A/N: I'm sorry this took so long to get an update! I've been beta-ing, and then consistently woking on chapter 10-14 of Heart and Stone, editing over and over again and trying to get over some writer's block. I think I'm finally happy with those chapters, and I'm halfway through chapter 15 now. So, I came back to this story. Many thanks to ClaireDuhBear for favouriting and reviewing in the mean time (if any readers here are looking for something new - go read Life of a Thief. Just do it.) And don't forget to let me know what you think, should the fancy take you!
Chapter 3: Aryon
According to Telvanni principles, the powerful define the standards of virtue - Great Houses of Morrowind
N'Gasta! Kvata! Kvakis!
The strange mashing of consonants and vowels almost seemed to mar the page with their harsh black lines. Yet there was an odd dissonant beauty in the text. If only he could figure out what it meant.
Master Aryon of Tel Vos hunched over the book as he read, sucking his quill and following the text with a slim finger.
Ahkstas so novajxletero (oix jhemile) so Ranetauw. Ricevas gxin pagintaj membrauw kaj aliaj individuauw, kiujn iamaniere tusxas so raneta aktivado.
Then he sighed and leant back into the wooden bag of his chair, stretching his legs under the desk. Only a few sentences, and the text was just as indecipherable as one of Mistress Therana's rants on spiders. Of course, he hadn't expected working with the book would be easy, hadn't expect to decode the Sload language into a translation at first sight… but even getting his hands on a copy of the rare text had been a challenge, although to find one in the Sload language using the Daedric script was such a stroke of luck that he had wondered if Nocturnal wasn't watching over his endeavour. He still felt for the young Retainer who'd ended up dealing with the necromancer in Mawia. He doubted she would feel up to tackling House business for some time… Perhaps he should have gone himself.
He rocked the chair forwards, its legs slamming back into the rug with a muffled thump. Enough introspection for now. He was Aryon, Master of House Telvanni and he'd be damned if he wouldn't give it his best shot. It wasn't as if he was working on Jel or some such outlandish script.
He leant over the book once more.
En gxi aperas informauw unuavice pro so lokauw so cxiumonataj kunvenauw, sed nature ankoix pro aliaj aktuasoj aktivecauw so societo.
There had to be something in those clumps of the letters that so often ended words, the ayem, yoodt and web. Perhaps a verb, or a plural? Aryon dipped his quill in the ink and wrote some quick notes in a graceful hand on a sheaf of parchment. Ayem + Yoodt + Web = Plural/Verb. Seht? And there, was that the Cyrodiilic word 'nature'? Surely a coincidence? Though both languages had descended from the Ehlnofey, he couldn't dismiss it out of hand…
Then, as his hand descended once more to the parchment, he felt the Call. It was like a subtle yet keen prod in his mind, strengthened and channelled by the focusing crystals in his tower. His Mouth was contacting him. Aryon sat back once more and closed his eyes, and then he opened the conduit in his mind. He sat, glowing faintly with the white aura of Mysticism magic, and waited for Galos to Speak.
Master Aryon
The Voice was quick, efficient, as if the speaker wanted to be done with the message as soon as possible. Aryon always marvelled at the spell's ability to render cadence and tone, just as if the person were speaking into his ear. And with Galos, the voice was almost always pressing and urgent, no matter the subject. He suspected the mer was ill-suited to the role of Mouth, and that he regretted the ambition that had forced aside his studies.
I hear you Galos
Aryon Replied.
It is concerning the disturbance in your family's ancestral tomb Master Aryon Upon attempting to contact Sauriil I have discovered that he perished Some guardian of the tomb no doubt An oversight
Aryon frowned as the flow of the message filled his mind without pause. The delivery was instantaneous, and left him little time to muse over a response. And he needed time to muse, for apparently the disturbance in his ancestral tomb was an issue that refused to die.
It had been two months ago that a travelling spellsword had heard the cries coming from inside as she journeyed to Ghostgate. Knowing better to disturb the ancestors of other mer, the Dunmer had reported the issue to the Temple. The Temple had contacted Master Aryon, as the oldest living 'Aryon' on the island. For Aryon was both his surname and his name, his whole being. On becoming a councillor, he had accepted the tradition of dropping his first name and using only his last. It was just about the only tradition he held to.
Not knowing the nature of the disturbance, Aryon had personally met with Sauriil, a young yet almost forcefully ambitious Altmer Oathman who had previously completed chores in the House. He had asked the Altmer to determine the nature of the disturbance, stressing the importance of respect for his distant family's remains. Sauriil had almost jumped at the chance to prove himself to a House Master. And now he was dead.
Aryon rubbed the bridge of his nose.
Are you sure on how Do we know the nature of the disturbance
There was silence in response. His ancestral tomb… He had visited the place only a few times. The ashes of his most direct ancestors were in the tomb near Velothis Haven. The Vvardenfell family were a different line; cousins perhaps, and certainly not involved in House politics, as were those in Port Telvanis, and in Greenheights, in Heinim Wall… He understood there were even Aryons as far south as Tear and Sotha Sil. Perhaps there were even Aryons in other provinces now. Theirs was an ancient and, above all, widespread family. But, he knew his two hundred and seven years of age made him the eldest of Vvardenfell's particular branch of the Aryon tree and thus responsible for the tomb's upkeep. Of course, cremations and offerings were dealt with by closer family members, and sweeping, maintaining the braziers and conjuring guardians were menial tasks given to specially hired workmen and women. But there had never been a disturbance before…
Aryon rubbed his face again, and sighed. Galos would be waiting for a decision and he had one ready.
Thank you Galos Leave this with me I will deal with it directly
He allowed his magicka to flow from his mind back into his reserves, bringing the Speech to an end. Then he stood, carefully closing his copy of N'Gasta! Kvata! Kvakis! His deciphering of the Sload language could wait. For now, he had a journey to prepare for.
In truth Aryon was almost excited about this project. It was a chance, a chance to show the other councillors what he was made of–if the disturbance turned out to be dangerous. He doubted they would care, but maybe it would shake their foundations, force them to sit up and take a little more notice of the newcomer. And if it was mundane, it couldn't hurt his reputation with those he wished to win as allies. Nothing quite like the dutiful Dunmer, caring for his ancestral tomb. Besides, it had been a long time since he'd gone out in the wilderness, felt the thrill of a journey. The last thing he wanted was to grow creaky in his tower, set down roots, like a stone aspiring to nothing greater than becoming even more worn and cragged. The other Telvanni seemed content to focus their interests on acquiring slaves, chasing after priceless artefacts or furthering their own academic pursuits. So traditionalist, so isolationist. Aryon, he was a rolling stone, a tree–reaching and seeing further than any of them.
That was why he'd had his tower made the way it was. It wasn't yet finished, but he had high hopes for the final design. He still retained a fondness for the mushroom towers he'd grown up in–that slight musty scent of homegrown wood and fungus too nostalgic to ever quit entirely–but the Imperial stonework was a sign of his modernity, his willingness to accept the occupation and work with the Empire. New ideas, new alliances, new ways. Aryon knew Morrowind wasn't such a Province of two minds–more a province of one thousand and counting. A great mess of an identity disorder that quarrelled and made war against itself as much as it fought the outsiders. Great Houses and Ashlanders and now Imperials, and was it any wonder the Legions hadn't left yet? But Aryon, he saw what they had gained in having them around as much as other Dunmer saw only the loss. And Aryon was always one to twist a situation to his own gain, his own interests.
Besides, the tower was just perfect for said interests. Tel Vos's stonework buildings allowed for the installation of a comprehensive Dwemer museum, perhaps the only one in Morrowind–to Aryon's great pride. He had an excellent library, and his facilities had attracted many wizards to set up shop and provide enchanting and alchemical services to travellers. The proximity to the Zainab's grazing lands meant he hoped trade might soon be established with them. His power and influence was only growing daily, and now he knew the next step was to find allies. Letters to Baladas and his old master, Divayth, waiting to be sent. He couldn't count on the other councillors to see his point of views–Dratha hated him by default, Therana had retreated into her mind years ago, Neloth was the craggiest rock of all, and Gothren… well, he suspected Gothren might just have to retire soon. He'd heard whispers on the wind, whispers that often blew closer when one took residence near an Ashlander camp, whispers of a young Dunmer who'd walked into the northern Urshilaku a nobody and walked out a Legend. It wasn't quite there yet in his mind, but he was clever, and Aryon knew he would soon have the makings of a Plan. Perhaps his best yet. But for now…
He retrieved a hide pack from a chest, and laid it on his bed. Then he crossed to his nearby potion shelves and selected all of his recent brews: potions to restore his magicka reserves, to heal his wounds and grant him endurance and speed for the trip. Of course, there was always his magicka–like any Telvanni he'd been trained in it practically from birth–but he also knew the foibles of arrogance. For that reason, he would also be wearing a light cuirass under his ocean-blue robe.
He took a few enchanted daggers, and held his staff fondly in the light of the candles for a moment. Like all good wizards' staves, it amplified his magicka and focused it, allowing him to sling spells like an archer fires arrows. And it could also crack a few skulls, if needed. He guessed. Then in went a few dried provisions, a water-skin and a tightly packed bedroll.
Finally, he retrieved his enchanted gloves from their lockbox beneath his bed. Purple silken gloves that just stopped just shy of his wrists, far more powerful than their worn state suggested. He'd enchanted them long go in his youth, and given them affectionate names: Helper and Dominator. He tended to keep those names to himself. But he could always use a little help, exert a little domination…
Aryon left instructions with reliable Turedus, though he expected the Imperial wouldn't need them. He had always run things in his own efficient way, a way that fortunately often coincided with Aryon's wishes. It was almost a relief to leave business in the man's broad and capable hands for a few days. A few days for his whirring mind to move away from trade deals, political manoeuvring, difficult translations, Gothren's idle nature… his feet almost ached to tread the open Ashlands. Carefully, he slipped the pack over his shoulders, brushed his dark hair under a headwrap, took his staff in hand, and left.
The tomb was a little southeast of Ghostgate–ordinarily, a three day walk from Tel Vos at least, but Aryon held no business with 'ordinarily'. No sooner had he floated down from his tower, than the cool liquid of potions to fortify his speed and endurance found his throat. He almost retched at the taste of boiled hide, but managed to keep his bittergreen tea down as he started jogging southwards through the long, waving grass.
It was a cool Morning Star dawn, the sun just winking over the horizon, not yet gifting the land with its meagre yellow light. The frost on the grass was barely melted, though it turned to dew as it brushed his robe. Aryon jogged onwards, his breath puffing forth into little white clouds that dispersed to find their likeness in the lightening sky, and the fading winter mist on the ground. When he reached the mountains, he would fly, but for now he ignored the spreading dampness on his clothes and moved ever on.
He passed the outskirts of the Zainab's yurts in two hours, instead of a day, and paused to eat some salty scrib jerky and drink from his waterskin. A few Zainab herders and traders, rising with the sun, paused to look at him as he sat on a boulder standing in the grass opposite their camp. He raised a hand, and a few Ashlanders waved back. Perhaps they recognised him, perhaps they were just extending that familiar Vvardenfell hospitality–you don't bother us, and we won't bother you. Aryon finished his small meal and stretched his legs to move on. He didn't think he would stop in on Kaushad this time. The mer's ego was big enough, and could only grow larger with every diplomatic meeting. Besides, the fortifications of old Falensarano were starting to peek through the mist as it melted away. They called him onwards.
He made camp that night in a small hollow, the other side of the mountains, having taken care of the nearby flock of cliff racers with a few well-placed fireballs. Molag Mar was a scarred land; great rifts of lava had dragged their burning fingers through the rock, leaving harsh lines and deep foyada. Here and there, lakes of the stuff refused to harden away. Tree were bare, ash-torn, and the ground was cracked, hard and hostile. Aryon knew this was what the Imperials thought of when they heard 'Vvardenfell', and when he slept he dreamt of the luscious Grazelands, the tall grass saluting the stoneflower-blue sky.
The next morning, he reached the tomb.
It was, he supposed, much like any other family tomb in Morrowind from the outside. Even on the inside, an outlander would likely not mark the size as a sign of anything other than an old or large family. They would miss the Daedric lettering on the door; miss the family symbols on the banners. They wouldn't stop to read the names on the urns. For all his willingness to work with the Empire, Aryon's fists curled hard round his staff as he approached the tomb. May their Gods help them if he discovered them inside.
But the tomb was silent as he turned the latch. Using his staff, he sent a great, sparkling ball of light to the curving sandstone ceiling where it clung, like a diamond dug into a patch of soil. A little way in, he found the corpse of Sauriil, half-rotted away. Maggots had already come to make their home in his eyes.
Aryon crouched and started preparation to incinerate him. Half out of disgust, half out of respect. Sauriil had been a good mer, if lacking in forethought, and neither he nor Aryon's extended family deserved to have the corpse resting in this place. He noted, as he worked, that the tomb was still as silent as a Frostfall night. Perhaps whatever had disturbed the traveller and killed Saurill had moved on. He finished up the spell, allowing controlled flame to lick its way along the mer's golden skin and burgundy robe, then realised he was being watched.
A young Dunmer stepped from the shadows. She was almost entirely translucent, but he could still make out hints of colour, hints of the mer she had been. Messy red plaits hanging on either side of her face, the colour of fire fern at sunset. A patched brown robe that failed to conceal how thin she was–had been. She was holding an urn between her hands–no holding was incorrect. Spirits couldn't hold anything. Instead, she was levitating it, no doubt with the small residue of magicka all ghosts seemed to be left with. Aryon straightened up, and pulled his headwrap loose. How interesting.
"Ahta shlom card? You are kin?" she asked, to his surprise in the Old Tongue, her voice all at once loud and quiet, near and far away. She had the voice of one who was hopelessly afraid and determined to beat it into bravery. The urn trembled between her pale hands. She couldn't have been more than thirty.
"My name is Aryon," he said, replying in the Common Tongue, merely to see if she spoke it.
"Aryon," she said, tasting the name. "Then you must be kin. I am Raynila Aryon. Or I was. I'm dead, aren't I?" Apparently the Dunmeris had been an affectation of her habitat, and she was entirely comfortable with Tamrielic.
"Yes." His tone was practical, not kindly or sarcastic–there was no need, he had spoken with ghosts before and found that neither seemed particularly appreciated. True to form, the spirit of Raynila Aryon managed a wan smile.
"I thought so. I've been remembering it, in little bits. It's… very strange." The urn wobbled once more between her hands. She had come close enough that he could read the name on it in the flickering of the flames and the brightness of his spell. Red and brilliant white shining on Raynila Aryon.
He stepped towards her, examined her from all angles. She watched him, her expression firm, even petulant, but the hint of who she was once flickered in her eyes, and it was afraid.
"I'm here because I heard reports of a disturbance in this tomb," Aryon said finally. "Was that anything to do with you?"
Ghosts were imprints, imprints with unfinished business. He told himself this as the little spark in her see-through eyes followed the movement of his lips.
"Yes, I think it must have been," she said. "At first, there was the Altmer. But then there was Something Else. So I tried to get help. I called for days. Or maybe I called and the Altmer came, then there was the bad thing, the Something Else. Or the bad thing, the calling and the Altmer. It's very mixed up in, in, in, my head…."
She sounded on the verge of tears, if ghosts could cry. Aryon fought the urge to study her. How many months had she walked the halls, crying for help from someone, anyone?
"What kind of bad thing?" he asked.
"I don't know," she said, gaining control of her echoing voice. 'That is why I called for help. I used to follow the Tribunal, but I never believed. I never prayed. I think I want to pray now."
Whatever was in this tomb, it had to be bad to trouble a ghost, to prevent her from leaving to join her ancestors. It had to be… Something. Aryon looked around, at wasn't the tomb perhaps unnaturally dark? Shouldn't those braziers be lit? He shivered slightly. This would bear investigation, certainly.
Raynila was watching him. She hadn't taken her eyes from him. "Are you a mage?" she asked. "You must be Telvanni?"
"Of a sort. Do you think this is a magical problem?"
"It might be. But that's no good. I'm a mage–I was a mage. We need someone else."
The growing dark seemed to shift around them. Aryon, Aryon of Tel Vos and Aryon of the Telvanni who was so fond of progress and ambition and who had everything coming under his control from the design of his tower, to the texts he acquired to study, to the tiniest little detail in his overarching plots–this Aryon found himself becoming afraid.
"Who?" he asked, finding strength in the question. He had to get out of this tomb.
"Find the one who killed me, if he still lives. I know his look, but not his name. Dunmer, perhaps in-between our ages. Dark hair, boiled armour, gold rings in the ears. He could be Tong but I sensed there was something more independent about him. He came to where I was for a bounty, but I was not the target. I have done some bad things, but he had not come to kill me. Yet he did. I do not know his name, but there was something about him… I know he has to be the one to come here. Please find him."
This was strange, far stranger than he had expected. A ghost of a mer, bound to this place, unable to leave and afraid to stay… What else was haunting this place? Aryon forgot all about deeds of compassion and deeds of ambition. In fact, he forgot all about his House, his politics, his plans. He was entirely focused on the shade of Raynila in front of him, her red hair barely there, and her bravery even less.
"It shall be done," he said. "But, where should I start to look?"
Raynila held her urn close to herself, and whispered into the dark:
"I died in the caves known as Sargon. Start there."
A/N: Phew, that ended up being quite a bit longer than I expected! Possibly because Aryon is just one of my most favourite characters, and part of the original inspiration for this story. Here's hoping I did him justice! I'm still figuring out bits here and there, so let me know if there are any glaring plot holes or inconsistencies!
