From Talos, with Love

"With great power comes great responsibility. A shame they never mentioned a nocked arrow or a dagger dipped in poison, because I'm not taking responsibility for any of that."

Chapter 2—Is it my fate?

8-8

Walking. Just walking. How did I get here? I don't understand. One minute I'm entering that stupid cave. The next, I'm surrounded. I don't understand. I just don't understand.

Think, Reyda. Think.

I walked through the village. Passed Wide-Arm's lumber mill, passed Fastred and her parents' farm. Nothing out of the ordinary. Two of the guards on patrol. I nodded to them, they returned the sentiment. Again, nothing out of the ordinary. Though the purple of their uniform did seem a little funny under the moonlight—I'd never left the house in the dark, so who's to say if that's normal or not.

Passed between Klimmek's and the Vilemyr Inn. Lynly was singing something, a slight slur to her voice. I figure that was normal, given the time. And there were plenty of praise and cheers going up. I'm used to da, and he isn't like that at all when he's drinking—again, don't know if that's normal.

I got to the bridge. Nothing out of the ordinary. Crickets chirping, owl hooting, some foxes scuttling about in search of an easy meal.

My knapsack felt a little off, so I remember working the straps. Did I lose track of my surroundings? I don't know. I don't think so.

I took a left, off the beaten track and followed the river for a bit. The waterway widened, signaling the beginning of Lake Geir. The dartwings were fluttering about, but there were no other sounds, no other sights.

The thought of predators bubbled up, so I clearly remember peering into every shadow, gripping my bow tight with an arrow nocked, ready and waiting for any little sign.

Nothing. I saw nothing.

I was careful crossing the river, after reaching my usual spot where the water comes up just above the knee. No need risk my knapsack, Cylben's books, or my bow. Again, I peered into every shadow, but there was nothing to see.

Arrived at the cave entrance. Dunno what that place is called, and asking around usually got the same answer: Don't matter what it's called, don't you go in there.

I figured spiders, skeevers. Maybe a bear or two if I was really unlucky—but they have a cave to the east, so why would they take this place, too? No, there were no signs of bears on that isle, and I certainly went there often enough to know that. Even on the brightest days, there wasn't a single tree with bear claw markings.

So, entering the cave wouldn't have been a big deal—though it was a logic my throbbing heart didn't agree with. It isn't a feeling I ever had, other than when Cylben's eyes drank me in as I loosened the ties of my dress.

Of course, I found the spiders before they found me. Even in the pitch of night, even in the inky blackness of the cave. I saw them. And I blazed an arrow into both of them without a problem. My senses weren't the problem, either.

There was even a corpse…the remains of a man. A bandit, I think. I remember, I squatted beside him, took his pouch with his things—a steel mace, an iron dagger, steelcuffed boots, but nothing else of interest—put them into my knapsack…yes…I remember I found the satchel ma said came from Wilhelm. I remember being irritated by it—why would that be in my knapsack? I certainly didn't put that there.

When I stood back up, there were two bandits behind me. No sound to warn me, no movement to be missed. They were just…there.

"Now hold on, lassie." His tone wasn't malicious or commanding, it was calm, soothing. His hands motion for me to relax. "No screamin'. And no putting up a fight. Wouldn't want to have to kill your brother."

I don't remember anything after that. Not really. It was as if it was too much for me to take in. And yet, the one thing that stood out most, was the speaker and the woman beside him. They never said their names, of course. But they are the ones walking beside me.

The woman. Neck-length hair, but I dare not guess the color by pale moon's light. The man. Same. Both wear the same leathers. Even now, they move without making a sound. In fact, mine are the only footfalls I hear. And I hear them breathing, so they aren't wraiths.

I don't understand. How did they know to find me there? Did they know to find me? Were they looking for me? Do they think I assaulted the bandit?

They aren't guards, that much is certain. Not guards from the Rift, at any rate. And they're so confident. So much so, they didn't ask I be disarmed. They didn't tie my hands. Nothing.

Was I put under a spell? Am I being carted off to some vampire lair?

I don't understand, and I can't even work my jaw well enough to ask, numb as it and my lips are.

It's so cold. Freezing, really. But they don't seem bothered by it. Am I the only one feeling cold?

"Still can't believe we're doin' this," the man says, sounding almost exasperated.

"Who cares. She's cooperating. More than I can say for you." The woman clearly isn't interested in this. I just clutch my knapsack tighter. I don't understand. I just don't understand. My feet don't mind, they just keep going, one in front of the other.

It feels like we've been walking forever. Two forevers.

The torches are out. Harder to track, I suppose.

"Cooperatin', huh? She looks ready to spew her dinner."

Charred skeever hide. Good for restoring stamina, curing disease, resisting poison, and restoring health.

"Can't say I blame her. Nothing worse for a woman than to be around you."

"Ouch."

Bees. Good for…is it hot? It certainly feels warmer than it did a moment ago.

"Just relax." A weight on my shoulder. I drop to the ground, hands on my head to protect me from the incoming blows. But I don't make a sound—none that my ears pick up, anyway.

Come quietly, or we kill your brother.

Those words loop in my head, louder than thunder on a soundless night. Narfi. I can't stand that oaf. I hate how he never gives me a moment of peace, the way he can't do much of anything without bailing him out of trouble, how he's treated like a king while I'm but a handmaid. But he's my brother, my only brother. I'll die before I let anything happen to him.

"You go and scare her, then—"

Loud panting. The stench of long-rotten meat meets unwashed deer. A bestial howl, too deep and throaty to be a wolf.

"Great. Trolls. And things were going so well."

"Well. It's not as if lady luck likes us." Someone grabs my shoulder, roughly jerking upwards. "Keep up or I'll let them have you."

8-8

Time trudges on, glacial and uncooperative. We make a wild dash down to a lake with two trolls escorting us, and I'm shoved into a boat and told to 'get comfortable'. Comfort would include letting me leave, so I assume they mean to sit down.

It isn't a moment later that the wobbling starts churning my stomach—as if I didn't have enough reason to vomit. The whole time, all I can think, is that I'm going to die. Or maybe I'm already dead and just don't know it.

The only sounds now are the soft splashes of the oars slapping the gentle waves as they collide with the side of the boat. Unless I count my heart throbbing in my ears. Wherever we are or are going, there isn't a doubt in my mind it isn't going to be good for me.

As if things weren't already bad enough, we arrive as some rickety docks. Unfortunately, it's all lit up, showing some impressive boats, some maddened lizard clearly muttering to themselves, and the scent of fish slaps my nose like a warhammer.

"Keep your mouth shut, hear?"

I hug my knapsack tight.

The boat slows, before its side slaps against the dock. My arm is grabbed once again, and I'm jerked up onto the uneven wood. Even from where I stand, I see Rift guards, their uniform the same purple of those in Ivarstead.

I say nothing of it, I don't try to make eye contact—it's not as if they'll know to save Narfi.

My muddied boots plop along, in keeping with my captors. We head up some stairs, rounding some fish-reeking building, and right towards a guard standing beside some kind of wooden gate. A hand grips my elbow, mutely warning me and reminding me of their earlier threat.

The urge to shout almost becomes too much, but Narfi's picture crowds that out.

"You expect me to believe you were just out fishing? At three in the morning?" the guard demands, his voice almost a growl. "What's next? That you reeled that one in? Maybe she's a siren here to eat me."

"Show some respect, brute." The woman grips me tighter, the pain so intense tears fall before I can hope to stop them. "The girl just lost her parents."

The guard's eyes land on me, but I don't trust myself to not beg for my life. I look away.

A drawn out sigh punctuates the night, before we're ordered through. My insides twist into a stony knot as we walk past him, which only tightens further as we pass more and more guards. These people…

I'm led through a ghostly marketplace, hearing a few beggars pleading for coin. Passed an important and large building—fit for a jarl, but that just cuts deeper. And we enter a cemetery.

Instead of hearing steel unsheathed, it's a soft click and the groaning of an iron gate swinging open. My eyes pop open, though I don't know when I closed them, and I find myself in a dark courtyard about the size of the garden I kept.

Wood shifts and rubs against stone, before two more creaking sounds ring out—the gate behind us closes, and a door over to the right opens. I'm led inside, into a room with a thick and vertical wooden beam just as I enter, and a table with a single goat horn fitted with a prong and wax candle.

"Welcome to Riftweald Manor."

8-8

The crackling fire roars in the hearth. The wind howls from the unseasonal storm outside, one we missed by mere hours. The thundering rain and claps of lightning hint being outside isn't the sanest choice just now.

And yet, here I sit. Warm, if still dirty from the most insane night of my life. I stare into the dancing tongues of flame, seeking answers that elude me.

There's a double bed behind me, fashioned of the sturdiest wood and gilded with dragon symbols and an ornate chest at its feet. Another goat horn fitted into a candle hangs above its head, with mounted deer antlers above it—no doubt some kind of weird symbolism that this is a man's bed.

Two finely crafted wardrobes also call this room home. Both are filled with the finest clothing and gloves and boots. And three shelves, one laden with the finest silver goblets and bottles of mead and wine, another with alchemist satchels. The last is filled with books, though I dare not read their names off their spines.

The room smells of dragon tongue and lavender, of charred wood from the fire, and old dust. There hasn't been a woman living here in years—no self-respecting woman would tolerate such a stuffy home.

And yet, the clothes and boots and gloves, all women's wear. The outfit strewn over the chair beside me is the finest dress and jacket combo I've ever seen, the soft and thick cotton seeming fit for the coldest of winters. The boots sitting beside that chair are of the softest leather, strung with a strong-looking string. And the gloves look to be silk.

The double doors swing open. A man storms in, silent as death. His neck-length bright brown hair jitters about with his every move. His dark eyes weigh me, judge me before I speak a word. The strange pommel of the sword at his side hints this isn't a Nordic blade, though it seems to be one-handed all the same. And the outfit. It's all leather and pockets, as if he needs a thousand little places to stow things on his person.

He grabs the arms of the chair I'm in, almost tossing me to one side so I'll face the other chair. The clothes laid out are tossed onto the bed without a care, and that chair drags closer to me, the groaning and scraping echoing off every surface and curdling my blood.

"Your name is Reyda. Daughter to Ignald and Yur. Sister to Narfi." He sits, his glare piercing me clean through. "You don't keep friends, other than the Dunmer alchemist that built a shack near Ivarstead to stay close to you. He taught you Alchemy, Conjuration, and the Detect Life spell, though this is the only Alteration spell you know."

With every word, a fresh nail is hammered into my coffin.

"Your parents are miners by trade. Your brother is slow. And you are an exceptionally talented young woman. But what you don't realize, is that I chose you not for your skill. It's because if I kill you, no one will even notice you're gone."

Tears sting in my eyes as I grip the armrests.

"So here's your situation boiled down to basics. You will live here, in my manor. You will craft potions for me. And you will never give me reason to kill you, your brother, or your parents. Do you understand?"

I nod, the motion sending moisture down the sides of my face.

"However, I am aware that a happy worker is a hard worker. So. Here's how this is going to play out. I will give you a list of potions I need crafted. You will write down all the ingredients you need. You will be given the ingredients and a deadline. The further ahead of schedule you are, the more pleased I will be. The more pleased I am, the more I will reward you."

Muffled screams stab the edge of my hearing, steadily growing louder and louder along with the heavy thuds and clanks of steel boots. The stairs creak and groan as both sounds grow louder still. Until at last a bear of a man comes into view, entering with a writhing cloth sack in hand.

The man dumps the sack on the bed, loosening the ties, and revealing a Nord girl barely half my age.

"Your first present under my patronage. Her name's Sofie. And she'll be the one you test all potions on." Tears turn into rivers. "Don't fret. She's an orphan. No one will miss her."

The girl stills, though her sobs don't follow suit.

"Now. We'll begin. I'll need a potion of invisibility, and enhance sneak. You have one hour to write down the ingredients you need."

The same man comes over, holding a piece of parchment, an ink well, and a quill.

The girl. This Sofie. Her eyes plead with me. I don't doubt that if I refuse, she'll be the one to suffer. And if I screw up with ingredients or crafting, she'll suffer just the same.

I take the items offered, dipping the quill in the ink now set on the armrest, and unfurling the parchment and setting it in my lap. I move slowly, trying to write as neatly as my shaking hands will allow.

Invisibility: charus eggs, ice wraith teeth, luna moth, nirnroot, vampire dust. Fortify Sneak: Abecean longfin, beehive husk, frost mirriam, hawk feathers, purple mountain flower. I'll need two or three of each per potion. Preferably three. An Alchemist Lab. And two small vials.

I hand him the parchment, ink still wet.

He barely glances at it, a glowing smile taking him over. "Excellent. I have the things you need. Come, you'll have one hour to craft both potions."

He jumps to his feet, walking out of the room. I follow, my heart thrashing in my skull. Out into the large hall, over to the right, there's an alcove I didn't notice before, hidden behind a bench beside the rickety stairs. In the hidden, doorless room is an alchemy lab, a desk with two chairs, and a goat horn chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Strewn over the desk are the exact ingredients I just detailed.

I don't ask. I take the ice wraith teeth and start grinding them into a little dish. Setting that aside for a moment, I light a candle and set it to one side, setting up a cast iron holder over it and pouring the crushed teeth into a glass vial so it'll melt quicker.

While that's busy, I take the nirnroot and the luna moth wings, and grind them with the mortar and pestle, each separately, of course. When the teeth are fully liquidized, I out the flame, and take a pipet to extract the liquids from the wings and nirnroot.

Six drops of nirnroot extract to two of the moth wings. I stopper the vial and shake it vigorously for a minute, setting that aside.

While that cools, I start cleaning the instruments for the second potion.

Shaking the dish to dry it faster, I go back to the desk and grab the frost mirriam and the purple mountain flowers. They're both dried, so I'll need to rehydrate them.

"I'll need a cup of clean water," I say.

"In the drawer." I don't even want to know why that's in there. Desk's drawer opens, and there's a fat, cubic vial of clear glass. I take it out, unstop and smell it. River water, still fresh. Good enough.

I pour a teaspoon into two vials, before shredding the two selected plants as tiny as I can and adding them—frost mirriam to one, purple mountain flower to the other. I set them both over a once again lit candle, letting them do their own work.

While that's going on, I grab the abecean longfin, cutting it open length-ways. I take the liver and the heart, putting them into the mortar, smashing them with the pestle until there's nothing left to gain from it.

I set that aside, checking the other two. The mountain flowers' water is already turning violet, so there's nothing to worry about. The frost mirriam doesn't turn color, it smells like unwashed feet.

I let them steep for another few minutes, before outing the candle and pouring the teas into another vial, and pipetting the oils from the mortar and adding that into the mix.

With that handled, I set about cleaning everything again, tossing the offal into a bucket for disposal.

"Ten minutes. Not bad." I don't turn to my captor. I'm not in the mood to see if he means that or not. "Bring the girl."

"They're hot. They'll need at least five minutes to cool," I say. No matter, the girl is brought, her hands and feet still tied, and her face slack.

"You have your time limit. She'll drink them both before that."

I sit. I wait. I try to block out the sheer panic on the girl's face. "Bring her."

I unstop the Fortify Sneak, and bring it to her lips. "I need you to trust me," I murmur as I pull the gag out of her mouth. "If you spit it out, it'll cost more time, and we don't have that. So try to swallow it quickly."

She gulps painfully, not liking this anymore than I do.

I tilt the vial, pouring the contents into her. One big gulp and two smaller, she still makes a disgusted face.

Her eyes widen, and she starts looking around her as if she sees something I don't. I hate that potion. It makes you hyper aware of every sound around you.

I grab the invisibility potion and unstop it. She winces, closing in on herself at the little pop—it must sound like an explosion to her. Bringing the vial to her lips again, I pour its contents into her. When she swallows, a violet light erupts from her eyes, enveloping her and robbing her of all color. Her clothes, her binds, everything of hers disappears.

Setting the two empty vials onto the desk, I await the verdict.

Nothing.

Nothing is said, no movement made.

Nothing.

The girl—or where I assume she is, given the man still holds her—is enveloped in violet light once again as the effects wear off.

"Thirty seconds," he says, nodding. "Very well, Reyda. My name is Mercer Frey. And from now on, you are in my employ."

I can't tell. Should I be happy, or puke?

"There will be four men standing guard at all times. They are forbidden from entering your room. Scarlet here will be your personal guard. She is to be at your side at all times." A short, lithe redhead walks into view, her bright blue eyes fixed on me. "That means even while bathing, she'll be there. Understood?"

I nod.

"Good. You'll have your next list by morning. I want you to go over it carefully, and you will start growing as many ingredients as you can. Come up with a plan on how to do that, write it down, and give it to Scarlet. She'll relay everything to me."

And just like that, he turns and leaves. Not a word.

Puke. Puking is definitely the right reaction.

8-8

Cylben.

Lying in some stranger's city, in some stranger's house, in some stranger's bed, sleep doesn't come. Sofie doesn't suffer the same. After washing up and getting a warm meal in her, she pestered me for all of ten seconds to sleep in my bed before I gave in. She fell asleep almost instantly. As for me?

All I have are my memories. Memories of finding a lone Dunmer being attacked by wolves, and how I had to bail his scrawny hide out. That was the first time his eyes found mine, the caution he regarded me with, until he noticed my arm being cut up.

He demanded I come to his tent, so he could make a salve to heal me. I turned him down, of course—going off into the woods with some strange man didn't strike me as smart, and I said as much. He just laughed, that cocky little laugh of his, and said the strangest thing to me.

"If I can't even handle a few wolves, sera. What are the odds I can take you?" Of course, he chuckled again, and even went so far as to add, "I'll tell you what. I'll stay where you can see me. And I won't make any sudden moves."

Just like that, he disarmed me with that smooth tone and silver tongue. That rogue of an alchemist stole my heart that first day, and never once did he ever apologize for it. No, he'd just quirk his lips, offering either that smug little smirk, or that rakish smile. And he'd go out of his way to show me how to craft every potion over and over and over.

"You've already shown me this one." I remember complaining over and over, but I can't lie. Feeling him wrap his arms around me from behind, feeling his warm breath on my neck and ear and face as he whispered his instructions to me…

"Are you saying I shouldn't explain it again?" And of course, he had to say it with that cocky smirk obvious in his tone, as if he knew what he was doing to me and wanted nothing more than to do it again.

How odd. That I have more happy memories with a man I've known just under a year, than I do with my family. Maybe it was because I learned things from him. Maybe it was the sense of nostalgia in his tone as he lectured on and on about Mysticism, and how stupid he found Nords to be by reorganizing a system of identifying spells that the Dunmer worked with since the beginning of the second era.

Or maybe it was because I didn't have to dim my intelligence to actually connect with him.

With Narfi, fine. He develops slower than most, so that's to be expected. But no one else had that excuse. Fastred was always more into boys, even while her granma was teaching us about rotating crops and tending the soil and everything else.

And…

And…

Wow. I guess I really didn't pay much mind to anyone else. They were all older, but I quickly found they just couldn't keep up with me. Not even ol' Klimmek, and he's the smartest the village ever produced, according to him at least. Still, he owns the largest house, so that has to count for something.

And how did that idiot even survive this long? He couldn't even hold his own against a few wolves, but he set his shack up in bear-infected lan…ds… He had a tent when I first met him…He started building his shack soon after…

My chest tightens at the realization of the changes he made for me, at the changes I subject him to.

If only I'd listened. If only I'd have fought back. Now, when he gets back from wherever he left to, he'll only find me missing. And no one knows where to start looking.

What's worse. What if they find me? Then what? This Mercer Frey, he not only found me in fucking Ivarstead, but he somehow learned all about me. Everything short of my menstrual cycle, and I get the feeling that's only because he didn't want to.

Where in Nirn can you run when someone like that is after you?

8-8

Potion of Waterbreathing(5). Potion of Strength(5). Potion of Invisibility(20).

Frey's list isn't too demanding. I suppose this has more to do with testing me without him being here. I carefully stipulate the ingredients I need, noting how salmon roe is the preferred ingredient for his waterbreathing, and I hand the parchment to Scarlet.

But once that's done, there isn't really a whole lot for me to do. So, I figure it's time to start making myself too tired to not sleep at night.

I start studying my prison. Three rooms on the upper floor—four if I include the alchemy alcove. Only Sofie's and my room and the alchemy alcove are furnished. The room to the front balcony is barricaded, but I'm not sure what that's about. Hmm, no windows anywhere. That's horrid for growing plants—they tend to need light.

The other room, on the same side as my bedroom, it's almost a half larger, but filled with crates and barrels and useless junk. Hmm. Not sure what how to make that useful.

"Reyda?" I turn, finding Sofie scurrying to my side. She wraps her arms around my middle and cling to me like I'm her great protector. In this crowd, I'm as close as she's likely to get.

Dragging her along, I head downstairs, studying the sparsely furnished sitting room. There are a statue of Dibella, more silver goblets, some fancy bowls; trinkets, mostly. And it's just as dusty here as my room. Hmph, slackers.

Hmm. There's a staircase heading down, likely the cellar.

I head down, finding the food stores—bread, cheeses, jerked meats, and sweet rolls. The room is chilly, cold enough to breathe smoke. But really, most of the house is cold. There's no kitchen, no ingredients for cooking. Nothing. These people have no idea how to live off the land.

And what the hell do people see in sweet rolls?

Alright. So, what we're facing here is a lack of everything I need.

The creaking stairs tells of another coming down behind us. Scarlet, no doubt. Well, if she doesn't follow orders, she's the one that'll get in trouble. So I'll leave her to it. I could, however, use this as an opportunity.

"How does Frey expect us to eat? There's no kitchen, no ingredients, nothing." I've spent enough time around housewives, I know how to pass as one.

"If you need something. You make a list," is all I get.

"Alright." If that's how this'll go, then let's make this worth suffering through. I head up to the top floor, into the alchemy alcove, and I sit down.

Quill dips into ink, parchment unrolls, I start listing the goals given to me and how impossible it is.

Grow plants: impossible. For the following reasons.

1. Plants need sunlight, and there are no windows. Unless you gather crimson nirnroot or Ashland flora—the former I know not where to find, the latter can be found on Solstheim or in Morrowind.

2. I need soil to grow them in. The courtyard is lain with stone, which doesn't promote plant growth. Unless you procure pots for them, you ask for miracles. One pot for every plant you wish grown, mind you, with enough soil to fill it, and brought separately. Some plants will need their pot modified to drain the water, this to prevent root rot. Some will need taller or wider pots, which depends on their root system and how they grow. Which brings me to:

3. I don't know what potions you'll desire and in what frequency. As such I cannot suggest which plants are worth the investment in money and time. And growing all possible alchemical ingredients on the off-chance you'll need it is a good way to turn your manor into a farm.

And that leads me to another issue: the system of feeding seven people. You wish to bankrupt yourself in this model. There's no kitchen, so all food must be cooked offsite. Nothing is grown here to mitigate costs (see above points why I can't). However, there are solutions to this which can be applied with or without consideration of issues described above.

There are cooking pots in the basement and a fireplace in my room. If ingredients are provided (or grown), I can cook in my room. If provided with a baking tray, an oven is unnecessary. Cooking ingredients are cheaper to buy than premade meals, after all.

This leaves the issue of your wax candle lighting. While efficient, this isn't cost effective in the long term. If desirable, provide me with one goblet-sized brazier, two portions of fire salts, one vial of powdered mammoth tusk, and one portion of moon sugar. This of course for each wax candle you wish permanently replaced. The alchemical reaction would burn slowly for at least a century, needing only magicka once a week to keep going, which I will provide. Please weigh this considerable startup cost against beeswax for the same period of time.

-Reyda.

With my bit handled, I sprinkle some salt over the parchment and shimmy it around to help the ink dry faster. Once I'm satisfied, I toss the salt back into the dish for it, roll up the parchment, and offer my observations and demands to Scarlet.

Now what am I going to do to keep myself entertained?

8-8

Tossing back the flap and loosening the toggles, I open my knapsack. My chest is tight, wondering what all Cylben put in here for me.

The first thing that catches my eye is the necklace. I take it out, running my finger over the ruby set in silver. Curiously, the gold plated backing has an inscription, in the same script Cylben called 'daedric', though I have no idea what that means.

What an odd combination, though. Gold-spun wire, gold backing with daedric inscription, and a silver frame set with a ruby. It must have taken a master blacksmith to craft this. I'm surrounded by thieves. Best to keep this on me at all times.

I slip it over my head, and stuff the pendant into my dress to keep it out of sight.

The rest is all books. A game at dinner, De Rerun Dirennis, Herbalist's guide to Skyrim, Mannimarci King of worms, and song of alchemists. All alchemy books—I set those into one pile, for organization sake.

2920 sun's dawn, 36 lessons of Vivec sermons 4 and 36, Charwich-Koniinge volume 3, and the firsthand revolt. These are the Mysticism books he had me studying, best to go over them again to ensure there's nothing I overlooked. I stack them as well, warmth in my chest at how freely Cylben shares his knowledge and his heritage with me—I don't doubt these are all salvaged from Morrowind.

The rest are spellbooks. Bound bow, bound dagger, conjure familiar, conjure flame atronach, flaming familiar, soul trap, mark, recall, and telekinesis.

If I ever get Cylben in my arms again, I'm going to ride him until the sun dies out.

There are two more books, all the way at the bottom. Olaf and the dragon—that man no longer needs an amulet of Mara, I'll marry him in a heartbeat. The other is…

Its title is written in that daedric script. Hmm. I open it, finding the first page written in Cylben's rough and slipshod lettering. Study this, cover to cover. It will teach you to read Daedric, and contains mnemonic tricks to learning Dunmeris.

"Sofie. Have you learned to read?"

8-8

"Let's play a game," I say, mischief no doubt dancing in my eyes. Sofie looks almost ready to jump out of her skin, no doubt bored to tears from how we're stuck in our room. "We're going to play tag. But not the way you know it. In order to tag someone, you must cast the Soul Trap spell on them."

"Alright! I'm it!" Her hand glows with the spell as she readies it. I laugh, running away from her and dashing over our bed as the first glob of spellmatter flies at me. Warmth accompanied by twitching muscles hits me in the shoulder, tagging me.

"I'm it!" I focus the spell letting her run around a bit before pelting it in front of her, knowing I'll miss.

"Missed me!" She turns, running the other way, her eyes smiling bright as the sun as I aim and miss her again. I figure missing her twice is fair, and it helps us both grow stronger.

8-8

I sit by the fire, curled up with another book in my lap. Sofie confiscated the other chair, reading Olaf and the dragon. It's been pretty uneventful, this past week. We haven't been allowed out of the house, not even out into the courtyard, and frankly, Scarlet is about as chatty as a wolf. So until Frey sends word, or the materials I need, I'll enjoy my time studying and teaching Sofie what I can.

Hmm. Summoning spells can be modified, summoning any being or item one has made a pact with. While this is more commonly done with daedra—whether dremora or otherwise—it's possible to forge a pact with any non-mer.

I love this book. Sure, it takes me an hour to translate what is written, and then it takes me another hour or two to decode what they mean, but it's useful all the same. And it's no wonder Cylben wants me to learn Conjuration and Mysticism first, these schools are nothing if not useful.

I especially enjoy how these aren't just random books. There are little notes written in Dunmeris, all in the same neat script. Part of me suspects that's either his father's writing, or at least one of his ancestors'. And he wants me to hold on to these books for him.

Hmm, I wonder. What does that thing say in that funny place Cylben had me meditate to?

8-8

Cess. Oht. Neht. Jeb. Uhh…Yoodt?

I open my eyes, removing the sight from me and opening the book again. The crackling fire floods my senses, along with the warmth of the fire. Yes, that one's Yoodt. I close the book, closing my eyes, and easing myself back into meditation. It takes almost a minute to calm my emotions enough.

Cess. Oht. Neht. Jeb. Yoodt. Roht. Ayem. Tayem. Iya. Oht. Neht. Conjuration? And why is a number beside it? There are quite a few numbers, actually. One far to the north. A few scattered with the stars. Each constellation with script below it carries either one of two digits.

My unease shifts the realm out of focus.

Deep breaths. Calm. Be at peace.

After a few deep breaths, the vision come back into focus. Peering this way and that, I study the constellations with numbers beneath them. The one with the highest looks like a weighing scale, almost. What is that about?

Ayeh. Lyr. Cess. Hekhem. Ekem. Meht. Alchemy? Well, that makes sense. So what are these stars within it? And I really need some blank books to start transcribing these things to really figure them out.

Then again, Frey will want to read it. And the last thing I want is for him to figure this out.

8-8

"Where is she?" Frey's voice carries a little too well. Sofie's shoulders tense. Can't blame her for disliking the man, given his utter disregard for our lives. Still, I'm unsurprised he's here in person. The creaking of stairs tells me he approaches, and not a moment later do the double doors swing open.

He finds me sitting by the fire, with Sofie seated on the floor, her shoulders between my thighs as I braid her hair. I don't acknowledge him—no reason to. He'll speak when he's good and ready.

"We're not installing any windows." He seems sure of himself. There must be some reason why windows are taboo, but I don't care enough to figure it out.

"And obtaining those rare herbs is pointless." Frey loves hearing himself talk. Well, as long as he doesn't ask something, I'll let him have his way.

Reaching the end of the braid, I wrap it around my finger pressed against the back of her head and roll it into a bun, tying it off with a leather strip. To keep her as calm and at ease as the situation will allow, I pet her and smooth her hair.

"I've brought the ingredients you need. You have one week to craft the potions. The more pleased I am, the more material you'll be granted for this garden of yours." With that, he's gone.

In other words, he'll let me into the courtyard. Not because he wants to, but because he can find no other way. Interesting. If he has everything I need, I should have those potions done by morning, if I don't mind skipping some sleep.

So, Frey. You want me to work happy and hard, so let's see how much I'll get out of having this done efficiently.

8-8

"It's done," I say over my shoulder as I clean my instruments. Whether Scarlet sends word or fell asleep standing up is on her. Right now, all I care about is the fact that I've completed the job in half a day.

Setting the pestle back into its mortar, Sofie's snores draw my attention to the sleeping munchkin beside me. Someone refused to sleep without me beside her, and I refused to go to bed before completing the job. So, of course, I had only snores for company.

I scoop Sofie up to the sound of unintelligible grumbles, and bring her to bed. It's hard to believe another week has passed. What's less unbelievable is Frey's habit of rewarding me and giving me a new list in the same breath. Though I can't seem to make sense of his thing for having ingredients delivered in the middle of the night.

Laying her in bed and tucking her in, all that's left to do is the thing. Dunno why I always have to do the thing. Dunno if doing the thing will even help. But I can't not do the thing.

So I head downstairs, followed by my usual redhead shadow. I don't know how she keeps up with me, but I've long decided I don't care. Into the back room and stopping in front of the door, I focus my magicka. My vision goes fuzzy, but I clearly see the red of the bandits around me. Looking over my shoulder, Scarlet glows as her namesake, though there's a curious tinge of purple about her chest.

The bar raises, the door opens, and suddenly I find myself out in the overcast morning. The sun is just barely peeking up over the horizon, signaling the start of something stupid.

Large clay pots line the wall, likely needing at least two to carry. And there are dozens upon dozens of bags of earth. I must look mad, out here in my finest about to garden. Still, this madness has purpose.

I walk over to the pots, grabbing one. It's too heavy to move alone, yet I make a showing of lifting it.

An annoyed groan kisses my ears as idle hands grab the other side of the bowl-shaped pot. Scarlet and I move it over a few strides, before turning it over and setting it down. I conjure a dagger, studying the girl from the corner of my eye as I start gouging a hole in the center of the pot. She's a tough nut to crack, no doubt about it.

I cast Detect Life once again, finding two blue silhouettes coming our way from the graveyard. What's more interesting is the curiosity in Scarlet's eyes. Loosening focus, I get back to gouging.

"A pair approaches," I murmur. Scarlet nods and moves towards the house. I narrow my eyes, but don't comment. Ethereal dagger stabs into clay, the staccato almost matching the approaching footfalls.

Curiously, the incoming pair wear mud-colored robes with a silver cord tied around their waist, though only the Redguard has a faded gold hood. The Dunmer with him…? This might just work. Dunmeri seek each other out. If Cylben were to come searching for me?

I release my dagger, letting it fade as I right myself. Her eyes are on me, her curiosity growing as I bow to her.

"Three blessings upon you, sera," I say, rolling the R ever so slightly. With my message already sent, I conjure my dagger again, and get back to the pot.

Once the hole is wide enough, I focus on rounding it out, mostly for aesthetics. When their footsteps don't start up, I look back at them, finding him looking confused and her looking annoyed.

"Ah. An Ashlander. Without the markings I…Pardon my assumption, sera." I blink and narrow my eyes at her outfit. "Those are robes of Mara. How'd that happen?"

She looks away, flaring her nostrils.

"Blessings of Mara upon you, my daughter. Please forgive Dinya, she…isn't usually like this." The man seems at a loss, unable to make sense of the scene he finds himself in. "I am Maramal, Priest of the temple of Mara. This is my wife, Dinya Balu."

"Of the Balu Reavers?" I make a face, impressed. "Well met. I'm Reyda. And I really should get back to my gardening."

"You…You're okay with me being…?" She doesn't look at me, seeming unsure of herself, perhaps even afraid of my reaction.

"Might I suggest you carry yourself with the grace your station demands of you, Priestess of Mara."

Her chin snaps towards me, hanging low. All I offer, is a shrug, and get right back to making this pot workable.

8-8

End Chapter 2

8-8

A/N: