Late afternoon saw Ma'joraa boarding her mount at the Windhelm stables, and making her way into the ancient city. Stormcloak soldiers strode the streets, and though some cast scathing glances at the Khajiit, one look at her battle-axe sent them quickly on their way.
This was the place, the Dragonborn thought. She was to go to the Atheron residence, break in, and take the silver ruby ring from within. Easy enough.
Ma'joraa looked up at the Palace of Kings. It was still several hours until nightfall, the ideal time to break in. In the meantime, she supposed she could pay a visit to an acquaintance.
She didn't make it two steps into the palace before her way was barred by a sword across her path.
"Hold, Khajiit," The Stormcloak guard said, "What business have you with the Jarl?"
Oh boy, Ma'joraa thought. She tapped her throat and shook her head.
"Oh, a mute, are you?" The guard snorted. "If you can't speak then you've no business with the Jarl. Off with you now, before I throw you in the dungeons for getting on my nerves."
The Dragonborn bristled. Though most took her muteness in stride, it was not unusual to find some who took offense at her lack of speech.
I want to see the Jarl, she signed, not caring that the guard couldn't understand her.
"Are you trying to put a curse on me?" The Stormcloak stepped back, readying his weapon. "I said, get out before I—"
"What's going on here?"
Soldier and Khajiit halted at the new voice. A fair-haired Nord approached, dressed similarly to the guard in the leather, blue-sashed armor of the Stormcloaks. Then he saw Ma'joraa and stopped in his tracks.
"You," He said in confusion, before his gaze lit in recognition. "You're the one from Helgen! Ma—Ma'joraa, was it? By Talos, you're still alive!"
"Sir, you know this Khajiit?" The bewildered guard asked.
"Aye," The man replied, "and with all she's been through, she has every right to walk in here the same as you and I. Back to your post now, before I tell the Jarl you were apprehending a friend of his."
Ma'joraa was beginning to remember now—this was Ralof, one of the Stormcloaks she had been captured with, and who had helped her escape the wrath of the World-Eater.
"It's so good to see you again!" Ralof exclaimed, escorting the Khajiit down the massive hall towards the throne. "You turned west coming out of that cave, and I was sure I'd seen the last of you, but here you are!"
The Nord managed to quell his excitement momentarily, sitting her down at one of the long tables near the throne. "You wait here while I go tell the Jarl and fetch Wuunferth—hopefully he'll be able to translate that hand-language you use."
He hurried off, leaving Ma'joraa to look about the great hall in awe. Banners emblazoned with the bear of the Stormcloaks hung the length of the room. Long banquet tables occupied most of the room's center, and at the end, the currently-vacant throne overlooked it all.
Just then a door to the left of the throne banged open, the unexpected noise causing the Khajiit to leap upright. Framed in the doorway was a massive Nord, fair-haired and fur-clad, yet familiar. His rugged features creased in a grin as he saw her, but Ma'joraa spotted the change in his eyes—the same that happened to her—and just had time to match his shout with her own.
"Fus!"
The Nord was only staggered by the Thu'um, but the much smaller Khajiit was knocked from her feet. She absorbed most of the impact with a backward roll and scrambled upright as the man's booming laughter echoed in the great hall.
"Ah!" He roared, hurrying forward to lift Ma'joraa bodily from the ground in a massive bear hug, "The cat with the dragon's voice has returned! Talos be praised!"
The Jarl of Windhelm set her down, allowing the Khajiit to smooth her ruffled fur. Behind him in the doorway, another man clad in bearskins spoke up.
"Ulfric, is this the one you met at the border?"
"Aye, Galmar," Ulfric Stormcloak gave Ma'joraa a hearty clap on the back, nearly driving the wind from her. "Don't let her size fool you—this daughter of Elsweyr knocked me into the stream with that voice of hers."
Just then Ralof returned, accompanied by a greying mage. "I knew you'd already met when I felt the shockwave," Ralof laughed, "Ma'joraa, this is Wuunferth, our resident mage."
Wuunferth bowed. "It has been many years since I saw the Language of Hands used, but I will do my best to translate."
"Excellent," Ulfric said. "Now, I know we're all thinking the same thing. Ma'joraa, are the rumors from Whiterun true? Are you the one who slew a dragon and devoured its soul?"
The Khajiit nodded, suddenly feeling a little bashful.
"Incredible!" The Jarl laughed, "The Dragonborn lives again! Talos has indeed smiled upon us today. Tell me friend Khajiit, have you come to join our cause and drive the Imperial dogs from Skyrim?"
Not yet, friend, Ma'joraa signed, smiling at his enthusiasm. I'm just here on business and thought I'd stop for a visit. I still have much to learn about this country before I pick a side in your civil war.
Wuunferth translated, and Ulfric nodded thoughtfully. "That is fair. I suppose I should not expect the Dragonborn to do anything of importance without careful consideration first."
Ma'joraa was grateful for his understanding—as much as she disliked the Empire, she didn't know enough about either side to make a solid choice just yet.
I must be going, she signed at length, glancing out the window to where the mountains cast long shadows before them. I am glad you are all safe. And who knows—on my next visit, I may be ready to take up the mantle of Stormcloak.
"Until then, you are always welcome here," Ulfric chuckled, squeezing the breath from her in another crushing embrace. "Safe travels, Dragonborn!"
Ma'joraa exited the palace and slipped into the deepening shadows. Now to business.
The streets of Windhelm were mostly deserted, with only the ever-watchful, torch-bearing guards on patrol. She would have to be careful—only guards and troublemakers were out at night, and she was no guard. If they spotted her, she would be under immediate suspicion.
Ma'joraa made it out of the palace entrance before pausing and glancing about. In the twilight shadows, it was difficult to see even with her inherent Khajiit night eye. She moved to a side street and looked about, straining for any sign of her follower.
In her distraction, she failed to see the torchlight approaching around the corner. She started to move forward but was halted by a tug on the back of her cuirass.
"Careful, sneakthief."
The whisper was barely discernable to even her cat ears, but it could not hide the familiar, sarcastic drawl. She knew its owner immediately, but there were more important issues at the moment. She just had time to press into the shadows as the guard rounded the corner. Ma'joraa remained motionless as he passed by, oblivious to her, his torchlight fading around a bend in the street.
Once he was gone, the Dragonborn glared about at the shadows. If her stalker wanted to whisper, well, two could play at that game.
"Laas," She breathed out, "Yah Nir!"
The Thu'um rippled across the stones, silhouetting the auras of all nearby souls. A few residents of Windhelm could be seen through the walls of their homes, as well as nearby guards, but Ma'joraa wasn't interested in them. She fixed on the aura that was not three feet from her, illusion magic webbing between his fingers.
I know you're there, she signed, unsheathing her claws, now show yourself before I carve the magic out of your hands.
The spell dissipated, and a familiar Breton crouched before her.
I was wondering when you'd stop acting like you didn't notice me, Mercer Frey signed. Before Ma'joraa could respond, he seized her arm and darted down the street, dragging her with him. He halted in a more well-hidden alleyway.
Explain yourself, Ma'joraa demanded, her ears pinned back. Why have you been following me?
"I promise, it's nothing personal," Mercer said, keeping his voice low. "If a new recruit is doing especially well, I may tail them on a job to see their methods. Usually remaining hidden the entire time, of course. You've taken quite the unusual detours—climbing the Throat of the World, visiting the Palace of Kings—what next, a tour of the College of Winterhold?"
Ma'joraa's ears remained back, but she felt slightly less angry, and even a little flattered. He had stayed with her despite the detours, and actually thought she was doing well, despite his brusque attitude.
I suppose I shouldn't expect any help on this, now, should I? She signed, to which Mercer snorted.
"It's your job. Get caught and I've never heard of you."
Thanks, Ma'joraa replied, sarcasm evident even through her hands.
It didn't take long for the Dragonborn to find the location—a stately house near the city gates, with the name carved above the threshold.
"You're doing it wrong," Mercer growled over her shoulder as Ma'joraa picked at the lock. The pick snapped, and she elbowed him in the ribs to make him move, his presence at her back distracting her. A few more moments of tinkering however and the lock clicked open.
"Have fun," Frey murmured as Ma'joraa crept into the darkened house, shutting the door behind her with a faint click.
Immediately her nostrils were assaulted with the stench of rotting flesh. The Khajiit nearly gagged, shutting off her nose and breathing through her mouth. What kind of a place was this?
Ma'joraa allowed her eyes to adjust, her pupils dilating so much that her eyes were almost completely black. She poked around the deserted downstairs, but the place was a mess—the kitchen hadn't been used in ages, and cobwebs hung everywhere. The Khajiit crept up the stairs to the second floor and the living quarters. Surely there would be something of value there. She risked a sniff, and instantly regretted it—the smell was even worse than on the first floor. Perhaps the owner had died and had yet to be discovered.
"It worked!"
Ma'joraa whipped about at the unexpected cry, claws ready to shred. What she saw however made her stop in her tracks. Just around the corner from the stairs was an alcove that had likely once been used for storage. Now however, it served a far more gruesome purpose. A partially-rotted corpse lay sprawled on the wood floor, surrounded by faintly-glowing candles. Standing over the body was a boy who couldn't have been much more than ten, waving a bloodied dagger excitedly as he danced about.
"I knew you'd come, I just knew it!" He cried happily, "I did the Black Sacrament over and over, with the body and the—the things—and then you finally came! An assassin from the Dark Brotherhood!"
Ma'joraa could hardly believe her ears. The Dark Brotherhood was virtually nonexistent—the last traces in Cyrodiil had been stamped out over ten years ago with the destruction of the cult's sanctuary in Cheydinhal, and she wasn't aware of any existing presence in Skyrim. No wonder this boy had waited so long—he was waiting for an assassin that didn't exist.
She sheathed her claws. She would humor this boy, if only to get out of this house without him calling the guards.
"You don't have to say anything," The boy said, noticing her silence, "There's no need. You're here, so I know you'll accept my contract."
The Khajiit nodded slowly, positioning herself where she knew the candlelight would reflect eerily off her eyes and give her a more menacing look.
"My mother, she…she died," The child went on, his shoulders sagging with grief. "I…I'm all alone now. So they sent me to that terrible orphanage in Riften, Honorhall. The headmistress is an evil, cruel woman named Grelod the Kind. But she's not kind. She's terrible, to all of us, so I ran away and came home and performed the Black Sacrament. Now you're here, and you can kill Grelod the Kind!"
Ma'joraa knew little about the Riften orphanage, but she'd overheard the name Grelod from guards on occasion, and it was never used in a positive way. Then she remembered why she was here and pointed at the boy.
"Nii-mah?" She rasped out, trying to tone the words to sound like name. They meant nothing of the sort in the dragon language, but she needed to know if this was the right house.
"Oh, my name?" The boy straightened. "I'm Aventus Arentino. When you kill Grelod, be sure to tell her who sent you!"
Arentino, the Khajiit thought. Vex had said the Atheron residence, not Arentino. This was the wrong house.
Ma'joraa kept her composure despite irritation at her blunder. She bowed slightly to the boy, and made her way out of the house as silently as she had come.
"Well, how did it go?" Frey murmured as she rejoined him on the street.
This is the wrong house, Ma'joraa signed with a scowl. Nobody even lives here.
"'The wrong house?'" Mercer echoed incredulously as they slipped into the shadows once more. "You're damn lucky no one lives there, though I can't say I wouldn't have laughed if you ended up on your ass in jail."
The Khajiit's ears burned with embarrassment, but she just checked the parchment Vex had given her with the name of the target house and continued into the night-dark Windhelm streets.
It didn't take long for the pair to find the correct house. Squeezed into a darkened corner, Ma'joraa triple-checked the name carved above the threshold by the torchlight of a passing guard.
Have fun, rookie, Mercer signed once more with a smirk. The Khajiit rolled her eyes at him before darting across the street. The lock clicked open with ease, and she slipped into the house.
The Atheron residence wasn't much better than the Arentino residence, Ma'joraa thought as she looked about at the untidy house. Then she saw the figure that sat before the dying hearth and froze.
The owner of the house, Dunmer by the figure, sat with his back to her. He hadn't noticed the intruder crouching in his doorway yet, but Ma'joraa knew that could change at any moment. She needed to get Vex's ring and get out as quickly as possible.
The Khajiit set her feet down as lightly as feathers, testing each floorboard for creaks before settling her weight upon it. Her first target would be the knapsack that sat slumped at the base of the stairs. If it wasn't there, she would likely have to wait until the small hours of the morning. With one resident still awake and who knew how many more upstairs, one false move and she would be rotting in the Windhelm jails, and never hear the end of it from Mercer.
Ma'joraa carefully lifted the leather flap, keeping an eye on the Dunmer, who sipped from a bottle of mead but otherwise remained unmoving and oblivious. She rummaged in the knapsack, reaching past assorted junk and feeling to the bottom. Her fingers brushed a cool band of metal then, and hope sparked in her. The Khajiit hooked the object with a claw and brought it out into the weak light. To her relief, she held a ring of silver and ruby, just like Vex had said.
Just then the Dunmer stood, downing the last few swigs of mead. Ma'joraa's heart leaped into her throat, leaving the knapsack open and pocketing the ring as she darted silently for the exit. She shut the door just as the Dunmer started to turn towards her, though she couldn't tell if he noticed anything.
I think we may have to make a quick exit, she signed to Mercer as he rejoined her in a nearby alley. He raised an eyebrow, beginning to sign what was no doubt a sarcastic reply, but froze as a shout cut the night.
"Thief! Guards, there's a thief on the loose!"
Ma'joraa cringed at the cry, which was swiftly followed by the jangle of guards coming to investigate. Soon every nook and cranny would be under scrutiny. There was nowhere to hide.
The two started down the alley, but halted as torchlight approached around the bend. They turned back, but light was behind them also. Ma'joraa was preparing to fight her way out when Mercer slung an arm across her shoulders, leaning on her so heavily that she staggered under his bulk.
"There's a tavern nearby," He murmured in her ear, "Pretend I'm drunk off my ass."
Ma'joraa just had time to register his words when two guards appeared ahead of them.
"You there, halt," One called, lifting his torch.
"Why's the sun so bright?" Mercer complained, burying his face into Ma'joraa's neck. The guard gave his companion a look that said, oh great, another drunk.
"A house near here was just broken into," The second guard said, this one holding a drawn sword. "Have you seen anything, Khajiit?"
Ma'joraa could tell by his tone that he suspected her. She tapped her throat and shook her head.
"She's a quiet one," Frey slurred, then with a crooked smile, "Doesn't let that stop 'er though, those hands can work wonders."
"Have you seen anything suspicious?" The guard pressed, annoyance edging his voice.
"Uhm…" Mercer blinked blearily. "Saw a coupla Argonians a bit ago…didn't pay 'em no mind though, was a little preoccupied."
"I'm sure you were," The torch-bearing guard said, looking pointedly at Ma'joraa. "These Argonians, did you see where they went?"
"Are we really going to go off the word of a drunken fool?" The sword guard growled to his companion. "We're wasting time. The thief could be halfway to Markarth by the time we get anything out of this idiot."
"Hey, I ain't no idiot," Mercer defended himself, "Right, kitty?"
Ma'joraa tossed the guards an exasperated look as Frey patted her head like a housecat.
"Talos, give me patience," The guard muttered, then to his comrade, "Let's go. They don't know anything. You two, stay out of trouble."
"Toodles!" Mercer called after them as the guards tramped down the alley and out of sight. The moment they were gone, Ma'joraa exhaled with relief.
Frey kept his hand on the small of her back as they hurried out of the alley, and the Khajiit felt the prickle of magic from his fingers. She glanced down and saw that neither she nor the Breton were visible, thanks to his illusion magic.
"I trust not every mission goes as poorly as this," Frey murmured, his voice laced with amusement. Ma'joraa's ears burned with embarrassment. She was equal parts irritated at him for being a bother and grateful for the drunken ruse that had likely kept her from jail.
The pair left the city by way of the docks, crossing the iced-over river and retrieving Ma'joraa's horse from the stables. They rode a little way south before making camp beneath a sheltered rock ledge.
"Yol," The Khajiit murmured, and flames rippled from her lips to catch on the pile of sticks. Paarthurnax would have disapproved, she thought in amusement. She could almost hear him now—the Thu'um was not created to warm your toes, Khajiit.
Mercer watched her in fascination as she carefully stoked the fire. Ma'joraa could feel his eyes on her, though she pretended not to notice.
"Amazing," He remarked as the Dragonborn moved to unpacking her bedroll. "You merely speak a word, and that causes something to happen. If you can speak such power, why do you remain so silent?"
…It's a long story.
"We have time, do we not?"
Ma'joraa studied the Breton's face carefully. He seemed genuinely interested in why she was the way she was. The Khajiit extended her feet to the fire and began signing her story, the same that she had related to Brynjolf and Paarthurnax.
Once she was through, her hands and wrists ached from overuse. Mercer sat in silence, as he had the entire time.
"I see," He said at length. "Because you do not know which words may contain power when spoken, even using them to get around the curse could be deadly, so you do not speak at all. And that amulet of Talos…they say Tiber Septim could use the dragon shouts as well. I assume that helps you to channel the power somewhat?"
Right, Ma'joraa signed. The shouts, especially at their full power, take a lot out of me. The amulet helps to alleviate some of the strain and allows me to shout more often without getting tired.
"I'm sure that comes in handy," Frey murmured, before giving a slight chuckle. "You know, when Brynjolf first dragged you in off the street, I was sure you were going to be nothing more than a colossal pain in the ass."
I noticed, Ma'joraa signed, waiting for him to continue before deciding whether to get annoyed or not.
"You've proven yourself to be quite useful to us," Mercer went on. "I don't usually give out praise so freely, but even I must admit you're quite the competent thief, even if you apparently work best alone."
Ma'joraa smiled bashfully, grateful her fur hid her blush. Mercer reached over and covered her slender hand with his large one, his thumb massaging the aching tendons of her wrist.
"I'm glad to have met you, Ma'joraa," The Breton said softly, his usually stern face creased in a smile. "You get some rest now. I'll take the first watch."
The Khajiit's heart was racing—she hadn't expected such a tender gesture from him. Her hands fumbled with her battle-axe as she unstrapped it from her back, laying it beside her bedroll where it would be close at hand should wolves or bandits attack. She tucked herself into her bedroll, looking past the fire at the outline of Mercer's back as the Breton took up his post, one hand resting on his Dwemer-forged blade. Ma'joraa drifted to sleep, feeling happy for the first time in a long while.
Fus = 'Force,' the first word of the Unrelenting Force shout
Laas Yah Nir = 'Life Seek Hunt,' the Aura Whisper shout
Yol = 'Fire,' the first word of the Fire Breath shout
The chapter title translates to 'Friends and Shadows'