"I still don't see why we couldn't have gone through Cyrodiil," said Angi, retrieving another arrow from a bandit corpse.
Gylhain paused in wiping down her sword. "Oh come on," she said, strain coming momentarily into her voice, "isn't this far more exciting?" She gestured out at the sands of Hammerfell.
"At this rate it'll take us weeks to reach Valenwood," said Angi.
"You any in particular hurry?" asked Gylhain. Angi just shrugged.
Their guide appeared from over the next dune, blood staining his chest. The ice spike in his hand dissipated when he saw the remains of the bandits. His name was Jachael, and he was a thin Redguard mage with a knack for tracking. Some dark jagged tattoos spread across the left side of his face.
"Sometimes," he said, "I think your conversations are composed entirely of bickering." He looked back at the way they had come: north. "I have not seen Valenwood. I am sure that many trees cannot be good for a person."
"Shall we continue?" asked Gylhain.
"By all means," said Jachael. He paused in the act of pulling up his scarf and looked at them both. "Unless you would like to argue about it a little while longer."
Gylhain looked a little abashed, but Angi grunted and shouldered her pack, eyes returning to the road and their southward journey.
It was a few months after the incident at the Assemblage before Falin and Kureeth found themselves back in Windhelm. Ri'saad's caravan routes seemed too meticulous to be entirely random, co-ordinated as they were with the other caravans he owned, but if there was a pattern to it all, Falin had not been able to discover it.
Tasked with stocking up on supplies, the couple bought food at the Cornerclub, but found Revyn Sadri to be low on potions—some excuse about the roads being in poor repair, although such setbacks had never halted their own caravan. Ri'saad had made a specific note on resist cold potions, and Sadri advised them to head over to The White Phial for the required items; he even gave them a letter of credit.
"We're headed to Winterhold, Ri'saad said," said Falin as they trudged through the snow in the falling light across Windhelm to the alchemist's store. "It's really expanding, trying to get back to what it was like before the Collapse. What was it Ri'saad said . . .?"
"There are customers waiting everywhere; one merely has to find them," recited Kureeth. The most words he'd strung together in days. Falin noticed the smile playing around her husband's mouth; she'd become masterful at reading his expressions over the years they'd spent together.
"I was thinking . . ." said Falin, "of enrolling in the College. My magic could certainly use some improvement, and it's the best place in Skyrim to learn. And I'm sure there'd be plenty of work for you, with the expanding town."
Kureeth stretched his shoulders and shifted the sack he carried on his shoulders, but said nothing.
"Not that I haven't enjoyed our time with the caravan," Falin went on. "I'm grateful to Ri'saad for the chance he took on us, and it's been great seeing so much of Skyrim, but I don't want to do this forever. It's just . . . Winterhold seems like the sort of place I could live for a while."
"Not yet," grunted Kureeth. There was an approval contained in those two negative words that made Falin smile.
"Of course not!" she said. "We can take a look around when we're up there, maybe talk to one of the mages, see if they'd take someone like me." She frowned. "Maybe we should be saving money a little more sensibly than we are. How much would a house be? I don't know."
"Much," said Kureeth.
"Probably," agreed Falin, a little downheartedly. She pulled open the door to the White Phial, held it open for Kureeth, then followed him inside, closing it to block out the whistling Windhelm winds.
After the initial jolt of surprise, Kara felt a surprising amount of pleasure at seeing Falin and Kureeth again. Skyrim was always a smaller place than it at first seemed.
"I didn't know you worked here," said Falin, her mouth hanging open a little. "Sorry," she added, "that's no way to greet people."
"It's fine," said Kara. "I'm just an apprentice. Quintus does all the real work."
"You are still open then?" asked the wood elf. "We had some things we needed."
"Of course," said Kara, returning to the forced pleasing manner she used with customers. "What can I help you with?"
"Just what's listed here," said Falin, sliding a piece of paper across the counter.
Kara examined the list. "Shouldn't be more than a moment," she smiled, and retrieved the listed potions from the shelves below and behind the counter. The usual mix of health and stamina potions, with a selection of the less common: several solutions designed to prolong magicka use, and a large quantity of resist cold potions. She lined them up on the counter and watched as Kureeth began slowly and gently adding them to his sack.
Falin slid over another note, revealing itself upon examination to be a letter of credit.
Kara cleared her throat, smiled an excuse, and slipped through the doorway that led to the back room.
"What is it?" asked Quintus Navale, his alchemical work now in shadow from the big Nord woman's presence.
"Is Sadri's credit still good?" she asked.
He frowned. "Yes, but this is the last time. Next time I want to see actual coin, if he knows what coin even looks like."
Kara returned to the counter. "This is all in order," she said. "Is there anything else?"
"No, thank you," said Falin.
Kara felt a sudden desire to prolong the conversation. She'd had only Antario to converse with for so long, despite how much she enjoyed his companionship. It had been too long since she'd heard what was going on outside Windhelm. Quintus, of course, was incapable of talking about anything other than his work.
"You heading someplace cold?" she asked.
"Up to Winterhold," nodded Falin. "The caravan is always looking for new opportunities." Kureeth smiled and Kara sensed a joke she couldn't understand. Alright then.
"A good evening to you," she said.
"And to you," answered Falin. She once again held the door open and the pair exited. Kara realised that Kureeth hadn't spoken a word the whole time he'd been in the shop.
She stood motionless for a moment, contemplating the evening and night that stretched ahead of her. Back to House Shatter-Shield, which she still had trouble thinking of as home.
Torbjorn Shatter-Shield was a man who had known incredible loss. He had once had a wife and two daughters, but all had departed the mortal plane. His first daughter, Friga, had been murdered during the days when the serial killer known as the Butcher terrorised Windhelm. When the Butcher was caught and killed by the Dragonborn in the days following the end of the Civil War, the Shatter-Shields thought they would be allowed to grieve in peace. But fate had other cruel plans. The second daughter, Nilsine, was murdered by the Dark Brotherhood for reasons unknown. Finding the light gone from her life, Torbjorn's wife Tova had committed suicide, leaving him alone in the world.
Unable to stand being alone in an empty house, Torbjorn had eventually opened his home to lodgers. Kara filled one bed and Antario another, with Torbjorn still residing there and acting as landlord.
Quintus popped in to dissolve Kara's ruminations. "You can leave now if you want," he said. "I'll close up."
She thanked him absent-mindedly and exited into the cold streets of her city. She still thought of it as such, despite the long absence of Stormcloaks wandering its narrow streets. Now she had a new life, with new skills. Following the path past the gravestones and up the stairs, she unlocked the door to House Shatter-Shield. The main room was empty and she ascended to the second floor and her room; quite a large one, given the low rate. She supposed Torbjorn needed the company more than the gold.
Removing her outer furs, she smoothed her pale blonde hair back and straightened the sleeves of her shirt. She refused to wear skirts, something of her warrior past that had remained. Her broadsword remained too, hanging on the wall over her bed. Although these days she found herself barely sparing it a glance—regarding the incident in the Assemblage as an outlier, an aberration—the days of killing and adventure long past.
She dined with Antario, Torbjorn away on business. She remembered the guards carrying away Jonah's body and swallowed heavily before asking a question.
"D'you think the Thalmor'll ever give up sending people after you?"
Antario stirred distractedly at his meal. "I think not," he said eventually. "They are not the kind to merely let things rest as they are."
"And you ain't left here," Kara said.
Antario shrugged. "It is unlikely Jonah managed to communicate my location to his superiors before he died; I believe I am safe enough here for the moment. Besides," he added, meeting her eyes, "strange as it may have seemed in the beginning, I have come to enjoy my place here."
Gylhain gazed up at the statue, her brows furrowed.
"Figured they'd be taller, or something," she said.
Angi snorted, already looking around at the rest of Kvatch with a lack of interest evident in her face. "That's what everybody says about you," she said.
"Can't tell if they're male or female either."
Angi came fully back to the conversation. "Race, too." She pointed up. "See that hood? Could be mer ears under there."
Gylhain tried to crack a grin. "Suppose the Empire wouldn't be too happy 'bout a mer saving them from the Oblivion Crisis."
"I met an orc once," told Angi, "who claimed the Champion of Cyrodiil was one of their people."
Gylhain shrugged. "It's a good a theory as any," she said. "Sorry for dragging us over this far east," she added. "I know it's a bit out of our way."
"It's fine," said Angi. "One hero's interested in another. Makes perfect sense."
They smiled at each other for the first time in days, then headed for the inn. There were still a few days to go before they could reach Valenwood and see the trees that would seem to stretch up to scrape the sky.