Of course, I'm not ten paces down the road before I know that I'll be back at sunset. Whoever this fellow is, he and his bosses owe me my life on this island, and he will deal with me. The documents in the package are printed on thick, official-looking sheets of paper, but they are nothing I can pawn, though the South Wall seems a likely place for that sort of thing. Furthermore, this mess of code—which I try to conceal from passerby in futile paranoia—means danger. I'll get back to Cosades if I have to kick his door down, but there is probably a steep price to pay for any other games played with the imperials here. Maybe he just needs to sober up, because the dozen words I heard came from a head that was pretty clearly well-baked. And the fork crossbow? After my illegal deportation and continental crossing, I had not imagined that the Empire could grow so inscrutably lower in my estimation.
Well, I had enough money left for a noon meal. I walked west down the steps, following the wall so as not to get lost. Best not to return to the corner club. From the two weeks I spent as professional thief (tell you about that some other time), I knew the sort that gathered there.
Back across the river, then, catwalking on the bridge's thick railing to avoid a small convoy's worth of pack guar.
Oh, right. Sorry, a convoy's worth of what-in-Kynnie's-name-are-those-nearly-fall-in-the-river-from-staring-beasts. They have a (fat) dragon's legs and tail, with the bulbous, oversized smiling head from the whale preserved in the Skyrim hall of the Imperial Exposition. Their amiable wrinkled eyes and chicken-leg arms make the guar an endearing animal until you approach within the twenty-foot radius of their stench. And I have seen a rutting bull kill a would-be rustler with a single devastating kick.
I continued on uphill, towards the mansions and official buildings of hightown, shadowed in their twin guardtowers. Just past the river where the north wall stops, the monk accosted me. The monk or the Tribunal equivalent, that is. Even now I am not entirely educated on the specificites of Temple offices.
"Alms! Alms for the servants of the Three! Alms and Mother's Mercy to the blighted faithful of Vos, the corprusent farmers of West Gash! For the benighted pilgrims before Mount Assarnibibi and their defence, and for the labor of the Living Ancestors and the kin-spirits that wail for our salvation in their Ghostfence!"
The ash-withered fossil with the expansive lungs paced up and down in his dusty robe, clutching a bonemold offering box while his white eyebrows danced. Seeing me walk past in solitude, he thrust the rounded receptacle before my chest and side-stepped along beside me, repeating his call with no change in volume.
I must have shrugged him off with too much irritation on my face, for he drew back and tucked his carapace beneath one arm, brows gathering like a storm.
"And who are you, heedless sister, to renounce the workers of ALMSIVI so shamelessly?"
"Ams...sivi?"
"Aye, the Living Ancestors, Promised of Veloth, Anticipated in the Waters Above, feared by the House of Troubles." He reached out with a pointing finger, stopping just short of my nose. "Mercy, Mystery, Mastery. Know the Three, sister, the spirits and thy lords." And he stroked my cheek with that one finger. I felt the ashlands on it.
"And are you my brother?" I asked. Good job facing down the frothers, Naleva. A lifetime of preparation in the spiritual madhouse of Tamriel has served you well.
"As are all the children of Veloth, we family of three spirits and the three gods of the deified generation. Surely you see this, sister? All the Dunmeri must." His voice was quieter now, so any spectators decided that the display was over. Somehow the zealous little fellow had steered me away from the street, to the shadowed wall of a bakery.
"But am I Dunmer?"
He favored me with a piercing, victorious look. His eyes were less red than most, seemingly studded with flecks of volcanic glass.
"Aha! Thusly I asked you from the first. 'Who are you,' to do as you have done? Who indeed?" Suddenly his hand was in mine, a prickly barbed thing with a light touch. "Come with me, sister, and I will answer your question for you."
And he was pulling me forward, up the stepped path to Balmora's unobtrusive Temple, its windowed dome and tusk-shaped courtyard walls.
"Fear not, milady. I feel the countenance of the Poet in you, and he holds strange admixtures in no ill light. Far from it! He delights in duality and contradiction."
The sparsely-populated Temple yard contained a font and little else. My wiry proselytizer dumped his container of drakes, resin crystals and glass shards into the font and, to my surprise, placed the collection box upon his head. Half a second's adjustment, and it became a wide-brimmed ceremonial helmet, entirely covering his face and hair.
"Now I shall be your guide and advocate. Follow me, sister...?"
"Naleva." Shocked how effortlessly he plied me for my name, and combated skepticism with curiosity.
"Enter then, Naleva, and we shall see if the spirits recognize you. Naleva. A good name." He held the door open.
Like many Vvardenfell temples, the interior was plain, even drab. Unlike, say, a Colovian chapel, most Dunmeri houses of worhsip do not attempt to convey a sense of the otherworldly in their architecture. Even for the natives, the otherworld is right here, in the Star-Wounded East, and the gods dwell here too, in the temporal palaces they built themselves. Except for ensconced candles and a large tapestry depicting Veloth's exodus, the walls of the temple were unadorned, the same ubiquitous brown earthen material as everywhere else. The place sported a metal dome, though, set around the base with little windows of real, Cyrodiil-style glass (although stained and frosted). Beneath this dome, like a reflection, sat the Soulpit, a round dais of bone-scattered grave dust. On the far side of that focal point, I could see three short altar-monoliths with their engravings, the priest on duty, and passageways to the more mundane rooms.
"Welcome, sister. It is not a long ritual, and will take but a minute."
The words were the same, but the voice changed inside the mask, becoming sonorous and laden with something. I noticed that the priest by the wall had bowed as we came in.
"Take up the brush," the conch-headed figure intoned, referring to a small iron rake lying on the side of the Soulpit. "Stir the ash."
I did so with incredulity, tracing seven parallel lines in the soot.
"Disinter your own beginnings as you do. Make yourself ready for the entrance of all forefathers."
Someone at whom I dared not look up at arrived with fragrant candles. The holyman standing at my back began throat-singing in Old Velothi, and the spine-tingling sounds echoed about the interior of the bonemold shell, flowing between its various chambers like the tide. The wavering hum of his voice swelled in strength, causing the pale surface of the carapace headpiece to vibrate. Finally he hit upon three great pounding high notes, and with each one, the Soulpit jumped. A thin film of silt popped into the air, scattered particles disassociating themselves from the rest as if the ground had been struck by a great shuddering weight. The sides of the dais, however, like the stones I knelt on, remained perfectly still.
"They are spoken!" my interlocutor exclaimed. "Do you feel them, sister?"
In perfect truth I experienced a chill that spread from my legs to the tips of my ears. There was also a chorus of sudden whispers, erupting from someplace without. The monk clapped his hands behind my head, and I turned in surprise, but when he made the sound two more times, it emanated from the mask. His hands never left his sides.
As I looked back, the grave dust stirred, as if it housed some sort of burrowing reptile. My interpreter pulled the helmet from his sweaty head and bent over the low dais with interest.
"Your ancestors do not lie here, Naleva, not since nineteen generations. The souls claim you, though, and direct you on, to where you must find your ageless earth. The progenitors of your line dwell on this sacred isle, in fact. See the jumbled bones."
He extended that finger of his toward a new arrangement of teeth and skull fragments, over where the ash had jolted.
"So that..."
"Is a sign of where to find your people, or at least the ever-living half." He smiled kindly. "Northeast, I should say."
"So my mother was from Vvardenfell..."
"A mother? Was it? No, a mother is a tiny little thing. A hallowed constellation stretching back across the ruin of time, yes, that was from Vvardenfell. So let us return to the original issue. Are you Dunmer? By these signs, yes, the spirits assure you. But can you in good conscience assign the name to yourself? This is doubtful. Seek your ancestors. Earn the right." He let the shell swing down to hang at his side. Another smile. "And when you do, think kindly of the three God Ancestors that still live, and brought you hence."
I stood, awkwardly.
"Is it expected to give alms? I have very little to offer."
"It is the thought, really."
Dropping a single coin into the container dangling beside him, I departed the temple in seven long, hurried steps.
.
.
.
Now I have something to chew on. And I'm hungry, too. Finding food at market is a task requiring a newcomer's full attention, however, and for a while the temple and its dirt quit my mind. Western bread is extremely expensive here (unless you know where to look), so after a careful process of selection I procure some porridge of ash yam and saltrice, with marshmerrow-sweetened tea. So there I am, sitting on one of Balmora's scores of stepped streets, sorting through my first enjoyable Vvardenfell meal and my first religious experience.
Or should I say, first divine experience, assuming that fellow wasn't a total charlatan. And I've had plenty of religious experiences, in the sense that religion is something that's done to you, rather than something you feel. Gallenus the heretic never took us to temple, although he deemed certain occasions suitably vague in their theology to match his private beliefs. And being that it was the City of the Thousand Cults, festivals were a regular occurrence, some boasting miracles that would hold the public imagination for several entire days.
And then here in a dusty corner of one of the Emperor's far-flung possessions, a pile of ash says that I'm home. And physically speaking, I suppose it's right. Normally when men and mer bear offspring, it is the mother's child, with but a few distinguishing marks from the father's people. Many a highborn imperial official was born of an Altmer handmaiden or governess in service to a Nibenese household, with no question of their elven racial identity. But I suppose my father's seed was just too much for a poor Dunmeri womb, dulling my ears and facial structure. Or perhaps the Bosmer in there threw off the recipe, upsetting the balance of my concoction with unexpected merishness.
Of course I have Dunmer ancestors, how could I not. But it remains strange to think that they could remain intact, 'alive' in the Velothi sense, whether animated, or in urns or ghost walls. And that the temple's spirits should recognize me, as if by word of mouth. How does that happen? Does some long-dead bureaucrat pen an astral letter and send it to the family plot by carrion fly? One thing I know, is that the Temple's Three didn't come up with all this. It is something essentially Velothi, and older than they are. The Triunes are pretty damn old, though, almost as old as the First Empire, and who the hell were the Cyrodils and CiCis before then?
Either way, this land's bones are willing to name me Dunmer while I doubt many of its people are. Though one of them does seem to think that I can try and qualify. Good to know that I can take that role in the future if needed, in a dishonest sort of way.
I set these thoughts in motion, meandering through the backstreets of the commercial district until I draw near the southern walls again. My tea is just finished as I hear the ripple of festive laughter from above me. There appears to be some sort of drinking establishment up a flight of stairs. Yes, the steps are set into the side of another cornerclub, its reddened windows keeping an eye on the strider port across the way. For whatever reason, I decide that from the roof of this Council Club, I can sit and drink and keep an eye on Cosades' place, despite the intervening distance.
Fling away the drinking gourd and its dregs, and on up to the roof with its tanin-colored awning and paper lanterns. I do my best native impression, but the laughter stops instantly as I set foot on the top step. It's a small group of Dunmer men and an Argonian slave (the first I've seen so far), all with mock-ashlander facial tattoos, mohawks and leather armor. There is an outdoor bar in the near corner, but they seem to be running it themselves, from the customer's side, for their own thirst. The one on the right scowls at me, but the rest just gaze, motionless figures exuding clouds of thickening hostility. Thunderstruck, all I can manage is an uneasy smile. Any CiCi walks into the wrong scene every now and then, but this is like nothing else. I spin on my heel and make the third quick exit of the day, passing another dark elf on the way down. He halts on a middle step to stare at me until I reach the corner, surprise and curiosity on his face. The lip of that damn roof follows me with daggers as I walk away, yet happily I turn right up on the doorstep of last night's inn. The Lucky Lockup, indeed.
Yes, I'm being careful with my money until I see how things turn out, but one drink won't be the difference between life and death. I've twenty drakes left, and spend a few of them on whatever the barman says is closest to Cyrodilic stuff. Comberry wine—shein—as I know it now.
There's an Argonian with maroon forehead spines sitting in the corner, tuning his lute (so happy to see that I have not left such scenes behind in the capital). Not long in a strange city and solitude becomes oppressive, so motion to join him.
"Welcome." A throaty rasp.
"A fine day to pass in here with the drink," I observe.
"I, Chuna, do not like quiet songs."
"You, ah, don't say."
"And songs I do not like, I do not often know to play, so do not ask. Please, that loud songs are strange, awkward to sing in such quiet places, for only one to appreciate."
"I, Naleva, hadn't thought to enlist your bardly services, merely to share your company. And besides, songs aren't everything. What does your professional wit have to offer on those Council Club types next door? Not the cheeriest sort."
A hiss. Would that I had the ability of an old Nibenese friend, who could interpret the full range of emotions and reactions in the Argonian hiss.
"There Chuna will never play, even when the Odai flows north and I am invited."
"Old fashioned types, are they? Not keen on the opening of immigration and Imperial settlement?"
"And not only. Quick of knife and short of mercy. A house with cruel eyes, home to only the Cammona Tong. Surprising that you set foot there."
"Set foot on there, really." I blink. "Honestly, I thought that the Tong was just a Cyrodiil City outfit, immigrants and whatnot."
"Nonsense. They are from here, across generations of sugar and chains."
"How bright and sunny a day," remarks a smooth voice behind me," to be talking of the Tong."
"Good afternoon, Todwendy." Chuna bobs his scaly head to the Redguard woman who has drifted up to our table. "A song, perhaps?"
"He didn't want to play for me." My tone is flippant, watching this newcomer's lips shift into fascinating shapes as she flows downwards into a chair. I feel her leg occupy the space next to mind, but otherwise the process is silent.
"For this one I will perform," Chuna grinned. "So pretty, so pretty."
"Chuna, you deviant." She shoots him a brilliant expression. "But really, good weather is so boring. Darken the mood. For what do you and your guest discuss the Tong?"
"Naleva has been their guest, and discovered their sour countenance."
Todwendy looks over at me for the first time, with her captivating face and bizarre Breton name.
"Not for any period of time, I hope!"
I manage to shake my head.
"All of them answer to the Ascadians, now," Chuna explains with satisfaction. "Those in the Isles have the land and connections to do business in this new imperial world, with its exports exciting... and troublesome."
"They are fixing up a war, Naleva. If you know any sweet young urchin boys who work for the Thieves Guild, tell them to book passage for Windhelm as fast as they can. It's cold there, but even colder in the grave."
Chuna nods in satisfaction at her words.
"A bloody time in the offing, yet one which will produce no fine songs. Unless you ensnare in a coil of forbidden love, the son Orvas Dren does not have have, my dear."
"Ech, I am soon gone from Morrowind and away from this tanglesome business." She shoots me a teasing glance, and I look down into my cup. "Were I to remain, it would be hard to ply my trade without indirect involvement with one group or the other. Independence is to be valued above all things."
"And yet with those words you sound so at home here," Chuna cackles.
Todwendy raps her nails in the tabletop.
"Do not speak to me of Dunmer chafing, so soon after another of those slaughters. This province will put aside it religious viciousness, or else I hope Uriel looks into his forefathers' ways to administer a true Cyrodilic beating on these dark elves."
"What slaughter?" I inquire.
"So she does speak after all! More killings by nativists. It is missionaries, usually, or new settlers. At least the imperial officials do something to deserve it, but it's rarely they who catch the knife. This last was in Gnisis."
"They say the Temple is behind it," Chuna rasps. "Indoril agents. Or rogue Telvanni. Or Redoran zealots."
"They always blame the Temple, and while I doubt the Tribbies are unduly dismayed by violence against outlanders, they have too much to lose by taking part. But the murders are religious. I wonder if it's not some new group entirely."
"This one, she is so clever. A song, my dear, a song for you."
"Not today, Chuna, I am not that bored. And I have business up at hightown soon. The Hlaalu are never satisfied. Besides," she stands, favoring me with a wry smile," I don't think your friend here wants to talk to me very much."
"You see?" Chuna exclaims. "You drive away my muse! Now we will both need another drink."