Chapter Ten: The Quests Continue
It was hard for Wynandil to judge the passage of time while being kept in Nemo's workshop, which turned out to be an expansive compound of which the laboratory was only a part; but based on his memory of when he and the Stormrider squad had entered the ruins of Alftand, he estimated that he had spent several days under Nemo's supervision.
After a dreamless sleep, Wynandil's mind kept replaying the incident with the dragon repeatedly.
He should have guessed he would eventually encounter such a fiend in his travels. After all, the Dragonborn only slew Alduin, chief among dragonkind according to the old Nordic legends, and not the rest of the winged wyrms. Still, of all the places for such a wyvern to appear, thirty-five kilometers underground was the last place he would have thought the beast would show itself.
Yet, while the sequence of events regarding the dragon in Blackreach ran through his mind on a loop, so too did Wynandil's conversation with none other than the god of wisdom, logic, and reason, Julianos. He distinctly focused his retrospection on the quest the Divine had given him.
"Will you find the Dragonborn and right whatever corrupt wrongs are besieging Mundus?" he had asked.
The wise Divine had also provided some advice for finding the legendary hero. Wynandil remembered him saying some like-minded individuals who revered and upheld Julianos's principles would be of great assistance to his search. And if they were close by as the god said they would be, then Wynandil would have less of a burden to carry. As helpful as the advice was, one thing that confused him was the god's admonition regarding the Dragonborn's emotional state.
"If you are reckless in your endeavor to seek his assistance . . ."
Wynandil sighed. At the rate his quest was going, the warning would be pointless as it would take about a week before he could even get started on his search, let alone actually find the man who could stop the entropic force plaguing Nirn. He had to figure out a way to speed up his rehabilitation in Nemo's workshop.
Looking around the spare dormitory room Nemo had provided for him, Wynandil noted the many austere furnishings, all of which glistened with the telltale sheen of Dwemer metal, sitting around the equally severe space. Ignoring the numbed pain in his lower back and legs as he pushed himself up on his feet, he slowly walked over to the thick, rectangular wardrobe and perused the many premade outfits organized for him. He had put on a purple tunic which matched the black trousers he still had on when he heard the door to his room open and a gruff voice spoke.
"Up already, sir?"
Turning, Wynandil expected to see Nemo standing in the doorway but instead saw a scrawnier, younger Imperial dressed in plain but nonetheless sophisticated attire staring him in the eye curiously. The glint in the thin boy's eyes belied a certain interest and inquisitiveness, like a child's upon encountering something different.
"You tell me," Wynandil replied flippantly before sighing abashedly. "Excuse me. I just survived what must be one of the oddest encounters ever, and I am understandably in a bit of a mood. I never meant to take out my frustrations on you or anyone else."
The boy appeared unfazed by the caustic remark. "Never mind, sir. Master Nemo is currently waiting for you in the commons. Allow me to take you there."
Wynandil followed the Imperial through the thick stone corridors, walking with a slight limp to minimize the dull ache from his recently mended muscles. As the Dwemer metal pipes and vents passed by, he silently wished Nemo was able to rid him of the pain of his injuries. Alas, he reminded himself of the limited capabilities of restoration magic and settled with internal thanks for the kindness Nemo showed him.
The boy stopped next to a large Dwemer metal portcullis and pressed the glowing blue button positioned atop the small pedestal to his right. As the telltale hiss of the Dwemer pipe system bellowed throughout the area, the fractal-like flaps of the portcullis receded into the flanks of the circular gateway, revealing the spacious room within.
The space beyond was a marvel to behold. Dominating the center of the room was a massive glass prism cradled in metal fittings at the top and bottom. The prism was held in midair by a pair of thick magnets, each one positioned near the metal fittings. The prism contained an aquatic world teeming with life, a myriad of fish swimming about animatedly. Surrounding the prism were circular collections of chairs and well-cushioned benches, round stone tables located at the foci of the curved sitting areas. Brass fittings held bright balls of blue light illuminating the entire room. Wynandil could see Nemo, wearing his dented Imperial armor, sitting with two other people at such a sitting area to the left of the giant fish tank.
Across from Nemo sat a slender but curvaceous Breton dressed in a violet cotton jerkin and black leather trousers, brushing a stray lock of brown hair from her face as she played chess against Nemo. To the woman's right slouched a brawny Nord in strange blue-green armor, his copper hair and gray eyes giving him a fierce look. Between the three individuals, a pile of brass-colored chips, each one heptagonal in shape and equal to a gold piece in size, towered over the chess pieces. As he got closer, Wynandil saw Nemo lurch forward in victory.
"Looks like I win again, Sorine," he said to the woman, a triumphant grin on his face. "Good game."
Flustered, Sorine flicked a couple more of the chips into the pile. "Best two out of three?"
The redheaded Nord laughed, his voice booming throughout the commons. "You said that fifteen minutes ago. At this rate, you might lose all of your property to Nemo's strategic genius."
The older Imperial shrugged. "What can I say? Forty years of service in the Imperial Legion will teach you how to think critically on the battlefield—if you have your head on your shoulders."
"You served in the Legion for forty years?" Wynandil asked Nemo, causing the middle-aged ex-legionnaire to jump in surprise.
"Ah, if it isn't our newest comrade," the Nord boomed from his seat animatedly. "That means your latest invention worked, Nemo."
Nemo ignored Wynandil's question. "Of course it worked, Your Honor. One should never expect anything less than the absolute best from Nemo."
The Imperial paused for a brief moment before shuddering like a servant who had just remembered an important errand to run. "Oh, Wynandil, this is the person responsible for finding your mangled body."
The Nord rose from his seat and walked toward Wynandil, a hand extended in an amicable gesture. "Judge Hoth Roarken, at your service."
Wynandil returned the greeting, recalling the deference to Roarken's title Nemo just showed a few seconds ago. "Good to meet you, Your Honor. I am Wynandil." He glanced at Sorine, who was measuring him up with an expression of innocent curiosity, wonder, and awe, as though he were an unfamiliar but otherwise appealing sight to behold. With an outstretched hand, he smiled at her. "A pleasure to meet you too, miss . . ."
The woman took his outstretched hand warmly. "Sorine Jurard. The pleasure is mutual, Wynandil."
Now that he had a closer look at Sorine, Wynandil noticed the almost imperceptible elven-looking accents of her physique, one of many hallmarks of Breton physiology and a reminder of the distant Altmer ancestry the people of High Rock carried. In particular, he took note of the way her slightly pointed ears, though significantly more round than those of a pure-blooded mer, complemented the coy, erudite aura of her soft but sleek facial features. Her violet jerkin clung to her frame, accentuating the tender grace of her form. Adding to her demure aura, the chocolate-colored pools staring back at him radiated a warm, carefree energy which Wynandil found infectious. He knew based on the lightness he felt in his chest that the two of them would become fast friends.
Shoving his thoughts back into the present, Wynandil took a quick glance at the chessboard, examining the positions of the pieces—one set made of Dwemer metal, and the other of glass—and cringing when he saw the humiliating Fool's Mate Nemo had sprung on Sorine a minute ago. Harkening back to his childhood, when his mother would brutally torment him with a series of similarly underhanded checkmates, he had a pretty good guess how Sorine felt about it.
"I take it you two were having fun earlier?" he asked redundantly.
Sorine scoffed, blushing with embarrassment. "If you can call it that. I swear, I can never quite get the upper hand against Nemo."
The Imperial grinned smugly as he dismissed the scrawny boy who had brought Wynandil into the commons. "Well, what can I say? My queen is like a troll under a bridge: she likes to sneak around and harass the unsuspecting billy goats that pass her by." He then turned to Wynandil. "Have you played chess before?"
Wynandil shrugged. "It has been a while, but I have played before. I will play a game with you if you wish." He didn't know what collateral he could use to place his bet, but he had a solid plan of how he would win the game.
Nemo absently shook his head. "Well, one thing you should know is that we don't like to use gold for our bets." He pointed to the pile of Dwemer chips. "Those right there are Dwemer metal denarii, and we prefer to use those instead. Given your particular . . . situation, however, I think we can work out an exception for you.
"I noticed you had two hundred fifty gold in your pack—a hardy sum of pocket money on the surface, but not worth much more than five denarii. I will bet five of my denarii in exchange for your gold; the Two Divines know I have more than enough to throw into the pot. Now, let's play."
As they reset the board, Wynandil retraced the threads of his memory to the very first game he had won against his mother, reliving the pivotal moment as though it were really playing out before him again. He specifically savored the strategy he had implemented at the time, which utilized an interesting gambit.
"Have you not learned a damned thing from all our games, boy?" his mother had spat at him bitterly, taking his queen with her rook as she chugged her entire glass of brandy in one violent flourish. "Honestly, when I play a game with you, I expect you to try to win!"
Laughing in hindsight, Wynandil was suddenly pulled back into reality when Nemo spoke gruffly, his pawn moved forward two spaces. "Your turn, friend."
Smirking inwardly, he imitated the Imperial's move. "You never answered my question, Nemo. Was it true that you served in the Legion for forty years?"
"Oh, yeah, it's true," Nemo replied, moving another pawn forward. "Why, I was stationed in the Imperial City when the Great War started. A grisly affair, that was! I'm sure you would agree."
Wynandil nodded soberly. "Indeed, I would. The Dominion is surely one of the worst regimes ever to be formed on the face of Nirn. Anyone who dares to raise a defiant sword against them more than earns my respect."
"I couldn't agree more myself. Why, just look at Leyawiin! That city used to be one of the greats—alongside Anvil, Skingrad, and Cheydinhal—but when the Dominion marched through its streets, they did more than mere pillaging. No, what they did bordered along the lines of rape! Needless to say, the Imperial City got the worst of it, but to think of the devastation the Thalmor are willing to bring upon innocents.
"And to top it all off, Titus Mede II signed a submissive treaty with the bastards, as though he and Lord Naarfin spent the whole war enjoying a chat over a cup of herbal tea! But that treaty did give us some time to prepare for another war."
"So, if you survived the Great War, why, then, did you leave?" Wynandil asked through gritted teeth, his mind lost in the past.
Nemo adopted a grim, no-nonsense scowl upon hearing Wynandil's question. It was a short while before he replied, "Actually, that was due to a . . . disagreement I had with the way some of my superiors loved to hold their tails between their legs. But I would rather not talk about that right now. All you need to know right now is that I'm currently enjoying life with my fellow comrades here—and away from what passes as civilized society these days. You should bask in it too."
Wynandil was about to reply when he recognized the formations laid out before him on the chess board. Returning to his first chess victory, he grabbed his queen and took out Nemo's pawn as he spoke. "Although I still lack any idea about where I am or what is going on, I think I can bask in your friendship."
Wide-eyed, Nemo laughed heartily as he reposted with his rook, seizing Wynandil's queen. "Well, I must say, you have poorer judgment than even Sorine! Any last words before I claim your gold?"
Wynandil's mind still lurked in the memory of his past victory against his mother, savoring the look of dumbfounded surprise she had showed on her sharply chiseled face—and the motherly smile she had rarely shared with him throughout his childhood.
Though he didn't expect a smile on Nemo's face after his newest triumph, he did foresee an exasperated gasp and five less Dwemer denarii in Nemo's future. "Yes," he replied. "I do have something to say." With a devious smirk on his face, he moved his bishop into position.
"Checkmate," he declared.
It was a simple enough trap to spring—simply offer an irresistible gambit with the queen as bait, then flank the rook with the bishop and trap the king within his own ranks—and it was an easy trap for a novice player to defend against. However, it caught Nemo completely by surprise. Wynandil could see the wrinkles in the Imperial's face crease even further, producing a comedic look of astonishment and shock. His mouth agape while he stammered hysterically, he just stared at him, his eyes the width of septims. Both Sorine and Roarken laughed maniacally.
"Now, that is a bastard's checkmate!" Roarken bellowed. "Good work, comrade."
"Yeah," Sorine giggled, a singsong-like tone in her voice. "You need to teach me that one sometime."
Flustered, Nemo tossed five denarii toward Wynandil. "You won, Wynandil. I don't know how I could not have seen it sooner, but you won. Congratulations." He had a graceful tone to his voice, like an amicable loser at peace with his defeat.
"Sorry to bother you, Your Honor," the scrawny boy said from beside Nemo, eliciting a few jolts of surprise from the trio, "but Chief Barrister Logan requested your presence at the Supreme Court to prepare for the upcoming return of Nikolai Zakharov, Arch-Academician of the University of Julianos, from the College of Winterhold . . ."
Wynandil was stunned. Did he just say the College of Winterhold? he asked himself. He remembered the last time he saw his daughter, Erissa, before he left for Blackreach.
"I hope you find what you are looking for, Dad," she had told him confidently, her mother's proud grin accentuating the sharp angles of her jawline and cheekbones that, combined with her father's piercing eyes, gave her a hard and powerful but still feminine look.
"You and me both," he had assured her. "Now, you take care of yourself."
Back in the commons of Nemo's workshop, Wynandil's worried mind thought of only one thing. I hope Erissa is okay . . .
oOo
The shade of the Gildergreen cast an ambiance of carefree tranquility onto the dinner Erissa and Rodalmo currently shared, the early evening sun beginning its descent toward the horizon. A few hours earlier, she and Rodalmo had spent a brief moment in his shop discussing minor rumors proliferating throughout Whiterun before he had proposed the grand idea of the two of them eating dinner together underneath the ancient landmark tree of the Wind District. Given her responsibilities, Erissa welcomed the idea wholeheartedly.
And so, here she was, laughing with Rodalmo over one of the many sandwiches Damien had prepared for them as they engaged in small talk about their plans for the immediate future. Yet, as fun as such talk had been during last night's party at Summerset Splendor, Erissa quickly grew bored of it now. After all, the whole idea of the outing was to spend as significant a moment with her new close friend as possible before she continued her search for Keening, not to waste it on pointless chatter.
However, she did find the eye candy sitting next to her perfectly enticing, the way the Gildergreen's shadow complemented the aristocratic angles of his face and accentuated the keenly glistening intelligence in his eyes, leaving her enraptured in a way her other male friends never did. While she considered Scipio and the others to be attractive individuals, none of them had ever possessed the passionately burning flame of life in their souls that made them stand out the way Rodalmo did at that instant. She chided herself briefly for knowing precious little, aside from the tales he had told her last night, about what could have made him into the vibrant person he currently was. It was rather shameful.
Before she could correct that problem, Rodalmo brought the small talk to a grinding halt himself, wearing his signature smirk he gave only her. "I remember you saying your mother was a ward of a Resolution of Zenithar. What of your father; what is his story?"
How dare you! Erissa groaned inwardly, her chance to take initiative now stolen from her. I should be asking the questions here. She saw from the smirk on his face, combined with the confident, knowing look, that he knew what he had just done.
Nevertheless, she had to commend his own initiative, and she beamed a smile as she obliged him. "I cannot say much about my father's past. I do know that he traveled for a while before he settled in and met my mother, and I remember some of the neighbors commenting on his accent, mannerisms, and demeanor as though he was from outside of Cyrodiil. Otherwise, your guess is as good as mine."
Rodalmo maintained his grin. "Do you think he could have come from the Isles, then?"
Erissa shook her head. "I never thought so. I recall one of the nosy neighbors accusing him of being a Thalmor spy only for him to deny it and spin the accusation back to her. In addition, he denied ever confronting the Aldmeri border patrols in either Elswyer or Valenwood to cross either direction. I cannot see how he could possibly be from anywhere near the Isles."
She sighed wistfully. "Whatever the case, he was the best father a girl could ask for, however short he could be at times. Whereas most children in Cyrodiil attended the small, public schoolhouses scattered about, I was fortunate to have had my father oversee my education personally. True, my mother instructed me in the art of alchemy and mercantilism, and Ligeia saw to my moral instruction, but it was my father that rigorously taught me most of everything else they, along with the rest of Leyawiin, could not even grasp."
Rodalmo coughed up bits of sandwich in abject surprise. "My apologies, but I thought I just heard you say the impossible. I mean, nobody could have possibly survived the Dominion's rape of Leyawiin, could they?"
"Of course people could escape—many people did, and you are speaking to one such escapee right now. However, I cannot begrudge you for your surprise. My mother unfortunately never made it out of the chaos those Dominion troops smote, and I most likely would have joined her had it not been for my father."
Looking back, she saw her much younger self latched onto her mother's lifeless body, crying amidst the havoc rampaging through the marketplace, her father stoically trying to placate her enough to flee.
"Come on, dearest, we have not much time," he had said soothingly, wearing an emotionless mask of vigilance.
"But, what about Mom?" the younger Erissa had asked between sobs.
"Erissa," he had barked more urgently, "unless we wish to die here ourselves, we must hurry!"
After several minutes, her father had succeeded in persuading her to grab his hand and escape with him into the wilderness. In hindsight, Erissa could see her father struggling hard to keep his face locked into an emotionless look of purpose the whole time, having swallowed his tears in an effort to maintain his composure. She had determined decades ago that, rather than become the cold, indifferent survivalist she had thought he was at that time, he had forsworn his own need to hold his wife one last time in order to save his daughter.
Rodalmo could see her eyes zone out into blank space, observing the events of her flashback. "Well, he must have really loved you to have done all of that. Someday, when you have concluded your business with the college, you must introduce me to him, so that I may get to know such a caring father and an interesting person."
"Actually, he died in a recent expedition into a Dwemer ruin," Erissa replied, casting her eyes away from Rodalmo before she shook her head, suppressed her residual sorrow, and added defensively, "But let us not spoil our dinner with that."
"Indeed," he agreed. "At least you were lucky to have such a loving father in your life for as long as you did. You should cherish that."
"Of course I will," Erissa cooed coyly, launching a counterassault to retake the initiative in their conversation. "However, you now have me curious about your own father. Care to tell me about him?" She knew he would see through the superficial innocence she affected. Serves you right, she teased mentally.
Now, it was his turn to act flustered like he lost a game of dice, but he nevertheless indulged her. "My father? Well, he died before I was old enough to speak, so I lack firsthand knowledge of what he was like. However, my mother always told me that he was actually short for an Altmer, and extremely devoted to Auri-el. As for her testament to his character . . . let us just say that he was not the best of people to associate oneself with and leave it at that." With that last statement, his eyes shifted to the side almost imperceptibly, with the same furtiveness as they did when he walked out of Arcadia's shop earlier.
"My mother, however, was a lot better. As a guard, she brought home piles upon piles of gold but was often too busy with her duties to take care of me personally, so she had me learn how to tend to my basic needs from our most senior house servants. We managed to live as good a life as was possible in Auridon, though that required a great deal of good fortune."
Erissa stared at him, her eyes wide and jaw agape. "Wait, did you say Auridon? You are telling me that you were born and raised in the Isles?"
"Yes, indeed I was, and let me tell you, it was not too pleasant there, even with our luxurious living conditions. But that is a story for another time." He raised his eyebrow playfully. "Right now, I am just glad to be enjoying this outdoor dinner with Queen Ayrenn herself!"
Erissa laughed gaily, her lips pursed tautly. "Queen Ayrenn, you say?"
Rodalmo matched her expression with a mischievous mask of his own. "Well, now that you mention it, I remember the Moonstone Lady being . . . bigger." He gestured subtly toward her chest.
Erissa cast her head down briefly, glancing at her small but shapely breasts before she feigned an indignant scowl. "Why I never!" she scoffed, playfully shoving a laughing Rodalmo. "How dare you address your queen in such a gauche manner!"
"Oh, please have mercy, Your Majesty!" Rodalmo cooed.
"Fear not, my king," she retorted coyly, caressing his chin tenderly with her fingers. "All is forgiven in my court." She then seized him in her arms and pressed her mouth against his.
The moment seemed timeless as she gave herself to her inner passion, hearing his soft moan and feeling his breath hitch in his throat as she devoured him, the feel of his mouth around her tongue making her shiver with an agonizing pleasure that made her hair stand on end, like wizard's lightning. She held his mouth against hers, raking her fingers through his hair as she savored the taste of his soft lips. Her already thunderous heartbeat surged even more violently as he reciprocated the gesture, wrapping an arm to caress her even more tightly in a tender embrace of need as he drank of her. The sensation of his tongue probing into her mouth made her whimper with rapture, and she felt herself melting in his arms from the immense desire that guided them both. It seemed like an eternity when their lips parted, and Erissa released a breathless laugh of gaiety up toward Rodalmo before she pulled his mouth back toward hers.
All her life, Erissa had never once thought such passion was possible for her. While she remembered seeing her parents and, more recently, some of her few friends at the College of Winterhold enraptured by it before, she always assumed such a feeling was denied to her. Rather, she thought herself surrounded by her inferiors, the best among the few who could keep pace with her intellectually and skillfully nonetheless lacking the fire in their souls that could retain its brilliant glow when compared to hers. She thought that she would remain forever alone at the top, a fiercely potent force in her own right but with no one worthy enough of joining her to claim as her equal.
It was a rational conclusion when she reached it decades ago in Skingrad, taking refuge in the city's School of Julianos after the start of the Great War, and one that she was at peace with from then on. Now, however, as she immersed herself in the depths of his mouth once again with the intimacy of a passionate explorer claiming ownership of an untraveled mountain peak, moaning softly as he likewise familiarized himself with the contours of hers, she sighed inwardly in blissful relief that she found herself forced to revise her assumption. With her equal in her passionate grasp, she not only knew that such bliss was possible for her but that it was right. She thought that not claiming her prize would have been a grave injustice. With the pleasure she felt, and the knowledge she gained with it, she didn't want it to end.
However, the ecstatic moment ended abruptly as time surged forward inexorably once more, a distant cry resounding through one of the streets leading to the Gildergreen shrilly. Turning around breathlessly, Erissa saw a stout Nord sprinting forward, as though his life depended on how fast he could run.
"Riots!" he shouted. "Riots in the Plains District!"
Surprised, both Erissa and Rodalmo glanced at each other, disoriented by their lingering passion and confused by the sudden commotion. But, as they saw the man collapse dead with an arrow planted in the back of his neck, they knew that their outing had taken a turn for the worse.