A/N: Bhen, I remember posting that section too, and I'm just as amazed as you that I ever reached this point! I knew it would be pretty distant, but I didn't think it would actually be years away :D Plodding ever onwards! Clodia, thank you also. Re your armour comment, I believe there is an oblique effect, although there's no visual or aural indicator. In Oblivion, sneaking is apparently harder with heavy armour than it is with light armour - although that might be the mods I'm using. Morrowind, afaik, has no such system, although I might be misremembering. I lent it to a friend a couple of years ago so I haven't had a chance to play it since - I've been working off three-year old memories, which will probably show sooner or later!

It's quite nice to get to a bit of action for a change, since 80% of this story seems to be people talking at each other from behind desks. One day I'm going to count every desk scene and shock myself out of the habit, haha. That said, enjoy! x

Chapter Twenty-Four

The Gathering Dark

The fire at the Dren Estate raged on. The water-chain from the docks had been abandoned as the workers fled, slaves slipping through the chaos to freedom. There was no hope now. There could be no-one alive in that hideous inferno.

In the gathering dark, the gods play dice. They play dice with people's lives, and this time, someone wins. Two deaths become two narrow misses.

Caius found himself hanging in mid-air, blinded with pain. He'd fallen with the floor – a piece of it was sticking into his leg – and the rest of him was caught on a broken length of banister and on Solon respectively, both of which were clinging to the only remaining portion of the corridor. With the floor gone, the full force of the fire leapt up around them at once, scorching Caius' legs and back. His clothes would catch at any moment.

Solon was better off, though he was currently the only thing between Caius and certain death, and he was dizzy from shock and smoke inhalation. But Dunmer have lived for centuries in the ash storms of Red Mountain, so with his free hand he wrapped his cloak around his mouth and with his other he began to pull, arm over arm, shoulders cracking and legs weak, dragging Caius to safety. The remaining floorboards groaned and protested, but they held. Caius inched himself up, splinters driving into the palms of his hands.

After a minute that seemed like an hour, they were both crouched on the ledge. The Imperial was fighting to stay conscious – neither him nor the ledge would last long. Solon looked swiftly around and caught a miraculous draught of fresh air.

He grabbed Caius' shoulder. "There's a way out!" he gasped hoarsely. "The floor's taken part of the wall with it – I can see the ground. But we'll have to jump."

Caius nodded grimly, too spent to answer. Slowly, they shuffled closer to the wall.

"Ready?" Solon rasped. Before they lost their nerve, he grasped his companion's arm and tugged. They jumped.

Caius' knee finally gave way with a sickening crack, and Solon landed on a piece of fallen masonry which took most of the skin off his shoulder. Together they managed to crawl, limp and drag themselves away from the wreckage. At all costs they mustn't be found, or the fire suspected to be anything other than a terrible accident.

It seemed to take years, but drawing on reserves of strength they hadn't known they possessed, the orange glow from the manor finally dwindled and disappeared behind the hill. Caius fell to the ground and passed out.

Solon stumbled next to him, not even noticing their chosen resting-place was half in the edge of the lake, and followed suit.

Gwynabyth cried out in alarm and dropped her ounce-measure as Dralasa barrelled into the disused living-room of Tel Fyr's Corprusarium.

"Pack up," the agent hissed. "Empty the stills; you'll have to leave the equipment. Throw the dust-sheet over them. Be ready to leave in fifteen minutes, do you hear?"

"What's going on?" demanded Eadwyrd, shaken by her urgency.

"We're going back to Mournhold," Dralasa ordered. "I've finally heard the Master talking, and if I'm not mistaken, Fyr is dead. This is worse than I'd ever dreamed. Divayth didn't move the Corprus victims, the black-robes did, and they're following the King's orders. To top it off, they're Dreamers. Sixth House cultists."

The alchemists were gaping, unable to process this shocking barrage of information.

"They're sealing the entire estate and moving to Red Mountain," Dralasa said, already throwing random belongings of Gwynabyth's into a satchel. "I'm going for a last check round the building, then we'll use Morgiah's scrolls. I don't need to tell you how important this is, so get a move on."

She tossed the bulging satchel to Gwynabyth, who fumbled and nearly dropped it. "I'll be back in quarter of an hour. Get your stuff and meet me near the Corprusarium entrance, understand?"

She threw the remaining satchel at an astonished Eadwyrd, and was gone before they even had time to speak.

Bomba 'Lurrina felt strange.

Almalexia was coming into view, the great fortified wall of the city besieged by sepia-coloured slums that clung limpet-like to the outer façade. These mini-provinces of poverty stretched near five miles into the surrounding countryside, lining the roads with shabby stalls and mazte-sinks. The poor had refuge here; Almalexia was the mother-goddess, the merciful triune. While in Blacklight or Necrom the hovels might be razed to the ground when the squalor began to offend the nobles, no home, however fetid, would be destroyed here.

As she walked, Bomba 'Lurrina's vision seemed to blur until she was not only approaching the gates of Almalexia, but of Orsinium, Daggerfall, Wayrest, Sentinel, the Imperial City… the many journeys of her life swam before her like the hazy visions of a skooma-dream. She had arrived at a hundred and one city gates in her life, but not once had she felt like she was coming home.

Why did she have this gnawing emptiness in the pit of her stomach?

It was not as if she minded being a nomad; she had been born in the Noquin-Al desert of Elsweyr, where migration was a way of life. She had not returned to her homeland for many years, of course, but the wanderlust was in her blood. So what could it be?

Nenya had disembarked at Old Ebonheart, citing a desire to return to Balmora. The Nord woman had been quiet for the remainder of their voyage from Necrom; uncharacteristically so. She hadn't stated her reason for this sudden desire to return to Vvardenfell, but the Khajiit could make a good enough guess. She suspected Nenya would make a beeline for a certain Spymaster's dilapidated house.

It had been strange to watch her leave. Having spent the better part of three weeks in each others' company, Bomba 'Lurrina had not noticed how quickly she had become used to the girl's presence. The Khajiit had always been a loner; it was part of the reason the Emperor had chosen her as his agent. Secrecy demands isolation. But Nenya had got under her skin, creeping in without her noticing… and now she was gone, there was an uncomfortable empty space that Bomba had never realised existed.

The gates of Almalexia loomed above. She passed under them with the usual crush of merchants, tourists, pilgrims and homecomers, musing on how one could be surrounded by people and yet feel so totally alone.

The mood in the Corprusarium had taken a distinct turn for the worse.

Gwynabyth and Eadwyrd were huddled under an alcove of rock near the entrance to the main house, waiting for Dralasa's return. It was wetter here, and colder. A pool of dark water filled the hollow in the floor of the cave.

"Do you think…" Gwynabyth began, her voice strained. "…Do you think Dralasa could be right? Divayth Fyr, dead?"

"I don't know," Eadwyrd whispered. His face was pale in the dim light. "It seems mad… they say he's nearly four thousand years old. How could he die?"

They were silent for a long time, with only the drip-drip-drip of water to keep them company. Still no sign of Dralasa.

"But these black-robes," Eadwyrd continued. "Surely Fyr wouldn't have let this happen if he could prevent it? Dreamers? Relict Sixth House cultists? And they took his Corprus patients to Red Mountain… what can they be doing?"

"I want to get out of here," Gwynabyth shivered miserably, pulling her hands into the sleeves of her robe. "This is too big, Eadwyrd. We're don't belong here. We haven't seen the sun in more than a fortnight; I feel like I'm forgetting what it looks like. I want to get out." Her voice broke.

Eadwyrd couldn't say where he suddenly got the courage. He wound his arms around her, heart thumping at her closeness, one hand buried in her hair.

"We'll go," he said softly. "As soon as we get out of here, we'll go back to Glenumbra. We should have done it weeks ago. Your cottage, and the kitchen-garden…"

He felt a thrill as she sank into him. "I'd like that," she whispered. "I'd like that more than anything."

You have to do it now, he thought. You have to tell her. Do it now, do it now.

"Gwyn," he began hoarsely. He had to stop and swallow, his throat was so dry. "Gwyn, I…"

She took his hand shyly and wound their fingers together, and he thought his heart might burst. "Gwyn–"

There was a splash from the other side of the pool.

"Dralasa," Gwynabyth breathed, turning away and looking out into the tunnel. "At last! Is it safe?" She called across. Throwing an excited smile at Eadwyrd, she grabbed her satchel and stepped into the light.

So did the figure on the other side of the pool, and with a jolt of horror that struck him like an axe, Eadwyrd saw what was wrong. The newcomer had red hair. Dralasa's was black.

A Cultist.

Before he even knew what he was doing, he was out of the alcove and splashing across the shallows of the pool, the whole world shrinking to the dagger in the newcomer's hand. A moment later, he slammed into the woman's body and they were on the ground.

Then it was all teeth and eyes and hair, the Cultist squirming in his grasp like a demonic snake. Something seared across his forearm; in desperation he tried to hold her wrists, but she was kicking and biting, and his hands were slippery – with water? Blood? He couldn't tell. He thought he heard someone scream his name – Gwynabyth?

With an unnatural burst of strength, the attacker threw him sideways and he lost balance, stumbling over the lip of the pool. A second later he felt the water close over him. The sudden silence pounded in his ears, and terror gripped him so powerfully he thought it might rip him in two: Gwynabyth was up there alone.

He surfaced with a scream bubbling in his throat, staggering through the shallows in time to see the two women grappling like cats in the flickering light of the tunnel.

The dagger had skittered away across the stones. Gwynabyth had had the presence of mind to pry a loose rock from the floor, and the attacker's temple was bloody. But the newcomer was stronger, and Gwynabyth was weak with fear and shock… Eadwyrd lunged towards them, his heart in his mouth…

It happened so quickly he didn't even have time to scream. The Dunmer knocked Gwyn's arm aside with savage strength, wrapped a hand around her throat, lifted her clean into the air and shook her like a ragdoll. There was an awful snapping noise.

The next moment, her own dagger punched into her back – the dagger that Dralasa, now running full pelt down the tunnel, had picked up and thrown with deadly accuracy. And then everything was still: the Dunmer had choked out her last breath and Gwynabyth was sprawled awkwardly on the floor, her neck twisted at an angle that he knew was very wrong.

He couldn't find air in his lungs, silver pricked the edge of his vision, an icy hand clamped around his chest, there was a distant roaring in his ears…

In the gathering dark, the gods play dice. They play dice with people's lives, and this time someone loses.

Hardly aware, he stumbled across the tunnel and clumsily dragged her away from the pool, her body so deadweight and different to the time he had laughingly picked her up in the apothecary. Her face was covered by her hair, but he didn't brush it away. If he didn't see, it might not be true.

Dralasa kicked the attacker's body aside and knelt over Gwynabyth, fingers searching her neck. There was no need for the pitying look she gave him a moment later, the unexpected compassion in her eyes.

"The scrolls," she whispered in disbelief. "Why didn't you use the scrolls?"

Eadwyrd only looked at her dumbly. His face was a blank sea of horror.

"Please," he said. "Please."

The words were detached and meaningless. He didn't even seem aware what he was saying.

"Use them now," Dralasa said quietly. "Take her back to the Palace. I'll get rid of this." She indicated the Dreamer.

Afterwards, Eadwyrd found he couldn't remember returning to Mournhold or the weight of the nightmare thing in his arms. It was all a blur – a haze of dark and cold, a terrible cocoon of pain kept only inches away by shocked denial.