Dear Alzena,
I have no choice but to tell you to continue on your mission while you are there. But…be wary. Please. For my sake. Peer not too deeply into Oblivion, lest it peer too deeply into you. By now, perhaps you have realized some of the dangers that lie before you. What you do not realize is far greater.
Signed,
Master Joneleth
The scrawny man was just standing there by the river, all by himself. He was muttering to the trees, or the gods, or no one at all. Sometimes he would cower, cover his head, yell, and start it all over again.
I knew. I'd been watching him for the better part of mid-morning.
His skin was shrivelled, blistered into a permanent red where his clothes – no, rags – had torn. His cheeks were hollow.
Was this really the right person? Astrid had spoken of removing leeches from Tamriel. What could this pathetic man have done?
"Narfi," I finally called out.
He darted over. "Reyda?"
"No."
"Someone's come to see old Narfi!" He clapped his hands and jumped up and down. "No one comes to see old Narfi since his sister went away."
I cursed myself. I was here to shoot him, not have tea.
"Old Narfi's a little hungry." He patted his sunken belly. "Spare some coin for a friend?"
This was ridiculous. I handed him a coin.
He kissed it and clasped it to his heart. "Now, what can Narfi do for a nice girl like you?"
Maybe Nazir was right. I just wasn't cut out for this. Anyone who could kill a man like this was…well, evil didn't even begin to describe it. They would make necromancers look like devotees of Mara.
"Just saying hello," I told him.
"Hullo!"
Could I really just disappear, as Nazir had hinted? But, how did you slip out from under the eyes of a powerful being? Especially since – and gods only knew why – the Mother seemed to have a vested interest in me.
You will find what you are looking for. Could she know?
The Master had not mentioned Markarth in his book, I was sure – I had practically memorized it.
I boarded the carriage and rode to Markarth in silence, my bow and arrows strapped pointedly to my pack. No one gave me a second glance.
When we finally arrived, Markarth hit me like a load of bricks.
The air was smoky and acrid, and stunk of human waste. I doubled over, coughing. Didn't they have sewers? Crumbling, ornate ruins spawned a maze of passages, crawling with people shouting in unfamiliar tongues. An eerie song drifted through the air. Ahead, two grown men slung their fists at each other.
"Safest city in the reach," a guard muttered.
Thieves and murderers lurked in every shadow. Did I look like a stranger, an easy mark?
A sign loomed ahead. "The Silver-Blood Inn".
Quickly, I got off the street.
Inside the inn, a thin woman was sweeping, revealing a grimy oaken floor. "Greetings, traveller." She sauntered over.
"Greetings."
"We don't get many visitors these days." Her bodice was incredibly low-cut. "With the Falmer, the Forsworn, the rebellion, the dead not staying dead – it's been hard times for Markarth."
I felt embarrassed just looking at her.
"Apologies. Bad luck to talk about the dead in Markarth. What brings you to our fine establishment?"
Something skittered past. "Um…work."
"Looking for work?"
Unless the gods decided to claim old Narfi soon... yes, I would be looking for work. I nodded.
"Hmmm." She played with the strap of her dress. "A witchhunter from the Priesthood of Stendarr is in town. Asking a lot of questions about that old abandoned house."
"Where?"
"Just down the lane. Evil rites, he said. A blight on Tamriel."
"Thanks." I rushed out, coughing again. The sun was shining, and the light glinted off the stone, hurting my eyes.
Next to a pile of refuse was a young man who looked…like me. Brown hair, pale skin, slim build. He reminded me of the Emperor. He could easily have been part of the royal family. Imperial, through and through.
A horn-shaped amulet swung from his neck. I had seen it before – on the other Vigilants.
He bounded over. "Well met!"
"Well met."
"Gods, it's such a relief to see a familiar face." His smile seemed so genuine. "Where you from?"
"Capital."
"Me too!"
Had I seen him there? I couldn't remember him. No surprise. The capital was huge, and I'd spent most of my time at the Academy.
"I'm here with the order of Stendarr." He showed me his amulet proudly. "You could say I'm a daedra hunter."
"Me too."
"You're joking! Are you with one of the" – his eyes sparkled eagerly – "the priesthoods?"
"No, the Academy."
"Perfect." Nothing could dampen his smile.
I found myself smiling back. It was refreshing to hear a familiar accent. I'd been here so long, I'd stopped noticing how people talked differently.
"I have a confession." He hung his head. "I was afraid to go in alone."
"You?" A laugh escaped my mouth. "A Vigilant of Stendarr?"
He actually blushed. "I know, it's silly. We 'cleanse Tamriel of these abominations' and all that."
Fortunately, he hadn't seen Azura's star.
"It's just…there's something evil in that house. Real evil. Didn't want to head in without someone else." He drew himself up. "But I see you've skill with the bow."
"Sort of."
He braved the door first. The house was dark. Something creaked. Fumbling, he lit a torch, and then gasped. "Fresh food. No wood rot. Someone's been here."
Someone – or something – still was. I felt it. I'd felt it ever since I had come to Markarth, I realized. It was reaching out to me, singing a sweet melody. Dark. Foreboding. Enticing. I shivered.
He tiptoed over to a table, brushed aside some crumbs, and gasped. "Evil," he swore, clutching his amulet. "Evil."
"Evil?"
"Evil rites." He shied away from it.
I took a closer look. The sheaf of parchment was etched in daedric. The weak will be punished by the strong. Bring strife and discord with you wherever you may travel. Now go.
The voice beckoned me.
"I'll go first." His hands were clenched so hard, his knuckles were white. "Cover me."
We crept downstairs.
He halted. "Wait! Can you hear that?"
The voice was not calling to him. I knew.
Then, suddenly, I did hear it. Muffled cries.
Brandishing the torch, the Vigilant rushed down towards a man who was bound and gagged, leaning against a stone altar. He was draped in a priest's cowl – of what deity, I wasn't sure.
"Thank Stendarr we made it in time." The Vigilant severed the ropes. "I dare not think what those fiends intended with you."
The priest rose. "They will not live to speak of it again."
"On behalf of the Vigil, you have my thanks."
The priest squinted at us in the flickering torchlight. His gaze was intense, solid. "Strange bedfellows."
Outside, carts wheeled by. Faintly. "So how did you get here?" I tried to keep my voice steady.
"I am an initiate of Boethiah."
The Vigilant drew in a sharp breath. "This is…a coven of Boethiah's?"
"No."
"Then what…?"
The priest blew sand off the altar. "I came to claim this for Boethiah's own."
Profane symbols were etched on the altar, and it smelled of rot. A rusty mace sat upon it.
"Abomination," hissed the Vigilant.
The darkness stirred. I drew my cloak tighter around me. "Whose shrine is this?"
The torch flickered out. Deep crimson leaked in through cracks in the walls. "Mortals. You dare intrude on my inner sanctuary."
The priest clenched his dagger. "I sanctify this site for the Goddess of Destruction, Deceiver of Nations, She – "
"The fool performs his insulting rites?" The words leapt forth from the darkness itself. "He will forsake the weak and pitiful Boethiah."
"You think you can best Boethiah's faithful?" the priest challenged. But his voice shook.
The darkness surrounded me. "And the girl…yes. Very good. She meets my needs. Azura will bend her knee and cede the girl to me."
All the daedra want is your soul.
"No."
"You will serve me."
"I will not."
"You will serve me…and you will enjoy it."
A vice grabbed me. I smelled obsidian, fire salts. I thrashed against the icy hand in my mind.
"And you, fool, will instruct her." The crimson wormed its way around the priest. "So long since I have tasted blood."
Crimson tendrils strangled the Vigilant. Half on his own volition, the priest strode towards him. Blood was rushing through his veins. Eagerness. Excitement. Anticipation.
How could I feel it?
And then I realized.
I was bound to him.
The dagger in his hand was smooth, familiar. A thrust – and the dagger pierced the Vigilant's skin. It was resistant at first – and then was so soft, so pliant, so yielding. He twisted it, shoved it in harder.
A thrill ran through him. This was his life. This was his art. No, this was his worship. He fed the blood to his god.
His eyes flickered over me. His next sacrifice. How did he want to do it? Quickly? The jugular, the kidney. Painfully? The stomach. The lungs. Or slowly? Nipping away at my ears and fingers as I pleaded, until I blacked out and Boethiah plundered my soul?
He threw me against the altar, carved along my face. Blood dripped onto the rocks. He was playing with his prey. He was going to enjoy himself, build up to the kill.
I grabbed the mace. The crimson darkness urged me on.
I thrashed at his head. He leapt away. I crouched like a mountain lion, ready to pounce.
Crimson thrummed around me. Sweat ran down my forehead. He was eager now, ready for the kill.
He thrust. I leapt aside.
He thrust again. I leapt aside.
He thrust. I leapt aside, and then bore the mace down. Joy, blood, excitement rushed through me. Bone cracked. I pounded down again, and again, and again.
A sense of well-being washed over me. Even the pain was exquisite. I was crushing his head. A black void surrounded him. His dying thoughts flickered to…a book. Scripted in daedric. Engraved in his soul. "If this inflames your heart, then know you need to find the shrine of Boethiah, east of the mountains of Windhelm."
The darkness released me.
I was still brandishing the mace, looking for another foe to fell. It had a strange energy. It felt eager. Alive. Ready to leap onto its prey.
It had an inscription, in daedric. Molag Bal. The Lord of Domination.
The darkness surrounded me one last time. "I give you its true power, mortal. When your enemies lie broken and bloody before you, know that I will be watching. Know that you will obey me, when you assume your rightful place."
"I…what?"
The darkness faded.
I picked up the priest's dagger. My first trophy. It was curved, sharp, intricately engraved. Beautiful. It fit easily in my hand. I strapped the dagger to my waist, and imagined myself wielding it. Then, I buried the mace in my pack, muffling its alluring voice.
Light trickled back into the room. It smelled of blood. The priest's head was crushed open like a rotten watermelon.
I gaped, and then fled outside.
The innkeep was strolling by. "Back so soon?"
"He fell." I was gasping for breath.
"Oh, a pity." She rushed into the house.
I ran to the stables and boarded a carriage. I willed myself not to think, especially about the mace. I was afraid to touch it, lest I feel….
Molag Bal. The Master had written nothing about him.
Boethiah. The Master had written about her. Cryptically. "The goddess is jealous. She does not suffer the presence of another. My journey ends at her sanctum. May the deeds of our ancestors protect us."
Cicero's words danced in my mind. You will find what you are looking for.
The answers were not in Markarth. They were with Boethiah.
And now I knew where to find her.
I wasn't ready yet, though, I realized as we rode. I needed to be stronger. I had been facing only one priest, and had the help of…stronger powers. If there were others, all as eager for the kill….
I still wasn't sure if I could fight, but I now knew I could kill. I knew where to strike, how to strike – and, most importantly, I had the will to strike. Not just the will. The desire. It was like nothing else I had ever tasted.
I got off at Ivarstead. The last rays of the sun had almost disappeared. I closed my eyes for a moment and gave a silent thanks to Azura, and then walked towards the river.
Narfi was there. Flies were still circling him.
He backed away.
"They've sent you for me." He sank down, put his head between his knees, and quavered. "No! Oh, by the gods, please, no! Old Narfi just wants to be left alone..."
The release was heavenly.
After stooping to wash the dagger, my hands, my robes in the river, I headed home.
Nizar was sitting at the table, stirring a bowl of soup. Not eating.
"Brother."
The spoon dropped. He rushed over to me. "I thought ye might not be coming back."
"I wasn't so sure either."
Suddenly, his jaw set. Stern. Hard. Like the Master, when I had done something wrong.
"Yer first kill." He was quiet.
"Yes."
Abruptly, he went to the door. "Babette?"
"Mmm?"
"Recruit's back."
"Told you so."
"Get her some of yer special tea. Another, for me."
Astrid strode in. Her hair was impeccably braided. She grabbed me by the shoulder. "The road to Ivarstead is at most two days."
"I…" Astrid had an iron grip. "Cicero told me the Mother said I needed more training."
"Cicero?" Her voice was almost a growl. "Let me make one thing clear. I am in charge here. You report to me, not Cicero."
"I'm sorry."
She seized my dagger. "I thought he was teaching you archery."
"I…I…."
Wordlessly, she let me go, and turned to Nazir. "Job done?"
"Aye." He ran his hand through his hair, adjusted his scimitar, fiddled with his tunic. "The lass did it."
"Give her another." She stalked out.
Nazir handed me a wooden mug, and cast a blanket over me, then slumped onto another bench. "M'kai, dura-hi. Ajcea, ansu." His voice soothed me, even though I couldn't understand him.
The cut on my face throbbed lightly, but it didn't bother me. If anything, it pleased me.
I nestled into the blanket, closed my eyes. The priest. The Vigilant. Narfi. Molag Bal. Boethia. It was too much to take in, all at once.
How were you supposed to feel when people died? Guilty? Competent? I forced myself to remember Rogvirr, his head rolling from the block, his body twitching, my stomach heaving. But all I felt was - content.
"I shouldn't have brought ye into this." Nazir's face was in his hands.
"It wasn't you."
I sipped the tea. Blackberry. Lavender. Mugwort. Imported, probably from Cyrodiil.
"It's never easy, the first time."
"It was wonderful."
"Gods."
I drifted off to sleep. But my dreams were confused, for Azura's light mingled with a black void, and a hint of crimson.
Author notes:
Redguard language courtesy of "The Imperial Library" website.
tirechanclas: Thanks for the review! I had a creepy moment once when I e-mailed one of the chapters to myself, and my mind misinterpreted the letter as an e-mail to me.
