Into the Light

by Aurora Nova

Marcus of Whiterun, called Dragonborn, prepares to launch resistance against the final assault from the Aldmeri Dominion, to fight the Last Great War for the freedom of Tamriel. Fourth in a series; sequel to "Into the Maelstrom," "Into the Darkness," and "Into the Ashes."

19. Chapter 19

Chapter 11

"This petty Alliance is becoming more and more of an annoyance," High King Eltaeren muttered. Seated on his jeweled throne at the top of the Tower of Crystal-Like Law, he peered into the orb which showed him the world beyond Alinor. Everywhere he had agents, he could see what transpired, and right now he was focused on Skyrim.

"What does my King command?" the Justiciar next to him inquired in deference.

"Withdraw the ships from the west coast of High Rock," Eltaeren decided. "They are needed at Stros M'Kai. The Redguards have resisted the armada at Hegathe and Taneth. We need reinforcements there."

"But, Your Highness—" the Justiciar began, quailing when the King turned to glare embers at her.

"What?" There was a wealth of warning in that one word. If the Justiciar's objections were less than important, she would be entertaining the inside of a torture chamber for 're-education.'

"The fleet is no more," the unhappy Justiciar informed her King. "I've just received the reports. A freak storm drove in from the north, sweeping down from the Azurian Ocean. The ships have all been destroyed."

A pulse ticked at the King's right temple, and his lips thinned to a grimace. "All of them?" he clarified.

"I'm afraid so, Your Majesty," the Justiciar replied.

"Impossible!" the King spluttered. "Bretons aren't that powerful!"

"The cause of the storm appears to have been a natural occurrence," the Justiciar ventured. "Storms are quite common at this time of year—"

"It matters not," Eltaeren dismissed, though privately it only served to irk him more. "High Rock, Hammerfell and Skyrim are all dependent on what occurs in Cyrodiil. Without their Emperor, the entire Alliance will fall apart."

"My liege," the Justiciar ventured, tentatively, "we have made several attempts to get closer to Titus Mede, but he is too well protected."

"Are you Justiciars or not?" the King roared, exasperated. "Are you mages or not? Do what you must, but kill Titus Mede!"

"Yes, Your Majesty," the Justiciar bowed, backing out of her King's presence, relieved to have survived another day.

"It's hopeless, you know," a voice whispered from behind him. Slumped in a circular cage made of pure light, a female Altmer in ragged robes with disheveled hair regarded him with eyes that were at once calm and resigned.

"What would you know about it?" the King sneered.

"Enough," the woman murmured. "You've lost Hammerfell. You've lost High Rock. You will soon lose Elsweyr and Valenwood. It's only a matter of time."

"Silence!" he thundered, but the woman merely chuckled weakly.

"Or you'll what?" she jibed. "Kill me? That won't sit well with the rest of Alinor, you know. You're only in power because I'm still alive. Kill me, and they'll turn on you, and you know it."

"ENOUGH!" he roared, and the bars of her cage glowed with white-hot intensity. A thrumming sound increased in volume, and the woman cried out in anguish, clapping her hands over her ears. Excruciating pain lanced through her body as she writhed in agony. Then, when she felt she might pass out from the pain, it subsided, his temper spent.

Gasping, she still managed to muster a mocking laugh at his retreating back. "You see? I knew you wouldn't kill me. I'm still too valuable to you."

King Eltaeren clenched his fists, and his richly embroidered cape swirled behind him as he left the chamber.

The mocking laugh subsided, and the woman slumped again, giving in to weeping. "Auri-El," she whispered brokenly. "Please…help me. Send me a rescue…"

---

The Alliance horns rang clearly through the morning mists. The skies were overcast, and a steady drizzle wept down from the lowering clouds. Archers muttered about keeping their strings dry, and every soldier in Balgruuf's command was nervous about what the day might bring.

Overhead, the dragons roared out their challenge as they swept over the main force and headed into Falkreath. Immediately, elemental forces lashed out from the town. Elven horns called for reinforcements, and an answering cadence rang forth from Shriekwind Bastion.

The wooden palisade surrounding the town was lined with green and gold, dotted here and there with figures robed in black, or garbed in reinforced Bosmeri armor, Khajiit studded leather and Argonian scale mail. In front of the gates on the east side of town behind the barricades of spiked logs were row upon row of Khajiit, Bosmer and Argonian soldiers – allies loyal to the Aldmeri Dominion. Balgruuf wondered how strong their loyalty would be if they knew they'd been played by the Thalmor to take the brunt of Alliance aggression.

"Do we attack?" Hadvar asked the Jarl of Whiterun.

"Not yet," Balgruuf ordered. "We wait for word from the Dragonborn. He wants to let the dragons thin their ranks a bit first."

Hadvar nodded and gave an involuntary shudder. He remembered all too vividly that horrific day in Helgen when Alduin had attacked. And he was just one dragon! What would a score or more of them do?

"Balgruuf," came Galmar's voice through the earbud, "we're almost in position. The cursed Thalmor have bolstered their ranks on the southwest gate."

"Give the Dragonborn a bit more time," Balgruuf replied. "I haven't heard from Madanach yet, either."

"We're exposed here," Galmar reminded him. "There's not a lot of cover on this side of the town."

"Just hold on," Balgruuf growled. "It shouldn't be too much longer."

"Balgruuf, it's Madanach," the Reach King called, and Balgruuf disengaged with the former Stormcloak general to reply.

"What news do you have?"

"The Thalmor are pouring out of the Bastion like water," Madanach replied, and the Jarl could hear the grin in the older man's voice. "The only way they can come without breaking their necks is down the stairs to the east. That would put them behind you."

"And where are you?" Balgruuf demanded, more than a little concerned.

"Between you and them," Madanach retorted smugly. "Don't worry. They aren't aware we're here. We won't let them through."

"I'm counting on you," Balgruuf answered.

A roar from the north distracted him, as he saw Odahviing, with the Dragonborn on his back, sweeping the sides of the Bastion with flame and frost. Gold-clad warriors tumbled down the side of the mountain like pieces from a game of Castles and Kings. The Jarl of Whiterun tapped his earbud and concentrated on Galmar.

"ATTACK!" he bellowed, and the Alliance forces under his control moved forward.

Chaos erupted on both sides. Arrows were launched from both real and conjured bows. Fire, frost and shock flew in both directions. Atronachs sprung up from nowhere, and overhead the dragons laughed as they Shouted their deadly thu'ums.

Scattered among both flanks of the Alliance forces, Karla's mages were kept busy bolstering the ranks, quelling Fear spells, healing the gravely injured and maintaining the Atronachs that were needed to break down the barriers that guarded the town.

The earth trembled under the feet of the handful of Centurions that Calcelmo and his team had programmed to fight for them.

"We need that gate down!" Galmar roared, and Sorine Jurard nodded as she concentrated on the Centurion closest to her.

The bronze behemoth strode up to the barrier, ignoring arrows that plinked off its armored body. Raising one arm, fitted with a gigantic maul, it smashed down on the barricade and strode up to the wooden reinforced gates. Not stopping there, it began pounding on the braced doors, chips and splinters of wood as large as a man's hand flying in all directions. The Aldmeri forces closest to the Centurion concentrated on taking it down, and it was all Sorine could do to keep it focused on the gate, ignoring the attacks against it. Self-preservation seemed to be something deeply programmed into the Dwemer constructs.

A small swarm of dwarven spiders scuttled in, striking out at the Dominion soldiers attempting to destroy the Centurion. The relief they provided wasn't much, but it was enough for the Centurion to smash through the gate, collapsing in the opening, its usefulness spent.

"NOW!" Galmar boomed, and ululated a chilling war cry, echoed by many of the soldiers in his command. Several Dominion troops startled and dropped to a crouch, covering their heads in fear. Many others fled further into the town. Those that stood their ground faced the wrath of a vengeful people, no longer willing to be dictated to, fighting for their very right to exist.

In the skies above Falkreath, Marcus directed the dragons to concentrate their attacks on the Jarl's Longhouse and on the troops coming out of Shriekwind Bastion. Lars and Benor were overseeing the dragons above the town; Marcus knew it was imperative to keep the Bastion forces from joining those inside the Hold capital.

"Amalie," he called to the Reachwoman. "Take Mistwing and a couple of the others. I need you to run a perimeter sweep to make sure there are no more reinforcements coming."

"On my way, Dragonborn!" the young dragon rider nodded. Mistwing dipped a wing and they turned to circle around the town.

Odahviing blasted a Justiciar who was getting a bit too close with her Icy Spears. "Some of the lok fahliil are getting away," he observed. "They will end up behind the Bronjun's forces."

"Madanach is over there with his people," Marcus reassured his draconian companion. "They won't let any through."

Indeed, as they watched, the trees and bushes seemed to come alive as the Reachfolk sprung up from cover to attack the forces from the Bastion. The fight was brutal, and Marcus had no stomach to watch, even from this distance.

"Let's head back," he told Odahviing. "Madanach's got this. We need to get inside that Longhouse and disable that Portal."

It was one thing he had worried about, and his concern appeared to have been valid. As much damage as the Alliance was doing to the Dominion troops, their enemies' numbers were not diminishing. He saw Balgruuf's group pushing in to the city from one side, and Galmar's troops were already through on the other. Fires raged everywhere, though Marcus had warned the dragons to use frost attacks where they could. He didn't want the innocent people of Falkreath to have to suffer by being forced to rebuild their town. The Aldmeri, it seemed, had no such concerns.

As he flew over the Longhouse, he could see a magical barrier of some kind had been raised around it. No amount of Shouting would get through that. Scanning the skies, he found Bastian on Winterfang near the southwest gate. Catching the young Breton's eye, he signed, Come with me. I need you.

Bastian nodded his understanding, and leaned closer to Winterfang to speak to him. The dragon ducked his head in acknowledgement and circled around to hover near Odahviing.

"You're the only one I know besides Amalie who's skilled in magic," Marcus called out, "and I sent her off on another assignment. Can you bring that barrier down?"

Bastian's eyes widened and he shrugged helplessly. "Not by myself, Dragonborn. That's a lot of magic to get through!"

Marcus blew out a breath of frustration. "We'll need the other mages, then," he sighed. "See who you can round up. Odahviing and I will concentrate on clearing a path to the Longhouse."

Bastian nodded and flew off, and Odahviing chuckled. "You will allow me my way in this?" he asked.

"Geh, Odahviing," the Dragonborn growled. "I'm tired of being Mr. Nice Guy. Give 'em all you've got."

Trumpeting in triumph, echoed by the other dragons, Odahviing led a final, brutal assault on any and all Dominion soldiers still out in the open. There was nowhere to hide, unless it was indoors, and not all the dragons adhered to the 'no fire' edict.

I suppose this is just one more town we'll have to rebuild, Marcus thought grimly.

Amalie returned and reported no additional Dominion troops in the area. What they fought here seemed to be the rear guard to keep Skyrim from coming to the aid of Bruma, to the south in Cyrodiil.

It was midday before the fighting finally subsided, and the rain had finally ceased. The inclement weather was the only thing that had put out most of the fires, though the ashes still smoldered. The Longhouse was the only building yet standing, its magical barrier intact but wavering. The draw upon Altmer magicka could not last forever.

"Karla!" the Dragonborn called. "Amalie! Bastian! Round up the mages. Let's hit that barrier with Dispel Magic. It can't hold against all of us."

Indeed, as Marcus and the rest of the Alliance mages staggered their attacks against the barrier to supply a continual barrage of offensive magic, the barrier faded and flickered, and finally went out. Not hesitating, Marcus unleashed his Unrelenting Force and blew the front doors open, striding purposefully inside with his dragonbone sword in one hand and a ward in the other.

As expected, the magical attacks came first, but the wards of the Alliance held. Madanach gestured, and several Dominion operatives stiffened and fell unceremoniously to the floor.

"Hold, Dragonborn," a familiar voice called. At the far end of the hall stood Zenosha. Next to her was Siddgeir, bound with his arms behind him, an elven blade at his throat. The Jarl of Falkreath was blubbering.

"One step further and I kill Siddgeir," she advised.

"You say that like it's a bad thing," Marcus growled.

"P-please," Siddgeir whimpered. "Don't let her kill me! I didn't know, I swear—"

"Silence, fool!" Zenosha snapped. "Your life hangs by a thread." She turned her eyes back to Marcus. "You're a much greater threat than we realized, Dragonborn," she purred. "It will be interesting the next time we meet—"

"You assume there will be a next time," Marcus retorted. "TIID KLO UL!"

As before, time ground to a near standstill, and Marcus used his Whirlwind Sprint to close the distance, snatching the dagger out of the Dominion guard's hand and burying it in Zenosha's chest. Whirling, he sliced the head off the guard with the dragonbone sword and followed it up with shoulder-bumping Siddgeir to the ground in case any Dominion operative in the room still wanted to take a pot-shot at him. The Jarl would face justice for his actions, but it would be from his peers, not from Altmer toadies.

Siddgeir's eyes slowly widened as he realized he was falling, and Marcus grabbed an elven shield from the now-decapitated guard and tossed it over the Jarl to afford him a bit of extra protection as time resumed.

A gasp from Zenosha drew everyone's gaze as she realized the dagger had punctured her heart. Feebly, she clawed at the moonstone hilt that protruded from her chest. Sinking to her knees, her eyes searched for and found the Dragonborn, who came to stand over her.

"You…didn't give me…any chance…at all…did you?" she choked.

Marcus shook his head. "Nope," he replied. "I learn quickly. You're too good to give a chance to."

Zenosha's eyes unfocused. A breath that might have been a laugh escaped her lips. "Too good..." she whispered. "I let…an Imperial dog…take me…"

She slumped, and her eyes fixed on Aetherius. Or more likely Oblivion, Marcus snorted to himself.

The fight had gone out of the rest of the Dominion soldiers. Those who had resisted the paralysis spell Madanach had first launched were stunned at the sudden death of their leader, at the hands of the man they had been told was nothing more than Imperial propaganda. The portal was found and disabled by the simple act of flipping it over onto its face. A battalion of volunteers was sent to Bilegulch to free the prisoners there.

"What now, Marcus?" Balgruuf asked, as the unit reports began to file into the Longhouse, which had been turned into their field headquarters. Casualties had been heavy on both sides, but more so for the Dominion than the Alliance.

"We still have Siddgeir to deal with," Marcus frowned, throwing a scowl at the still blubbering Jarl.

"Yes," Balgruuf scowled in agreement. "I'll be honest and say I'd hoped he would have died in the skirmish."

"You and me both," Marcus confided. "It would have eliminated one problem." He blew out a breath of frustration.

"He deserves to die," Galmar rumbled. "He betrayed his people."

"I'm not going to kill a man in cold blood," Marcus glared.

"Fine," Galmar shrugged. "I'll do it, then."

"He'll be tried by the Moot," Balgruuf said firmly. "This is our way. Whatever they decide is what will happen."

Galmar made a noise of disgust.

"It will take time to pull everyone together for that," Marcus said thoughtfully. "What's to be done about him in the meantime?"

"He'll go back to Dragonsreach," Balgruuf insisted. "My keep may be destroyed, but there's nothing wrong with the dungeons underneath."

"And who's going to run things here in the meantime?" Galmar frowned, disappointed he wouldn't get to play executioner.

"We should probably get some insight from the people who live here," Marcus offered. "They'll know better than any of us who would be a good Jarl." He toyed with the idea of suggesting an election system, but knew in his heart that Skyrim wasn't ready yet for the idea of a democratic republic.

The answer surprised them all.

"Thadgeir is your man," Nenya told them later, after most of the townsfolk had returned. As Runil had surmised, they had been ill-used by the Dominion soldiers, and most of their faces were fixed with a haunted look. The missing members were keenly noted: Bolund, Kust, and Delacourt the Bard among them. Marcus was relieved to see Mathies had survived.

"Thadgeir?" Galmar scowled. "He's Siddgeir's uncle, isn't he?"

"How is that any better than what you had?" Balgruuf snorted in disbelief.

"He's a good man," Nenya assured them. "He's always had the people's best interests at heart. He was the youngest of three siblings, with the late Dengeir being the oldest. Siddgeir's mother, Vanya, was between the two of them. Thadgeir never wanted to be Jarl, and he fought for the Empire in the last Great War. It's been my experience that those who do not wish for power are the ones best equipped to adapt when given it."

"We'll take it under consideration, then," Balgruuf nodded. "He can be interim Jarl until the Moot makes it formal. What about you? Will you stay here, even after the Dominion ravaged this city? Will you be safe?" His concern was apparent, and it was one of the things Marcus liked best about his friend.

Nenya shrugged. "Falkreath is my home," she replied simply. "For better or for worse. The people here know me. They've accepted me as one of their own, just as they've accepted Runil. I think I'll be fine."

Her words were prophetic enough when Thadgeir was informed of the changes being made.

"I'll accept this position – temporary as it may be – on one condition," he told Balgruuf. "I must insist on keeping Nenya as my Steward. She's a good mer, and she's always treated the people of Falkreath fairly and with wisdom. She knows the ins and outs of running things better than anyone I know. I couldn't run the Hold without her."

"That went better than I hoped," Balgruuf confided to Marcus later that night. "I feel a lot better about leaving Falkreath behind us, now that I've talked with Thadgeir. He's a good man."

"What's next?" Madanach asked.

"I think we all know what's next," Marcus replied. "We'll need to head south. Cyrodiil is going to need our help. This action by the Dominion was a delaying tactic, to keep Skyrim out of the heartland of Tamriel for as long as possible."

"I'll get the word out," Balgruuf nodded, touching his ear bud. "We'll need all available troops as soon as possible."

"We're also going to need reports about what's happening in other parts of Tamriel," Marcus added. "If the Dominion kept us busy here, what's going on in High Rock, Hammerfell, Cyrodiil, and so forth."

"Agreed," Balgruuf sighed. "We need a war council, and we need it soon."

---

Dante Greyshadow strode through the dim tunnels under the Imperial City, a glowstick in his off hand offering the only illumination in the methane-laden corridors. Open flame here would be disastrous.

But if the Aldmeri take the City again, it's something to keep in mind, he thought bleakly.

The war in Cyrodiil was not going well, and he needed reports from his team. Reydin Glane was still down in Valenwood – he hoped. He hadn't heard from the Bosmer Nightingale in some time. He had moved Clarice and Falisa east to Morrowind as soon as they could put a few things together. He trusted his old nurse to keep the child safe.

"We'll head to Bodrum," Clarice assured him. "From there we can get to Vivec City. It's a big enough place to get lost in."

"But you're Breton and Falisa is Bosmer," Dante pointed out. "You'll stick out like a sore thumb in a city full of Dunmer."

"I'm not without a few tricks up my sleeve, young Master," Clarice snapped with some asperity. "And I know people there. I'll keep her safe. Trust me."

"I do," Dante smiled warmly. "Implicitly. You're one of the few people I would trust my life to."

Clarice nodded, mollified, and the next day she and the future heir of Valenwood departed on a carriage headed to Cheydinhall and all points east.

"Report, Minnow," he ordered, as soon as he entered the Guild Hall.

"Anvil's still battling against the Dominion airships," she related. "Almost the entire city of Kvatch and Skingrad were emptied, and every able-bodied person was sent southwest to join the fight."

Dante nodded. "What else?"

"We heard from Jasper in Leyawiin," the diminutive thief replied. "He must have gotten a letter smuggled through the Dominion lines. Here." She handed the folded bit of parchment over. Dante opened it and scanned the few sentences his associate had been able to pen:

"Hiding out in Rockmilk Cave. Elves don't know we're here. Leyawiin lost. Troops pushing north. Guild office destroyed by my hand."

Dante blew out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. It wasn't good news, but it wasn't the worst he feared. Jasper at least had had the foresight to make sure the Dominion wouldn't find incriminating evidence in their Leyawiin location. And from the date on the letter Jasper and his team were safe as of last week. He hoped they'd be able to sneak out soon or hold out a bit longer.

"Have you heard from Reydin yet?" he asked.

Minnow shook her head, her blonde ringlets bouncing around her tanned face, revealing a simple silver stud in her left earlobe. "No, nothing so far. Da'zhir and Da'zhar have returned from Elsweyr, though. Lots of things shaking up down there."

"Send them to my office," he told her. "I'll want to speak with them. If Reydin checks in," he tapped his ear bud, "let me know right away."

Minnow nodded and went to find the two Khajiit brothers. She never questioned why Reydin would contact her before the Guildmaster. Everyone in the Guild knew of Dante's elevated status by now, and that contacting him while he was in attendance on the Emperor was not a good thing. The Guildmaster still preferred to dole out information to his grandfather on an 'as needed' basis. Which meant it was far more likely for the inner circle of the guild to contact her, rather than the boss. Still, she frowned. Reydin was overdue. She hoped nothing had happened to him.

Dante was poring over a map of Cyrodiil in his office when the Khajiit twins, Da'zhir and Da'zhar, came in.

"You wished to see us, Guildmaster?" Da'zhir inquired softly, inclining his head in respect. He was slightly smaller than his brother Da'zhar, but both were black as coal. Only the white crescent on Da'zhir's head, as well as his smaller stature, could tell the two apart.

"Tell me what's going on in Elsweyr," Dante prompted.

"Much," Da'zhir grinned, showing all his teeth. "The Thalmor are losing their airships frequently. Several have been taken over by the Rakhuna, the resistance," he added.

"How many ships?" Dante asked.

"We counted at least eight," Da'zhar replied. "The Thalmor power theirs by channeling their magicka into large soul gems. Our rishajiit, our mages, have developed a different means of propulsion, which the Thalmor cannot duplicate."

"What method is that?" Dante asked.

"We use the power of our minds," Da'zhir purred modestly. "It requires an enormous amount of concentration, but it moves the airship much faster."

Dante regarded the little Khajiit in front of him. "The…power of your…minds…" he said slowly. "How is that possible?" He was having trouble wrapping his own around the implications. Da'zhir merely shrugged.

"It would be too difficult to explain to someone who is not Khajiit," he said apologetically, "but Magrus has given us the ability to move things with our minds alone."

"And you've managed to liberate a couple handfuls of airships in this manner?" Dante asked, still not quite comprehending it.

"Indeed," Da'zhar chuckled. "My little brother here is responsible for taking over at least two of them."

"Three," corrected Da'zhir. "And it would have been four, but the Thalmor were too close and we needed to hide."

"How many more airships do they have left down there?" Dante asked.

"As near as we can tell," Da'zhar mused, stroking his whiskers, "they have maybe a score or less left to them."

"That's still a lot," Dante frowned.

"Do not worry, Guildmaster," Da'zhir soothed. "Khajiit will see that the airships are either appropriated or destroyed. There is a strong opposition force closing in on Torval as we speak, and we have heard the Bosmeri navy is in a position to fire upon the Dominion-held city."

"Torval…Torval," Dante muttered, sifting through several maps on his desk to find the one of Elsweyr. Da'zhar held down one corner and tapped the lower edge of the map, showing a city on the northern edge of the Tenmar Forest, situated on a delta of a river that emptied into the Eltheric Ocean. Across that river was Valenwood.

He straightened. "Why would the Bosmer, who are allies of the Dominion, fire upon a Dominion-held city?" he asked.

"Because the Greenhand, the Bosmeri rebels, have wrested control of the ships at Haven," Da'zhar pointed out. "The distraction will hopefully be enough for the leader of the Rakhuna, Rezhyk the Blackheart, to infiltrate the city and challenge the Mane."

Dante laughed. "Rezhyk?" he chuckled. "Our Rezhyk? That's too perfect!"

"This one agrees," both Khajiit brothers said at once.

After the Khajiit twins left, Dante returned to his office, a smaller chamber off the main one in the Ayleid ruins which housed the Cyrodiil Thieves Guild. Lined with bookshelves and cabinets to hold various artifacts acquired by himself and his predecessors, the room was his sanctuary as well as his center of operations. In one corner stood a mannequin in ancient Akaviri armor, liberated from a nobleman's private residence some years ago. Nearby, secured to the marble wall, was a painting of a great forest, made by Rythe Lythandus himself. On a peg next to the painting hung a simple painter's apron. A paintbrush stuck out of one pocket. On the other side of the mannequin was hung a map of Tamriel, and it was to this map that Dante headed now.

Pins with colored flags were stuck in various places all over the map. Red flags were used to depict the Empire's forces, blue was used for the Dragonborn's Alliance allies, and gold flags were used to show Dominion troop movements. He frowned at the number of gold flags on the map.

"Boss, you there?"

It was Reydin Glane's voice, and Dante quickly tapped his ear bud.

"Yes," he replied eagerly. "What's your report? What's going on down there in Valenwood?"

"Quite a lot," his second-in-command responded. "Is Falisa safe?"

Dante knew that would be the first concern on the Bosmer Nightingale's mind.

"She's fine," he told Reydin. "She's with Clarice. I've sent them both to Morrowind for their own safety, until this is over."

"Thank the gods!" Dante could hear the relief in the wood elf's voice, and his brow furrowed.

"Something wrong?" he asked.

"Not at present," Reydin assured him, "but it could become a problem. The Greenhand down here isn't just a group of rebels fighting against Dominion occupation. They're a radical splinter group that want to keep Valenwood for the Bosmer alone. Right now, their goals align with ours, but it could become a problem if the Empire pushes to bring them back into the fold."

"Are they responsible for what's going on in Torval, in Elsweyr?" Dante asked.

"They're claiming responsibility for it, yes," the Bosmer thief confirmed. "They've commandeered several ships from the Royal Bosmeri Navy and have actively been working to eliminate the threat of Dominion ships in the Eltheric Ocean. Some of them were headed to Anvil, from what my informant told me."

"That can only be good for us in the short term," Dante mused. "But I'm sure they won't be doing it out of the kindness of their hearts. They'll want something in return for their assistance. It looks like that 'something' could be Provincial independence."

"Do you think the Emperor will agree to that?"

"If I know my grandfather, no, he won't," Dante frowned, though he knew Reydin couldn't see his face. "He may not have a choice, though. Right now, we're fighting for the right to exist. We can hash out boundaries later, if we're still around to talk about it."

"There's more," Reydin added.

"Go on," Dante told him, bracing for the worst.

"My informant tells me that combined forces of Bosmer and Khajiit still loyal to the Dominion are moving north as we speak. They'll be crossing the southern border of Cyrodiil in a matter of days. I know Leyawiin is already under Dominion control, and Anvil is still resisting, but this doesn't bode well for Kvatch or Skingrad. And there were already skirmishes in Bravil as of two days ago."

"Damn!" Dante muttered. "Anything else to add?"

"That's all I have for now," Reydin replied. "You want me to head back?"

Dante considered this. "How easy would it be for you to slip into Black Marsh?" he asked.

"Black Marsh?" Reydin echoed. "I suppose I could, but why? The Argonians haven't made any movements so far."

"That we know of," Dante countered. "And I don't like what I don't know. I don't have anyone else I can spare at the moment to find out. I need to know what they're doing, if anything. Are they joining the Dominion in this fight, or are they going to sit on their tails and wait it out? I know the Dominion has been using some of their people here and there, but it's mainly been mercenaries. I don't think the Argonians on the whole feel they owe any special loyalty to the Aldmeri."

"I might have a contact there I can talk to," Reydin said slowly. "We served on the same ship for a decade or so, quite a few years back. Her name is Weija-leen, and she might be able to give us some answers."

"See what you can find out," Dante said. "Call me as soon as you know."

"Will do, Boss," Reydin said. "Did…was Falisa upset I wasn't there?"

Dante smiled. "Cried for days," he teased. "Seriously, though, she's got a good head on her shoulders. Packed up her personal stuff quickly and was ready before Clarice, if you can imagine that! They're on their way to Bodrum as we speak. From there, Clarice says they'll head to Vivec City. She knows a few people there who can help hide them. They'll be safe."

"Thanks," Reydin breathed. It was a simple word, but there was a wealth of relief and gratitude in it. He signed off shortly afterwards, and Dante scowled as he removed some gold pins from his map and moved them closer to Cyrodiil's southern border.

"Greyshadow, it's Marcus."

"I'm just a popular guy today," Dante drawled with some amusement. "How goes the conflict in Skyrim?"

"We're about to have a war council on that very subject," Marcus informed him. "Thought you'd want to be part of it."

"Where?" the Guildmaster asked.

"Castle Dour, Solitude," the Dragonborn replied. "It's the safest place, really."

"I'll be there," Dante promised. "Give me an hour. I need to gather a few things."

"Not a problem," Marcus answered. "It will take at least that long to get everyone here."

An hour later the portal in Castle Dour hummed with activity as, one by one, the elite members of the Alliance stepped through. The last to emerge was Dante Greyshadow, who turned to help an elderly man down the short flight of steps.

Gasps went around the room, and everyone sunk to their knees, though some were a bit slower to do so. Elisif tugged hard at Ulfric's elbow until he complied.

"Your Majesty," the High Queen murmured, bowing her head. "We didn't expect to see you here!"

"No, I'm sure you didn't," Titus Mede the Second chuckled, coming over to take her hand, kiss it and bring her to her feet. "Queen Elisif, I presume? Charmed and delighted to finally meet you, my dear. And this must be your stalwart consort, the High King?" His tone was light, but his eyes were hard. He remembered Ulfric from the Great War.

"Your Eminence," Ulfric nodded as he rose to his feet. "You are welcome here." The words came perfunctorily, as if he knew he was expected to say them, but there was little warmth in his gaze.

The Emperor merely nodded, acknowledging the cool reception without making an issue of it. "Dante? Would you introduce these others to me? I already know Commander Rikke and General Tullius."

Dante went around the room, introducing the elder Imperial to the other members of the Alliance that were gathered there – Captain Hadvar, Iona, Brynjolf and the Jarl of Whiterun himself – ending with a tall Imperial standing next to a diminutive Breton, his arm wrapped protectively around her waist.

There was a private moment between the Dragonborn and the Guildmaster, as the latter took in the graying hair the former now sported. An eyebrow lifted on the part of the Breton man, while the younger Imperial frowned and gave an imperceptible shake of his head.

Not now, it clearly said, and the heir to the Empire shrugged and turned to the Emperor to make introductions.

"Your Majesty," he began, "this is Arch-Mage Tamsyn."

"Forgive me for not bowing, sire," Tamsyn murmured as she inclined her head. "I am still recovering from my injuries—"

"Tut-tut, child," the Emperor dismissed. "You can't be expected to uphold formalities when you're not well. And it appears I owe a great deal to you for some of your…foresightedness. You need never bow to me, my dear."

A slight gasp from Rikke was the only indication of what a privilege the Arch-Mage had just received.

"And this—" Dante began, but his grandfather waved him off.

"I know who this is, dear boy," Titus smiled. "Even if he wasn't standing next to the Arch-Mage in such a protective manner. You are the image of your father, young man."

"My…my father?" Marcus stammered. "Wait…what?"

The Emperor chuckled. "What I can't understand," he went on, "is why, for all these years, you've used an alias?"

Marcus regarded the old Imperial with a wary expression. "Your Majesty," he began, "I'm not who you think I am."

"Oh, posh!" Titus dismissed. "Of course, you are! You're Octavian Vitellius, and your father was one of my best friends, Atrius Vitellius. And you're the Dragonborn on top of that! Who would have imagined it?"

Realization hit Marcus. The Imperial whose body he now wore had died of his injuries shortly before Marcus' soul had been placed in it by Akatosh himself, seven years ago. Octavian had told him, when he'd gone to Sovngarde to defeat Alduin, that he had no family and was the last of his line. What Octavian hadn't told him was that there might still be others in Cyrodiil who remembered him. What made his heart sink now was knowing he would have to disappoint the Emperor.

Dante saw the conflicting emotions in the Dragonborn's eyes. Knowing the true story, he briefly touched his grandfather's arm.

"We don't have much time, sire," he said. "We can talk about this later. Right now, we need to come up with a plan and get you back before the Penitus Occulatus realizes you're gone."

"Huh," Titus Mede snorted. "Bunch of damned babysitters is what they are. But you're right, son. Let's get this over with." To the gathered officers of the Alliance he said, "I know my presence here today was unexpected. But my grandson here promised to keep me informed of everything we're doing to fight against the Dominion, and I wanted to meet all of you in person. I want you all to know you have my support. I made choices thirty years ago that I didn't like to make, but felt they were needed to keep the Dominion from wiping us all out. I know that didn't sit well with some of my people—" Here he looked directly at Ulfric, holding his gaze. "But know they were made in an effort to save as many lives as possible. I only wish now that I had someone like the Arch-Mage with me back then. Perhaps my choices would have been different, and we wouldn't be where we are today."

For a long moment, Ulfric merely stared at the man he had frequently accused of 'bending the knee.' Finally, the High King of Skyrim gave a brief nod. Not everyone understood what had transpired, but to Marcus, Tamsyn, Dante and Balgruuf, it was the apology Ulfric had always wanted, and had finally accepted.

The meeting that followed was a swift run-down of everything they knew to date.

"We'll send our troops down through the Jeralls," Balgruuf promised. "We'll get to Bruma as quickly as possible and try to take back the city."

"I'll lead the dragons down," Marcus promised. "That should give you some extra firepower."

"We have some troops we can spare coming from Cheydinhall and the Imperial City itself," Tullius said. "We may even be able to spare some from Chorral. We thought we'd need them there, in case of a Dominion attack from the north, but now it looks like that's not going to happen."

"What happened in Chorral?" Titus Mede asked.

"A large force of mountain people, led by a handful of dragons, took out the Dominion outposts and all their troops," Tamsyn replied. "I know those people, and the dragon. Her name is Golmonah, and she promised me they would keep the mountains in that area clear of Aldmeri troops."

Brynjolf stood, nervous in the presence of the Imperial Emperor himself. "Our spies tell us the Dominion fleet in the Azurian Ocean was practically wiped out in a freak storm off the western coast of High Rock. That's about twenty fewer ships we don't need to worry about. Hammerfell's been holding their own, but they're fighting on two fronts: the Iliac Bay and the straights between southern Hammerfell and the Summerset Isles."

"We can't spare any more troops to help them if we still intend to have enough to protect the Imperial City," Tullius frowned.

Marcus spoke up. "The Blades of High Rock are helping to bolster and organize the Breton troops," he informed them. "With the threat of the Dominion fleet nullified, my contact there, Grand Master Jurard, tells me they're going to be pushing south, across the Iliac and into Hammerfell to assist the Redguards on that front."

"There's more," Tamsyn spoke up. "I've heard from a friend of mine in that area. She says they want to help."

"They?" Balgruuf echoed. "Who are 'they'?"

"I'd like to bring one of them here to explain, if I may?" she asked.

Nods of assent went around the room, and Tamsyn turned away and tapped her earbud, speaking in low tones to the unknown person on the other side. Shortly after, the portal whined, glowed, and a figure stepped through.

Gasps of astonishment raced around the chamber as an elf stepped through. His skin and hair were glacial white, his eyes were chips of pale blue ice, and his armor bespoke a time long forgotten in antiquity.

"I am Knight-Paladin Gelebor," he introduced himself. "And I would like to offer the services of the Knight-Paladins of Auri-El in your efforts to vanquish the Aldmeri Dominion once and for all."

Pandemonium broke out, with Marcus joyfully clasping wrists with Gelebor, then drawing him in to pound him on the back.

"How many troops can you offer?" Dante asked eagerly, when everyone had quieted enough for him to make himself heard.

"If you had asked me that question two years ago, or even a year ago," Gelebor said, "I would have had to answer in double digits only. However, with the efforts of the Arch-Mage here, and my lifemate Sylfaen, we have found others of our kind and brought them to our Chantry. We now number almost six hundred."

"You are most welcome, Knight-Paladin," Titus Mede murmured, rising unsteadily and reaching out to clasp wrists with the ancient Snow Elf. "The skill and bravery of your people are legendary."

"Are they all like you?" Ulfric demanded. "Or are they all Falmer?"

"Ulfric!" Elisif exclaimed in shock and embarrassment, as others in the room also raised their voices. "What a horrible thing to say!"

Gelebor merely raised his hand. "It is an honest question," he replied mildly. "And I do not begrudge the High King for asking. There is a long history of aggression between his people and mine." He turned to Ulfric and inclined his head politely. "I understand your sentiments completely, your Majesty," he said. "However, I feel at this point we should set those feelings aside for the good of us all. The Aldmeri Dominion has no love for my people, and indeed, they enslaved my lifemate for an entire era. Their ultimate plan is to obliterate any race that is not Altmer, and that would mean what is left of those you call Falmer – the Snow Elves."

He paused and looked around the room. "If there are those of you who feel you cannot fight alongside my people, I will understand, and we will not interfere in the battles to come. I will not deny that some of my troops are made up of the degenerated creatures you call Falmer, which I call the Betrayed. But in our Chantry, we have been working with them, helping to rehabilitate them, so that they may once again come into Auri-El's Light. They have at least as much to lose as any of us here should the Dominion succeed in their plans for genocide. They will fight, but they will only kill Dominion soldiers. If that is not agreeable to all, I will take my leave."

He spoke to the room, but it was Ulfric's response he was clearly looking for. When the High King said nothing, Gelebor's shoulders dropped, and he turned to go.

"So be it, then," he murmured softly, and mounted the steps to the portal.

"Gelebor, wait!" Marcus called. The Snow Elf stopped. Marcus whirled around to face Ulfric. "Forgive me, your Majesty," he scowled, "but are you, maybe, touched by Sheogorath? Are you so filled with hate for people who never did you any personal harm, that you're going to look a gift horse in the mouth?"

"His kind nearly wiped us out—" Ulfric began with justifiable anger.

"A few millennia ago," Marcus cut in. "And your people retaliated in kind, also a few millennia ago. The Snow Elves suffered as much as the Nords did. Worse, because the actions of your people drove them into a daedra's deal with the Dwemer to prevent their own extinction at the hands of your hero Ysgramor."

"What are you talking about?" Balgruuf queried. "What kind of deal?"

Marcus glanced at Gelebor, unsure if he should continue, but the Knight-Paladin gave him a stiff nod to proceed.

"The Snow Elves went underground, to the Dwemer," Marcus explained. "They begged them for protection, and the dwarves agreed – on one condition. The Snow Elves had to agree, as a race, to be blinded."

"What…all of them?" Elisif gasped.

Marcus nodded. "It gets worse," he said grimly. "The Dwemer made the toxin they gave the Snow Elves, the Falmer, an essential part of their diet. They couldn't live without it. Over the centuries they devolved into what we all know today as Falmer. This is why Gelebor calls them 'the Betrayed.' They were betrayed by the Dwemer. If Ysgramor hadn't decided on mass genocide as an answer to the elves attacking and conquering Saarthal, there wouldn't be an entire race of devolved Snow Elves today. I don't know about all of you, but I think Gelebor is being incredibly generous and forbearing, offering his people to fight alongside us. He didn't have to do that."

There was an uncomfortable silence as all eyes shifted to Ulfric, waiting for his response. It was Elisif who broke the awkwardness.

"Well, Ulfric?" she demanded, glaring at him.

The High King raised his chin in stubbornness, but only for a moment as Elisif oh-so-carefully folded her arms across her chest. The bearded chin came down and Ulfric shifted uneasily.

"I may have been too hasty," he allowed. At a further scowl from his wife, he added, "I've allowed my prejudice to color my reason. I ask your forgiveness, Knight-Paladin. We would be glad of your offer of assistance."

Elisif beamed and stood on tiptoes to kiss her husband's cheek.

For his part, Gelebor graciously inclined his head. "My plan is to head west from our Chantry to assist the Blades in High Rock," he said. "I have already been in contact with their Grand Master, and he assured me he would be glad of the extra troops, if we had the blessing of the Alliance."

"You have it!" Balgruuf enthused, speaking for the High King and ignoring the frown that creased Ulfric's forehead.

"Then I shall return to the Chantry and prepare for the journey," Gelebor bowed. "May Auri-El protect all of you, and I pray we may all meet again when this is over."

"Gelebor," Marcus called and stepped up to clasp wrists with the ancient Snow Elf. "Thanks," he murmured. "Thanks for everything!"

"It was my pleasure, Dragonborn," Gelebor smiled. "I hope we will meet again."

He stepped through the portal and was gone, and the intelligence meeting resumed.

Dante stepped up to fill them in on the events that had taken place in Valenwood and Elsweyr.

"And I have one of my best people heading to Black Marsh to find out what's going on with the Argonians."

"Do we need to worry about this Greenhand faction turning on us?" Tullius asked.

"I don't think that's likely right now," the Grey Fox replied. "They seem content to fight against Thalmor occupation in Valenwood, and are only now spreading tendrils east and west from there. They may be a problem after the war, but if we don't defeat the Dominion, it's a moot point anyway. I'm more concerned with our southern border. We're stretched thin as it is."

"I think this is where my dragon force is needed most," Marcus said. "We need to head to Bruma to take out as many airships as they have remaining. Then we should head straight south across Cyrodiil to fight the Dominion forces there."

"No, dear," Tamsyn said. "You need to head straight to the Summerset Isles."

"What?"

The question came from several people around the room.

"Forgive me, Arch-Mage," Tullius interjected, "but aren't you putting the cart before the horse? We have fires that need to be put out now, all around Tamriel. But Cyrodiil in particular."

"The only way to stop the Dominion for good is to take the fight directly to them," Tamsyn said calmly. "You all know the best way to deal with a snake is to cut off its head. Take out the head of the Thalmor in the Summerset Isles, and you effectively nullify their entire operation."

"Is that even possible?" Balgruuf breathed.

"I wouldn't have mentioned it if it wasn't, my Jarl," Tamsyn replied. "Marcus knows this is the only possible way to end the Dominion for good. Everything else they throw at us is a delaying tactic."

Marcus nodded. "She's right," he admitted. "It has been my intention to fly there directly, and deal with them on their own turf, but I've felt we were needed here."

"Son," Titus Mede said, "if you can stop the Thalmor in their tracks in Summerset, then that's what you need to do. All we can do in the meantime is hold them off until you can get there to do what has to be done. But if this stops this war sooner, rather than later, we'd be fools not to attempt it. I never had a dragon force thirty years ago. If I had, the story of the Great War would have been a footnote in history, not an entire volume."

"He's right, my friend," Balgruuf nodded. "You're the only one who can put a stop to this now, so we aren't still fighting a rear-guard action four years from now."

"This is who you are, Marcus," Elisif added soberly. "You killed Alduin. You destroyed Harkon. You kept Miraak from returning to take over the world. You're the Dragonborn. You're the Hero of Tamriel. This is who you were born to be."

Tamsyn's hand slipped around his elbow. "You won't be alone, dearest. Not for this one. I'm coming with you."

With a sigh, Dante stood and offered his hand. "Neither of you can sneak worth a damn," he said. "I'm coming too."

"I still don't quite understand," Titus Mede complained. "How is it that you look like Octavian – or at least, like his father – but you aren't him?"

Marcus shifted uncomfortably. He had been dreading this private meeting with the Emperor, but knew he had to settle this now, rather than later.

"It's quite simple, your Majesty," Tamsyn interjected gently. "Marcus' soul is in the shell that was once Octavian. You know the legends of the Dragonborn, how they have the body of a mortal, but the blood and soul of a dragon."

"Yes, yes," the Emperor said impatiently. "I've heard the stories of Tiber Septim. What I don't understand is how you – or rather, Octavian – came to be Dragonborn. The Vitellius line was never connected to the Septim line. If they had been, my old friend Atrius would have been Emperor."

"It's because being Dragonborn is a gift from Akatosh," Marcus explained. "He's the one who decides if someone is Dragonborn or not. My soul was always destined to be Dragonborn, but something happened to prevent me from being born in this world. Akatosh was forced to put my soul in the first available body, which happened to be Octavian."

That was about as close as he wanted to get to admitting to Titus Mede that he wasn't from Tamriel.

"Well, at least Octavian died with honor," the old Imperial murmured. "His father would have been proud."

Marcus said nothing. He knew how Octavian had died. It was one of the things he had asked the young Imperial in Sovngarde.

"I'm ashamed to admit I ran," Octavian had confessed. "When General Tullius gave the order to attack Ulfric's patrol, and the fighting started, I got scared. People all around me were being cut down. There was blood and gore everywhere, and I…I couldn't take it. I ran. The Captain saw me. She shot me down herself. They stripped me of my regalia as I lay there bleeding, because she said I was a disgrace to my uniform. They threw me in rags, bound my hands and tossed me on that cart, where I died. That's why I wasn't on their list. That's why she called you a 'renegade.'"

"You saw what happened after you died?" Marcus had asked, surprised.

"Briefly," Octavian admitted. "Until Akatosh Himself led me to Aetherius – or I suppose the Nords would call it Sovngarde – and took me to the Hall of Heroes. I didn't feel like I deserved it, but He assured me I was doing the bravest thing in the world by letting Him use my body to bring you back. And looking at it now, I have to agree with Him. It was the right thing to do."

There had been many times in the last seven years since that Marcus had sent up a prayer of thanks to Octavian for his unwitting sacrifice, but deep in his heart he feared having just this kind of conversation with someone who had known the young Imperial in his past.

"Well," the Emperor said now, "I'm even more sorry now that you decided against me adopting you, knowing who you were. But even still, I think Atrius would be very proud of you, whether there's still any of Octavian left in you or not."

Marcus didn't know what to say to that. But the Emperor didn't seem to expect a response, and stepped through the portal to return to the Imperial City. Marcus clasped wrists with Dante and promised to head to the capital of Cyrodill as soon as possible.

"Tamsyn insists that it should be just the three of us," he told the Grey Fox, "but I'm still not comfortable with you coming along. It's too risky. Something might happen—"

"And it might not," Dante dismissed, with a gesture unconsciously picked up from his grandfather. "Everything hinges on your success there, Dragonborn," he said. "And if you've got a couple people watching your back, your chances are that much better. Just have a dragon ready for me. I don't intend to swim to Summerset." He paused for a moment, then grinned. "The grey looks good on you." With that he stepped through the portal and was gone.

"You're sure of this, Tamsyn?" Marcus asked quietly.

"It's the only way," she replied. "We can head back to Whiterun now, if you like. Azura restored the portal. It's in Jorrvaskr right now."

"Where would we stay?" Marcus asked. "There's nothing left of Breezehome." Like Tamsyn, a pang of anguish swept over him. Breezehome had been his first real home in Skyrim.

"It's still early. We can go up to Heljarchen," she replied tiredly. The events of the day had worn her out.

Seeing this, Marcus shook his head. "We'll go to Proudspire for tonight. We can decide where to go from there tomorrow."

For once, Tamsyn didn't argue, but leaned heavily on Marcus' arm as they left Castle Dour and made their way down the hill to Proudspire. Jordis greeted them warmly and helped Tamsyn up the stairs to the master bedroom, staying long enough to help her out of her mage's robes and into a simple, unbelted shift. The Housecarl said nothing about the numerous bandages still binding the Breton woman's body.

Marcus helped her into bed while Jordis offered to fetch a mug of mulled wine for her.

"No wine, Jordis, thank you," Tamsyn declined. "But a mug of warm milk with a little honey in it would be lovely."

"I don't think you're up to a trip to the Summerset Isles, my love," Marcus insisted, his brow knit with worry. "You're still not completely well."

"You can't do this without me, dearest," she murmured. "Call Azura. Have her come here tonight and bring Julia with her. I'll need both of them if I'm to make this trip."

A thousand questions were on Marcus' mind, but he nodded and said nothing. He stepped outside the room when Jordis came in with the warm drink for Tamsyn to make the call.

A half-hour later, the front door opened and Julia's voice piped loud and shrill. "Hi, Jo'diss! Where's my mommy?"

"Upstairs, Miss Julia," the Housecarl replied, "but I think she's resting—"

"Okay, I know where that is!" The sound of little feet pounding up the granite stairs followed.

"It's alright, Jordis," Marcus heard Azura say. "We're expected."

"Daddy!" Forty pounds of exuberance plowed into Marcus' legs, and he chuckled as he swept her up in his arms.

"How's my little mystery girl, then?" he smiled.

"You got gray, Daddy!" the five-year-old announced, with a complete lack of tact or guile.

Marcus' expression soured. "Your powers of observation are beyond compare, honey," he drawled.

"Huh?"

"Never mind, sweetie," he said, shaking his head and setting her down. "Go see Mommy. I think she needs you."

"O' course," Julia snorted. "That's why I'm here!" She pattered into the master bedchamber and crawled up onto the bed where Tamsyn drew her in close for a hug.

Marcus deftly grabbed Azura by the arm as she made to follow. "What exactly is Julia doing for her?" he asked.

The Bosmer mage shrugged helplessly. "I honestly don't know, Marcus," she answered. "I mean, I'm right there in the room while they…commune, for the lack of a better term, I guess. But I don't know what goes on while they're doing it. Every now and then, either Tamsyn or Julia will ask me to channel my magicka into them, and Tamsyn gets a bit stronger each time. But I still don't know what's going on."

Marcus patted her arm. "Well, for what you're doing, you have my thanks," he said.

Azura's milk-chocolate eyes softened. "You two are family to me," she smiled. "I would do anything for you. Anything!"

Marcus gave her a brief one-armed hug around her shoulders and let her go in while he went downstairs to stay out of their way and wait.

It was well past nightfall when Azura came downstairs.

"They're both sleeping right now," she informed Marcus and Jordis. "I think we made some major progress in this session."

"Will she be well enough for an extended trip?" Marcus asked. "We need to head to the Summerset Isles."

"Summerset?!" Azura exclaimed. "I don't know, Marcus. I mean, she's getting better, but she's still not completely cured."

"What happened to her?" Jordis asked. "I always thought she was indestructible."

"Tamsyn thought so, too," Marcus snorted, unwilling to admit the real reason, and catching Azura's warning gaze. "All I know is that she was blown out one of the windows of the top floor of Dragonsreach. She suffered a lot of external and internal injuries in the fall."

"Poor woman!" Jordis murmured. "Well, I know Miss Azura here is an excellent healer. And she loves your daughter very much. That will give her incentive to get well soon. She's in good hands."

"We think so, too, Jordis," Azura agreed. "And thank you for the vote of confidence."

"Will you need anything else, my Thane?" the Housecarl dutifully asked.

"Not tonight, Jordis, thank you," he replied. "Azura, I understand the kids' room has full-sized beds now. You're welcome to stay."

"I think I'd like to stay close tonight, Marcus," the Bosmer mage nodded as Jordis retreated downstairs. "Thank you. There is one other thing I should tell you, that I didn't want to say in front of your Housecarl."

"Jordis knows quite a lot about our efforts in the Alliance," Marcus told her.

"This isn't about the Alliance," Azura countered. "This is something personal, between you and Tamsyn. She didn't want to tell you in case something happened, but I think we're past the worst of it now, and she said you should know."

Marcus frowned in confusion. "What are you getting at, Azura?"

"You're going to be a father again, Marcus," she dimpled at him. "We – Danica, Arcadia and I – were all terribly worried that Tamsyn would lose the baby. She wasn't even aware at first that she was with child. And once she knew, she was afraid she would lose it because of the trauma she went through. But with a lot of help, healing, and encouragement, I think we're past the worst. And a lot of that credit goes to Julia, I think, for the time she spent communing with Tamsyn, or whatever it is they're doing when their minds are linked."

A stab of jealousy pierced Marcus briefly, that he had never had that kind of relationship with his daughter. It passed as quickly as it had come, and what was left was a sense of wonder at his little girl, and how powerful she already was, at such a young age. And now, to find out he was to be a father again? It made him all the more determined to rid Tamriel of the Aldmeri Dominion permanently.

"How far along?" he asked.

"About twelve weeks, by our calculations," Azura smiled. "And she also said to tell you it will be a son. Though how she knows that this early is anyone's guess. I suppose it has something to do with her divination skills."

A son!

Marcus was completely unaware of the silly grin that covered his face, but Azura noticed and kept her smirk to herself. Shaking his head to clear his thoughts of teaching his boy how to catch a baseball, Marcus gave voice to his inner fears.

"She really shouldn't be going to Summerset with me," he told Azura now.

The Bosmer mage shrugged. "You tell her, then," she dodged. "I'm not getting in between the two of you on that. Anyway, we can discuss it more in the morning, if you like. I'm headed to bed." She rose from her chair and went into the adjacent room that Lucia and Julia slept in, when they were here.

Marcus stepped quietly into the darkened master bedchamber and silently removed his armor, setting it on the mannequin set up in the corner for just that purpose.

"Daddy?" Julia whispered.

Turning, he saw the five-year-old sitting up in bed.

"What's the matter, baby?" he asked, coming around to sit next to her. "Can't you sleep?"

"I'm okay," the little girl replied. "Mommy's the one that needs to sleep."

"Did you want to stay here with us tonight?" he asked. "Miss Azura's sleeping next door."

"There's two beds there," Julia pointed out, with the unerring pragmatism of a pre-schooler. "I can go back to my own bed, but I wanna talk with you, firs'."

"Okay," Marcus murmured. "But let's go back out to the other room so Mommy can sleep, okay?"

The child nodded, and Marcus picked her up, carrying her out to the sitting room and lowering them both to the sofa at one side of the room.

"Now, what did you want to say, honey?" he asked.

"I wanna tell you that Mommy's hurt bad in her mind," his daughter replied.

"In her mind?" Marcus echoed. "What do you mean?"

"She feels bad," Julia frowned. "She thinks she's not good anymore 'cause she can't do the stuff she used to."

Marcus nodded. "She mentioned something about that to me," he confirmed. "But how is it that you understand something like that?"

"I can't eggsplain," Julia lisped. "I jus' know. I…I can feel how bad Mommy feels 'bout herself. She's wrong ta feel that way, an' I try to help her with that."

"Is this something Grandpa helps you with?" Marcus ventured to ask. He knew that Julianos sometimes visited Julia in her dreams, in spite of the other Eight Aedra being against interference of that kind.

"Sometimes," Julia nodded. "He tol' me Mommy needed me, so I tol' Lyddie I hadda come. She dint want ta bringed me, so I tol' her I was gonna come anyway, so she bringed me."

"'Brought' you," Marcus corrected unconsciously. "Did he tell you anything else?"

"No," Julia yawned. "That's all. I foun' out 'bout my little brudder when I helped heal Mommy."

"Oh?" Marcus smiled, amused. He realized that would have been a difficult thing to keep from her, if she was cloistered with four grown women, trying to save the baby's life as well as his mother's. "How do you feel about having a little brother?"

"Okay, I guess," Julia shrugged. "I can't play with him until he gets bigger, though. An' when he is bigger, I'll be bigger, too. An' maybe I won't wanna play with him."

There was an undeniable logic there, that Marcus couldn't refute.

"Let's get you back to bed, sweetie," he said now, rising to his feet easily with Julia in his arms. "You've had a long day."

He carried her silently into the other bedroom, where Azura was already breathing in a soft, even rhythm. Laying her down on the other bed, he drew up the quilt that Tamsyn had made with Jordis' help. In addition to being a formidable swordswoman and Housecarl, Jordis was a talented seamstress, and often quilted in her spare time to relax her mind.

"Daddy?" Julia whispered.

"Yes, baby?"

"I love you!"

"I love you, too, sweetheart," he murmured, kissing her cheek. "So much it hurts sometimes."

"Does it hurt to love, Daddy?" the little girl wondered drowsily.

"Sometimes," he admitted. "But most of the time, it's in a good way. Go to sleep."

---

Dim sunlight filtered into the sanctuary of the Palace of the Mane, but Rezhyk the Blackheart didn't need much light to see into every corner of the room. He counted only a half-dozen guards – two of which were Pahmar – between where he stood and where the Mane reclined on this throne, nearly hidden under the enormous headdress of Khajiit dreadlocks given to him as oaths of fealty from the highest-ranking members of his court. Some of those locks were decades old, given to the previous Mane. As time took its toll on each braid, it was replaced, but the Blackheart knew the ceremonial mitre must weigh at least twenty pounds or more. It was cumbersome, and would it be difficult to move easily while wearing it.

Knowing he was outnumbered, if they decided to attack, Rezhyk sheathed his weapons. Perhaps diplomacy would serve better here.

Next to the Mane stood a black-robed Thalmor Justiciar. His lip curled in derision as Rezhyk entered.

"Very clever of you to enlist the Bosmer in your effort to unseat your lawful liege," he sneered.

"This doesn't concern you, Thalmor," Rezhyk snarled. "Leave now, and I might let you live."

"Oh, I disagree," the Justiciar smiled, and there was nothing pleasant in the expression. "I believe it concerns the Dominion greatly. Your little rebellion is at an end. Guards! Seize him!"

The Pahmar didn't move, and the Cathay-raht shifted restlessly.

"Why do you hesitate?" the Thalmor snarled. "I said, attack!"

One of the Cathay-raht spoke up. "We do not take orders from you, Justiciar Lleryn," he explained politely. "We are sworn to protect the Mane. We answer only to him."

Furious, Lleryn pointed at the Blackheart. "This Khajiit intends to kill the Mane!" he accused.

Six heads swiveled back to Rezhyk, outlined in the doorway from the torchlight pouring in from the chamber behind him. The Cathay-raht turned back to Justiciar Lleryn.

"I see no drawn weapons," the big cat grunted. "Where is your proof?"

Enraged, and more than a little concerned that this was not going according to Dominion plans, Lleryn turned to the Mane.

"Your Worship," he cajoled, "you do understand your life is in danger, yes?"

"Eh?" the Mane mumbled, and Rezhyk realized he could smell the skooma from here. Even had the Justiciar not interfered, there would have been no fight today against the Mane. The spiritual leader of all Khajiit was far too wasted to respond. His lip curled in disgust. This was not the way to lead the iss di kha'jay – the people of the moons.

"Tell your people to kill him!" Lleryn insisted, and the Mane raised his head only enough to attempt to force his bleary eyes to focus.

"You've overplayed your hand, Thalmor," Rezhyk grinned, showing his teeth. "We Khajiit love our moon sugar, but too much of a good thing is not necessarily a good thing."

"I'll kill you myself, then," Lleryn snarled.

Both hands lashed out, shooting electricity and ice. Rezhyk leaped straight up and grabbed an overhead beam, swinging himself on top of it. The Justiciar jerked his head up in dismay as Rezhyk scurried lightly across, heading in his direction. Rezhyk grinned to himself. Typical mage, he thought. They always think in one dimension.

An Icy Spear shot past his head so close he felt the temperature drop near his right ear. Leaping forward, he grabbed the center support post and swung himself in a full circle around it, to disorient the Thalmor. On the other side of the post he leaped to a cross-rafter, then leaped again to the next. Bolts of electricity lanced all around him, but he kept going until he reached the end, just above the Justiciar and the Mane.

"End of the line for you, cat," the Justiciar sneered. Energy built up between his hands and he shot where Rezhyk was standing on the beam – only to realize the Blackheart wasn't there. "What?" Lleryn gaped. "He was just – where did you go?"

A clawed finger tapped him on the shoulder. "Behind you," Rezhyk replied, striking out with his claws across the Justiciar's face. "You forgot how quiet Khajiit can be when they want to be."

Staggering back, one hand clapped to his torn and bleeding eye, Lleryn shrieked before firing off a healing spell. It wasn't strong, and his eye did not heal, but Rezhyk braced himself for retaliation. When it came, he was ready. Lleryn blindly threw out another Thunderbolt, aimed right at Rezhyk, but the Blackheart leaped away at the last second, and Lleryn's face paled as the spell struck the Mane.

Immediately, six Palace guards closed in on him, growling and snarling.

"No! No!" he screamed. "It was a mistake! I didn't mean to—"

Whatever else he might have said was drowned in a horrific shriek and the murderous roars of six very large, very angry Khajiit whose sole purpose in life was to protect the Mane.

Rezhyk stood by and watched dispassionately. When it was over, the Cathay-raht who had spoken before turned back to the Mane and sniffed him.

"He is gone," the big cat crooned. The others joined him in their mournful call, and Rezhyk bowed his head as a sign of respect for the life that had now gone on to join the ancestors in the arms of Riddle'Thar.

Knowing what he must now do, and reluctant to willingly give up his free life, Rezhyk slowly approached the throne. The Cathay-raht stepped between the Blackheart and the Mane.

"What is your intention?" the big cat rumbled warningly.

"To claim the Mane," Rezhyk replied. "This one was born under the Dark Moons, during the full eclipse. You may call for a kestu oriit, a wise woman, and she will tell you the truth of my birth."

The Cathay-raht regarded him for a long moment. "I believe you," he finally said. "Others may not, but I do. I sense something about you that he once had, before the skooma took hold of him. I am Motabe. Take the srato. We will send for a kestu oriit. In the meantime," Motabe's eyes sparkled with amusement, "go outside and tell them to stop fighting."

Rezhyk stepped over to the Mane and lifted the heavy headdress, the srato, off the old Khajiit's head, and awkwardly placed it on his own. It reeked of skooma, and he promised himself that his first private act as Mane would be to get it fumigated. Unused to the weight of something over his ears, Rezhyk walked slowly to the balcony and called out to the crowd below.

"Khajiit, dok rat!" he caterwauled.

Immediately the sounds of combat below dwindled away. Clusters of Thalmor were bunched together in small groups, battling for their lives against their former allies, and down near the harbor gate, large groups of Bosmer were still engaged with the remnants of Aldmeri occupation forces.

"This war is over!" Rezhyk declared. "Arrest the remaining Dominion soldiers. Inform our Bosmer allies that I, Rezhyk the Blackheart, am now the Mane. Let the word spread. From this day forward, Elsweyr is a free Province, no longer under Dominion control. Any Aldmeri forces remaining in our country will be captured and tried for war crimes. This is the will of Riddle'Thar!"

He bowed to the crowd below as cheers rang out, then withdrew inside to start the long process of righting the wrongs inflicted on his people.

"So, you're speaking for the gods now, eh?" a familiar voice asked, a wealth of irony in the question.

"Cinnamon!" Rezhyk exclaimed, delighted. Rushing over to the entrance, he embraced first the old ginger, then Chieri standing just behind him. Darmahn, behind her, beamed and bowed formally. "You're all well!"

"This one told you she knew some spells," Chieri said modestly. "What happens now…your Worship?" A smile played about her lips at the honorific.

"This one thinks he will never get used to that," the Blackheart grinned wryly. "But he is not certain what will come after this. What is the usual procedure, Motabe?" he asked the Cathay-raht.

"After your confirmation, you will present yourself to the King," Motabe replied. "Together, the two of you will decide the path Elsweyr will follow. You may have overstepped your authority out there," he nodded towards the balcony, "but I believe it is safe to say your desires align with His Majesty's. You must hurry, and head to Rimmen. The Thalmor still have a strong hold on that city, and once word of the change here spreads, His Majesty's life may hang in the balance."

"It's a long way to Rimmen," Chieri murmured, worry in her eyes. "How can we get there ahead of the news?"

"We may be in luck there," Cinnamon considered. "There are still a few airships here which we didn't destroy. Tika thinks her mages can make it work. And I still know my way around a ship."

"Let us be swift, then," Rezhyk nodded. He turned to Motabe. "My thanks to you, Motabe. This one will return soon."

"It doesn't work that way, Your Worship," the big cat rumbled. "We are the ali rasiniit, the High Guard. We go where you go. Our job is to protect you."

Rezhyk shrugged. "Another thing this one will have to get used to, it seems. Very well. Come. Let us go."

Motabe found a few priests of Riddle'Thar, who assured the new Mane they would prepare his predecessor for the funeral pyre, as they carefully, almost tenderly, carried his body away. Rezhyk and his crew hurried down to the main gates, outside of which was a large clearing that had been used as a mooring point for the airships. The carnage was everywhere, and scavenger vermin were already picking at the bodies. They scurried away at the approach of the Blackheart and his entourage.

"Where is Tika?" Rezhyk asked.

"Here!" the little female called. A band of eight or so mages were with her. "This one left most of the healers in the city," she explained. "We are the ones most versed in all forms of magic."

"And you believe you can move it the same way as the Thalmor did?" Rezhyk queried.

"Not exactly the same way," Tika demurred. "But we can move it."

"As long as we can get to Rimmen as soon as possible," the Blackheart said wryly, "this one does not care if you have to get out and push!"

One by one they climbed the ladder to the main deck of the airship, and Tika hurried below with her mages to examine the method used by the Thalmor. Cinnamon paced around the upper deck and tugged on several lines to ensure they were secure.

"This is a good ship," he approved. "I can already see how to set the sails to catch the wind."

"That's not enough," Rezhyk frowned. "We must get it up above the trees, then we must move it forward. And if the wind is not in our favor, we will find ourselves out over the Topal Sea before you know it."

"That will not happen," Tika assured him, coming up from belowdecks. "We will move the ship with our minds. Magrus has told us how."

"With your minds?" Chieri marveled. "How is that possible?"

"It would take too long to explain," Tika apologized. "Let us get underway, and you will see."

Indeed, fifteen minutes later, they had cleared the tallest trees and were soaring in a northerly direction, away from Torval and the Palace of the Mane. The dark smudge of the Tenmar Forest receded rapidly behind them, and Cinnamon put himself at the wheel, issuing orders to the others of the Blackheart's army that had elected to come along on which lines to tighten, which sails to hoist and in general, acting like the captain of any normal sea-going vessel.

Tika and her team sat in a circle on the quarterdeck behind Cinnamon, hands linked, eyes closed, and ears and whiskers forward in concentration. Rezhyk felt the lurch as they pushed the airship away from the ground, and the sway of the boards beneath his feet as the power of their collective minds propelled them forward. They neither steered the ship nor guided it, leaving that to Cinnamon and his crew.

"I like this!" the big ginger laughed.

"This one could get used to it," Rezhyk agreed, "but he knows he must walk a different path from yours my friend."

"I wouldn't count your chickens before they're hatched, Blackheart," Cinnamon warned. "We still have to get there before news of your promotion does, and we need to protect the King, if the Dominion decides they don't like the way the dice have fallen."

"If my experiences with palace guards are any indication," Rezhyk smiled, throwing a glance to Motabe and the others nearby, "we might not have that much to worry about." But worry creased his brow all the same.

---

Dante moved as quickly through the streets of the Imperial City as he could, with his grandfather, swaddled in a heavy cloak, following behind him. The hour was late, and few people were about, except for the guard patrols and the occasional beggar. It was a good mile or so from the exit of the sewers where the Guild had its hideout to the White Gold Tower itself, and Dante's eyes darted about, seeking every shadow that shouldn't be there. He wouldn't relax until he got his grandfather safely back to his chambers.

A darkness separated itself from behind a cluster of bushes, and Dante put his hand on Mehrunes' Razor, keeping himself between the shade and the Emperor.

"It's me, Boss," Minnow whispered, and Dante relaxed.

"What are you doing out here?" he murmured. "I thought you were out on business."

"Got a message from Asha earlier," Minnow replied. "Don't go back to the Tower. There are a few dignitaries hanging around whose credentials don't check out."

"Dignitaries?" whispered the Emperor. "Who are they? Where are they from?"

The diminutive Nightingale glanced at her boss, and Dante nodded for Minnow to proceed.

"They claim to be representatives from Morrowind," the girl answered, "but Asha thinks she's seen them before, many years ago. She thinks they might be Morag Tong."

"Did they recognize her?" Dante asked.

"I asked her that," Minnow replied. "She says no, she had a different face then." In spite of herself, Minnow shuddered. Even Dante paused for a moment to appreciate what the Altmer woman had undergone to wear a face she wasn't born with. "Anyway, she says they were most insistent on meeting with the Emperor as soon as possible. Asha couldn't hear what Chamberlain Justinian said; she wasn't close enough. But they didn't seem to like the answer they received."

"Hmph!" Titus Mede snorted. "Can't a man have a bout of diarrhea without people getting their knickers in a twist?"

"That's…uh…a little too much information, your Majesty," Minnow blanched, while Dante chuckled.

"Is that the excuse you used?" he grinned.

His grandfather shrugged. "Seemed like a good way to keep people from bothering me while we were gone," he said indifferently. "Besides, I'm too old to give a damn about what people think of me."

"I don't believe that for a minute," Dante smirked, then sobered. "But it does mean you're in danger."

"Why? Because some diplomats that Asha thinks she recognizes might be assassins?" the old Imperial scoffed.

"Begging your pardon, sir," Dante insisted, "but I've been at this too long to take chances. My people are some of the best at what they do, or they wouldn't be working for me. If Asha thinks they're Morag Tong, they probably are, and that means we need to get you to a safe place."

"I'm not leaving the Imperial City," Titus Mede declared stubbornly. "What would the people think if their Emperor abandoned them in their time of need? I did that thirty years ago with disastrous results. I won't let it happen again."

"Can we discuss this later?" Minnow urged. "We need to get out of the streets."

"I agree," Dante replied. "As it happens, I have a few bolt-holes we can go to temporarily. Minnow, get back to the Guild. Find out everything you can about these 'diplomats'; who they are, where they're from and more importantly, what their cover story is."

"I'm on it, Boss," she nodded, and melted back into the shadows.

"Come on, Grandfather," he said now to the Emperor. "I have a place close by here we can go to."

A few minutes later they slipped into the back entrance of Serpentine Antiquities, the shop Dante used as a front for his other activities.

"So, this is your shop, eh, lad?" the Emperor mused, looking around after Dante secured the window shutters and lit a lantern.

"It's a modest business," Dante nodded, "but I've enjoyed my time here."

"Second Era terracotta burial urns," the old Imperial murmured, "Breton tapestries of the early Alessian Dynasty, and what's this?" He picked up a long, curved and tapered blade of glimmering steel. "An Akaviri dai-katana of the second Cyrodiilic Empire? You have quite the collection here, my boy!"

"I'm still trying to get provenance on that blade," Dante demurred. "Rumor has it that it belonged to Reman Cyrodiil himself, but I don't have solid proof on that yet."

"Well, I assume you don't live here," Titus Mede surmised.

"I don't now, of course," Dante said. "But I did for a while, before I bought Greyshadow Manor in the Elven District. There's a room upstairs I used to stay in, when I was doing more business than I do now."

"'Greyshadow Manor?'" his grandfather chuckled. "Is that what you're calling it, now? Why didn't we go there, then?" his grandfather asked. "I mean, if it's larger and nicer than this?"

"Because I have a feeling whoever is after you may also be after me," Dante explained. "The Manor may be under surveillance. I'll need to check. But I think you'll be safe here for a day or so until I find out who's after you and eliminate them."

He helped his grandfather up the stairs and settled the old Imperial for the night.

"Stay inside," he ordered. "Keep the windows closed, and don't open that door for anyone, even if they claim to be me, or someone who works for me."

"I wasn't born yesterday, lad," Titus Mede scowled. "I know how to lay low."

Dante nodded. "Good. Give me a day or so. It shouldn't take more than that to squirrel out who's after you."

"I thought you were going to Summerset with the Dragonborn?"

"I am," Dante assured him, "but this comes first. This is more important."

The Emperor patted his hand. "You're a good lad," the old man smiled. "Your mother would be proud of you, as am I."

Dante's throat worked as he nodded again. "Stay out of sight," he ordered again, gruffly, and headed down the stairs.

On the streets once more, Dante slipped through the shadows to the Elven Gardens District where his manor home lay. All seemed quiet, but he knew from long experience never to trust appearances. He silently cast his Detect Life spell and counted the auras. Three guards patrolling the avenues, four beggars encircling the house, ostensible begging, but actually watching the place for him. And two more images that appeared to be inside the Manor.

But Clarice and Falisa have already left, he knew. There shouldn't be anyone inside.

Mimicking the call of a nightbird, Dante sidled over to one of the beggars.

"Knew it was you, guv'nor, from the call," the woman murmured. "Was 'oping you'd show up."

"What's going on, Tillie?" he asked her.

"Two mooks crept up the trellis 'bout sunset," she replied. "Went in through the window there on the second floor. Oi told you before, you should'a taken that thing down."

"I find it makes a handy escape route sometimes," he reasoned. "What were they wearing?"

"Well, it was already gettin' dark," she shrugged. "But Oi could see they 'ad that weird kind of armor they wear in Morrowind. Made out o' some kind o' bug, Oi think."

"Chitin armor," Dante nodded. "Likely Morag Tong, then."

"Be careful, Boss," Tillie urged him, accepting the coins he pressed into her hands. "Oi've 'eard they play rough."

He patted her shoulder. "That they do, Tillie," he said. "But so do I."

He slipped away from her, invoking Nocturnal's blessing and crossing the street unseen. Around the back of the house was a hatch that led directly to the cellar, and it was here that Dante gained entry into his own home unseen. Pausing, he fired off another Detect spell, finding the two auras overhead. One appeared to be on the second floor, while the other was moving around the ground floor. Both were moving from room to room, hugging the perimeter of the house, and Dante knew they were watching the streets to see if either he or his grandfather – or both of them – would return to Greyshadow Manor.

Dante knew that Morag Tong were trained from an early age to listen for any sound that was out of place, such as a door opening and closing when one knew there should have been no one there to do it. His experience with the other Tong at the dockside told him these also likely had the same Detect Life spell he had. Leaving the cellar would be difficult – but not impossible.

He waited a few moments and cast his spell again, revealing the location of the two Tong members. The one on the main floor was now at the front of the house, near the window in the parlor overlooking the avenue. Firmly and silently, he turned the handle on the cellar door only enough to release the latchbolt from the strike plate and eased it open, grateful he kept the hinges well oiled.

A scuff of a leather sole from the front room told him the Tong was on the move again, and he squeezed himself through the opening and carefully closed the door behind him. Remaining crouched, he moved to the corner of the corridor and peered out into the great hall. A darker shadow against the normal ones moved to the left, past the entryway, and into the dining hall to watch the windows there.

Dante covered the distance swiftly and soundlessly drew Mehrunes' Razor. Edging around the corner of the doorway, every sense on high alert, he crept towards the Tong. He could see it was female.

She suddenly leaped straight up and backflipped in the air, coming down on the dining table and somersaulting off it to plant herself behind Dante, who straightened and blocked her attack with the Razor before ducking and tumbling to the other side of the room, near a hutch filled with silver. Grabbing a charger, he held it in front as three razor-sharp stars embedded themselves in the metal.

"That was Second Empire Hammerfell silver," he tsked, flinging it at her. She ducked the incoming missile and drew two daggers as footsteps overhead heralded the approach of her compatriot. Crouching again, with Nocturnal's blessing still in effect, Dante rolled silently across the floor down the length of the table to come to a halt near the doorway to the great hall. He could see the other Tong – a male – coming down the stairs now, head moving this way and that, searching for him. The female made a gesture with one hand and her head swiveled in his direction. Knowing he was revealed, Dante stood and flipped the Razor to his off hand, drawing Inferno.

With both her daggers back in her hand, the female approached warily, waiting for him to make the first move. The male on his other side also seemed to have more than two brain cells to rub together, as he did not rush the Breton Guildmaster, but waited.

"I don't suppose we can sit down and talk about this?" Dante suggested lightly.

There was no answer, nor did he expect one.

"Clearly you want me dead," he stated in a matter-of-fact manner. "Just as clearly, I have no intention of dying, so here we are. What's it to be, then?"

The female rushed in first, and Dante parried her daggers with the Razor as he swept Inferno behind him to block the attack from the male, who wielded only a long, sweeping blade with a hooked barb at the end and a ridged back. The male flipped his blade around to try and disarm Dante, but the Nightingale went with the movement in an envelopment maneuver he had learned in High Rock in his youth. Mainly meant for thinner, rapier-like blades, it still worked here, and the male Tong fumbled his weapon, giving Dante time to swing back to the female and slash at her unprotected midsection. She jumped backwards, but not quickly enough, and he heard her hiss of pain as Mehrunes' Razor parted the leather just under the edge of the chitin that came down only to her waist. She backed away and fired off a healing spell.

Dante whirled around and swept out with his foot, but the male Tong was ready for him and leaped to avoid the trip. He barely got his blade in front of him to block the slash from Inferno, and sparks flew from both blades as they ground against each other.

The female had drawn her bow, now, and Dante heard the whistle just before the arrow sunk into his shoulder. Gritting his teeth, he kicked at the statue of St. Alessia just inside the door, toppling it in her direction. He had only a moment's regret, knowing it was only a replica of the original. The female Tong danced backwards to avoid getting clobbered, and the plaster statue shattered, kicking up a cloud of dust. The male had pushed forward again, pressing what he saw as an advantage, but Dante slipped under his guard and gave a feral grin of satisfaction as Inferno not only sliced deeply into the man's arm but lit him on fire as well.

Screaming, he backed away, frantically smacking at the flames with anything handy to put them out.

"Please," Dante begged, "not the tapestries. They're irreplaceable."

The female shot again with her bow, but Dante heard the arrow this time and ducked. It impaled itself in the door jamb behind him. He rolled forward, grabbing a chunk of plaster as he did so, and hurled it at the female, who was shifting to get a better angle on him. Unprepared, it hit her a glancing blow to the head, and she shook it to clear it.

Dante loomed up in front of her.

"Say hello to Boethiah for me, will you?" he asked, as he shoved the Razor into her chest. In one of those rare instances, the Daedric weapon lived up to its reputation. She stiffened as the Razor found her heart and collapsed on the spot.

Turning back, Dante barely brought Inferno up in time to block the saw-toothed attack from the male Tong. True to his nature, he made no reaction to the loss of his partner. Only the target mattered. There ensued a flurry of exchanged attacks between the two men as each sought to eliminate the other. If the Tong knew magic, he never used it, which was a decided lack of strategy on his part. Dante sheathed the Razor and sent a burst of ice into the Tong's face, knowing that as a Dunmer, he was weaker against frost-based attacks. It was several minutes, however, before all was silent once more in the great hall, and Dante cleaned his blades on the tunics of his fallen foes.

This isn't the end of it, he told himself. There are still the ones waiting for us in the White Gold Tower.

He knew his grandfather wouldn't be safe unless he eliminated every potential threat.

Hurrying now, he once again used the cover of shadow to make his way to the Tower that dominated every view in the Imperial City. Gliding silent and unseen along the back corridors to the private lift, he emerged in the Emperor's private chambers and sent out his Detect Life once more. Only one figure lit up here. Ashabareth Vaneris rose at his approach, and the relief he felt was echoed in her eyes.

"You're here!" she exclaimed in hushed tones. "Thank the gods!"

"Tell me what's going on," he said.

Asha filled him in on what Minnow had already told him. "There were a group of them," she said. "They claimed to be representatives from Morrowind, responding to the peace offerings that the Emperor sent, but they never mentioned Drelan. And they never gave us the code phrase he set up so we would know they came from him. They kept after Justinian, insisting they needed to speak with the Emperor. He never told them anything beyond, 'the Emperor is indisposed' and 'the Emperor cannot be disturbed at this time.' They weren't happy about it, but the Chamberlain did give them a place to sleep."

"And you knew they were Morag Tong?" Dante asked.

Asha nodded. "I had a strong feeling they were," she confirmed. "I recognized two of them from my time in Morrowind back in the Third Age. Of course, back then I didn't look as I do now, so I'm sure they didn't know who I was."

"That's a story you're going to have to tell me some time," he grinned, and she dimpled at him. "Where are they now?"

"Three of them are in their chambers, last time I checked," she replied. "Two of them were ordered to 'find lodgings in town.' That seemed odd to me, and even Justinian raised his eyebrows."

"Justinian raises his eyebrows at everything that isn't according to protocol," Dante said wryly. "But as it happens, they picked the wrong place to stay for the night."

Asha nodded her understanding. "So that leaves three," she murmured.

"Yes, and I'll need you to send a couple people over there to clean up the mess," he instructed.

"What about the three here?" she asked.

"Oh, I think some good old-fashioned food poisoning is in order, don't you?" he grinned. "I mean, not all Dunmer can handle the rich food we humans can eat."

Asha gave a sly smile. "It amazes me sometimes what you humans will put down in your stomachs," she chuckled. "I'll take care of it."

The following day the Emperor – now fully recovered from his bout of 'stomach flu', as he termed it – appeared once more in Court to hear the grievances of his people and the petitions of dignitaries from the other Provinces. Unfortunately, as urgent as the emissaries from Morrowind had been, they seemed to have come down with the same illness that had so recently afflicted His Majesty.

"There's something going around," the Emperor commiserated. "That's for certain."

Physicians were brought in, as there were no Healers available. The Mages Guild had long ago been disbanded, and the Synod seemed reluctant to engage in any research that included Restoration. It soon became apparent, however, that the Physicians could not agree on the cause of the illness, and the dignitaries from Morrowind tragically died from the mysterious malady. Titus Mede gave them a lavish funeral, as befit their ranks as ambassadors, and had their cremated remains returned to Morrowind, where a confused clerk in the Consulate wondered who these mer had been, and where was he to dispose of their ashes?

---

[Author's Note: We are closing in on the end of this tale. Next up is the Battle of Bruma, as the Alliance pushes southward. Rezhyk the Blackheart confronts the Dominion in Rimmen, and Reydin Glane meets up with an old friend in Black Marsh. Tamsyn snaps out of her deep blue funk and proves she is still the Arch-Mage, with or without her godlike powers. But the Dominion closes in on the Imperial City, and the Alliance is running out of time. Stay tuned!]