A/N: Rrrgh. I am so, so sorry for such a late and crappy update. I hate that I had to just slap together twelve thousand words of nothin' at a time like this, especially with school starting up and everything.
Speaking of, and it pains me to say this, classes are a bit tougher than I'd anticipated. Still a bit early in the semester, so maybe I can try and get into a groove. But this, combined with some fairly big changes in my personal life, means that there probably will not be any new chapters until the winter holidays.
Thanks for reading—and hopefully understanding—and I hope you enjoy! - K
X
Hall of the Vigilant
Two days ago
The mid-morning light saw Lucius trudging through the snowy foothills of the Pale, his sightless eyes narrowed in pursuit of his goal: a small, unassuming wooden shack nestled in the mountain.
The Hall of the Vigilant was the headquarters of the Vigil of Stendarr, who were tasked by the God of Mercy and Justice to eliminate the influence of the daedra and the undead across Tamriel. A noble goal, Lucius thought—though it was a shame that they had not taken well to what had at the time been a mere fascination with Meridia, who while possessing a hatred of the undead that even the Vigil did not possess, was also a Daedra—otherwise he might never have left their ranks.
But left he had, and he was grateful that he had left on fairly good terms with Carcette—especially today, for he had a very … personal matter to talk with her about.
He had returned to Meridia's shrine overlooking Haafingar immediately after that unqualified debacle at Rkund. Then, for three days and three nights, he had prayed there in solitude. He sought the council of the Lady of Infinite Energies, and neither ate nor drank while he searched for an answer to the burning question in his mind.
What had he done wrong?
Two Vigilants stood guard near the doorway to the Hall, their characteristic tan-and-blue robes wrapped over their suits of steel plate. They snapped to attention when Lucius approached them, and crossed their steel maces in an X, blocking his way in.
New recruits, Lucius huffed—though he could not see their faces with his eyes alone, the sound of their weapons drawing had been enough. "I would speak with Carcette," he said loudly and clearly. "Tell her that Lucius is here."
After a few seconds of skeptical silence, Lucius heard the creak of armored boots on wood as one of the Vigilants went inside. He reemerged some time later, with similar—but smaller—footsteps in his wake.
"Vigilant Lucius," said an even-toned voice—with just the faintest hint of an edge to it. Lucius imagined an even fainter smile flickering about the woman's face.
He smiled back. "That was a long time ago, Keeper Carcette. The same destination—just a different journey."
He felt a thin but supple hand, calloused from years of wielding that polished ebony mace of hers, wrap around his gnarled fingers. "You should have told me you were coming—I would have set up a room for you."
"It's been a long journey," Lucius agreed. "And any other day, I'd be grateful that you'd go to the trouble. But I'm sure you know I wouldn't come for a social call. You always showed good judgment when I was a part of the Vigil; I could use a dose of that judgment right about now."
Carcette guided him to one of the wooden benches that took up the majority of the Hall's interior, and Lucius sat down. "Thank you," he said graciously.
He heard a creak as Carcette sat beside him. "Now," she said, "what is it you came all this way to ask me?"
Lucius took a long draft of water from his flask to wet his throat before he told Carcette about his business in Winterhold, his dialogue with the wizards of Winterhold, and his encounter with the Dunmer he had suspected to be a vampire—with special emphasis on how Meridia and had judged her to not be one of the Volkihar.
Carcette was silent for a long while when Lucius finally finished his anecdote. "Why did you not tell us about this before?" she finally asked. "The Vigil has operatives all throughout Skyrim and even beyond. Why, we even have an outpost in the Rift, presumably near this Rkund. Did it not occur to you that we could easily have intercepted this alleged vampire and dealt with it accordingly?"
As a matter of fact, it had not—and Lucius felt his head bowing slightly in his foolishness. "The Arch-Mage of Winterhold had tasked me personally to track her down," he explained. "I was not obligated to, but—"
"But why—?" Carcette interrupted, before Lucius felt her hand squeeze his slightly, as if an idea had just come to her. "Or was that the only reason you thought it wise to go after her yourself?"
Lucius said nothing. That was enough for Carcette.
She sighed. "Understand, Lucius, I did not hold it against you when you left us. There were many of us who did not see the same appeal to Meridia that you saw—but I did. Do you know why I asked you to leave the Vigil?"
Lucius did indeed remember. "I let my feelings get ahead of me … cloud my duty to Stendarr."
"Exactly," Carcette said. Lucius heard her sucking in air through her teeth, as if dreading to say anything more to him.
And then she asked, "Lucius … how is your daughter?"
Lucius' fist tightened automatically, and he felt Carcette withdraw her hand from his at the unexpected action. But he did not think more on it; his sightless eyes were suddenly hot with tears, and his free hand was beginning to shake in anger—anger at the monsters that had snatched her from his house in Bruma … and anger at himself, for doing the things he'd done since then, and the lengths he'd gone to, all in the hope of seeing his daughter alive and well.
"Thirty years," he said, half to himself. "It's been thirty years since I started my search. Cyrodiil, Skyrim—even Morrowind. Nothing—but I know she's still out there, Carcette. If I have to turn over every stone in Tamriel—"
"—it would not do you any good," Carcette pleaded softly. "Lucius, this vendetta of yours has wrecked you. It took your sight, it's taking your health, and it could damn well take your life! Just admit that she's—"
"Never!" Lucius growled, slamming his palm on the bench. "I am her father! If anything had happened to her, I would know by now. Don't ever tell me otherwise!"
When Carcette gripped his hand again a few moments later, it was softer this time, and Lucius felt himself relax. "Sorry," he said, calming his voice to a more manageable level. "I shouldn't have lashed out like that at you."
"The fault is mine," Carcette said gently. "I should have realized there might still be some … old ghosts, if you'll excuse the turn of phrase. I am sorry for your misfortune, Lucius, as I was when you first joined us … but my point still stands. It is good to serve the gods and carry out their wishes—but not at the expense of one's well-being."
Lucius grunted. "Someone said that to me just last week," he said, remembering the words of one of the wizards of the College. "Perhaps they were right about that, hmm?"
Carcette stroked his gnarled hand. "It doesn't have to be tomorrow, Lucius. It may not even happen with a simple 'Welcome home.' But I'm sure you and your daughter will be reunited one day. Put your trust in your gods, and you will see her again."
If only it was that easy, Lucius thought. Trust in Stendarr was not the same thing as trust in Meridia.
Trust in Meridia …
Lucius suddenly sat bolt upright as inspiration suddenly hit him. "That's it!" How did this not occur to me before?!
"Excuse me?" Carcette sounded genuinely confused.
But Lucius did not hear her. "Stendarr save you, Carcette, you're a genius!" he cried.
He embraced the still-bemused Keeper, and then rushed on his way out, his elation now giving way to his sense of duty. Now he knew what he'd done wrong, and he hoped he still had time enough to correct his mistake.
Lucius was unaware that Keeper Carcette was racing after him halfheartedly, still calling at him even as he sprinted away from the Hall of the Vigilant.
He was even less aware that that was the last time he would see Carcette alive.
And now, as he saw the three mages approaching him on the outskirts of the Pale, and recognized them with only a fleeting thought, Lucius Anglinius was only aware of one thing. He relaxed his milky white eyes, allowing Meridia to lend him her sight; the light of his Lady was such that even Lucius' blindness presented no hindrance—such was the connection between the Daedra and her priest.
He saw the Dunmer, Malys Aryon, exchanging words with the Altmer and the Breton next to her. They were of merely passing interest to him; they were two of the mages he'd remembered seeing in that Dwarven ruin overlooking Riften. The two mages backed away slightly, and looked on as the dark elf continued walking towards him—but still Lucius stood his ground. He felt the air growing colder and colder, and a voice in the back of his head told him it had nothing to do with the wind blowing through the valley of the Pale.
Finally, the Dunmer stopped in the road, barely five feet away from Lucius. He did not need to see her to know this; he could hear the breath of the elf before him, and the air was so cold that were he a lesser man, it would hurt merely to breathe.
There was silence for one whole minute while the two looked each other in the eye. Then Lucius finally sighed, and spoke.
"I've been looking for you, Malys Aryon," he said. "I came to offer my apology."
He heard nothing from the Dunmer—no indication of surprise or skepticism. Lucius took that as a good sign, and continued, "I have been … overzealous in my actions of late. As a priest of Meridia, I am compelled to obey the wishes of my Lady, and drive out all manner of corruption from Tamriel. However, I have learned that my actions do not necessarily coincide with the wishes of other worldly entities. In my haste to fulfill the word of Meridia, I failed to listen to the words of your Arch-Mage … and also to myself." He bowed his head. "I endangered the life of an innocent victim of circumstance—and for that, I again offer my humble apologies."
Only when the last of Lucius' words had died on the wind did Malys finally speak. "You behaved like an arrogant youngling at Rkund, Lucius Anglinius," she said evenly, without any apparent trace of ill will. "You were headstrong, impulsive. But do you know what else you were?"
He felt Malys lean in close to him. The air around her was colder than ever.
"You were right."
It only took an instant for Meridia's priest to understand. His hand flew instinctively to Dawnbreaker, but he did not unsheathe it—not yet, said the voice in his mind. While it might well be the place, Meridia was telling him that this was not the right time to act.
Patience, champion. Her voice rang like a cathedral bell in his mind. One way or another, this abomination will be cleansed in due time.
Lucius swallowed, and gradually relaxed—letting go of his sudden fear. "How is this so?" he asked—daring not to betray his uneasiness. He already knew the answer to his question—Carcette had told him that much.
Since their conversation, Lucius knew he'd been dwelling on his daughter's abduction for longer than he'd needed to—perhaps even thirty years too long. It pained him to admit it then, and it pained him to admit it now, but these thoughts had clouded his judgment—and Meridia's judgment by extension. And in that one moment of self-doubt, Dawnbreaker had failed him.
Now that this elf had confessed to being a vampire, this was especially true. In fact, Lucius had a suspicion that if he'd possessed a clearer head at the time, Malys might well have fallen at Rkund.
"The Malys Aryon you encountered at Rkund was … incomplete," the Dunmer explained. "I was damaged goods—my mind and memories were destroyed, split in two. I forgot so many things—fleeing Vvardenfell in the Red Year, picking up the pieces in Windhelm … even the vampires that made me what I am today."
Lucius frowned. Vampires—more than one? There was something odd about that.
"I know what you're thinking," Malys went on. "Why didn't your little magic sword kill me when we last met?"
Lucius bristled at the dismissive tone she used in reference to a Daedric artifact, but refrained from showing his displeasure. Besides, even though he would rather die than admit it to this vampire, Lucius was keen to know himself. While the creations of the Daedra were fickle things, to be sure—and Dawnbreaker, Meridia forgive him, was no exception—Lucius had been asking himself that question ever since he'd first met this vampire, and even his visit to Carcette had not driven it from his mind entirely.
"Someone once told me there are forces in this world we will never truly understand," Malys said. "Our hearts, our minds, and everything that goes on inside them—to name just a few. That sword is no ordinary blade—it's … alive, isn't it? Somehow, it knows what I am; I can feel the heat it's been giving off ever since we started talking. I'd wager it's hotter than dragon-fire by now."
Lucius was only then aware of an uncomfortable sensation on his left hip, where Dawnbreaker hung from its scabbard. Occasionally, he would also hear the hiss of errant snowflakes on the ebony blade as they bubbled and melted on the superhot surface. He knew she was right—Dawnbreaker could sense the presence of even the tiniest gasp of undead breath, from the lowliest of the draugr to the highest of vampires.
And yet …
"But it didn't know what I was at Rkund, did it?" Malys continued. "My mind was so damaged that that blade couldn't sense my undead nature. And because you were so insistent that I was a vampire, Dawnbreaker became confused—was I a vampire, or wasn't I? And Meridia wouldn't consign an innocent soul to a fate no living being had a right to suffer."
Lucius grit his teeth, but he knew Malys was right. He had encountered vampires of every bloodline and walk of life—the Whet-Fangs of Black Marsh, the Nine Lines of the Iliac Bay, and even members of the Cyrodiil Vampyrum Order, who were notoriously difficult to detect—and Dawnbreaker had dealt with them all accordingly. Lucius had slain them, purging their taint from Tamriel and sending their souls to Meridia to be punished.
All this only made the truth clearer to him: this vampire, Malys Aryon, was unlike any undead he had ever seen, both as a Vigilant and as Meridia's champion. And Lucius—while he would never let that stand—had a unique opportunity to find out why. Was she simply an accident—some malicious jest of Clavicus Vile? Or was this yet another of Molag Bal's abhorrent machinations—the beginning of a completely new strain of vampire?
"You still haven't answered my question," he said warily. "How did you become a vampire? Only a week has passed since we last met—yet the Malys I see before me is far from any fledgling of the undead."
Malys laughed coldly. "Are you telling me Dawnbreaker can't do that, either?"
Lucius heard the smirk in her words, and growled under his breath. The question was irrelevant; Meridia did not distinguish between one vampire and another. In her eyes, they were all the same. At any rate, Lucius' days with the Vigil had given him much knowledge on the matter, and his duty as a priest-cum-vampire-hunter had only augmented those skills. Such was his knowledge now that Lucius had developed a scrye to discern the bloodline of a single vampire, and plan its destruction accordingly.
He murmured an incantation under his breath, and that scrye now bloomed in his left hand. Malys' body was instantly suffused in colors invisible to all eyes but his own. This was the "progenitor test", merely a preliminary examination. Lucius suspected that only Lamae Beolfag, the Nede who became the progenitor of all vampires through Molag Bal himself, would have glowed in such colors if she were still alive today—hence, the name.
Over time, as Lucius continued his studies, analyzing the physical and magickal capabilities of the vampire before him, he made his scans progressively more narrow. With each passing scrye, a bloodline was cast aside if its traits did not match up—and another, more probable bloodline took its place.
Before long, only two colors of light were left—the vivid bluish-white that signified the Volkihar and a dark, murky brown; it took Lucius some time to identify that as the Quarra, one of the three bloodlines of Morrowind, whose numbers had dropped so significantly during the Red Year that rumors suggested they were all but extinct. But as Lucius concentrated his scrye to its most accurate extent, he saw something odd: the colors were actually mixing with one another, forming something different altogether.
That was not supposed to happen.
Unless … No.
But he knew there could be no other explanation.
"A hybrid vampire," Lucius breathed, as he released the scrye. Now it all made sense; the two bloodlines inside Malys had meshed together to such an extent that they were almost indistinguishable. Extremely dominant ones, too—the Volkihar were powerful in every respect, but the bodies of the Quarra were physically stronger than the other vampire clans of Morrowind, perhaps more so than even the Volkihar themselves. Vampirism strains were not mutually compatible in the same body—if one was stronger than the other, then the weaker bloodline would be smothered, forced out. But two bloodlines as strong as these … Lucius could not believe he was thinking this, but he almost felt pity for this vampire. A battle between Quarra blood and Volkihar blood was a struggle he wasn't sure he wanted to be caught between, even less so in his own body.
How had this vampire survived such hell?!
"By the skin of my teeth," Malys replied, when Lucius put the question to her. "I had to sleep for two hundred years to fight the effects as much as I could—and even then I wasn't unscathed. If I hadn't slept for so long, there's no doubt I'd have lost more than just my mind. But I'm better now—my memories have been restored, my mind is whole once again, and I finally know why I am what I am."
"But why would they do such a thing?" Lucius wanted to know. "A vampire would have no reason to knowingly convert another vampire! Why would they make you what you already were?"
Malys scoffed. "What difference does it make? The Ashlander with the Quarra strain bit me first—the Volkihar never came until I'd settled in Windhelm. So if the idea ever occurred to you, then I'm sorry to disappoint. I'm not the result of some tenuous alliance, nor am I some mad experiment gone horribly wrong. All that happened was the Volkihar vampire made an amateur mistake—and Malys Aryon paid the price."
Truthfully, Lucius hadn't thought about the idea of a vampire alliance—though in hindsight, the prospect of such an event would constitute a severe threat to Tamriel—perhaps even beyond. But the Volkihar did not make mistakes—not in his experience. They wouldn't have attacked Malys without a very good reason.
But that was neither here nor there—that much he could agree with. Lucius had found out what he wanted to know, and now he could prepare accordingly—after he had decided what to do about this hybrid vampire. He didn't want to kill her—not yet. But neither could she remain undead.
Trust in Meridia, his own words echoed in Carcette's voice.
"The way I see it," Lucius finally said, "you have two choices right now. You can surrender, and come with me. Between Skyrim and Morrowind lies a valley; a few … old acquaintances of mine live within."
"What kind of acquaintances?" Malys sounded uneasy.
"Vampire hunters, much like myself," Lucius said—they had that in common, that much he knew, and that was all he needed. "You have my word that they will not kill you," he assured her, but his smile widened all the same. "If we're as alike as I suspect, though, then I don't doubt they'd be eager to see what makes you tick."
Malys growled, an inhuman sound—feral, even. "Or I could just do the same to you," she hissed. "I think you'd make a much better meal than a nest of Falmer!"
Lucius ignored the threat—he'd expected nothing less from such a violent creature. "Or," he spoke up, "perhaps a more peaceful alternative is in order."
He reached in his pocket, and pulled out a dark violet crystal the size of his hand. It wobbled slightly in his palm as he showed it to Malys—as if something small, invisible—and very, very angry—was inside, throwing itself against its metaphysical prison in a futile attempt to escape. He tightened his grip on the object.
"This is a black soul gem," Lucius explained. "Inside is all that remains of the necromancer Malkoran, who corrupted Meridia's shrine with his creations. I purified her temple, slew Malkoran at Mount Kilkreath, and trapped his soul inside this gem." His lips curled in a smirk again. "Poetic justice is a wonderful thing sometimes."
Malys did not sound impressed. "And you're showing me this because … ?"
Lucius cleared his throat. "There is a man in Morthal, far to the west—a Redguard, formerly of your College. Go to him, and present him with this gem. He may be willing to cure your vampirism."
Malys said nothing.
"The two of us have nothing in common," Lucius said. "We're as different as night and day. But that doesn't mean we are beyond reason with each other. I hold no ill will for you, Malys Aryon—only for what you have become."
The seconds stretched into minutes before Lucius felt his hand lighten; Malys had taken the black soul gem from his hands. He felt his heart rise as well, as if the gem had weighed on his soul just as it had on his palm. Trapping a person's soul—even if it belonged to a necromancer—was one of the hardest things he'd done. He had not been asked to do so, but his hatred of Malkoran had been such that he'd believed even Meridia's punishment had not been enough—or barring that, that an eternity of being imprisoned inside a soul gem would make him somewhat remorseful. All things considered, it was good, to see this soul gem finally being used for something good.
And then Lucius felt his stomach dissolve as he heard a crunching noise, like glass. A faint, tiny screaming could be heard on the wind. Immediately Lucius knew the soul gem had been destroyed; as he rounded upon Malys, he further noticed that the vampire had actually crushed it in her hand. He heard tiny chunks of dark crystal tinkling as they fell to the road, and if he strained his ears, he could hear Malkoran's tortured soul gave one last wail of pain as it disappeared forever.
Lucius stared at Malys as though she'd gone mad. "Why?" he could only manage to say.
"'The two of us have nothing in common,'" Malys echoed. "'We're as different as night and day.' But you're wrong, Lucius. It may be that you—and everyone like you—despise me, because you also despise my kind. You hate the vampire." She drew closer to Lucius, and the priest could feel her freezing breath on his face. "But we do have something in common. You and I are at the forefront of the vampire's way of life. You write about the vampire, you experiment on the vampire. As for myself, however … I have chosen to embrace the vampire."
What—?!
"I told you I paid a price for becoming what I am," Malys said icily. "I never said I didn't regret paying it. You have no idea how good this power makes me feel, Lucius—you can't even imagine. I like what I am—and I won't have it stolen from me by the likes of you."
She laughed. "But I appreciate your offer all the same. Soul gems aren't as filling for me as fresh blood—but this Malkoran certainly came close. After leeching his soul from that gem, I don't think I'll need to feed for the rest of the week." She paused for a moment. "Of course, if you're willing to prove me wrong … "
Again Lucius' hand flew to his blade, preparing for battle—but again, Meridia's voice stayed him a while longer.
This is not the time or the place, champion, the Daedra Lord declared. She is a threat to this world, it is true—and her taint will be cleansed in good time. But the thread of her un-life does not end this day; she has at least one more part to play before she faces her end. To change her fate at this crossing would be unwise.
Lucius knew he could not contradict his Lady, but her words still made him uneasy. Very rarely had Meridia ever commanded him to stay his hand—least of all for a vampire with such powerful and deadly potential as this one.
Trust in Meridia, Carcette's voice spoke again.
Very well, he thought. But this did not mean he would shirk in his responsibilities. To be honest, if he was to destroy this vampire in the future—and he hoped dearly he would be the one to do it—Lucius had a lot of ground to make up in that regard. He would need to prepare.
And so he released his grip on Dawnbreaker, and resumed his journey to a destination he did not know. He had long since stopped worrying about the wheres and the whys of his profession. Meridia would guide his steps, as she had done for years—and that was enough for her faithful priest.
As he drew level with Malys, he stopped, and spoke softly to her. "I will spare your life this one time, vampire," he said. "But know that as long as you walk Tamriel in this form, you are a danger to her people—and I will be preparing every waking moment of my life for facing you at last."
Lucius made as if to walk away, but a thought occurred to him, and he stopped. "And keep your claws off my daughter," he said warningly. He did not wait for a reply, or any reaction from Malys at all; he hitched up his robe, and set off down the road.
He did not look back.
Mistress Malys did not take Her eyes off lucius until he had disappeared over the ridge; She saw vinye and cosette out of the corner of Her eye, likewise staying where they were, even though the danger had long since passed.
Once the last trace of his golden-brown robe had shrunk to nothingness, the two mages finally joined Her.
"What was all that about?" cosette asked.
Malys fought the urge to laugh; the breton had heard nothing. she was still in the dark about Her true nature, and as much as She wanted to find out how cosette would react to this news, She thought it might be more entertaining for her to discover the truth for herself. As for vinye … Malys knew She could count on the elf's silence. But She also knew vinye did not like surprises, and suspected the altmer would rat her out to cosette if it suited her best interests.
"It was nothing," Mistress Malys lied with a faint little smile. "It's all water under the bridge now. We won't need to worry about Meridia or her priests anymore."
All the same, though, as they resumed their journey back to Winterhold, Malys couldn't help but think about lucius' so-called "associates." Whoever they were, they sounded like an organization best left alone … for now.
As for lucius' daughter … Mistress Malys could not remember ever meeting any woman from Cyrodiil, not even with the fullness of her memories restored to Her. So why in Oblivion would lucius tell her to stay away from her? Was he simply being a protective father—or was she herself a vampire hunter as well?
"Come on, Malys!" vinye called out to her. she and cosette were already a house-length ahead of her, and the Dunmer hurried to catch up. All thoughts of lucius and his daughter were forgotten—it was time to go home.
She did not look back.
Winterhold
The next day
After resting at the secluded Nightgate Inn, the three mages had resumed their return trek to the College at the break of dawn. They walked in relative silence, and very little troubled them on the way. That did not stop them from feeling on edge, though; Vinye had no doubt that Malys was worse off than herself and Cosette in that regard.
Thankfully, the tensest moment in their journey constituted a few sidelong glances from the Stormcloak garrison in Fort Kastav. They were too far away from it to see their faces or hear them talking, so Vinye took that as a good sign, and motioned the others to move on.
They reached the footbridge to the College as the sun was approaching its zenith; Vinye was grateful that no dragons were around to spoil the unusually good weather. Idly, she wondered if the Arch-Mage had something to do with it—Vinye had seen the power of Grimnir's Dragonborn magic for himself; no doubt his Voice could dispel a storm just as easily as it could create one.
As they entered the Courtyard of the College, Vinye noticed an unusually large number of people standing in the area. She recognized most of the staff, and a few of the scholars that frequented the Arcaneum as well. But most of them she didn't even recognize—were there that many students here? Perhaps some of them were only part-time, or attended only when it suited them. J'zargo had said the College wasn't as structured as other schools of magic, and Vinye herself had only just enrolled two weeks ago—but still, to see so many of them was a little unnerving.
J'zargo and Tolfdir chose that moment to step forward. Both of them were flanking Arch-Mage Grimnir—and in spite of the air of authority they carried, all three of them looked deeply disturbed about something.
Nowhere was this more evident than J'zargo—the Khajiit's narrowed eyes contrasted sharply with his normally boisterous demeanor. "We've been waiting for you," he said perfunctorily, his mustache barely moving as he spoke.
"Good morning to you, too," Cosette said sarcastically. "I hope you didn't miss us too much."
"We're very glad to see you all are safe," Grimnir said from beneath his iron mask. "Urag told us where you were this past week—I will assume your being here means you found what you were looking for?"
Vinye nodded, though she was still wary; if Urag had told Grimnir everything, then surely he must know about—
"We're not in trouble, are we?" Malys asked. "I know you said Dwemer research was banned, but you gave us your permission, didn't you? If—"
Vinye had to hand it to Grimnir—only the Dragonborn had the courage to stare a powerful vampire into silence.
"That depends on your definition of 'we' and 'trouble,'" Grimnir said. "Tolfdir, if you would."
The Master Wizard raised his hand, which was glowing a pale shade of orange. A second later, Vinye, Cosette, and Malys felt the contents of their packs straining at the seams. One second after that, the sackcloth burst under the pressure, and the three mages watched in awe and helplessness as potions, ingredients, jewelry and treasure—and all the Dwarven artifacts they'd found over the course of this week—floated through the air towards Tolfdir.
Malys yelped in protest as Wraithguard was wrenched off her arms by the invisible force. "Hey!"
The old Nord telekinetically sifted through the mages' belongings for a few seconds before levitating Sunder, Wraithguard, the three shards of Aetherium, and what Vinye assumed was Spellbreaker to his feet. Everything else was set on the stone walkway in neat little piles.
"I believe that's everything, Arch-Mage," he declared, seemingly satisfied with his work. "I'll take these down to the Midden." He piled the artifacts onto Spellbreaker like it was nothing more than a glorified serving platter.
"What is going on here?" Cosette burst out. "We were going to hand them over to you, anyway! Why—?!" Vinye elbowed her in the ribs; hard enough that the Breton would at least hear Grimnir out as to what he was doing.
"She has a point," Vinye said before Cosette could protest any further. "Did something happen while we were away? What's with all these people? And why did you feel the need to strong-arm us into giving up something we worked ourselves to the bone in order to find?" She already suspected Grimnir had a good reason—in fact, Vinye suspected she already knew what that reason might be—but Dragonborn or no Dragonborn, she'd be damned if she'd let him get away without an answer.
At length, the Arch-Mage relaxed his posture somewhat. "I suggest you all come with me," he said. "After all, a great deal of this has happened because of your efforts."
Vinye did not like the way that rusted mask was looking at her.
Before she could say anything further, Grimnir turned on his heel, and made for the Hall of Attainment. J'zargo and Tolfdir followed in his wake, and Vinye, Cosette, and Malys hurried behind them after they'd collected the remainder of their belongings.
Grimnir never paused in his step, using the same telekinetic spell as Tolfdir to push open the heavy doors with a loud bang. He passed the glowing fountain in the center of the hall, heading for the staircase—but not for the stairs themselves, Vinye saw. Instead, there was a trapdoor under the stairs, large enough for a fairly thin person to squeeze through. The six mages wedged themselves inside—the twin swords strapped across Cosette's back gave her some difficulty—and proceeded down a ladder leading to a damp, badly lit hallway.
"This is the Midden," Grimnir told them. "The lowest levels of the College in more ways than one—it's a dumping ground for forbidden experiments and exceptionally dangerous magic. Not all those experiments were successful—so I suggest you stay alert."
He murmured a few words under his breath; Vinye thought she saw a faint red glow from beneath his hood, but if it had ever existed, it was gone as quickly as it had come. Grimnir then motioned them to move ahead, casting a candlelight spell with a snap of his fingers, covering the stone halls in bright white light.
Vinye wished he hadn't done that—while she was confident in Grimnir's knowledge of this place, she'd felt better off not seeing all the disturbing decorations in the Midden. Skulls were nailed to the walls, framed by outstretched arms and hands that creaked in the draft, and covered in symbols she did not recognize. Entire skeletons—both animal and human—were strewn about in several chambers in circles, warped and contorted in impossible positions. They, too, were covered in blasphemous runes; Vinye swore blind that some of them had even been carved into their bones, slicing into the marrow as if it was mere flesh. She gave an involuntary shudder.
Finally, Grimnir stopped in the largest chamber yet. The walls were lined with large bulging sacks—at least a dozen of them—and Vinye took from the half dozen imposing-looking men in gleaming steel armor that whatever was inside these sacks was either very valuable, or very dangerous. She was leaning towards the latter; though it might be a trick of Grimnir's candlelight, it almost looked like the contents of the sacks were glowing slightly as well.
"What's in those sacks?" she asked.
"Solyn's payment for Keening, as per our deal," replied Grimnir. "As you can see, it is … considerable."
Vinye raised her eyebrows. That … is a lot of gold.
Malys face lit up eagerly, and she made as if to run to one of the sacks. Grimnir, however, had apparently already anticipated her. "There's no need to count it all out, Miss Malys," he said, raising his voice only slightly. "Besides, with this new information coming to light, I'd rather be safe than sorry."
Vinye nodded to herself. I knew it. "Then Urag must have told you about the letter from Drevis?"
"He did," said Grimnir. "I've recalled Drevis from Solstheim as well; he should be here within two days' time. Until he can confirm for himself that the contents of these bags are genuine, or if they're not part of some larger trap—this gold isn't changing any hands at all. It stays in the Midden under armed guard." He indicated the half-dozen armored men inside the chamber. "And the same goes for your Dwarven artifacts as well."
Vinye saw Tolfdir shift a few bags aside with his telekinesis, tucking the fruits of the mages' labors in an unobtrusive spot, then shifting the bags aside where they wouldn't be noticed.
"What about all those people out there?" Cosette inquired. "Are they new students?"
"They are," J'zargo said. "The graveness of matters aside, this one envies you three for what you have helped to do. For too long the influence and prestige of this College has been crumbling like the cliff on which it stands. But word is spreading of our deal with the one who calls himself Solyn. Many come to us, seeking riches and power." He huffed under his breath. "Too many rivals for Khajiit. J'zargo must be stronger, more learned in the arcane arts. Less competition that way, less men who would seek money over magic—but better rivalries, better students."
Competition. Vinye stiffened as she recalled the words of the thief Rolega. "There was something else I think you ought to know, Arch-Mage," she told Grimnir. "I question whether the source is sound, but I've heard that Solyn might not be the only one in Skyrim who's searching for Dwemer artifacts."
"I already know about the College of Whispers inside Avanchnzel," said Grimnir.
"This is different, sir," Vinye insisted. "I'm not talking about a legitimate institution. There are private collectors out there who are just as interested in these artifacts as Solyn is. And somehow I don't think they'll have any compunction about taking these artifacts by force—not to mention all the money Solyn paid us for Keening."
The iron mask tilted slightly to one side. "I see," Grimnir said entirely too calmly.
J'zargo growled. "This one did tell you. We were right to keep these artifacts to ourselves," he said to Grimnir.
"I'm not so sure, J'zargo," mused the Arch-Mage. "Word travels fast in Skyrim; I don't doubt that any scholar worth his salt knows about what's been going on here. They're going to notice the influx of prospective students, which will lead to a great deal of questions in and of itself."
"And that would them to hear about both our coffers and our artifacts," Vinye agreed. "If they're greedy enough—and if they're confident enough—they might try to take them by force."
The Khajiit waved a paw in disdain. "Collectors and mercenaries, feh! J'zargo has more magic in his little claw than such men. Let them come—we will send them away with empty hands!"
"I've met a few mercenaries in my time, J'zargo," Grimnir said evenly. "We'd do well to be prepared for the worst." He turned to Tolfdir. "I'm going to write to Calcelmo. I may need some more of those guards of his to keep watch down here."
The iron mask then rounded on the mages. "As for you three, I commend you for your efforts in recovering these artifacts—perhaps if the situation was different, I would see to it that you were compensated for your troubles as well." He sighed. "Until then, however, under no circumstances are we to carry out any communication with this Solyn. There will be no more couriers, and there will be no more deliveries sent to the ruins of Rkund."
"What about our search?" asked Malys. "We had several more leads we thought might be worth looking into. One of them had to do with Volendrung?"
Grimnir said nothing. Vinye would have given anything to know what was going on under that iron mask.
"They've already proved themselves capable mages, if I say so myself," Tolfdir asserted. "Even you never went inside a Dwemer ruin on your own, Arch-Mage."
Vinye found it very difficult to keep her composure; Tolfdir's claim had suddenly made her so giddy she felt like she could fly. She had ventured inside Raldbthar alone, while the Dragonborn himself had not? Was Tolfdir suggesting that Vinye was more powerful than even a living Nordic legend?
"There are older and fouler things in the world than the creations of the dwarves, Master Tolfdir," J'zargo said. "And Grimnir has faced them alone."
Grimnir laughed. "J'zargo, I'm surprised at you. You're not afraid they're going to challenge you one of these days, are you?"
A hearty little laugh was shared by all—even J'zargo grudgingly joined in after a while. "Khajiit always welcomes a challenge," he boasted.
Grimnir cleared his throat. "Well, I see no reason to keep you three away from your present assignment," he told the novices. "I would suggest you speak with Urag about Volendrung—I suspect he knows more about it than I do. But after you've finished following these leads of yours, I am ordering you to return to the College posthaste with whatever artifacts you have found."
Vinye nodded.
"Hold on. What about this Calcelmo you mentioned?" Cosette cut in. "I know the name—I spent some time in Markarth when I was younger. But it sounds like these guards are on his payroll. How do you know they won't turn on us?"
Grimnir said nothing for a few seconds. "Unlike Solyn, Calcelmo is a recognized scholar of the Dwemer," he said coolly. "His choice of guards may be less than ideal, but he is trustworthy. He also owes me a favor; I assisted him with the excavation of Nchuand-Zel under Markarth several years ago, and he's never quite been able to return the favor until now."
That seemed to placate Cosette, who merely shrugged.
"Now, if that will be all," Grimnir said, "I'd like a few words with Vinye, and then you can return to your duties."
Cosette and Malys frowned. "Don't worry," the Altmer reassured them—doing her best not to betray her own nervousness. "I'll meet you in the Arcaneum when I'm done."
The two novices reluctantly nodded, and made their way out of the Midden; Tolfdir and J'zargo followed in their stead, leaving Vinye alone with the Dragonborn and the men that guarded the Midden.
Once the mages had departed, Grimnir turned to Vinye—he'd switched out his iron mask for his orange-brown one. "You need to be very careful from here on out, Vinye," he said solemnly.
"Tell me something I don't already know," Vinye sighed. "Um … sir," she hastily added.
"I'm not talking about these unconfirmed threats of other dwarven collectors," Grimnir said dismissively. "I don't know what you've gotten yourself involved with, but I can see that glow in your eyes. Whatever you've set off to be a part of, it's bigger than you could possibly imagine. And if you aren't careful, it will destroy you."
The elf swallowed. "Are you talking about those Aetherium shards?" she asked.
The mask tilted slightly. "No—but it can certainly apply in this case as well," said the Arch-Mage. "I won't claim to be a mind-reader, Vinye. But I know what it's like to seek power, knowledge, what have you. When you have the soul of a dragon, as I do, that quest can turn into an obsession. And when I look into your eyes, I see the same thing happening to you. I see myself."
Grimnir slowly clutched his mask and pulled it off his face, and then he pulled down the hood of his robes so that Vinye could properly see the Dragonborn for the first time—and she clapped a hand to her mouth in horror.
The sight was horrendous, and yet she could not stop staring at the ravaged, hairless scalp before her, at the scarred skin pulled tight over so many wounds Vinye soon lost count. One whole side of the Arch-Mage's face had been ravaged by mage-fire, and cracked blisters wide as a septim covered the empty socket where his right eye should have been. The rest of his face was no different; the entire left cheek was sunken and shredded in a hundred different places, dangling limply below his remaining electric-blue eye. To top off the grotesque display, Grimnir's left ear had a sizable chunk missing, while his right ear was nothing more than a blackened stump; Vinye dreaded to think of the strength of the lightning magic that had done that.
She suppressed a shudder as Grimnir leaned in close to her. "You are not Dragonborn," he said; without the mask, his voice sounded much more raspy, like he'd just aged thirty years. "And while you are an accomplished mage in your own right, that makes it even more dangerous for you. I know you've talked to Septimus, and I also know the master he serves. But most important of all—I know the kind of deals that that particular Daedra has made with mortals, and I therefore urge you to think very carefully about the choices you make in your life. If you don't … well, at best, I'd wager you'd end up like me." He pointed to his scarred head.
Vinye gulped. "And … at worst?"
Grimnir's voice was cold enough to make being around Malys feel like paradise. "Then one of us is going to die."
Before, Vinye's joyous mood had merely ground to a screeching halt after seeing what was under Grimnir's mask. But now her euphoria had been blasted into cinders, and she felt an icy terror seep into her veins like thousands of needles. Had the Arch-Mage just made an open death threat against her—against one of his own students?!
It surprised her how quickly she recovered from the shock. "Y-yes, well," she stammered, speaking a bit more flippantly than she thought was possible, given the circumstances, "I'll make sure to keep my wits about me, the next time I see any slimy tentacles where there shouldn't be." She attempted a weak chuckle.
Grimnir grunted as he replaced his gray mask, allowing Vinye a moment of relief as the awful wounds were hidden once more. "Just as long as we're clear on that end," he said. "Now, about this … Aetherium, did you call it?" His hand glowed orange, and the three shards floated towards him as though they were guided on invisible strings.
Grimnir studied them for a few seconds, the Aetherium hovering telekinetically in front of his mask. Every so often, he mumbled to himself, too quietly for Vinye to hear. After a few minutes, the Arch-Mage snapped his fingers, and the three crystalline fragments converged on each other in midair.
"Did you play with puzzles as a child, Vinye?" Grimnir asked her.
"No, sir," she replied. "My mother and father were a little more … practical in their approach to my education." She grit her teeth, and forced all thoughts of the butcher she'd once called her father out of her head.
Grimnir sounded pensive. "There are three pieces, all of them roughly shaped like half a circle," he explained. "Already that should tell you these pieces have more in common than what they're made up of. But look at the extrusions on some of these pieces. Two of them are symmetrical, while the other is not. So … "
Grimnir's fingers twitched a little, and the pieces of Aetherium drew closer still. The two that Grimnir had deemed to be symmetrical rested one on top of the other, forming a perfectly circular edge. But that wasn't all—the two extrusions fit together perfectly.
And as Vinye watched open-mouthed in silent awe, Grimnir manipulated the third shard to the right of the formation; a bit of shuffling around, and all three pieces fit together seamlessly—except for a rough section to the left of the shard he'd just affixed—and that one imperfection told Vinye everything.
There's only one more piece left to find.
"As I said," Grimnir replied after a while. "It's a puzzle … a very perplexing one as well … "
Vinye had no reply.
The Altmer had been reluctant to reclaim the assembled shards of Aetherium after her conversation with Grimnir. But in spite of—or perhaps because of—the knowledge that the three of them fit so snugly together raised a great deal more questions in her mind than Grimnir had answered.
What was Aetherium? Vinye pondered as she ascended the stairs to the Arcaneum. Where had the dwarves found something so resilient and powerful—and what, if anything, was powerful enough to carve it so precisely?
And that was to say nothing of the Arch-Mage's sudden interest in Vinye. Had the Dragonborn run afoul of the same nightmarish entity she'd seen under the sea? Was that where he'd received those horrifying wounds?
The questions continued to vex her even as she halfheartedly flipped through the pages of book after book with Vinye and Cosette. Grimnir's refusal to back Solyn in his research had taken most of the wind out of everyone's sails, but there was still the matter of Volendrung to look forward to.
After a little more than an hour's worth of poring through the stacks, Cosette finally came across something promising. She waved over to Vinye and Malys, who immediately rushed to join her.
"I think I found it," explained the Breton, pointing to the dog-eared pages of the tome in her hand. "'The Hammer of Might, Volendrung is said to have been created by the Dwemer of the now abandoned clan of Rourken, … it is best known for the paralyzing and strength-leeching effects it has when cast at an enemy. Like the Dwarves who created it, Volendrung is prone to disappearing suddenly, resurfacing sometimes in days, sometimes in eons.'"
Malys sighed. "Well, at least we know what it is. But where can we find something like that?"
Vinye stole a look at the librarian, and recalled Grimnir's words to her. "Urag might know," she said. "Let's ask him." They headed over to the Orc's desk.
The Orc peered up from his book, and glared at the approaching mages with a bored look on his face. "What do you want?" he grunted.
"We wanted to ask about an artifact called Volendrung," Vinye said. "The Arch-Mage said you could help us out."
The Orc's bushy white eyebrows furrowed. "Volendrung, eh?" he asked, and then he chuckled. "Well, Grimnir sure got that right. Who better to go to than an Orc to ask about the Daedric artifact of Malacath?"
Cosette blanched. "Daedric artifact?" she repeated. Her round face deflated a little, like bread that had risen just a bit too quickly.
"Aye," Urag answered. "Malacath represents the spurned and the ostracized. His followers were once elves that served the god Trinimac, but when Boethiah transformed Trinimac into Malacath, those elves were transformed with him. They became the Orsimer—the 'pariah folk.'
"As for Volendrung"—Urag leaned back in his seat, which creaked noisily under him—"legend has it the head of the Rourken clan threw Volendrung into the sun, and he told the clan they would settle wherever it landed. The dwarves followed the hammer to the isle of Stros M'Kai, and made their home on the island—and the land around them came to be called Volenfell: where the hammer fell."
"Hammerfell," said Malys half to herself—recognizing the connection between the legend of Volendrung and the largely arid region south and west of Skyrim.
"Where does Malacath fit in all this?" Vinye asked.
The Orc shrugged. "No one's really sure—especially since Malacath is traditionally opposed to the Dwemer. There used to be a popular theory that because the Rourken exiled themselves from their own people, the hammer came to symbolize Malacath for that same reason—and therefore, whoever found Volendrung would find his favor. But some Orcs have it in their heads that Malacath himself battled the Rourken chief and defeated him at some point in time, and took Volendrung for his own."
"Where is Volendrung now?"
Urag glared at Cosette with an annoyed look. "I'd be up all night telling you why that doesn't even make any sense," he said bluntly. "Daedric artifacts don't last long on Mundus. Eventually, they fade away into Oblivion and stay there—until for whatever reason, one of the Daedra decides to send it back and repeat the process. Frankly, your best option would be to go to Malacath himself—and good luck," he laughed, showing his tusks in a sneer.
Cosette groaned. "I was hoping you wouldn't say that," she said through her teeth.
"There's that—or you could go to one of their strongholds in the mountains," said Urag. "There's four in Skyrim that I know of, and they're all a ways from here. There's one to the west of Riften that's supposed to have an actual shrine to Malacath inside. I'd start there if I were—"
Urag stopped rambling for a few seconds, and then let off a short bark of a laugh. "Ha! But you're not blood-kin, are you?"
"Blood-what, now?" asked a confused Malys.
Vinye knew what that meant. "Orcs don't like outsiders much," she told the Dunmer. "They like to keep to themselves. Blood-Kin is their catchall term for the few outsiders they deem trustworthy enough to let inside. But usually you have to really help them out in order to … "
Vinye's voice trailed off into nothingness—she'd just had an idea. "Urag," she asked, "how well connected are you to the strongholds?"
The Orc's glowering look faded a little. "Not very much," he said. "But I don't think that matters—not for what I'm thinking you might have in mind, anyway. I'm assuming you got that other errand of yours taken care off?"
Vinye nodded, but said nothing further.
Urag mumbled to himself for a minute, apparently thinking something over in his head. After a few moments, he reached in his robe, and pulled out a particularly jagged-looking dagger with a greenish-gray blade. "Hold out your hand," he instructed.
As Urag grasped her open palm in one hand and the dagger in the other, Vinye realized with a gasp what the Orc was about to do, and immediately braced herself for the worst. But to her slight surprise, there was only a slight twinge of pain—the extreme tip of the blade was sharpened such that it passed through her flesh with impunity, and it did not bleed nearly as much as the Altmer thought it would.
"Let the scars heal naturally," Urag told her. "If you use a healing spell, you'll seal it up too fast, and no one'll be be able to see the scar when they get a good look at you." He wiped up the paltry drops of blood with a dirty cloth. "Congratulations," he said, with only a trace of sarcasm in his voice. "I've just named you Blood-Kin to the Orcs."
For just a moment, Vinye thought that tusked mouth of Urag's might have twisted into a smile. But just when she thought she'd seen it, it was gone, and the librarian was back to his old, abrasive self.
"Now pick up the mess you made back there before I change my mind," he grunted, waving them off dismissively and returning to the tome in his hands.
The three mages slowly looked over their shoulders at the mountain of books they'd piled on their table over the past hour. Cosette muttered something incomprehensible under her breath, and stole a dark glance at Vinye.
"Don't look at me," the Altmer said defensively as she began organizing part of the pile into its own neat stack. "It's not my fault I got rewarded for taking some initiative, is it?"
Cosette huffed. "I'm just wondering why he didn't mark us all as Blood-Kin. Urag's bound to know we've all been a big help to the College. Honestly, I've half a mind to call nepotism on this."
Vinye said nothing. It was possible that Cosette might have a point; she didn't see any logical reason why Urag hadn't marked the Breton as he had Vinye. The same was true for Malys—but that she wasn't marked either was a stroke of luck; Vinye had no idea if vampires bled any differently from humans—or even if they bled at all.
"So what kind of initiative did you take?" Malys piped up, as she finished her own stack and began sorting through the titles. "You said you have to help Orcs out in order to be Blood-Kin. So what did you do for Urag?"
"He asked me to make a delivery before I set out to Raldbthar and found Sunder," Vinye said. She decided not to tell them about the specifics of the delivery, never mind what she'd seen inside that iceberg; if she was honest, the Altmer doubted they'd believe her anyway. The knowledge of an Elder Scroll and a Daedric Prince out of the blue—they'd think she was insane!
"Must've been some kind of delivery," Cosette muttered, but she said nothing further.
The three mages continued on in silence. As they packed and reshelved book after book, Vinye allowed her mind to dwell on the multitude of thoughts rushing chaotically through her head.
There were three pieces of Aetherium to their credit, out of a possible four … The Aetherium Wars had mentioned the ruins of Arkngthamz, said to be located in the southern Reach … Was it possible that—
"Cosette?" Vinye asked, breaking the silence. "How well do you know the Reach?"
Cosette smirked. "Like the back of my hand," she boasted, flexing her scarred arm to drive the point home. "Why?"
It was Vinye's turn to break into a rare smile. "Because I might know where to find one more of those crystal shards … "
Somewhere in the Rift
The three bandits never knew what happened to them.
One moment, the dwarven ruins where they had made their camp had been relatively peaceful, the silence of the night interrupted only by the hoot of an owl, or the chirp of a nearby cricket. The next, the world had exploded in a thousand shades of brown, and the cool night air had turned into a thick, choking miasma around them.
Only when the last of the marauders had gasped out his last breath did Solyn finally lower his gloved hand. The churning clouds that engulfed the ruins dissipated swiftly, and scattered with a half-hearted wave as the bandit toppled dead at his feet, the iron mace clanging on the stone.
The wizard took his time walking through the ruins, analyzing every last bit of metal and stone that he could see. There were none of the Dwemer's iconic towers here, but the stairs and smooth worn floors had still survived the centuries. Solyn pushed aside a crude bone chime that the ruin's former occupants had rigged from an archway to warn them of intruders—but not, he reflected, of wizards like him.
The first time he had learned of this place, it had been purely by accident. Solyn had been browsing the bits of books in Rkund that were still legible enough to read, and one of them had mentioned this place as one of particular importance to the dwarves. Exactly why it was important had been lost to the ages—but as Solyn approached a dais that overlooked the rest of the otherwise unremarkable ruin, he immediately knew from the object perched in the exact center of the platform that his journey had not been in vain.
Solyn rested his hands on the thin metal bands of the sculpture, and ran his finger through the perfectly round groove in the center of the plinth. Something was clearly designed to fit inside, he noted. But what could it be—and more to the point, what purpose did it serve?
He laid his hands on the pedestal, and concentrated on the imagery of the ruins that he'd taken, allowing them to occupy the foremost place in his mind. "Meht hekem, quam iya … tayem-hekem, seht cess payem," he chanted under his breath. "Meht ayem, roht koht … bedt-tayem-hekem, ayem, lyr-hefhed-tayem!"
The circular platform beneath him glowed violet for a few seconds as the rune took shape around its circumference, and then faded into the stone. Solyn gave it only a few moments of his attention; he knew it would be perfect—it had to be. But his only concern now was the mystery of this ruin. Too much of it was eroded and decayed to be of any further use now—why, only that one book in all of Rkund had given any insight as to its very existence!
For now, Solyn knew that information—along with what he had gained tonight—would have to suffice. He would make his way back to Rkund, and research this site to the extent of the forgotten city's archives. Now that he had marked the ruins for himself, returning here would be easy.
"Roht ekem, cess ayem, do-lyr," he whispered. "Roht-koht yoodt, neht-doht meht."
A column of swirling purple fire consumed him, and Solyn had vanished as though he'd never set foot in this place.
Eastmarch
Mzulft was already far behind them now, and the volcanic steppes were giving way to the forests of the Rift. Now that they were becoming more and more familiar with the roads of eastern Skyrim, the novices' journey was taking much less time than they'd anticipated. It was only the three of them, but even without two senior staff of the College accompanying them, they were making surprisingly good headway, considering it had only been a day and a half after they had left Winterhold.
"We've made a name for ourselves," Cosette said boldly after passing the mountain where those bandits had once ambushed them, and not seeing an outlaw in sight. "Not in that way," she added, after Vinye gave her a look. "I mean bandits and thugs and those people. I'm just saying they're scared of us, that's all."
"News travels fast," Vinye remarked. "Someone's bound to listen in and find out why they're so scared—and they could find out who we are."
"Well, we've been lucky so far," Malys agreed. "I actually ran into a mercenary not too far from here last week, and he didn't seem to care all that much about the Dwemer. I was able to convince him to travel alongside and help find Wraithguard for me, but I don't know if I'll be that lucky again."
Cosette grinned. "Some standards he had, with your face the way it is."
Malys growled, but the effort was only half-hearted, and Cosette saw the Dunmer's lips curl up in a thin smile—the only part of Malys she could see, owing to the overlarge black robes covering her face and armor.
"I don't need to present myself like a bitch in heat to gain the favor of a mercenary," Malys said in a falsely sweet voice. "He only agreed because I was carrying some dwarven weapons with me from a storeroom near Mzulft. I sold them and gave him the money." She sighed. "He was worth every septim, too—if it wasn't for him, I might not be alive. But he was the one who died instead."
Cosette was prepared to make another joke at Malys' expense, but the tone of the dark elf's voice at this last bit of information suggested that perhaps this mercenary—whoever he was—really had lost his life inside whatever ruin Malys had ventured into.
"How did he die?" she asked. "Did he step on a pressure plate or something, trigger a trap?"
Malys shook her head. "Worse," she answered. "It was—"
And then she stopped. She held up her palm over her eyes, appearing to scan the road ahead.
"Someone's coming," she said, her voice low. "Looks like … four people. Three of them look armed."
Vinye tensed. "We'd better get off the road," she whispered. "It could be bandits—or worse." She pointed to the left; a sizable bush was growing near the shoulder. "Hide behind there!"
They hurried off the road—not running outright; that would surely attract their attention. Once they'd hid behind the bush, the three mages peered through the leaves as the figures came into greater detail.
Two of them strode up the road at a fair clip, one behind the other, while the other two men brought up the rear, and walked side by side. All of these three were armored head to toe; the one in front wore Nordic-looking armor with many swirls and animal motifs carved into it. As for the others, one was clad in steel plate; his companion, a very battered-looking set of iron that nonetheless looked as though it could withstand the jaws of a dragon.
It was the fourth figure among them, however, that garnered their attention. He was a mage in burgundy robes: a Dunmer, with dark red eyes and bushy black hair. The way he carried himself told Cosette he was confident to a fault—and someone of importance as well, if those armored men with him were any indication.
She held her breath as the four men drew level with the bush they were hiding under, and slowly reached for her Forsworn blades.
And then the blade of a massive claymore sunk into the bush, barely inches from her face. She yelped, and scurried back several feet.
"Out," rumbled the owner of the huge sword—the man in steel plate; another Breton, judging by the accent. "On your feet. All of you."
Cosette's heart was thundering as she stood up from the bush, weapons drawn. Vinye and Malys followed suit, their fingers sizzling with sparks and freezing air. She remembered what the Altmer had said about competition as they had left Whiterun. Was it possible that these people were looking for Dwemer relics, too?
"You're not very good bandits, are you?" said the Dunmer. "I'll give you credit for that timing on your ambush—you must have the eyes of a Khajiit to have seen us from so far away. But you picked your hiding place too well. That bush is just the right size to hide a surprise attack—one that my guards have learned to recognize in our days."
He nodded to the armored Breton. "Stand down, Dorian," he said. "I don't think we've anything to fear."
Cosette sheathed her swords across her back as the guards did the same, and she laughed to stave off her sudden feeling of discomfort. In all the time she'd lived in the Reach, Cosette had learned a lot about the wilderness of those steppes, and she had an uncanny ability to sense danger long before she could see it as a result of this knowledge. Right now, the hairs of her neck were tingling, and she felt her heartbeat quicken just a little.
There was an air about this Dunmer that she did not like one bit.
"We're mages of Winterhold," she grinned, hiding her anxiety. "Unlike you, we don't need lackeys to deal with so-called bandits."
The man called Dorian growled, but the Dunmer's bushy eyebrows rose a few millimeters at the name of the town. "Winterhold?" he said pensively. "So the rumors are true, then? Someone really is searching for powerful relics."
Cosette winced as Vinye aimed a kick at her shin, out of sight of the wizard and his retinue.
"I suppose you'd know all about that, wouldn't you?" she heard the Altmer ask accusingly. "We've already had our fair share of would-be scholars, and we're not in the mood to listen to more lies from thieves."
The Dunmer stepped back. "Oh, dear—you misunderstand. I study the Dwemer, it is true, but I have never concerned myself with their artifacts at all. Merely that wondrous metal that is so often found in their ruins."
He stepped forward, and extended his hand. "Taron Dreth—the foremost authority on Dwemer metallurgy in Tamriel, at your service."
None of the mages moved to return the gesture, including Cosette, and Taron's bravado faltered only a little. But Vinye had dove into her satchel, and was now leafing through a book she'd just pulled from there. "Taron Dreth," she repeated under her breath. "The Taron Dreth? Who wrote The Aetherium Wars?"
Taron's face brightened and darkened at the same time. "The very same," he affirmed.
"So, then," Vinye said, "you can tell us a few things about this mineral called Aetherium, can't you?"
Taron was silent for a few moments. "If you're wondering where to find some, it is very difficult to obtain; there are no surviving examples of such a mineral anywhere—at least, none known to me. The ruins of Arkngthamz—assuming you've read the book—would definitely be the place to start looking, to be sure. However, I've word from very reliable sources that lately, destructive earthquakes have marred the region where its ruins are said to lie. If that's the case, then I highly doubt they'd be accessible anymore."
Cosette laughed. "And what if those earthquakes uncovered the ruins instead—would you be willing to take that chance?" she asked. "Are you just going to give up the ghost so easily?"
Malys huffed. "I know what being in an earthquake feels like," she muttered.
Taron, for his part, was looking at Cosette slightly askew, as though her words had had an impact on her. His bodyguards were also exchanging glances with one another.
Finally, Taron nodded. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt to check," he said. "But it's a long way to the Reach. We were on our way to Falkreath take on supplies before we found you. Perhaps if you could meet us there at your earliest convenience, we could explore the ruins as one large group. Does that sound like a proposition?"
Cosette's eyes flicked from Vinye to Malys and back again. Both of them wore looks on their faces that suggested they were less than happy this offer. Frankly, Cosette couldn't blame them—one never knew what was still waiting inside Dwarven ruins. She thought of the unspeakable things she had done in Bthardamz, and did her best to suppress the tears.
And then there were the Forsworn. Cosette wasn't worried for herself—she knew better than anyone here, and perhaps in all of Skyrim, how the Forsworn worked. But the others … Cosette shook her head. Taron had his bodyguards—and hopefully some power to back up that enormous pretention of his. As for Vinye and Malys—Cosette stifled a chuckle. She could let the two mages taste the harsh reality of the Reach for themselves.
And if her true identity was discovered in the process, Cosette would deal with the situation accordingly.
She cleared her throat, and turned to Taron. "We'll think about it," she said evenly. "If you see us in Falkreath, you'll know our decision."
And with that, she walked past Taron and his retinue, continuing south to Shor's Stone. Vinye and Malys ran to catch up with her.
It was a long while before the Altmer spoke up. "What do you think?" asked Vinye.
"About Taron?" Cosette pursed her lips in thought. "I really don't know. But when you've spent enough time in Markarth, you can get this sixth sense about you—you can't really explain what it is, but you know it's going to happen all the same."
"And what's this sixth sense telling you now?"
The Breton's face was grim. "That if we're not careful, he could be bad news."
Malys was deep in thought. "What should we do, then? If they double-cross us somehow?"
Cosette did not blink. "Then we'll just have to kill them all, won't we?"
She didn't need to tilt her head back to know her casual statement had made them uneasy. Weaklings, she thought. Admittedly, they were good in firefights, but when it came to bare-bones survival, it only boiled down to one lesson—one that Cosette had drilled into her head ever since she'd first become part of the Cullers.
Kill … or be killed.
Next chapter: The three mages have a very tall order ahead of them—in many senses of the word.