CHAPTER TWO - SECRECY - PART I


15 First Seed 4E 5, 6:13AM
North of the Imperial City

The thunder of hooves echoes across the dusty road, a tumultuous clamouring of iron and cobblestone that races the first rays of light. White-Gold tower rises on the horizon like a celestial being, peering over the grandeur of the Imperial City with the weak rays of dawn. Graceful white stone looms in intricate layers tinged with rays of rose and light gold. They form a monolithic maze of bridges, villas and archways. For a moment, I can almost smell the rich earth of the Elven Gardens, pungent and heady. The half-remembered dust of a half-forgotten tome at the Arcane University tickles my nose, the vellum yellowed with time. A sweet cup of mead at the All-Saints Inn teases my tongue. The brine of the Waterfront District fills my lungs. The memories coat my parched throat and I shake the longing from my shoulders, fixing my weary eyes on the tower spire.

The heart of Imperial power.

Albeit tattered power, I muse darkly, a bitter aftertaste on my lips.

Amidst the rustling leaves of the trees, larks regale the rising sun with worshipful hymns. Wildflowers perfume the air with incense, and nature awakens to praise the new day. The notes chorus in a round, Kynareth's choir echoing amidst the quiet.

Quiet shattered only by our steeds.

The horses' hooves are cacophonous war drums clattering through the peace. Their muscles ripple with each stride, instruments of power. Each breath is that of ragged percussion, as their nostrils flare sharply and perspiration runs across their arched necks like staves. Manes damp with exertion snap like the strings of a lute and a wave of dust billows in our wake in a dense crescendo. Each step is a harried trill, uneven and frantic.

To the right, Baurus and Fortis ride in sombre silence, eyes grim and fixed on the road ahead. Grime paints their faces with dark strokes, masks befitting of their disguises. A young Bladesman –Levin— canters ahead with a pinched expression, eyes wary as a skeever.

The ride from Bruma weighs gravely on us all.

Akara dozes in the saddle before me, her eyelids hooded with fatigue. I clasp my daughter close, blinking off my own exhaustion to plant a quick kiss on her forehead. Álogo roils beneath us, and my body matches the rhythm of the appaloosa's powerful strides. The leather of the reins is smooth and worn beneath my fingertips, and I close my eyes a moment, feeling a sense of oneness with the beast.

Beneath the velvet ink of my closed lids, there is a flash of fire and memory. Screams echo, followed by the dying moans of men, scorched and strewn about the chapel hall on ramshackle cots. The scent of blood, ash and death clots the sacred air.

"Dawn rises."

I suppress a shudder. The words echo – unbidden— with whispered fervour, an ominous bell tone amid the morning glory. The speaker's voice is pitiful, weak and burned, seared into my ears for time immemorial. I close my eyes, attempting to blot out the charred hand grasping for mine in the Bruman Temple Hall a day hence. The flesh is puckered and igneous as a stone in Oblivion, melted near to the bone by magic and ill intent. Angry scarlet sores break out amongst blackened flesh, and the man moans from the low cot. Haunted eyes gleam white, half blinded by smoke, as his weak lips repeat the words like a horrific mantra.

"Dawn rises… Gods save us from the morn. Dawn rises."

The Hall resounds with groans.

Magic rises at my fingers, gentle golden light, but Cirroc –the resident healer of the Great Chapel of Talos—shakes his head dolefully.

"I've tried it all," the Redguard whispers. Pain edges between his brows as he tenderly watches over his charges. "The poor souls are too far gone. The magic just causes agony. The most we can do is soothe their pain and ease their passing." He leans over and brings a flask of something herbed to the man's lips. The burned victim splutters and gags horribly a moment, before his breathing settles and he whimpers gratefully. Cirroc places a gentle russet hand over his brow.

A lump forms at my throat, my eyes transfixed by the charred form of a child lain across the cot next to the man. The small chest rises minutely, and the girl's hair is scorched to her scalp. She mewls quietly. Another lies beside her, with victims stretching the width and breadth of the room.

"How is this possible?" I exhale, blinking back a boiling flue of rage. Cirroc looks up at me with a haggard expression.

"Frankly, Pelenix, it's not. Or rather it shouldn't be," the Redguard healer says bleakly, shaking his head. He brushes his hands over his fur-covered tunic, leaving smears of ash and crimson. "You of all people must have heard what they say," he continues, his voice muted. "That the Mythic Dawn disbanded. Collapsed, really. Martin, may he rest in peace, stopped their prophecy from being fulfilled."

"And Mankar is dead and the gates closed," I add gravely. The scar beneath my robe twinges slightly, faded to a jagged white line. "But assuming that it was the remnant… what would survivors have to gain by burning the innocent?" I ask. Cirroc scowls in contempt. An amulet of Talos swings at his throat.

"What does any murderous dog gain from tearing life away from the world? If I had the answer, we'd have the bastards rotting in the Castle dungeon," he spits. The layman's voice is full of unusual poison. "Gods know, though, that it might not even be the Mythic Dawn. It could be others using their name to stir up fear. The Nine know how many renegades are grasping for the Emperor's throne. And fear is a powerful ally."

The Redguard passes over a row, administering his draught with tenderness. I follow mutely.

"Y-you," a woman's voice whimpers. A feeble hand clasps at my wrist, and I start. "I knew you'd come," the voice wheezes. Smoke swathes the Bosmer woman's lungs, and she hacks like a battle-axe. Lacerations mar her skin, a deadly crisscross of scarlet smudged with cinders. The charred remains of a viridian gown cover her torso. Head to toe she is streaked with soot. "W-why didn't you… come sooner?" she rattles. Pity pricks at my eyes.

"I didn't know," I breathe, squeezing her hand lightly. The Bosmer hacks a laugh.

"I knew you'd come," she rasps. "And I told them so, I did. And then they… they did this… t-to me." She points to her shredded skin. My heart drops as I notice that the wood elf's pointed ears have been torn and bandaged. "And…and they… they said to give you this…" She coughs, a wheezing fit that shakes her being.

"Hush, Desdra, hush." Cirroc soothes. "Don't trouble yourself—"

Something slices at my gut as Desdra shakes her head, reaching into the smoky folds of her skirt. A blackened dagger falls from her grasp, edged with Daedric runes. I pick it up from the cool slate floors, holding the jagged edges tentatively. A carved sun adorns the handle.

"That's what they… did it with," she coughs. "They said to give it to you and say this is only the beginning. I am but the first. Dawn… rises."

"Pelenix!" Baurus calls, snapping me from the memory. The solidness of the dusty road crashes through my senses. A film of dirt settles over my tongue, dry and stodgy. Birds flit from tree to tree, and the horizon is bathed in hues of gold, amber and rose. The Redguard sighs, raising his eyebrows at me. He pulls off his cap, running a hand over his sweaty brow.

"Enough philosophizing. We're here, thank the Gods."

I turn my head blearily, and start. My heart soars.

The main gate to the city looms at the end of an elegant, curving bridge. Columns edge the wide promenade, statuesque and imperious. Walls gilded with alcoves and flame rise behind it, shielding the six grand districts within. An unbidden grin breaks across my features with a stream of morning sunlight.

I nip my heels against Álogo's sides and the beast's hooves clatter across the paved white stone, gaining speed. My hair whips around my face, adrenaline coursing through my lungs. Torches flare on either side of the long bridge as we gain on the gate. In front of me, Akara shrieks with excitement.

I smile, joining in the chorus.

Martin, I'm home.