Chapter 17: Under Illusion

"Caw, caw," the crow cried. Then, with one mighty flap of its wings, it pushed off the ledge and flew off into the night.

Singird watched it with aching heart. He had searched everywhere. Her room was empty, albeit visited recently, judging by the considerable lack of dust on the desk. The roof welcomed him in all its stillness that he usually preferred. Now it only brought despair. The Hall of the Elements was ablaze with magical experiments of the advanced class students, yet none of them had seen her that day. The Arcanaeum was as lively as it could get before the exams. All her classmates had gathered there in preparation for them. All but Cain Aldaryn and Leyna Travi.

He threw a fist at his wall, hissing in pain as it landed on the hard, coarse stone. She had disappeared before. She loved to pull pranks and enjoyed her freedom, even if it made him worry. He was angry each time, but she had always returned. Not last night. He felt deep down that something was amiss. That she was in trouble. He had to find her.

A knock came down on the door, thunderous in the stifling silence. Singird turned to it, pondering for a moment before answering.

"Come in," he said. His own voice was betraying him. He did not want to talk to anyone, yet at the same time, he felt the insuppressible urge to shout at people and ask questions that no one was able to answer.

Drevis Neloren entered the room, and his serene face stirred anger within Singird.

"Word has it that you have been looking for me," the Dunmer stated matter-of-factly, picking up the moon-shaped paperweight on the table without invitation. He studied it, sliding a finger over its surface. Singird clenched his fists.

"Why did you not wait?" he half whispered, half snapped. "Why did you have to let her out of your sight?"

Master Neloren tossed the paperweight into his other hand, watching in apparent amusement as Singird's eyes narrowed. "Dear Master Larkwing, what do you think would happen if I hadn't?"

"That," Singird hissed, snatching the Dunmer's self-declared toy from his hands, "is not the answer to my question."

The amusement faded from the face of Drevis Neloren. With a sigh, he looked Singird in the eye. "Because your question is irrelevant. One important factor, Master Larkwing. She left of her own volition. With your precision-loving nature, I am quite sure you've scoured this place inch by inch. So tell me, have you found any signs that would indicate she was dragged away or engaged in a fight?"

"No, but…"

"Then accept this. If she had not left now, she would leave later. Now I believe there's something else you should be doing instead of brooding over what's done. And since I am in a generous mood, then I would like to invite you to a little outing to the Midden and beyond. Faralda has already received permission from Mirabelle and is awaiting us downstairs."

"The Midden?"

Master Neloren let out another sigh, putting a hand on Singird's shoulder. "Say, Master Larkwing. Do you know what kind of illusion is the most dangerous?"

Singird knit his brows in exasperation. "What are you talking about?"

"Do you?"

"Even if I knew, now's not the time…"

"The most dangerous of illusions is the one you make yourself believe in. She left through the Midden. The main gate's seal is untouched."

Singird closed his eyes, letting the wave of despair take over him before it would flow away, leaving behind bitter resignation. He knew. He had known all along that she had taken this path, but Drevis Neloren spoke the truth. Singird was too afraid to concede it. So many dangers lurked in those tunnels. Dangers he had only heard of.

"Midden… She could have…"

"She's alive," Master Neloren said and there was not the slightest trace of doubt in his voice. "If she wasn't, we would have noticed, I assure you."

Believing in Drevis Neloren was all Singird could do. He gave a slow nod before quickly fumbling through all of his chests and closets to find clothing warm enough to protect him from the cold of the icy tunnels. The Midden. He had never visited the place but heard legends about it, one more terrifying than the other. Now it was time to find out if they were true.


The Midden was cold and quiet. The ice crackled in an eerie symphony whose echo was drowned in the heavy air, deafening and making the blood freeze in their veins. She had been here. Faint, but still visible, Singird could trace the footprints in the thin layer of frost covering the floor. Master Neloren and Faralda exchanged silent nods, the latter letting an orb of magic envelop her fingers.

"At least we know they were here. Keep your wards and spells at the ready. Just in case."

They followed the path. The footprints faded as the ice receded, melted by the warmth of the Atronach Forge, but they quickly found the trail again. It led them deeper and deeper to the tunnels, to a humble pile that was sure to be the remains of an ice wraith. Singird let out a quiet sigh. An ice wraith would not pose a challenge to Yrith, that she had already proven a long time ago.

Not too long after came a crossing where the trail multiplied and became knotty chaos. The three of them stopped, all frowning at the disturbing image before them.

"That was a frost troll," Drevis Neloren stated what Singird had been afraid to say aloud. "By the looks of it, they first went into that tunnel and then got chased back."

"What about those melted parts?" Faralda pointed to a line of ice that had seemingly melted and frozen back to form a river with smooth, solid surface. It zigzagged through the passageway, interrupting the footprints.

"Flame atronach," Singird said. "Two of them, actually. Miss Ravencroft made use of her expertise." He did not know whether to be relieved that she had fought back or concerned that it would not be enough. Bending down, he studied the tracks, constantly shifting his weight from one foot to another to protect himself from the cold. The footprints were everywhere, running in two different directions.

"Now what?"

Master Neloren shrugged. "These passages ultimately lead to the same point. It does not matter, let's just pick one path and decide what to do at the next crossing." Singird and Faralda nodded their assent.

The crossroad the passage had led them to revealed a similar bundle of footprints as the one before. Singird could easily guess that this was where the fight had broken out. But over the huge troll traces led three pairs of human and mer footprints. They had left victorious. Singird allowed himself a soft smile.

Not far from there, beyond a bridge and a few turns, was the end of the tunnels. It became more difficult to follow the trail throughout the cascades of ice that followed. Eventually, the road they entered wound up to Winterhold. Pushing his way through the incessant bushes, crouching under overhanging rocks and tucking himself into the small spaces between huts and sheds, Singird had to commend Yrith's resourcefulness. She knew every secret path there was to know, every corner that would hide her from unsuspecting eyes. He felt like the child he had never been, reveling in mischief and more so in getting away with it. His parents had been good to him, but too unforgiving to ever tolerate the smallest hint of disobedience. He caught himself contemplating on how much comfort this life of freedom would give him even now when he was grown and could not crawl up to his father's lap.

Soon, the three of them left Winterhold behind, entering the pass beyond. The trail was still clear, leading straight through it. They would soon be facing the northern coast with its jagged isles of rocks and scattered ruins. Singird knit his brows, thinking of the bandits and draugr that liked to take refuge in their shelter. But his worries were soon replaced by a feeling far more dreadful. As soon as the rocks on their sides receded, a view of a battlefield opened before them. Scattered all over lay corpses, a few of them in dark robes with golden hems, but mostly warriors in blue or red. Their bodies were twisted in unnatural positions, opened, some still gripping their weapons and painted shields depicting the Stormcloak bear or the Imperial dragon. The snow was red with blood and the air, despite the cold, heavy with the stench of death. Singird paled, forgetting his breath.

"Gods no," he whispered, suddenly picking up his pace. If she was not dead, he would kill her himself just so she would never run away again. She had to be alive. She just had to. He would not forgive her if she had perished. But there was no sign of an explosion. Did that mean she had exhausted her magic? No… that would not have been so easy. And she surely had not died. She couldn't have…

"Wait!" Drevis Neloren darted toward him, barely able to keep up with the angry, shaken Nord. "Singird Larkwing, stop right there! Do you realize the situation?"

"What situation?!" Singird snarled, not bothering to turn or change his pace. The Dunmer hurried to grab his arm.

"This is a battlefield, dammit! You don't know who might still be lurking around. You're going to…"

Singird yanked his arm out of his grip.

"I don't. And I don't care. If she is here, I will find her. I will find her!"

"Her, is it? Not them. Her. You humans. You get blinded by the so-called love, obsessed with the one you so ardently look up to. Halt, Singird Larkwing. Don't let your life go to waste."

Singird turned around, feeling the wave of anger surge within him, brimming over the edges of his sea of patience. He clutched the Dunmer's shoulders, eyes ablaze with fury. "You're right," he said, his voice a mere whisper. "This is a battlefield. It is a place where people die. She is somewhere in its midst, maybe in pain, maybe long dead. But you… you let her go and you still don't realize what it means. You would never understand."

"Truly? Am I the one who doesn't understand? Or do you simply…"

He trailed off as Faralda landed a hand on his shoulder. "Let him go, Master Neloren," she breathed. Her amber eyes were devoid of their usual fire, her face wrinkled and suddenly so old.

"But…"

She shook her head. "Let him go."

"Fine. Go throw away your life. It's none of my business anyway."

"Over those hundreds of years, you realize how powerless you are. There is nothing you can do. Mer, men, beastfolk, all the living things… they will pass whether you want it or not. And you either follow them, or you are alone."

Singird let his hands sink from Master Neloren's shoulders. He remembered Faralda's words well. But he could not stop. Not now. She understood. After all, she cared for her as much as he did.

"I'm sorry," he said, turning back toward the battlefield. His chest felt tight and torn at the same time. He needed to hurry.

Down the slope gently descending from the mountains lay a ravine, hidden from the sight of passersby. As Singird proceeded toward it, the snow looked more and more like a sea of blood and dirt. He covered his nose and searched, his stomach knotting with every carcass his gaze slid over. They were all grown men, young or just in the age to have families to provide for. People who could have nurtured the land and made it bloom. There were no children among them. And Singird was more and more torn between hope and despair. He wanted to run, run wherever his feet would take him, but he needed to look. He had to find her.

The stench grew stronger in the chasm. Wooden structures, watchtowers and palisades had been torn down and set on fire, their remains still smoldering and filling the air with dark smoke that stung his eyes. In the distance, he could distinguish several silhouettes of people, standing at the end of the trail of bodies. There were more dark-robed elves here. Singird had no doubt that this had been the hideout of Selas Travi. But still, there were no signs of Yrith. Not even her friends.

He wished he could spread his magic as she did, examine the people ahead without fear of being stabbed the moment he approached them. But he only had his own limited pool of magic at his disposal. Cautiously, he looked around, hands raised to summon an atronach to his aid, but then he heard voices coming from the dark haze before him. One voice he recognized, the rough baritone of his favorite Stormcloak general. He sighed in relief but summoned a storm atronach nonetheless. After a quick contemplation, he added a dremora and equipped himself with an ethereal sword that he held all too timidly for his own liking.

He had received a semblance of military training from Jarl Siddgeir's housecarl. Helvard was a hard, uncompromising man with bitter disposition and Singird did not think back on the days in his company with pleasure. Still, it had made him stronger, more resilient against people who wished to hurt him.

Clutching the ghostly weapon, he stepped forward. "Toddvar!" he called, still cautious to not step too close to possible peril.

The giant man stepped out of the smokescreen, his great axe slung over his shoulder. He was followed by two other men, clad in the Stormcloak blue, faces of all three darkened with grief. This time, Toddvar did not welcome Singird with his usual mirth.

"Singird," he said quietly, sizing his friend up. "I know why yeh're here."

Singird shuddered at the tone of his voice. It brought nothing but despair. Momentarily he thought of smothering his next words in Toddvar's throat before he could speak them. He was afraid to hear them. But he had to know.

"What happened? Is… are they…?"

"Yrith and her two friends have been dragged away by the damned Imperials. I dread what might befall them. Singe, I couldn't help. I swear I tried, but they were everywhere, and I had to fight! I have no idea what they might do to them, but it… it might be worse than death."

Singird let out a breath he did not know he'd been holding. So she was alive… but he could not know for how long.

"Why?" he asked, his voice struggling between hope and fear. "Why would the Imperials take them?"

"For fun, I s'ppose. This is war, Singird. It draws the worst out of people."

Singird clenched his fists, letting the magical sword disappear. The thought of some filthy warrior smelling of sweat booze, laying his hands on Yrith, made him feel nauseous. He chased the thought away by sheer willpower. No, it would be too much of a coincidence if she had been simply dragged away for the amusement of some romance-deprived private. There had to be more to it.

"Selas Travi," he said, straining his mind to concentrate on all he knew and not fall into the state of utter misery. "Do you know who he is?"

Toddvar's eyes narrowed. The Nord warrior hesitated before answering, watching Singird with unsettling suspicion. "I might."

"Where is he?"

"Why do yeh ask for the Thalmor scum?"

Singird paused, pondering his next words. "And as much as his fate does not concern me, I'm afraid Miss Ravencroft followed his daughter here to look for him."

With a sigh, Toddvar placed a hand on his shoulder. "Listen, Singird. Yeh're stepping on thin ice here. Yeh'll find 'im here among the corpses, but I'm only telling yeh 'cause yeh're a friend. The rest is classified information and I can't oblige. Yeh must understand."

Singird gave Toddvar a hard look. "There are lives of our students on the line, Toddvar. Please, I need to know everything there is to know."

"I feel yeh, but…" Toddvar's gaze suddenly turned somewhere beyond Singird, his eyes narrowing with displeasure. "Are those your fellas from the College?"

Singird glanced over his shoulder to see Faralda and Drevis Neloren approach. They were cautious, treading lightly with hands up and crackling with magic.

"Colleagues, to be precise," the Dunmer corrected, dropping a curtsy that would freeze a person from the inside. "I am Drevis Neloren of Blacklight, the Illusion master, and by my side is Lady Faralda of Cloudrest, the esteemed Destruction master and foster mother to Miss Yrith Ravencroft, one of our missing students. And you would be the fabled General Toddvar of the Stormcloaks, I presume. Enchanted to meet you, although the circumstances are rather somber." Faralda joined the curtsy with her own, slightly less deep than the tradition dictated. Singird had a sudden urge to disappear, feeling Toddvar's gaze bore into him in both question and ire.

There was momentary silence. The air felt heavy, and when Toddvar spoke, his voice was low and reserved. "Pleased to make yer acquaintance," he uttered with no sincerity. "Heard rumors of Yrith's new… elven family but didn't have time to introduce m'self properly. But, as yeh can see, the situation's rather dire and I'll have to postpone our chat."

"Of course, we understand," Master Neloren nodded, "and that's why we only have a few questions. If my ears served me well, you said that our students were dragged away by the Imperials?"

Toddvar opened his mouth to snap, but then he closed it again as his eyes dimmed, the flare of is anger fading into nothingness. His companions scrabbled for their weapons, but he raised a hand to stop them. "Indeed," he said quietly. "They were."

Singird suppressed a stare in Master Neloren's way. Casting illusions on the Stormcloak general could cost him his life, even if his only allegiance was to the College, but Singird could not bring himself to stop him. If it was to find Yrith, he was willing to take desperate measures. In his mind, he laughed at himself. A few months before, he would have thought such situation ridiculous.

"And they came here to see Selas Travi."

"Maybe. I couldn't get a glimpse of that, but we found 'em in his company when he was killed."

Master Neloren's eyes became brimstone, softly glowing in red as his magic grew stronger. "And who killed him?"

At that, Toddvar let out a sudden laugh. "My men, of course. We ain't letting the Thalmor filth roam our lands freely."

"But you knew it would be Selas Travi that you would find here."

"I did. My men didn't. We don't share these things with foot soldiers."

The Dunmer's eyes narrowed, assessing, weighing. Then he gave a slow nod. "Very well. May we see his corpse?"

There was a pause. For a moment, Singird thought that Toddvar would break free of the spell, but then he shrugged, giving a strange, dreamy smile that sent shivers down his spine. "He's right there, by that fence. The first black cloak yeh stumble upon. After all, I only need his head."

Master Neloren could not hide his twitching mouth as he bowed again, joining his hands in a feigned sign of gratitude. "We are in your debt."

"Of course."

The three of them excused themselves, following the path of Toddvar's finger. Singird tried his best to avoid the suspicious looks from his comrades, wondering if Master Neloren had enchanted them too. The dark elf said nothing as he bent down to the corpse of a once unusually tall Altmer man. The trail of blood and grime, distinct in the surrounding snow, suggested that it had been dragged here. He had been pierced by several arrows, their shanks now broken and twisted in the wounds.

"He died a mercifully quick death," Faralda remarked as she inspected the body.

"He sure did." Master Neloren's face darkened as he proceeded with his examination, touching the man lightly with his magic.

Singird studied the dead man's face, still twisted in the final moment of his agony. It was almost pleading, making him wonder what his last words could have been. It was not a face of a murderer. Up to this moment, Singird had been convinced that the runaway Thalmor wanted to hurt Yrith. But looking at that face, contemplating the sudden twist of fate, he wasn't so certain anymore. He wished he could have spoken to the man. But he was too late.

His musings were interrupted by the words of Drevis Neloren. "Let's go."

Singird stared at him in question and so did Faralda, but the Dunmer did not elaborate. The three of them left in silence, following his resolute lead. Singird nodded to Toddvar on the way, but the Stormcloak general was too busy with ordering a small group of men that had gathered around him to clear the place. Soon, they had left him far behind. Only when they reached the end of the Winterhold pass did Drevis Neloren turn back to them, features lined with concern.

"We are getting into some serious trouble here. A Thalmor refugee getting in the midst of political entanglements is nothing out of the ordinary. But when he gets killed by three arrows and still, I cannot trace a bit of his magic on his corpse, that's when it starts to scare me."

Faralda raised a brow. "What are you trying to imply?"

"It is very convenient to have someone like Selas Travi succumb to a salve of arrows in a battle and then take out all his soul power. You achieve three things. One," he bent down a finger, "you will go unnoticed. Two," another finger down, "you will get power. And three," a third finger joined them, "you erase all traces. A shattered soul cannot speak. It will reveal nothing."

"Shattered soul? Please, tell me you are not serious."

"Our enemy seems to be in the habit of doing just that," Singird said with a sigh.

"Our enemy… I can't say I like the sound of that word. So we don't know anything at all?"

Drevis Neloren began walking again, staring up at the cloudy sky in thought. "We have learned a few things," he said. "Fortunately for us, that person takes risks that can easily turn against them. The question is, can we be quick enough to stop them before they actually achieve anything? But anyway," he ran a hand through his hair, "I digress. We know this person is the same as the one behind the murders we are getting accused of. They are beyond skilled in illusion. They can take away one's magic entirely and likely command similar magic as Miss Ravencroft. They are politically engaged and related to the case of Selas Travi. And, strange as it sounds, they likely have spies among the Stormcloaks. I don't believe those arrows landed by coincidence."

"One of those men we met?"

"I doubt it, they hardly had any usable magic in them. Although using a magicless person for one's twisted purposes could be a good camouflage. Still," he gave a cheerless laugh, "I must commend Ulfric for his choice of generals. That man's will is strong as iron and unyielding like the Red Mountain. Magic or not, he posed a challenge."

"But you made him tell us the truth, didn't you?" The tone of Singird's voice was alien even to himself. Calm, almost appreciative. He was not angry at Master Neloren's audacity to bewitch his friend, a Stormcloak leader. He did not even feel reproachful. Instead, he felt gratitude for extorting the so-called classified information. Despite himself, he felt a semblance of smile spread across his face. Faralda gave him a questioning look.

"That he did," Master Neloren nodded.

They fell into silence, listening to their footsteps. They passed the first Winterhold houses, gesturing a greeting to Haran, the barmaid, as she swept the fresh snow from the stairs to the Frozen Hearth. Here was where it had all begun. Where he had started to doubt Yrith's incompetence that she had so adamantly feigned until the moment he almost broke her. She had shown him her tears then, perhaps first in those six months since the death of the Ravencrofts. Perhaps that was the first time when he had wished to enfold her in his arms. He had not known then that this desire would turn into yearning so insatiable it would wipe his mind clear of all thoughts. And now it ached, tightening around his chest and making it painful to breathe.

He clenched his fists as they entered the Winterhold bridge. The strait was quiet, the horkers sleeping in repose on the shore in a tangle of flippers and tusks. If Singird didn't know better, he would not have believed there was a war raging outside of this peaceful land.

As Faralda raised her Sign of Accord, the magic of the seal guarding the entrance to the College glowed in bright amber light, same as her eyes. "I will talk to Mirabelle. We should call a meeting and send out a party," she said as she stepped into the courtyard.

"A party? It they were taken away by the Imperials, then no party can save them."

Singird raised his hand to silence them both. "No. I think it's time for Master Gestor to return to his rightful position."

"Singird? What could you possibly achieve alone?"

Master Neloren shook his head. "And here I thought we've had enough of madness for one day. I truly want to believe in your power, Master Larkwing, but facing off an entire Imperial unit, maybe a whole army? Even if you sneak into their camp in the middle of the night..."

"No. By now, they could have taken them to any camp in Skyrim. I think I will go pay a visit to General Tullius in Solitude."

The eyes widening in disbelief and gaping mouths of his elven companions brought a smile to Singird's lips. Perhaps the elves were not so oblivious after all.

Waving them goodbye, he headed to the room of Phinis Gestor. The path ahead was long, and time was of the essence. He knocked on the door, expecting to see another illusionary hearth.