Wayfarer in Anvil. Neither ship nor Sage heard of here. Success of original strategy unlikely. Seeking definite answer. Find any purchase you can. Send to Foc'sle. Do not go quietly.

History was a navigator's chart, showing currents and prevailing winds, shoals and safe harbors. The coastline underneath was very real, and not every map was equal at portraying it. Some errors were a matter of complacency in the cartographer. But not so here. Lathenil had seen a safe harbor at the end of the route marked before him, and now he, the historian, had met with the occupational hazard of the physical cartographer, and run aground.

Whatever had become of Rynandor the Bold, one thing was plain. His knowledge of the coastline had not meant he had the capacity to change the course.

The possibilities, as Lathenil assessed them, were these:

Rynandor had been in a shipwreck. Shipwrecked, while bound in the brig. An inauspicious circumstance, but there was a recurrent figure in history that gave Lathenil hope: the Fortunate Prisoner, the favored of Auri-El. That hope was a slim one, though. In every case Lathenil knew, such figures were completely unknown to history prior to the imprisonment. But the crew may, nonetheless, have had the chance to intervene.

Rynandor had escaped, and was in hiding in Summerset; the records were kept in line with the original plan, so no one would suspect. But in that case – he saw, clear as the evening it had happened, those coppery eyes looking directly into his own, beseeching him not to intervene – in that case, something stark must have happened to turn him against the law in whose hands he had laid himself at the Pavilion.

Rynandor had been exiled, but the destination of Anvil was a diversion planted in the records. If so, he could hardly see why that Thalmor agent would go to the bother. The rest of the provinces certainly had their degrees of unrest, but none of them were declaring embargoes on one another, and information was spread not quickly, but at least freely, between them.

Rynandor had been murdered in captivity.

There were no strong objections to the last postulate, try as Lathenil might to find one. It was in the Thalmor interest: the story of the exiled hero that rose to trouble the unwanted ruler might well predate the linearity of time. It was entirely feasible: the Blood-Iron Provision provided an impenetrable cover for the deed, and Alinor's harbor had been closed to the public on the day of the exile. And he was unwilling to trust much weight to the moral scruples of a group that researched poisons and kept private torture chambers, that had stolen the mantle of Martin Septim and had trodden so thoroughly upon Rynandor's name already.

This did not make it a certainty. If there were any chance Rynandor the Bold were alive, any chance at all, he had to take it. If not, then the foreign effort would rest with him, and if he had swayed anyone even back home, it was on account of their preexisting familiarity with events – certainly not his prepossessing personality or his auspicious exploits.

A thankless-seeming task.

He couldn't escape, now, that Rynandor wasn't offering encouragement or consolation when he told Lathenil of his character. The first thing he had done, upon hearing himself condemned – sequestered , he told himself firmly – was to be sure that he, Lathenil, wouldn't get caught in the fray. The seer-mage had seen something in him, secured his liberty that he might carry the hope of Summerset.

He shook himself. If that were so, then the task that seemed most thankless was the task to pursue. And the Falconbranch was still the best lead he had.

Fiorana hadn't thought temple service could ever leave her feeling thoroughly useless, but the last she'd dived into her own navel like that, she hadn't been a counter-conspirator tasked with making sure her race didn't turn daft. Now, as conspirators went, she was a purely nominal example.

Melthis was working her fingers to a nub for Lord Gilarnath, and reported he would soon find himself running afoul of the Queen's law, if for less political cause than was ideal.

Shasten had convinced his fellow-craftsman to sabotage by target every Staff of Soul Trap he produced – a trifling advance in the current state of magical theory, but a spellcraft to do Galerion proud, quite apart from the Thalmor demand for the things.

While it apparently suited Andrathel better to insist he'd left the cabal than to introduce his Khajiit friend, what Fiorana had heard from Firsthold Academy had his mark all over it. Certainly someone had to counter the lurching form that called itself the Crystal Tower, and the old genial rival was a logical choice.

Lathenil... he'd turned up empty in Anvil. But there was no helping that, by the sound of it.

As for Fiorana, she mainly hosted meetings so the rest, who were making real progress, could keep up. On occasion she had some clarifying remark – particularly the musing that, as let's not fool ourselves Rynandor was dead, Fintar and probably the rest were liable to kill anyone if it furthered their purpose and they could get away with it. It proved of little utility, unless you counted spooking Andrathel in the credit column.

In the meantime, with country healers out of demand she dealt mainly in consolation and advice, which got fairly platitudinous and light on utility when she was half listening to the petitioner and half wondering if there'd been a genuine Mythic Dawn member sequestered in weeks.

"I could use some guidance. From Stendarr especially."

Speak of the daedra. Better look her in the eye throughout – looks attentive, might just facilitate actual attention.

Or, she corrected, looking up from her mortar and pestle, perhaps her concentration would be no trouble at all. The eyes were Cilandrin's.

"I'd hoped you – it's so good to see you, Fiorana." Her manner was as Fiorana remembered it – her face, open and guileless as a gambling-house's dream, filled with concern heartfelt enough to make the most attention-thirsty mer fidget uncomfortably. She felt loathsome to have expected some drastic, terrible transformation. But no sense being incautious, all the same.

"Cilandrin," said Fiorana in tones of strictly professional concern. "I didn't expect you. What's happened?"

She seated herself upon the marble ledge. "It's... well, it's Lathenil," she said in a low voice. "He's gone."

And how, precisely, had it come as a surprise that his sister might be ruffled by that?

"No one's seen him since the wedding – I don't know if you heard, but Beridor and I... well, it was the work of the moment we met, really – just there." She shyly indicated the brush-willow by the pond. "But Lathenil wasn't happy about it. Thought I was marrying Lord Fintar as part and parcel, I think. Since the Pavilion, he'd always start, as though he were talking of a momentous battle rather than a perfectly sound building that sees controversy of that order about five times a month..."

She closed her eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm not here to recount the squabbles."

Fiorana nodded gravely, feeling more the fetcher with every noncommittal placation she made.

"Well, he didn't go to the wedding. Not a surprise," she added hastily, "he refused from the beginning and he's never been one to put decorum first. So I give him a month to himself... come back, by myself of course... and it's a stranger at the door. Maidservant to some s'wit of a dandy. He'd sold the house the day of the wedding, Fiorana, he'd lost everything dicing and never told me a word, and he's not been seen since! No one knows who wanted the money, either, and they're not coming forward and declaring themselves..." Her shoulders shook. "No one even gave it a thought. They knew he'd moved out – where to wasn't their concern. And the Sunhold Watch hasn't turned up a thing. Why should they, after a month..."

Fiorana gave her a bracing hug. She was relatively certain she didn't want her brother dead. The favor probably extended to her, as well. The trouble was in convincing her of the danger – but Cilandrin didn't seem inclined to take chances, and there was no need to single out Beridor, not when he had such an extensive social circle and no desire to keep anything from them...

Cilandrin evidently took the offered shoulder as permission to cry. "And... and Beridor... he's been asking, too, and-" Fiorana must have given some sort of tangible reaction, for she quickly added, "Yes, he's been asking, he's not a bloody... idiot like my brother... Lathenil's the only one who thought they were nemeses... but he heard Lathenil had been knocking back spirits on the Alinor dockside, and it sounds ridiculous, but it was him, no question." She pulled away, which Fiorana was grateful for as she digested that bit of news. "This... this debtor could be anywhere! And the drink... Fiorana, my brother never liked to be out of his own control. It's bad enough to lose him... but I... I wonder if he ever really came back from the Crystal Tower."

"Of course he didn't," said Fiorana briskly. "They never do, or not in the way you mean at any rate. I could tell they never sent you through an Oblivion Gate before you told me as much, remember. If they had, you wouldn't have come back the way you are either. Fact of life, and it's obvious you recognized enough of him by the way you're agonizing about it. But he's gone now, and that's a more serious matter. I'm glad Beridor sent you this way."

Cilandrin gave a watery laugh. "My idea, actually. Beridor remembers this temple as the place we met, and a station for his research, but I don't think he remembers you at all."

So the home cabal was all right, then. It was only Lathenil who might have to watch himself – would have to watch himself, if she told Cilandrin the truth at this moment.

The home cabal was all right, except for her feeble part in it.

"Hmph. Well, if he doesn't remember me, could you reintroduce us? I'd like to see what he's been getting up to lately – perhaps help out; I understand the Thalmor have done a lot to rebuild the school of the Crystal Tower, for instance."

"I thought Stendarr frowned on that sort of thing?"

"You will notice He turned awfully silent about the Mannish case by about the point the Alessian Order came into being," said Fiorana, using a ludicrous theological argument she'd actually heard confidently espoused not a week ago. "Anyway, we've got an appeal to make."

Fiorana led Cilandrin down the raised walkway to the altar. Mistaken. Besotted. But Cilandrin was not, all in all, stupid. She'd have to look her husband's politics in the eye soon enough, and when she did, Fiorana would be able to step in.

"Stendarr, Father of Mercy," she intoned. "We bid You grant safety to Lathenil of Sunhold, wherever he may be. Stendarr, Father of Justice. We bid that any evil dogging him is turned aside, and that the truth of his predicament be made known. In Your name."

It was not her first double-edged prayer. Stendarr understood, she was sure.

Beauty on the mainland was held to different standards, Lathenil mused. He had heard Anvil was beautiful – and certainly it had a charm to it, a serene workaday bustle. He had heard Stros M'kai was beautiful – and the imposing grandeur of the city he saw emerging through the mists was indeed something to behold.

But of the graceful, the beguiling and the dazzling, not only did nothing rival the splendor of Alinor, nothing so much as entered the competition. He had often made remarks in that vein to strangers, but they had never laid eyes on that city, and so thought him insufferable.

He pressed his hand on the great ferry's rail. Perhaps a good chat on architecture would be part of the day's pursuits.

Perhaps fortune would favor him this time.

It did not take him long after docking to regret that he had no more specific address to go on than the city of Stros M'Kai. The place was not reputed to be half the size of the Imperial City, but without the capitol's Ayleid rigidity, that was no comfort – the city's map had simply grown as it went along, like an untended grove, and if he found someone who knew the way to Yarrah the landlord, it was a fair gamble he'd still get the directions wrong at some point.

Grimacing, he retrieved his journal. He would get it written down, even if he had to lose a page for it.

He got there before dark, at least.

"I'm looking for a tenant of yours named Terin," he said without preamble at the opening of the door.

"Where, and why are you asking?" said a frowsy Redguard woman, eyes narrowed.

"Er," said Lathenil. "One of your row-houses, if you're Yarrah. I understand you have several. And I ask for the sake of-"

"Feyrah, I wish you'd stop turning every passing stranger away before they've had two words out. It's unkind, and bad for business." A man looking to be her husband stood in the shoe-hall behind her, while she looked at him with distinct exasperation.

Lathenil cleared his throat, loath to repeat himself so soon. "I was looking for Terin. Altmer, a tenant. His ship would have beached close by Fort Constant?"

The man who was presumably Yarrah frowned. "Yes, I remember. Usually I've got to consult my files, but the mer stick out – and Terin particularly, seeing as... forgive me, stranger, I don't know what your interest is... but he's dead."

A third death among the Falconbranch survivors, and he was out of survivors he'd heard of. "Murder," said Lathenil, not bothering to configure it as a question.

"Caught in a burglary, actually."

Lathenil ground his teeth and went for the last ditch. "Did he ever mention a – a prisoner on his ship?"

"Never heard of a ship, until you brought it up. If a tenant wants to have a tea now and then, I'm happy to oblige, but he wasn't one of those."

"You can stop any time, my heart," muttered Feyrah warningly.

Lathenil looked back toward the winding street of the great city. Twilight. That was fitting. Nothing truly shining, only the barest echoes of it. Echoes such as himself.

"I've asked all the questions I need to," he said faintly. "Not to worry."

Rynandor might live, despite all this. The deaths of the crew were actually an encouraging sign, in that they were in some way worth killing. But the trail had vanished into the greenery.

He was on his own.

He held out the journal and began to follow the trail back, forgetting in his daze that he had not asked directions at the north port, and that the descending darkness would make even the reading of these bad directions difficult.

He barely had time to realize these things before a hard leather boot to his shin knocked him face-first to the ground, and his journal flew from his hand.

The fall knocked the air from his lungs, the fright made him witless, but he at least writhed into a position where he could see. What he saw was the figure of a particularly hulking Orsimer male with a glass shortsword in hand.

"Piece of cake," muttered the brute, with a bit of disgust. Lathenil, having managed a breath, tried to dive out of the way, but the Orsimer was quicker. His broad left hand pinned him by the shoulder that hadn't caught his fall, while the right one held the point of the sword just over the hollow of his throat.

"No..." He hated his own cowardice, even as the words passed his lips. "No... please..."

"Right," said the Orsimer, now crouched so his knees kept Lathenil's legs in place. "Been asked to pass a message. They're all dead, you're looking for a corpse who was never with 'em at any rate, regards on behalf of Fingon or something like that."

"Rynandor... and... and Summerset..."

"Right, I'll pass that along. That book of yours, too, might get a bit extra-"

Suddenly there was an arrow sprouting from the Orsimer's right eye. He pitched forward, but limply, and the blade fell harmlessly aside.

"I told that fool he meant you no good," growled Feyrah from behind him, bow in hand.

Lathenil sank further into the cobblestones, trembling in every minute fiber of his body. "Lathenil and Summerset," he said dully. "Doesn't have much of a ring, does it?"

"What's this Lathenil?"

"Not much of a ring at all." His breath was quick enough to be his heartbeat.

"Never mind, the less I know of this business the better. If you've got ten septims for the night, Yarrah's got a vacant flat and I'm not giving him the opportunity to tell the next lunk who passes by. Get up, will you!"

As he struggled to his knees, his hand fell on the crosshilt of the cutthroat's sword. He picked it up. At least that much would turn to his favor.

He realized, next morning on the rowhouse floor, that he had left the journal behind. He never knew what became of it.

Lawlike, he named the blade, and dedicated new courses for himself in its honor as he made his way back to Cyrodiil. He fashioned a hilt within his vest – then another, when the first seam proved too poor. He set himself through paces, so that it was reflexive for him to draw it at any time, no matter that he was prone or holding a book in both hands. He had always been a light sleeper; he put this to use and made himself increasingly dangerous to wake.

Wards, too. His knowledge of wards had always been purely scholastic, and not having anyone tossing fireballs at him he couldn't say how well he was doing with the magical sort, but by the comparative results when he threw himself against the thorn-bushes by the way, Stoneskin seemed to work out well enough.

He attempted to procure books on botany, and was not able to find anything truly comprehensive. But what little he could find, he drank in. Restorative potions were far too expensive to hold to, and if he were to save or gain on the gold he'd paid such a price for, he would need to shore up his alchemy.

Of what he might do for his homeland, under this distant sky, he had only the most inchoate notion. But at the very least, the next Thalmor hire would find an unpleasant surprise awaiting him.

Three times now, he mused, he had come close to death. The first, he had refused to take his father's word for it that the pond was not to be walked into, and learned by trial what most children were content to be told. The second, at the Crystal Tower, he had known the danger well enough, but he had reacted as a coward and learned only honeyed lies in the end. Now as before, he had hardly had the chance to struggle against death, but he had meant to die with his loyalties on his lips, and he had come away with knowledge. He supposed this was progress of a sort.