My goal for this trip hasn't changed," he said now, and was pleased to be able to keep his tone even. "This Forge, if it exists, can wait. Even the Dominion isn't sure on that point. Right now, it's more important to me to keep them from acquiring the Razor."

Tamsyn seemed to relax. "Good," she smiled. "Then perhaps I can give you a brief summary of what to expect on this trip of yours. You'll need to head to Dawnstar first and talk to Silas Vesuius. He will tell you where to find the other pieces. Once you have them all, you'll need to take them back to him."

"Not a chance," Dante scowled. "I'm not going to traipse all over Skyrim finding the damned thing only to give it back to him."

Tamsyn glared at him. "And you'll do what with it, Master Greyshadow?"

"I'll reforge it myself," he declared.

To her credit, she didn't mock him for his ingenuousness. "You can't," she said flatly. "It's a Daedric artifact. It was created by Mehrunes Dagon himself, and only Mehrunes Dagon can put it back together. You have to take it back to Silas and let him take it to Dagon to be reforged. After that…" She paused, and another strange look passed through her eyes. "After that, you'll have to decide the best way to get the Razor back from him."

"I'd use extreme caution where Dagon is consoined," Barbas cautioned them. "His domain is destruction an' change t'rough dominance. Only a strong poi'son can hold dere own against him."

"How are you at riding, Master Greyshadow?" Marcus asked, changing the subject.

"I prefer it to a carriage," Dante replied stiffly, still stung by the Arch-Mage's gentle reproof.

"Good," the Dragonborn nodded. "I'll have Gregor get a couple of horses ready for us tomorrow morning. We can head up to Dawnstar just after breakfast." He glanced at the candle on the mantle. "It's getting late. We should probably turn in."

He assisted Tamsyn in rising from her chair and escorted them both from the parlor. Barbas looked up and rose to pad silently behind them.

"Lucia's probably already in bed," he stated. "T'ink I'll head on up for da night. Pleasant dreams, everyone!" He trotted over to the stairs and made his way up to the second floor, disappearing into the darkness.

Tamsyn offered Dante a candle in a holder to light his way upstairs.

"No need, Arch-Mage, thank you," he dismissed, as politely as he could. He threw off a Candlelight spell.

Tamsyn allowed a brief smile. "I wasn't sure how much magic you knew or used," she replied.

"I don't do much Conjuration," he admitted. "I know enough of most of the other Schools to get by, but I'm a Master at Illusion."

Tamsyn laughed outright. "That doesn't surprise me, Councilor!" She and Marcus inclined their heads towards him. "Sleep well, Councilor," she bade him. "We'll see you at breakfast."

Marcus led his wife away to their suite of rooms that lay just off the main hall to the left behind the stairs while Dante made his way upstairs and entered his room. He had spent the time before dinner unpacking and placing his few personal belongings in the available chests and wardrobes. Stripping off his State robes and shedding the leather cuirass he wore under it, he filled the washbasin with water from the pitcher on the nightstand, and was pleasantly surprised to find it steaming. Examination of the inside of the pitcher revealed a glowing fire rune on the bottom, keeping the water piping hot.

Ingenious! he thought. I never imagined using fire runes that way. I wonder what keeps it from exploding? He made a mental note to ask Tamsyn about it in the morning. It occurred to him as well that it would be foolish to underestimate the abilities of the Arch-Mage.

He found a similar rune under the bed, radiating heat but not combusting anything above it, and gave a sigh of satisfaction when he crawled under covers already warmed without the use of a coal-filled bedpan.

After everything he had learned this evening, it was tempting to lay awake and go over it all again in his mind, but the long day of travel, the good food and the warm bed took their toll on him, and he was asleep in minutes.

---

Dante awoke much earlier than he anticipated. The sun was barely up above the horizon, but he was as rested as if he'd slept the hourglass around. He dressed quickly in his Nightingale's armor, but left the hood to hang down his back, where it would be easy enough to pull it up.

He repacked his haversack with the essentials he would need for an extended trip and headed down the stairs. He knew it was probably too early for breakfast, and that the Dragonborn and his family would probably not be awake yet, but he was a patient man, and he had noticed a wall neatly packed with books in the parlor the night before.

The sound of a lute drifted up from below. Soft and low, as if the player wished not to wake the household, it was a sadly sweet melody Dante had never heard before. Moving silently, he glided down the remaining stairs and turned the corner into the Great Hall. He wasn't sure what he expected, but it was not the image of the Dragonborn, seated by the fire, quietly strumming a lute. Dante listened for several minutes, impressed with the fingering and fretwork the Hero of Skyrim displayed.

Who knew? he smiled to himself. Once again, he revised his opinion of the man who gave the outward appearance of a skilled warrior with not much going on in his head. He was beginning to realize it might be very inadvisable to underestimate the Dragonborn.

He deliberately scuffed his heel on the floor to make the man aware of his presence.

Marcus heard the noise and set his lute down immediately.

"No, please go on," Dante requested. "You play beautifully, and I've never heard that song before."

"I'd be surprised if you had," Marcus answered politely. "It's a song I knew before I came to Skyrim."

"Are there words to it?" the Breton man inquired.

Marcus hesitated, uncomfortable. "I'm not really used to performing outside my family," he told Dante. "That's really more Lucia's area of expertise than mine. I just teach her the songs I know."

"I would really like to hear it," Dante pressed.

Again, Marcus hesitated before appearing to make up his mind. "I guess it won't hurt anything if I do," he finally replied. Picking up his lute, he strummed a few chords and cleared his throat before singing softly, in his deep baritone voice.

"Would you know my name

If I saw you in heaven?

Would it be the same,

If I saw you in heaven?

I must be strong and carry on

'Cause I know I don't belong here in heaven."

As Dante listened he watched the Dragonborn's face carefully. Though he knew the man had a home and family, the song spoke of inconceivable loss.

"Would you hold my hand

If I saw you in heaven?

Would you help me stand

If I saw you in heaven?

I'll find my way through night and day

'Cause I know I just can't stay here in heaven."

He wasn't exactly sure where or what 'heaven' was, but it seemed to equate to Aetherius. Though Marcus hadn't admitted to writing the song, Dante knew he'd never heard it before, and the sadness in the younger man's eyes spoke all too clearly of the pain he must have suffered.

"Time can bring you down, time can bend your knees.

Time can break your heart, have you begging please, begging please.

Beyond the door there's peace I'm sure

And I know there'll be no more tears in heaven."

Yes, there could be no doubt in Dante's mind: the Dragonborn had lost someone very dear to him. It only added to the mystery that was the man.

Marcus concluded the song in the same quiet manner in which he'd begun, and Dante nodded appreciatively. "You're very talented, Marcus Dragonborn," he congratulated him. "Where did you learn to play like that?"

Marcus turned away as he placed the lute in a cabinet near the stairs. "Oh, here and there," he replied in an offhand manner.

"In Cyrodiil, perhaps?" Dante pressed.

"I've never been to Cyrodiil," Marcus stated.

"Oh?" Dante mused. The Housecarl, Gregor, must have been correct then. The Dragonborn must be one of those Imperials not born in their native Province. "Were you born in Skyrim, then?"

"I don't know."

The statement was as abrupt as it was final. Clearly, Marcus didn't want to talk about this. A heartbeat later, however, he sighed. "Look," he said by way of apology. "The truth is, I had…an accident a few years back. I don't know what happened to me. I woke up in a cart bound for Helgen and execution. I had no memories of my past and could barely remember my name. They had me lined up at the chopping block when Alduin attacked. In the confusion, I escaped. Since then, I've done my best to just live a normal life. It's just that extraordinary things keep getting in my way." He quirked a lop-sided smile. "I don't really like to talk about it much because I simply can't remember it, and right now, I don't really care. Who I may have been before isn't who I am now." And you will never know how true that is! he thought with some irony. "I'm telling you this now because I know we'll be travelling together for some time, and I'd rather not have tensions like that between us."

"Tensions?" Dante parroted, ingenuous.

"You're a thief," Marcus pointed out. "You're also a Nightingale. Neither of those occupations sits well with me, but in my current situation I've had to deal with rogues and scoundrels to get the information I need to save this land I love. You also hold your office from the Emperor himself – and I'm still not sure how you managed to swing that, but it's not really any of my business, as long as it doesn't put my family at risk. But I don't know how much of what we've discussed will get back to Titus Mede the Second."

"What, exactly, are you saying then?" Dante demanded, narrowing his eyes.

Marcus blew out a breath. "I'm saying that I'm not sure I can trust you yet. I know you're digging for information about me. I'm not stupid. You put Gregor through the mill yesterday asking questions about me on the way up here. What I'd like to know is: why?"

Without missing a beat, Dante replied, "I need to know who I'm working with." There was no way he was prepared yet to divulge the real reason for his coming here. "Your wife owes me a favor. I've called in that favor, only to be handed off to you to see it fulfilled. I feel I've been more than fair, sharing information about Dominion movements in other parts of Tamriel. I didn't have to do that."

Marcus relaxed a bit. "No," he admitted. "That's true, you didn't. And I'm grateful for the information, I truly am. It's opened my eyes to the fact that the Dominion has operations going on simultaneously in all parts of Tamriel." He gave another exasperated sigh. "It also means the Alliance doesn't have the manpower to keep track of it all. And I'm only one Dragonborn." There was a look of pure concern shadowing the Imperial's steel gray eyes.

Dante relented, but only a little. "My organization is continuing to monitor their activities in Cyrodiil," he assured the younger man. "We've also been working on coming up with a map of all the Ayleid ruins in our Province, and pin-pointing which ones would be the most likely locations for hidden Thalmor operations. So far we've found about thirty-six or so, but we're certain there are more."

"Tamsyn's friend Sylfaen is helping with that as well," Marcus nodded. "I'll see if I can get her to draw us a map of the ones she remembers, and we can compare them."

"Sylfaen?" Dante queried. "That Snow Elf the Arch-Mage left the Imperial City with? The last time I saw her she was trussed up like a chicken on St. Alessia's Day."

Marcus chuckled in spite of himself. "They're good friends now," he explained. "Sylfaen had a religious experience and is no longer a Thalmor operative. In fact, she has completely retired from public life."

"The Thalmor don't retire," Dante pointed out. "Anyone foolish enough to attempt to leave the organization disappears and is never seen again."

"Well, in a way," Marcus quirked a grin, "that's what Sylfaen has done…but on her own terms. And no, I won't tell you where she is, so don't ask."

Dante shrugged. "Suit yourself."

They heard movements in a room behind the great fireplace and Marcus remarked, "Sounds like Lydia and Gregor are up and about. If you'll excuse me, I need to make some preparations for our trip." He gave a formal bow and retreated to his private quarters, leaving Dante to ponder what he'd learned.

The Dragonborn was gifted musically, was well-read, and had more than troll fat between the ears. He was intensely private and refused to discuss his past. Dante had heard rumors of the man taking down dragons single-handedly, but he had yet to see the Imperial in action. Well, this trip of theirs would soon put that question to rest.

Enticing aromas were coming from the kitchen, and Dante felt his stomach rumble. There was time yet before breakfast would be ready, and he had noted the presence of a library of sorts in the parlor. Perhaps now would be a good time to see what sort of books the Dragonborn and his wife were interested in. One could learn much about a person by perusing their library.

As he examined the small but impressive collection of history books, something the Dragonborn said about his past leaped back into his mind: I don't really like to talk about it much because I simply can't remember it. And yet, not long before that, when he played the song on his lute, he'd said, It's a song I knew before I came to Skyrim.

The Dragonborn had contradicted himself in less than ten minutes. He's lying, Dante realized. He's hiding something.

Whatever it was, Dante was determined to find it out.

When Dante saw the two horses brought around to the front door for them, his eyes widened in surprise. The sorrel mare was grazing in the paddock not far away. The two before him now were a dappled gray gelding, to whom the Dragonborn was strapping his bedroll and pack. The other was an impressive black stallion with a flowing mane and tail and 'feathers' on his feet. Gregor was holding the bridle, but even as burly as he was, the stallion was in high spirits and jerked the Nord around.

"It's just early morning jitters," Marcus called over. "Also, Sadie's in heat right now and Nightshade can sense it."

"Nightshade, eh?" Dante grinned. "I like the name. What about the gelding?"

"He's Nightshade's stable companion," Marcus explained. "This is Storm, and he helps keep Nightshade calm. The big guy there knows that Storm is no threat to his position as herd leader."

Dante approached Nightshade, but the stallion lunged and snapped with his teeth, practically dragging Gregor with him.

"Whoa, there, big fella!" the Nord cried.

"Easy, now," Dante crooned, summoning up his magicka and casting a Calm spell on the stallion. "I'm not going to hurt you."

The effect was almost instantaneous. Nightshade immediately settled down and allowed Dante to strap his gear to the saddle before mounting. Though the horse snorted and pawed the ground, he didn't make any further attempt to be unruly.

Marcus gave a nod of approval. "I was going to suggest you do that," he said. "It's what I usually end up doing when I have to ride him."

"Nightshade is yours?" Dante asked.

Marcus nodded.

"Then why aren't you riding him?"

The Dragonborn gave an unashamed smirk. "I wanted to see if you could handle yourself around horses. Storm isn't nearly enough of a challenge."

"Did I pass the test?" Dante drawled laconically.

The smirk became a grin. "With flying colors."

Tamsyn came to the door to see them off, with Lucia and Barbas behind her, and frowned as she overhead the last few comments.

"Marcus Dragonborn," she scolded. "Sometimes you can be a real jerk!"

"I know, my love," he chuckled, "but you love me anyway!" He enveloped Lucia in a bear-hug. "You behave yourself while I'm gone, okay, sweetheart?"

"I will, Papa," the pre-teen promised. "And I'll keep practicing that new song you taught me!"

Marcus leaned over and ruffled the fur on Barbas' head. "Keep them safe for me," he requested, and Barbas lolled out his tongue.

"You don't need t' worry a bit," the Daedric dog promised. "I'll watch over 'em like dey was my own family…which dey are!" He wagged his tail enthusiastically.

"Thanks, Barbas," Marcus murmured gratefully. He stepped back to Tamsyn and swept her close in a long, tender kiss and tapped his ear as he turned back to the horses.

"We'll stay in touch," he said.

With that cryptic remark, Marcus easily mounted Storm and pointed the horse's head in the direction of the road to the south.

Tamsyn waved from the front porch before retreating inside, with Lucia and Barbas following her, and Dante was left alone on the road with a man about whom he still knew very little.

"How long will it take us to reach Dawnstar?" the Breton man asked.

"About four hours or so," Marcus replied. "We can save a little time if we cut overland near Fort Dunstad. The road swings east and north from there to head up to Fort Fellhammer, before heading northwest and then north again to Dawnstar. That's at least an hour and a half out of our way."

"So, we'll take the short cut, then," Dante decided.

"Just be aware there are more dangers in the wilds," Marcus informed him. "This isn't Cyrodiil. The Imperial Legions keep the roads patrolled, but out in the wild, you're on your own."

"I'm not concerned," Dante assured him. "I can handle myself."

"I hope so," Marcus replied, but there was a definite tone of doubt in his voice. Dante decided to let it pass. He owed the Dragonborn no explanation of his skills, and he preferred to prove them by demonstration, rather than by boasting.

They had been riding only a half hour when Dante realized they were traveling northeast instead of north.

"How far out of the way does this road take us?" he inquired.

"In miles or in time?" Marcus asked.

"Does it matter?" Dante asked, lifting a brow. "It seems to me that if we want to head to Dawnstar, we're heading in the wrong direction."

Marcus pulled Storm up and turned around in his saddle to face the Breton rogue.

"I did warn you there are dangers in the wild," he reminded his companion. "One of those is a giant camp, Blizzard Rest, just around the shoulder of those hills there. Cutting overland would take us far too close to that camp, and giants are very territorial."

"Are they that dangerous, then?" Dante asked doubtfully.

"Let's just say that getting hit by one could launch you into the upper atmosphere and leave it at that," Marcus said. "I'd rather not tangle with them. They're generally peaceful, unless provoked. I have no intention of provoking them." He kicked Storm's sides and the dappled gelding took off at a trot.

Dante nudged Nightshade and the stallion obliged by prancing after his stable companion. He had heard of giants, of course, but had never seen one. Could they really be that bad? he wondered.

An hour later they connected with the main road that passed from Windhelm to Dawnstar and turned their horses' heads west. Not far from the junction, they drew near to a landmark that the Dragonborn called the 'Weynon Stones.'

"They were named after Weynon Priory in Cyrodiil, apparently," Marcus told him. "I know there's a shrine to Talos there."

"An open shrine?" Dante inquired. "Even though Talos worship is ostensibly outlawed?"

"It may be outlawed," Marcus rumbled. "But that doesn't mean there aren't those who still revere their Hero-God." He resisted the automatic reflex to touch the talisman under his tunic and armor. "I've actually met Talos," he added, with no arrogance. It was a simple statement of fact. "He requested that I do my best to make sure his memory isn't wiped from the history of Skyrim, and I intend to do just that."

Dante said nothing. Indeed, there was nothing he could add to this. The stories of the Dragonborn and the Arch-Mage traveling to Sovngarde and back were just short of fanciful, but few, if any knew what had actually occurred there. That the Dragonborn had killed Alduin the World-Eater there was proven by the fact that the Dragon God of Destruction had not returned.

The day wore on as they made their way up the road to Dawnstar. As the sun climbed higher overhead, they reached a large fortress Marcus called Fort Dunstad. Soldiers dressed in both Imperial and Stormcloak armor mingled behind the stockade wall. The gates were open, and the two men were able to pass through.

"Ho, Dragonborn!" one of the female soldiers called out. She was dressed in Stormcloak armor.

Marcus raised his hand and smiled. "Dagmar!" he called out. "It's good to see you again! Still seeing Ralof?"

"As often as I can," the Nord woman laughed, unashamed. "Would you believe the fool went all the way up to Dawnstar the last time he was here to buy an amulet of Mara from the priest, Erandur?"

"Really?" Marcus grinned, delighted. "Have you accepted him?"

Dagmar gave a sly look. "I haven't told him no," she admitted, "but I haven't told him yes yet, either!"

Marcus laughed. "He's a good man, Dagmar," he called out as they headed toward the north gate. "Don't keep him guessing too long!"

"Soon, Dragonborn, soon!" she waved back, before returning to her forge.

"Friend of yours?" Dante guessed.

"She's a good woman," Marcus smiled. "She'll keep Ralof on his toes. He won't want to lose her to someone else."

"Is that how it's done here in Skyrim?" the Breton man inquired.

Marcus shrugged. "Anyone who's lived here long enough will tell you that life is hard and short," he explained. "They don't have long engagements, like they do in Cyrodiil or High Rock. They get married simply, without a lot of fanfare and sometimes while they're still very young – fifteen or sixteen years old, sometimes. Nords tend to mature more quickly than other races, I guess."

Dante nodded as he stored the information away in his mind. A large part of his success came from gathering information. It was one reason why he was inclined to help the Arch-Mage and her husband with their ultimate plan, as Tamsyn had related to him some months back, of defeating the Aldmeri Dominion once and for all. The more information one could gather, the more informed one was, and the better prepared to enact upon that information when needed.

Part of what made the Nords such ferocious warriors was that both their men and their women trained to take up arms to defend their land. In Cyrodiil there were women who rose through the ranks of the Imperial Army but did not often mix military careers with a civilian life. A woman in the Imperial Army seldom left to get married and settle down to become a wife and mother. Nords, it seemed, were cut from a different cloth, and saw no difficulty in combining the best of both worlds.

As they rode along, Dante reflected on the Dragonborn as a man. Here was an Imperial who did not act like his fellow countrymen and admitted to having no memories of living in his home Province. He seemed to have a Nord's guarded attitude toward strangers, and Dante wondered if that might be because of the time he had spent in this land, becoming acquainted with its people and their customs. From the stories Dante had heard about the man, he seemed brave enough, yet he chose to avoid confrontations when there was no need for it. In addition, the "peace talks" at High Hrothgar had been conducted privately, without Thalmor interference, with the Dragonborn – an Imperial, mind you, not a Nord – insisting that it was just "an internal issue, until the dragon problem was resolved."

They had to have discussed more than just the 'dragon problem,' Dante mused to himself. And what wouldn't I have given to have been a fly on the wall?

Clearly, the fact that tensions between Imperials and Stormcloaks in Skyrim were lessening hadn't been lost on the Dominion. Oh, there were still reports of pockets of fighting breaking out between the two Nord factions – those loyal to the Empire and those loyal to Ulfric Stormcloak – but the Dominion operatives sent to observe these skirmishes somehow never made it back to file reports. Dante knew the truth of this because of sensitive intelligence his own 'operatives' had recovered from Belda Buro, near the coast of the Abacean Sea. The wealth of information that had been 'liberated' from the ruin by Minnow and Reydin had Dante basking in a glow of smugness, and the Dominion scrambling and scratching their heads wondering how in Oblivion anyone had gotten in and stolen their secret, sensitive dossiers.

One of the most highly prized documents he had recovered alerted Dante to just how many members of the Emperor's court were in league with or owed their positions to the Aldmeri Dominion. It was far worse than he had anticipated. His own appointment to Councilor had been at Titus Mede's command, as a reward for saving his life, and the Dominion didn't like this one bit. Dante realized at once how crafty the Emperor had been in making 'Lance de Fer' his closest confidante. It painted another target on Dante's back, of course, but now he had the information he needed to put eyes and ears in places he needed to watch his back.

"This is of the utmost importance," he told his inner cadre, which included not only Minnow and Reydin, but other close, trusted operatives. Gih-Ja, the Argonian woman, was sent to watch the docks; Da'zhir and Da'zhar, though currently in Elsweyr, were also included in the inner circle. The other three were a Nord, an Altmer mage and a Dunmer merchant from Blacklight. "The Emperor has too many enemies too close to him. We've thwarted Amaund Motierre, but that doesn't mean the Thalmor won't try to get to him through someone else." His inner circle nodded.

Beor Iron-fist was the Nord, but was small, wiry and dark-haired – completely unlike the stereotypical vision of a Nord. "I can get in, get out and get gone before they know I'm there," he said proudly, when the Grey Fox sounded him out. After several missions with the young Nord, Dante could attest to the truth of the lad's words.

"But why 'Iron-fist'?" he asked the young man. "If you'll forgive me, that sounds like someone proficient with a sword or axe."

Beor gave a rueful grin. "It's a family name," he shrugged, mischief dancing in his pale blue eyes. "I inherited the name, but not the body to go with it. I'd drop it, but I don't have any family left to embarrass." The grin faded, and a grim look crossed his face, turning the summer blue eyes into chips of winter ice. "The Thalmor saw to that when they hauled my father off to one of their prisons for worshipping Talos. My mother and sister were taken away, tortured and raped to death. I hid in the barn, under the hay. I was only a boy of eight at the time, and sickly to boot. I'd have never lasted against them if I'd fought that day. They'd have killed me for sure. I decided to bide my time and wait until I was old enough for some payback. I only ended up here in Cyrodiil because I was captured by some bandits and sold into slavery. I escaped, after drugging the man that bought me. Now I'm on the run. This seemed like a good place to hide."

Dante had nodded. It was story he had heard again and again among their 'little family.'

"Tell me about yourself," he said to Drelan Suvaris, the Dunmer. "Why should I allow you into my Guild?"

"I can get you the best deals from nearly all the merchants in Tamriel," Drelan said confidently. "I have connections with all the caravans that cross Tamriel. I can fence and liquidate assets when necessary, and I'm not bad at forging, given a little time."

A test of Drelan's skills proved he hadn't been boasting. His was as proficient at duplicating maps as he was at documents, and he was able to fence contraband with people even Dante hadn't been able to deal with. Drelan had a gift for getting the best price for anything that needed to be 'passed along.'

Letting the Altmer mage into their organization had been touchy. Many mistrusted Ashabareth Vaneris from the start, simply because she was Altmer.

"She could be a Thalmor spy," Reydin warned.

Dante's gut told him otherwise, and he had learned to trust his gut. Asha, as she preferred to be called, had a gift for magic that excelled his own, which wasn't that difficult to imagine, since she was at least two hundred years old.

"Why become a thief?" he'd asked her.

"In point of fact," she explained, "it's how I've managed to stay alive this long. The Thalmor want me dead, so I took a little trip up to Skyrim a century ago and had an old friend of mine in Riften change my face. I changed my name at that time, as well, and just…disappeared in plain sight."

"Why do the Thalmor want you dead?" Dante asked, impressed and unnerved at the knowledge the face he was looking at hadn't been hers originally. Was there truly someone with the skills to remake a face? Surely Brynjolf would have mentioned it, wouldn't he have? It boggled the mind!

Asha shrugged. "I spoke out against them shortly after the Oblivion Crisis ended," she explained, "when the Thalmor rose to power and tried to take credit for Martin Septim's sacrifice. The Thalmor hunted me down, as they did anyone unafraid to speak the truth. They caught me and threw me into one of their torture prisons, but I escaped and made them pay for their abuse tenfold. It was very easy at that time to sneak into their homes and slip a little poison into their food. I'm very good at alchemy."

Dante had allowed her to stay, and over the past decade, though he curbed her enthusiasm for poisoning their marks, Asha had proven she was more than capable of getting in and out unseen. For that reason, among others, she was admitted to the inner circle.

Now that the tide was turning, and it appeared he had some support in the North from the Dragonborn, it was time to start turning the thumbscrews against the Dominion.

"Asha," he told her before leaving for Skyrim, "I need you to stay close to the Emperor. Protect him at all costs. Your cover is that of a servant in the White Gold tower, hired by me and given clearance to be in the Emperor's chambers. Don't let anything happen to him."

"I'll guard him with my life," Asha promised.

"Beor," he said, turning to the young Nord, "I know you know all about horses."

"Been around them most of my life," the dark-haired lad said. "Stolen quite a few of them, too!"

"You'll be at the stables," Dante told him. "Keep your eyes and ears open." Beor nodded.

The Guildmaster looked at Drelan. "You'll need to be at court," he told the Dunmer. "I'd like you to pretend to be a noblemer from Morrowind offering trade contracts with Cyrodiil. Make it sound like an overture to peace between your Provinces."

"That won't be easy," Drelan frowned. "My people aren't very happy with the Imperials right now, and we have long memories about how they abandoned us during the Oblivion Crisis."

"I'm counting on you to make this work," Dante insisted. "Offer deals the Emperor is sure to refuse, but which will be tempting enough for him not to dismiss you outright. He might feel he can talk you down."

"How long do I have to keep this up?" Drelan complained.

"Not long," Dante said thoughtfully. "If I'm right, it won't be long after I leave that the Thalmor will make their move. Just stay alert."

"I'll do the best I can," Drelan sighed. "But what do I do if the Emperor accepts the contracts?"

Dante grinned, "Then we'll have to make a trip to Morrowind and convince them its in their best interests to honor them. And we'll get a cut for 'negotiating' the terms."

Drelan chuckled. "There's the Grey Fox I know and love," he grinned.

"All of you, keep your heads low and watch out for trouble," Dante warned them. "Contact Reydin at the Guild with any information you can find out that will further our cause. I'll be away, up north in Skyrim for a couple of weeks, but Reydin will know how to reach me."

And with that, he had to be satisfied that Reydin would indeed contact him, through the portal network, if any problems arose.

As the sun climbed higher in the sky, the clouds moved in and the temperatures plummeted. Once they were past the shelter of Fort Dunstad the winds that swept across the tundra of the Pale hit them with full force, whipping snow in their eyes and freezing Dante to the marrow.

"Should we stop somewhere and wait this blizzard out?" he called to his companion.

"Blizzard?" Marcus chuckled. "This is just a little wind and snow. Believe me, if we get caught in a blizzard, you'll know it! Besides, there really isn't anywhere around here to take shelter in. The Empire wanted to build way stations along the main roads in Skyrim every ten miles or so, as I understand it, back before I came here, but High King Torygg wouldn't allow it."

"Why not?" Dante asked, shivering in spite of his well-insulated armor. If this wasn't a true blizzard, he didn't want to be caught in a real one!

Marcus shrugged. "He probably didn't want to pony up his share of the costs, I guess," the Dragonborn replied. "But if you're having trouble with the weather, maybe I can do something about it."

"It's the weather," Dante drawled. "As uncomfortable as it is, there isn't much you can do about it."

Marcus gave a sly grin and threw his head back.

"LOK VAH KOOR!" he roared, and the horses whinnied and pranced. Dante fought to keep Nightshade under control.

"What in Oblivion was that?" he demanded angrily.

Marcus merely smiled. "Wait for it…" he cautioned, raising one finger.

The sun burned through the clouds and the wind and snow subsided. In a few moments, it was as though it had never happened. Dante stared in amazement at the Dragonborn, who turned smugly away and kicked Storm to get him moving again. The Breton man shook his head in wonder before nudging Nightshade to follow. Yes, there was certainly more to the Dragonborn than he let on, and it would be a foolish man who underestimated him.

They reached Dawnstar just past midday, and Dante pulled out the flyer for the museum that he had tucked into an inner pocket. Following the directions, and asking a guard along the way, the two men circled the bay where small merchant ships bobbed in the water. Gulls and hawks screeched and circled overhead, and the smell of salt and fish permeated the air.

The museum was located on the east side of the bay, near the alchemy shop that Marcus remembered from previous trips here. It was also, he realized, not far from Cicero's Sanctuary, and the small dock where Harlaug, the ferryman, took individuals to either Windhelm or Solitude.

And sometimes to Icewater Jetty, if the pay is good, Marcus mused to himself.

They found the museum and approached to see a woman in mage robes arguing with a tall, thin, dark-haired Imperial in a long red and gold embroidered surcoat. Marcus didn't recognize the Imperial, but he knew the middle-aged Breton mage, Madena, as the former court wizard to Skald the Elder. She worked for Brina Merelis now, and seemed happier with her situation than she had been working for Skald.

"Your ancestors wouldn't want this, Silas!" she protested. So, this was Silas Vesuius, the museum proprietor.

"Why should I hide from it?" Silas demanded. "This is my family's legacy!"

"It's the past!" Madena insisted. "Dead oaths on dead lips. Let it stay there!"

Silas scowled at her. For a moment it looked as though he might have struck out, but noticing the two men mounted nearby, he merely hissed, "The museum is opening, Madena." He glanced again at the two men, but retreated inside.

Madena sighed and shook her head as Dante and Marcus dismounted and tied their horses to the porch railing.

"Everything alright, Madena?" Marcus asked kindly.

She started, but relaxed and gave a sad smile upon recognizing the Dragonborn.

"That museum is a mistake," she insisted. "I beg you, don't go into Silus's museum. You'll only encourage this delusion of grandeur he has."

"I don't think I've ever seen Silas around here before," Marcus commented. "And you know I've been a regular visitor here. What can you tell us about him?"

"Silas comes from one of the oldest families in Dawnstar," Madena said, surprising them. "He has traveled quite a bit, which could be why you haven't seen him before. He's only recently returned to build this…this museum in his own home. His family has a complicated history," she went on. "Several of his ancestors belonged to the Mythic Dawn, the cult that almost destroyed Tamriel. His family's involvement was only found out well after the crisis had died down, but it still ruined their reputation. They were outcasts. And now Silas is back and this museum to the Mythic Dawn is his way of trying to rebuild his family's pride. It's misguided."

Marcus nodded. There wasn't much he could add to that. "Thanks, Madena," he said, and the two men watched her as she headed back into town, still shaking her head.

"Well, then," Marcus invited Dante to precede him up the steps. "Shall we go see what this is all about?"

"Indeed," Dante drawled. "Let me take the lead on this, if you will. I'm going to play dumb with him and see if he lets slip anything we should be aware of."

"Good plan," Marcus agreed, and followed the Breton Guildmaster up the stairs and into the house.

Silas looked up from a journal he was holding as they entered. He recognized the two men as the ones he'd seen outside and smiled.

"Ah! Here come my first customers! The Museum of the Mythic Dawn is open, my friends!"

"Museum of the Mythic Dawn?" Dante asked, his eyes wide and innocent. "What's that?"

"Yes," Silas purred smugly. "My collection of artifacts from a group that toppled an Empire!" His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Why don't you have a look around, both of you? You can browse the displays and we can talk. I have a job you two look perfect for."

Marcus gave a rumble from somewhere deep in his chest, but Dante cut in smoothly. "That sounds wonderful! We're looking for work as it happens." His eyes took in every detail; the banners on the walls, the display cases set up around one end of the small house, and the robes Silas wore, which were a bit moth-eaten and threadbare, due to their age, but nonetheless were genuine Mythic Dawn robes.

He joined Marcus at the first display case near the door.

"The tapestries hung here and outside were found in Mythic Dawn hideouts," Silas gushed eagerly, "where the members would meet and plot."

Dante noticed they were in worse condition than the robes Silas wore. The display case held two more robes, as well as a pair of boots and gloves. They glowed slightly from the enchantments laid upon them two hundred years ago. It was probably the only reason they hadn't fallen apart already, as the tapestries threatened to do.

"The cult's greatest accomplishment," Silas went on blithely, "was the assassination of the Septim dynasty, and the opening of the Oblivion gates."

Dante felt sickened. He hadn't been there at the time, of course, but he would hardly call murdering an Emperor and assisting a Daedric Prince in nearly destroying the world a 'great accomplishment.'

The next cabinet held only a charred piece of parchment with an eerie design on it which hurt the eyes to look at.

"That burned paper is all that's left of the Mysterium Xarxes," Silas informed them, "the blasphemous Book written by Mehrunes Dagon himself." There was a hint of sadness in his tone, even as he admitted the book was 'blasphemous.' "It's said that Mankar Camaron used the book to open a portal to a Paradise where all his followers would live forever," Vesuius went on. There was a dreamy look in the man's eyes.

Warning bells were going off in Dante's head. Vesuius might be a weak-willed fool, but it was clear to the Breton Guildmaster that the curator harbored hopes of restoring the 'glory days' of a cult that would pose a genuine threat to his plans. And might, if the Dominion got to the man first. Dante had no intention of watching his back for the rest of his life if his plans came to fruition. He was grateful, at least, that so far it seemed he was one step ahead of the Thalmor.

Marcus had moved over to a case that held four volumes in red leather. Silas noticed his fellow Imperial studying the tomes.

"The Commentaries on the Mysterium Xarxes were written by the Mythic Dawn cult leader, Mankar Camaron," he pointed out proudly. "He promised his followers a Paradise awaited them when they died. That they would be reborn by Mehrunes Dagon's side."

Marcus said nothing, remembering to let the Breton Guildmaster take the lead in this quest, but his mind was full of turmoil. How could one man be so blind? He had read about the Mythic Dawn, and their involvement in the murder of Emperor Uriel Septim the Seventh. The fallout from that event precipitated the Oblivion Crisis, and allowed the Daedric Prince of Destruction to break the barriers the Aedra had put around Nirn, and attempt to invade and destroy this world. He shuddered inwardly. Didn't this nutjob realize that he himself would also die? Marcus highly doubted that Vesuius considered this with any clarity. He probably assumed he'd be one of the fortunate few to be reborn. Marcus had a different opinion on that, based on what he knew of the Prince's nature, from having read The Book of Daedra.

Dante had wandered over to the last display case. Silas came over eagerly to expound upon its contents.

"Ah, yes, that scabbard!" Vesuius exclaimed. "Notice the insignia? An Oblivion Gate. A key symbol of Mehrunes Dagon, the patron Daedra of the Mythic Dawn."

"Interesting," Dante murmured in encouragement.

"Did you have any questions about the museum?" Silas asked. Eyeing the Breton slyly he added, "Or would you rather talk business?"

Ignoring the invitation, Dante lifted an eyebrow. "Why did you open this museum?" he asked baldly. "I mean, the Mythic Dawn didn't exactly have the most stellar reputation."

Vesuius shrugged. "It's no secret that my family were once members of the Mythic Dawn," he admitted, unashamed. "One of my forefathers was even chosen to assassinate Uriel Septim himself."

Dante blinked. The Arch-Mage hadn't lied. She'd told him this was precisely what Vesuius would say. How could she have known? He was still having trouble wrapping his mind around the idea that she could predict the future. And yet, she'd known he was a Nightingale immediately upon meeting him, months ago. What also troubled him was the evident pride the Imperial curator was taking in his dubious family history. Most people would want to keep that sort of thing hidden.

"We hid from our past for years," Silas continued, frowning. "We became tradesmen; people of coin and influence." His eyes brightened. "But I realized that the Mythic Dawn's importance – our importance – to history cannot be denied." A faraway look came into his eyes as his voice resonated around the tiny hut. "I'll see everyone in Tamriel remember that for a moment, we held the fate of the world in our hands, for good or ill!"

Marcus made a warning rumble deep in his chest and Dante quickly asked, "Tell me more about the Mythic Dawn."

"They were worshippers of Mehrunes Dagon," Silas explained, smiling. "The Daedric Lord of Destruction and Change. "The Mythic Dawn killed Uriel Septim the Seventh and his heirs, triggering the events that led to the Oblivion Crisis, when the Daedra invaded Tamriel."

And you want to bring this back? Dante wondered, appalled.

"All that remains of the infamous cult, I've gathered in my museum," Silas concluded.

Keep him talking, Dante thought to himself. He's bound to let slip if the Thalmor have already contacted him. The fool has no idea what he's doing.

"Remind me," he mused, "who exactly is Mehrunes Dagon again? I don't know much about the Daedra."

"Ah! An excellent question!" Silas beamed. "Mehrunes Dagon is the Daedric Lord of Destruction, Change and Ambition."

"I see," Dante murmured. Clearly what Vesuius lacked in common sense, he more than made up for in ambition. Dante could see the Dragonborn clenching his fists in repressed anger and decided to hurry things along. "Tell me more about this job you want done."

"A little history, first," Silas replied indulgently. "After the Oblivion Crisis, a number of groups cropped up dedicated to wiping out the remains of the Mythic Dawn. One of these groups found Mehrunes' Razor, the artifact of Dagon. They split it into three fragments and pledged to keep them apart forever." He smiled. "That was almost a hundred and fifty years ago, and the pieces are still being kept by the descendants of that group. And they're right here, in Skyrim."

"Amazing!" Dante breathed in apparent awe. "How did you find them?"

A belated look of caution crossed Vesuius' face. It was fleeting, no more than a shifting of the eyes and a slight furrowing of his brow, but Dante noticed. "Well, of course, as a scholar I can't reveal my sources," he demurred. "Let's just say I had a stroke of good fortune and leave it at that, shall we?"

So, the Thalmor have gotten to him, Dante noted privately. "And you want us to get the pieces for you, right?" he asked now, pretending to ignore the rebuff. "Where do we look?"

Happy to have assistance in acquiring the pieces of the Razor, Vesuius suspected nothing. "At least two of the owners, Ghunzul and Drascua, are vicious marauders," Vesuius explained. "As for the third, Jorgen…well, I only know that he lives in Morthal."

Dante saw Marcus stiffen. It was an attitude of recognition. The Dragonborn knew this Jorgen person.

"I'd like to know more about the Razor itself," Dante remarked. "I mean, if we're to retrieve it, I'd like to know these details, to make sure I've got the real deal."

"It's held many names," Silas replied thoughtfully. "The Dagger of Final Wounds, Bane of the Righteous, the Kingslayer. The Mythic Dawn worshipped Dagon as a god. Having his Razor would be invaluable to my collection!"

If the Dominion lets you keep it, Dante thought acerbically.

Vesuius presented Dante with a journal. "Here are my notes about the pieces," he explained. "I'll gladly pay you for getting them…any way you can," he emphasized. He stared at Dante keenly. "No questions asked."

"I'll see what I can find out," Dante promised, and beckoned to Marcus to follow him outside. To his credit, the Dragonborn waited until they were well away from people and headed up the hill to the Windpeak Inn for a drink.

"What in the name of the Nine Divines is that fetcher thinking?" Marcus exploded.

"Quiet!" Dante shushed him. "Not here out in the open. Let's get that drink and we can discuss this situation."

The two men quickly found a table in a quiet corner, and after their drinks were delivered, put their heads together to discuss what they had learned.

"That man is a danger to the Emperor," Marcus declared.

"You're not telling me anything I don't already know," Dante replied drily. "He's also a danger to whomever sits on the throne next…unless it's someone the Dominion selects."

"I caught that near-slip of his," Marcus nodded. "Someone gave him that information about the owners of the pieces. What does his journal say?"

Dante pulled the slim leather-clad volume from inside his armor and opened it. He held it so that Marcus could read it as well. The first part seemed to be a genealogical lineage of each of the three owners from eight generations back to the present day. The 'History' section was a bit more promising.

The Razor had been divided among the three highest ranking members of the order's inner circle, to be passed down from oldest child to oldest child "until the twin moons themselves disappeared from the skies." Although this pledge seemed to have been loosely interpreted, as the moons did vanish from the heavens during The Void Nights of 4E98-4E100, the Razor's pieces were still being bequeathed through the generations during and after this time.

"Tracing the lineages of the inner circle proved especially difficult thanks to the group's unusual membership. While the leader of the Keepers of the Razor was a Nord and thankfully was easily researched through the clan's family histories, the other two members were an Orc and a native daughter of the Reach, whose culture's paucity of respect for literacy made tracking them down less straightforward. Fortunately, Othmash gro-Gularz and his sons are well-recorded for their service in the Imperial Legion. Yet the daughters of Sorcha proved nearly impossible to find until I uncovered Markarth's meticulously thorough tax records, which recorded each birth of Sorcha's kin in order to administer certain petty fees. Sorscha's current descendent, Drascua, fled to Dead Crone Rock after the Markarth Incident, and is considered by the Jarl to be a major threat to the safety of the hold."

Marcus looked at the date of the last entry. It had been written before the Reach had been handed over to Jarl Nepos, and subsequently Jarl Esmerelda after Nepos' murder. He mentioned this to the Breton Guildmaster.

"Think we'll have any trouble getting the piece from Drascua, then?" Dante asked. He really didn't know much about the Forsworn, other than the reports he'd had from the Alliance.

Marcus gave a smug smile. "Maybe," he hedged. "The Reachfolk can be very particular about giving up things they've become attached to." Like their land, he thought privately. "Let's save that one for last. Morthal's not too far from here. We can head back to Heljarchen and get there before too late in the day, rest up and head out in the morning."

Dante agreed, and the two men headed back to Heljarchen, reaching the sprawling mansion just as the sun set and Masser rose above the forests to the east. Secunda would not be up for hours yet.

Gregor met them at the door and took both horses to the stables while Marcus and Dante headed inside. Tamsyn met them in the great hall.

"Well?" she asked, lifting an eyebrow at the Breton Guildmaster.

He made a courtly bow and smiled. "My lady, it all unfolded just as you said it would. I will never doubt you again."

"I accept your gracious apology," Tamsyn giggled. "Come and sit by the fire, both of you. Tell me the details."

When they had finished, Tamsyn sighed. "It certainly sounds like Thalmor interference," she admitted, "even if Silas' journal never mentions them. Just the fact that he refused to reveal his resources is telling."

"I think we have to proceed as if the Dominion is already aware that we know about this," Marcus said.

"Indeed," Dante concurred. "It's clear to me that they tasked Vesuius to find the Razor. Once he had all the pieces and managed to get them put back together, they would have taken it from him – either by force, or by persuading him into a suicide mission to assassinate the Emperor. They would then have taken it from his corpse."

"We can't let that happen," Tamsyn frowned. "Titus Mede might not be the best Emperor to sit on the Ruby Throne, but he's all we've got. We don't want a Dominion puppet, like they tried to do with High King Torygg."

"We'll head to Morthal in the morning," Marcus stated. "I'll talk to Jorgen. He knows me. He might be willing to let us have the hilt."

"And if he isn't?" Dante countered. "We need a back-up plan in case that fails."

"I'm a very persuasive guy," Marcus said confidently. "I'm sure he'll see reason."

---

"Absolutely not," Jorgen scowled. "I've heard of this Silas Vesuius. My father had suspicions about his connection to the Mythic Dawn. Guess they were true." He blew out a breath, but didn't stop sharpening the saw blade he was working on. "I don't need this," he grumbled. "My family wasted eight generations keeping that Razor safe from a dead cult. As far as I'm concerned, it can stay locked in my chest in the house."

"Look, Jorgen," Marcus insisted. "You know me. I bought lumber from you when I built Heljarchen in the Pale. You know I'm not going to misuse it. I just want to make sure it's safe. And if, as you say, it's locked away in a chest in your house, you won't miss it."

"I don't care," Jorgen said firmly. "But my ancestor's do. You can't have it."

Marcus let out an exasperated sigh. He looked back towards where he'd left the Grey Fox with the horses, telling him he'd handle this one. The horses were still there, tied to the porch rail, but Dante was nowhere to be seen. He might have wandered back into town, Marcus thought. But he couldn't look for the Breton man right now. Since his Voice of the Emperor had failed, and Jorgen was a tougher nut to crack than he expected, he fell back on bribery. Who didn't love a little cash on the side?

"I'm willing to pay for it," Marcus cajoled. "Would a thousand septims change your mind?"

Jorgen stopped his grinding and looked up at the Dragonborn with a look of purest derision. "There are some things worth more than money, Dragonborn," he snorted. "Why don't you take your coin and keep walking?"

Frustrated and angry, Marcus considered browbeating the man into giving up the pieces, but managed to get his temper under control. Jorgen was only doing his duty as he saw it. And what would Lami say to him if she knew he'd threatened her husband? It didn't bear thinking about. Resigned, he turned back to the horses to see that Dante had returned. Where had he been?

Approaching the Breton Guildmaster now, Marcus sighed in apology. "I'm sorry, Greyshadow," he said. "I really thought I could talk him into it. He's refused."

"Did you try gold?"

"Yep. Didn't work any better."

"That's…that's inhuman!" Dante gasped. "How could a man like him turn down cold, hard gold?"

"Integrity," Marcus said. "He's a man of honor, and I respect that. It just means that we can't get the hilt from him. Maybe if we come back later, he'll have a change of heart. We might have caught him on a bad day."

"You could always threaten," Dante said mildly. "I find that works from time to time."

"No," Marcus insisted. "I wouldn't exactly call Jorgen a friend, but I know his wife from the alchemy shop here. Besides, I'm something of a…local legend…to these people. I don't want to resort to strongarm tactics. We'll go get the other two pieces and try again later. Maybe I can talk to Lami and see if she has any influence over her husband."

As they mounted their horses and headed out of town, Dante asked. "What did you mean by 'local legend'?"

Marcus hesitated. "It's not exactly something I'm proud of," he conceded, and Dante saw the pain etched on his face. "Early on, when I first arrived in Skyrim and learned I was Dragonborn, I came to Morthal on my way to a Nordic ruin north of here. I uncovered a plot by a cult of vampires to use the people of Morthal as blood cattle to feed upon. I wasn't alone. A Nord woman, Uthgerd the Unbroken, was with me. She…she died, clearing out the vampire den. We…I…stupidly believed we could clean the place out unharmed. Uthgerd paid for it with her life."

"Did you clear out the den?" Dante asked quietly.

"Yes," Marcus admitted. "But if I had thought things through more carefully, Uthgerd might still be here today." He didn't add that she had forgiven him. That wasn't the point. He still blamed himself.

"Was that who your song was about the other morning?" Dante inquired tentatively.

"What?" Marcus looked up at his companion. "Who, Uthgerd?" He smiled. "No, my song wasn't about her. We were just traveling companions, that's all."

Dante said nothing, and they rode along in silence for some time before remarking casually, "So, one down and two to go, if my count is correct."

"What?" Marcus blinked at him.

"We have one of the pieces," he replied smugly, pulling the hilt from his belt pouch. "We only need to find the other two."

"How did you-?" Anger and admiration warred for dominance on the Dragonborn's face. Admiration won out. "You stole the Hilt," he accused. "When did you do that?"

"While the two of you were arguing," Dante shrugged. "As soon as he said it was locked in a chest in his house, I slipped inside." He chuckled. "The front door wasn't even locked."

Marcus shook his head helplessly. "You realize I'm going to be the first person he comes to when he finds it missing, don't you?"

"How?" Dante inquired innocently. "You were with him the entire time. He saw us leaving together. Now, he might ask you who you were traveling with, but honestly, I don't think he'll give it another thought. At least, until the day his own son comes of age and he tries to hand it down to the next generation."

Marcus subsided. He knew he'd have to make it up to Jorgen at some point in the future, but for now at least they had jumped one hurdle. "I don't know whether to be outraged or impressed," he sighed.

"Go for 'impressed'," Dante suggested with a sly look. "What we're doing is too important to let morals get in the way."

Marcus gave a wry chuckle. "Easy for you to say," he muttered, and kicked Storm lightly to pick up the pace as they headed south out of Morthal. Knowing the terrain better than the Breton Guildmaster, Marcus took the lead and turned Storm's nose towards Labyrinthian. At the request of Jarl Idgrod, not long before, he had gone into the ruined city once more to clear out frost trolls that had been harrying the trade caravans coming up from the south to bring goods to Hjallmarch. At that time, Skyborn Altar to the east, and Eldersblood Peak to the west had been repopulated with two new dragons. One of them had been recruited to his cause of forming a draconian air force against the Thalmor. The other one's bones still remained where they had fallen after battling the Dragonborn and losing.

No trolls bothered them this trip, and they made good time through the pass that lay south of the former city of Bromjunar. They came down out of the mountains near Silent Moons camp, a notorious bandit hideout that Marcus periodically cleared out for Jarl Balgruuf of Whiterun. Arrows thunked around them, and Marcus realized the place was due for a little 'housecleaning' as he called it.

"This isn't what we're here to do, remember?" Dante called out as they dismounted and headed for the fortress.

"Stay with the horses, then," Marcus snapped, irritated at the Breton man's lack of compassion. "I'll take care of this. Balgruuf's a good friend of mine, and these bozos are preying on innocent folks that travel the roads out this way. I won't have it said that I let a friend down."

He turned to rush towards the camp while Dante mouthed the word "bozos?" in his wake before following.

A large group of bandits rushed towards them, weapons raised, and Dante quickly assessed the odds. Damn the Dragonborn's honor! Didn't he realize how badly outnumbered they were?

"FUS RO DAH!"

The thunderclap rolled across the plains ahead of them, and Dante realized the bellow had come from his companion. In the wake of that Shout, the bandits tumbled like leaves before a storm, several of them smashed against the rocky outcroppings between them and the fortress. They didn't get up.

The others staggered to get to their feet, but the Dragonborn and the Nightingale were quickly upon them before they could reclaim their weapons which had been knocked from their hands by the force of the thu'um.

As the brigands closed with the Dragonborn, Dante crouched and relied on his own skills at sneaking to work his way around to the archers hanging behind the main group. At least six of the robbers ganged up on his Imperial companion, who appeared unconcerned, laying about him with a sword made of the same dragon bones as his armor. In his other hand he wielded a slightly curved sabre-style blade in a design vaguely familiar to Dante. It took him a moment to remember the display he'd seen in the Emperor's personal quarters: a mannequin wearing a unique set of armor in front of a plaque holding a similar sword. The Emperor had told him it was Blades regalia, belonging to the elite force of warriors assigned to protect the Septim line of Emperors before the Oblivion Crisis.

He was behind the archers now, and systematically crept up behind each of them to strike them down. They never saw him coming.

"ZUN HAAL VIIK!"

Cries of dismay caused Dante to look up. Every remaining bandit – and there were now only a handful – had lost their weapon, and scrambled back from the Dragonborn towards Dante's position. He gave a feral grin. He wasn't sure what the Dragonborn had done, but it definitely worked in his favor. It wasn't long before the only sounds were insects buzzing, birds chirping and the wind sweeping down from the mountains to the north.

"That was interesting, what you did back there," Dante acknowledged. "Just what exactly did you do?"

"Which time?" Marcus asked innocently, though his grey eyes danced with mischief.

Dante pulled a face. "Keep your secrets, then," he shrugged. "Are we done here?"

Marcus sobered. "Not quite. There's bound to be a few of them inside. I want to make sure the entire nest has been cleared."

This was easily done, though Dante made note of the fact that the Dragonborn couldn't sneak if his life depended on it. Too many times their quarry was alerted to their presence, and they were forced to fight their way through, as opposed to slipping up behind someone and quietly slitting their throat.

"That armor of yours looks tough," Dante commented as they emerged two hours later, looted treasure carefully divided and packed away. "But you make far too much noise. Don't you know how to get around unseen and unheard?"

"It's never been a problem before," Marcus lied. Once more, the Breton Guildmaster was pushing his buttons, and he didn't like being the target of criticism.

"Well, it could end up being a problem now," Dante insisted. "I can get in and out without anyone noticing me, but you—"

"You're a Nightingale," Marcus said bluntly. "You have Nocturnal's favor."

"It isn't just that," Dante insisted. "And we'll get to how much you know about Nightingales in a moment. No, I'm talking about just moving around more quietly. Not all of my organization are Nightingales, but they manage not to draw attention to themselves."

"They're all thieves," Marcus snapped. "I'm not. And while I'll admit there are times when being silent would be preferable – and I've managed alright so far – I'll never have the ability to just disappear like you did during the heat of battle." He thunked his chestplate. "This is kind of a dead giveaway that I'm around."

"So, lose the heavy armor," Dante shrugged.

Marcus shook his head. "I've taken too much time and training to get used to it," he replied. "I feel more comfortable and protected inside this shell. I'm not giving that up."

The Breton Guildmaster sighed. "Then it might be as well on this trip that you leave anything to do with stealth to me."

"As you wish," his companion said stiffly. "This is your quest, after all. I'm just here for brute force."

Dante gave him a calculating look. "Not just brute force," he allowed graciously. "I think anyone who assumed you had nothing between your ears but troll fat would be making a grave mistake. You're a very complicated man, Dragonborn."

Marcus relented and chuckled. "I think I'll take that as the compliment I believe it was intended to be."

They recovered their horses and were soon on their way again.

"So tell me, Dragonborn," Dante mused. "Just how much do you know about Nightingales?"

The sound of the Dragonborn's laughter echoed down the plains ahead of them.

---

[Author's Note: The lyrics to the song Marcus was singing were, of course, "Tears in Heaven" by Eric Clapton. Every now and then, as fulfilling as his life in Skyrim has been, Marcus gets a bit melancholy thinking of the family he left behind in Gaea. Next up, Marcus and Dante find the other pieces of the Razor, and a great mystery is solved in the process.]