Chapter 19: Seed of Hate
"Indeed, and I was bedding Jarl Elisif last night. So please, give regards to my wife for me."
Singird stared at the gatekeeper before him. Droopy eyes watched him from under the Imperial helmet, contemptuous smirk playing on his lips. Boredom was written all over his face as he leaned lazily to the wall behind him. The recent news did not seem to tear him out of his state of lethargy. Singird sighed. Of course it would not be that easy, even if consequences played in his favor. But he was not just any local jester to be driven off that easily.
"I have things to share with the General."
"Well, whaddya know," the other guard snorted, picking his nose as if it was a part of the local bon ton. "Another youngling craving attention."
Patience, Singird told himself as he forced his eyes to stay on the guards, suppressing a twitch in his mouth at the sight. They are enjoying the distraction. "Please, at least hear me out."
"Sure, what is it? Have you lost your mommy?"
"I can…"
"Stop. All of you." Everyone turned to the man previously addressed as Tirrus as he raised his hand. The guards snapped to attention instinctively. Singird knew instantly that this man held a higher position within the Legion. He carried himself with pride and authority, like a lion watching his coalition. "If this young man claims to know something about the Winterbreath incident, we have to give him a hearing. The situation is dire. We lost at least two dozen of men. I will go speak to the General. You, sir, please be so kind as to wait here. I will get back to you shortly."
Singird felt a wave of gratitude toward the man. He hinted a curtsy, watching him vanish in the depths of the castle. The three remaining guards exchanged sour looks, muttering something under their breaths. Singird felt hot in the cheeks just by hearing the words they spouted. He turned away, scanning the perimeter.
There was nothing to truly admire about Castle Dour. The sturdy stone walls had been built with protection in mind, lacking in beauty and color. The central plaza held no trees or plants, no doubt to eliminate the possibility of fire spreading from the fire ring in its middle. Training dummies were lined along the wall opposite to the main castle entrance, their skin of linen torn, revealing tufts of hay. The area around them swarmed with trainees assaulting them as if they were facing their mortal enemies, the only source of entertainment for the local guards. One swing of the sword after another, day by day, they would stand here, watching the same play and wondering when the war would come to them. Singird scowled to himself. He did not envy these men. But neither did he wish to be the harbinger of death just for the sake of distraction, as he now was.
"Come with me, sir. The General will see you now."
Singird turned back to see Tirrus's head pop out of the door. The gatekeepers watched him intently, and he could almost taste their jealousy as he followed his guide inside. Cold gripped him as the entered the main corridor, dark, the only light coming in through the doors of the adjacent rooms. It led them to a room with a long table in its middle, covered almost entirely by a map. Tiny flags were jabbed into it at different places, some red and some blue. Over the map stood a man in red-gold armor, propped against the table on his steel-hard muscular arms. When Tirrus and Singird entered the room, he raised his head. Hazel eyes watched Singird from a scarred face, hard as iron and rough as the Skyrim winter. They slowly slid from his boots to his silver robe, freezing momentarily at the moon-shaped amulet around his neck. Then they found Singird's eyes, focusing on them keenly. Singird fought not to avert his gaze.
"I have brought him, General. This is…"
"Larkwing," the General breathed before Singird could utter a word, standing to full height. "The junior. I should have known."
Tirrus stared at Singird, taking a step back as though he was expecting Singird to bite him. "He is?"
"The pleasure is mine, General," Singird said, bowing to show proper etiquette. Tullius gave a mirthless smile. Shadows danced on his face in the light of a candle, making his scars seem like gaping jaws. Singird had the feeling that if he tried punching that face, his fist would break into a thousand shards. Never in his life had he felt so small.
"Well well. You look like your father, you act your father… and I reckon you even have the same bloody sense of honor."
"Like every Nord out there, sir."
"Indeed." Tullius circled the table. Singird could notice a slight, almost imperceptible limp in his step, likely remnants of an old injury. The man stopped inches from him, studying him closely. He smelled of steel and fire, of the war that he waged. Singird stood with his feet frozen to the ground, too afraid to step back. "I did not like that man. Of all people, he was the one to always remind me of my limits."
The words were spoken with strange affection, ice-cold on the surface, yet with a hint of warmth on the inside. Singird would have liked to know more, to spend the whole day listening to stories about the parents of whom he did not know nearly enough. But he had a purpose, and this was a test of his own will.
"I am not my father, General," he said quietly. "And I come with news. And… a plea."
"If it is the same thing your late father asked for, then the answer is still no. Tirrus."
"Yes, sir?" The man straightened at the sound of his voice.
"We are leaving for the ship."
Singird stared at him in unconcealed astonishment. Was this a test? Or was he being rejected before he could even state his purpose?
"General…"
"You don't mind waiting for me here while I look into this… predicament, do you, young Larkwing?"
General Tullius did not even wait for a word from Singird. He limped into the corridor, waving at Tirrus to follow him. The latter gave Singird a quick bow before excusing himself. Singird heard a low chatter until the door shut behind them with a loud thud. For a while, he kept staring in their direction, waiting for the General to change his mind. But only silence followed, interrupted by nothing but the quiet crackling of the candles raised in the chandeliers around the room. Singird sighed.
Following the General's footsteps, he made for the door. As he reached for the handle, a guard appeared from one of the neighboring rooms, lowering his head in respect.
"Sir," he said, hiding his intent behind a mask of sheer politeness, "if you would not mind waiting for the General within the castle. He would see you upon his return."
So he was being tested. And closely watched by someone who was no mere guard, judging by his choice of words. Very well. Why not play into the General's hand when it was convenient?
He gave a nod. "I was, in fact, looking for you," he said with an enigmatic smile. "Or, any person of interest. Could I ask for a cup of tea?"
"Certainly. I will have it brought to you right away. The reception room is to the right of the antechamber at the end of this corridor. Make yourself at home."
"Thank you. I intend to do that." It was exactly what Singird did not intend to do.
The tea did not make Singird happy. It was bitter and muddy, not unlike the one served by Phinis Gestor. Singird wondered if it had been made so to make him feel discomfort, or just because tea preparation did not fall into the scope of a soldier's training. He waited in silence, looking out of the window as the sun rose higher to the azure skies. Time passed and somewhere out there, Yrith was waiting for him. He moved in his chair, hands clenching into fists in his lap, then loosening, then clenching again. The General had his priorities, he was aware. But it did not make him feel better. He could hear the voice in his head far too well in the silence, prodding, whispering, showing images he did not wish to see. He could not turn away from that face that cried tears of blood. It was carved into his mind, haunting him ever since he had seen the battlefield. What if he would not make it? What if he only found her corpse? Would he ever be able to forgive himself?
He felt his chest tighten. His hand rose to support it when he heard footsteps, soon followed by the General's face in the doorway.
"I am honored to see our guest stay," he said, but there was not a hint of respect in his voice. A woman followed him into the room, a sturdy warrior like none Singird had ever seen. She was not muscular or big in size, she was simply so hard on the look he immediately wished he would never have to fight her. Her eyes and the straight, firm posture with which she carried her heavy scaled armor spoke of great strength. Her hands were big and ready to grab the sword she was carrying at her side. Her copper hair flew freely about her head, but Singird could guess by its thinness how much of her life it had spent confined under a helmet. Tullius moved aside to make passage for her.
"This is Legate Rikke," he said as he gestured toward her. "She was a good friend to your father. Today, she will be keeping us company."
The Legate nodded, elegant in her step despite her armor. When she spoke, her voice was razor-sharp and hard like a diamond.
"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Master Larkwing. General Tullius says you come with news on The Winterbreath."
Singird rose to meet her eyes. She spoke straight to the point, true to her warrior nature. Yet she was the only one here to call him a Master. He took a moment to size her up, but she remained the solid rock she was.
"I do," he said cautiously.
"Then let us hear it." Tullius nestled himself comfortably in one of the chairs. "The ship was plundered of all cargo. We lost more than just men." He motioned to Legate Rikke to join him by the table, but she only shook her head, leaning her back against the wall, watchful like an eagle.
Singird frowned. Surely whoever attacked that ship had not come there for cargo. The General watched him intently, examining every muscle in Singird's face. Singird stared back.
"But I suppose whoever did it, they wouldn't have massacred the whole crew had they only come for the cargo, would they?" He sank to his chair, eyes still locked in the battle of wills with the General. Tullius let out a snort.
"That is what you ought to tell us. Tirrus said you claim to have been on that ship last night. What were you doing on a supply ship anyway?"
The voice of General Tullius was not kind. Despite the allegiance of Singird's parents, he did not express the least bit of trust. In his mind, Singird went over every strategy he could use against him. Convincing him to save Yrith might not be as simple as he had thought. He looked into those hazel eyes, trying to read them, but they were dark as the deepest well, concealing every thought, every motive. The General put his hands behind his head, a gesture that clearly showed who was home here. Singird took a sip from his cup to gain himself time to think, suppressing a scowl at its muddy flavor.
"I needed quick transport to Solitude. I sought to avoid the swamps of Morthal and the Captain was willing to give me a lift. But I was followed. On the way to Dawnstar, I fought five mages, three of which I managed to take down." Singird fell silent. It still sounded ridiculous. He, killing people. He did not feel guilt. But the burden of murder weighed on him nonetheless.
"Three out of five? All alone?"
"Not exactly. A cliff was involved. And likely Lady Luck as well."
"He even fights like his father," Legate Rikke remarked with a hint of smile on her lips. Just for a moment, the mask of stone melted into affection before her face hardened once more.
"That he does," Tullius supposed, his voice quiet and thoughtful. "But that brings me to the question of his purpose. Your dealings are of no concern to me, Sir Larkwing, but if The Winterbreath's crew was annihilated by the same person who follows you, then you have quite a powerful enemy. An enemy who is not afraid of wiping out an entire ship of Imperial cargo. This unsettles me."
"And rightly so. I come to plead for the lives of three children the College of Winterhold has lost in the recent battle near Saarthal. Word has it that your men took them away."
Tullius and Rikke exchanged silent looks. For just a split moment, Singird could swear he saw a shadow of worry in both of their faces, along with something else he could not name, but it passed as soon as it came. Tullius leaned over the table, lacing the fingers of both his hands together. He rested his chin on them, his gaze sharp and piercing. The test was over. Now it was an interrogation. Despite himself, Singird felt sweat surface on his forehead.
"Truly," the General uttered quietly. "And just why would they do such a thing?"
The air felt heavy in Singird's lungs, and the midday sun burned his skin through the window. How much could he reveal? Could he be sure that his words would not send Yrith straight to Oblivion? But even if he lied here, his deceit would be exposed eventually. How much did he know already? He would have at least known what had transpired in that battle, would he not?
"Perhaps," he said, "because one of those children is the daughter of Selas Travi. But Selas Travi died in that battle. Unless there is some additional value to his daughter, I cannot assume their motives."
The lull was longer this time, and now Singird was certain he saw surprise in the face of Legate Rikke. General Tullius sat still as a statue, but there was a glint of inner struggle in his eyes. Singird smiled to himself. At least there was something the elves had taught him. Humans could never surpass them in terms of hiding their emotions.
"His daughter, huh. How did they even happen to be there?"
"It seems Leyna Travi left the College in search of her father and took the other two along."
Tullius gave a slow nod. "Say, Sir Larkwing. Your institution, the College of Winterhold… if memory serves me right, it has no political ties, correct?"
"Correct."
The General fell back into his seat, but his raptor gaze did not change. "Let me just briefly sum up your situation. Some two years ago, the first magical murder occurred. It led to a chain of murders across all of Skyrim, all done by magic, all in the same manner. The jarls who, until then, supported this institution of knowledge greatly, ceased their donations and left it in a desperate situation. From there, the only option would be to ensure a stable income. And who else could provide that but the nobility? But the nobility, Sir Larkwing, is always partial and always has a motive. Even when it comes to sending their children to a gods' forsaken school. Now, wouldn't it be very convenient if some of them were kidnapped by the Imperial army? Here's a target to point your finger at. Handy that. Just like a series of mysterious murders that were so clearly done by magic that even the most uneducated peasant would notice. One would say that a true mage would want to hide the method, would they not?"
"What are you implying, sir?"
"Now if I were to be like the rest of the local folk, I would accuse you of killing off an entire ship crew and raising a false charge against the Legion. Someone out there would benefit from this for sure. But that someone is a threat to the Legion as well. I will help you find your students, Sir Larkwing, but I need to hear everything. Including that tiny little bit that you keep avoiding at all costs."
"You mean to tell me that it was not your men who took them?"
Tullius gave him a look that would freeze a fire atronach. "That is irrelevant." To his side, Legate Rikke shifted her weight.
"General…"
"No, Rikke. I know what you want to say, and the answer is no."
"But General, he deserves to know the truth."
Singird raised his head to meet Rikke's gaze. She could not hide the gentleness that crept into her hard face. What was this truth she was speaking about?
"Rikke, from now on you are only here for recording. You will not interfere with the discussion."
"Duly noted, sir, but this could actually serve to our advantage." The Legate stood proud, not afraid to look the General straight in the eye from the height of her head. He scrutinized her from below, leaning into the backrest of his chair and letting out something between a sigh and a snort.
"No, it will not. It is your bloody Nord honor speaking from you, Legate. I ask you to get rid of it."
"But Ranmar Larkwing…"
"Not another word, Legate."
Singird followed the line between the two of them with his eyes, sensing but a tiny spark of conflict. There was trust between them, warm like the sunlight caressing the cold drops of morning dew. He was more than certain that General Tullius had a good reason for taking the Legate with him. Perhaps there was no conflict whatsoever. Perhaps he was still being tested after all. But he could not pass on this chance.
"Might I inquire what it is that I should know?" he said, his voice brimming with invitation. Tullius rubbed his chin, taking his time to reply.
"You may, and I will not answer. Not before you put in your share."
"By which you mean…?"
Tullius let out a weary breath. "This discussion doesn't lead anywhere. I can sense that you don't trust me, Sir Larkwing. But you will have to if you plan to rely on my aid. There is more about this whole incident. Something that you are not telling me. Where were we? Yes, the students. So one of them is the daughter of Selas Travi. But as you said, Selas Travi is dead and that renders her useless. It would be more than simple to kill three children in a battle. But they were taken away instead. Alive, I presume. So… who are the other two?"
Over the course of the conversation, the General's face had barely changed. Singird now understood how he had claimed his position. He was perceptive, shrewd, merciless. The perfect combination that would get him anywhere he wanted. And he knew exactly what sort of tone to adopt when he spoke to a Larkwing. Singird felt cornered. Surely he could trust the General. So why was it suddenly so immensely difficult to give Yrith away?
"A Dunmer boy from Morrowind named Cain Aldaryn and a girl from Winterhold who is not of noble birth."
"Aldaryn. I've heard that name before."
"The Aldaryns had a say in the Elder Council before it was compromised at the beginning of the fourth era," Legate Rikke said. She smiled lightly at Tullius's knit brows, challenging him with her disobedience. "But I only know that from the chronicles. There are no records of their current activities. At least not in our archive."
"I see. Then it does not help much. I am afraid, Sir Larkwing, that the information you have provided is not sufficient."
"How is it not sufficient?" Singird asked quietly, fighting the urge to clench his fists. "I have told you what I know. If you can't save our students, then tell me so and I shall leave."
"I may have a way, and true, what you say may just be enough to send out scouts and find your lost students. However, think of this as a bargain. This costs me resources that I am not willing to sacrifice unless the Legion gains from it. Do not let your father's heritage appease you, Sir Larkwing. I hold his memory in high regard, but in this world, we all need to tread our own path. You stand before me as yourself, not as your father. I owe you nothing. So either we find common ground, or we each go our way. The choice is yours."
Singird stood up, lowering his head but refraining from bowing entirely. Who was this man to talk to him like that? How could he ever rely on him? How could he let Yrith rely on him? Would he not lift a finger for anyone if it was not in the favor of the Legion?
"And here I thought the Legion served the people of the Empire," he said, venom dripping from his voice.
Tullius sighed and opened his mouth to speak. But before he could utter a word, a knock came on the door, and all three, the General, the Legate, and the Master, turned their gazes after the sound.
"Come in," Tullius said.
The door revealed a helmetless freckled man, Nord by the looks of it. He entered the room and bowed to the General, oblivious to Singird and Rikke. "Falk Firebeard wants to see you, sir."
"Tell him I'll be right there." Tullius rose to his feet, turning to Singird. "My time is scarce, Sir Larkwing. Come see me again tomorrow morning. Think upon my words. I believe there are things we have yet to discuss. Legate, please see young Sir Larkwing to the door."
With that, the General took off, leaving the two of them to their thoughts. Rikke watched his shadow disappear in the antechamber, struggle painting wrinkles on her face.
"Do not think badly of General Tullius," she said. "He stands before a difficult choice, and these times do not permit to trust easily."
"Then he should have said so."
Rikke chuckled quietly. "But he did, did he not? You are fortunate, Master Larkwing. Most don't get to hear what the General really thinks." She trod to the antechamber, motioning for Singird to follow. "In fact, most don't get to talk to him at all."
They left the room. Singird did not regret not finishing his tea. He had left it there as a sign of his host's inhospitality. Legate Rikke led him straight to the entrance, bowing slightly as she placed her hand on the door handle.
"I suppose we will see each other again. Now to go record everything as it must be." She sighed, glancing over her shoulder. Then her voice dropped to an almost inaudible whisper. "I am not good with papers like your father was. The archive is such a dreary place. The whole third floor is. I think the soldiers hate it too. No wonder the night shifts ditch it for a drink in the Skeever. All except Tirrus, but he's been busy in the docks lately." She gave a cryptic smile, opening the door for him. "Good day, Master Larkwing."
And she was gone.
Singird gazed into the dark of the corridor as the door shut behind her, mindless of the two guards that stared at him from his sides, not bothering to contain their yawns and snorts. He had never imagined Rikke being that garrulous. Perhaps it was her affection to Singird's parents. Or perhaps, Singird thought as he walked away, it was something entirely different.
He stopped a few paces from the archway connecting the plaza with the main street, turning back to the castle. His eyes slid over its sturdy walls, up to the third level of windows. To his delight, the fortification wall reached straight up to it. Even from here he could spot several stairways leading up there. He smiled inwardly. He would make sure to thank the Legate properly when he had the chance.
The Winking Skeever was surprisingly quiet during the day. Singird used the chance to make up for lost sleep from the night that had kept him awake. As he lay in his rented bed, smelling of furs and feathers, the whispers from downstairs made his eyes heavy like a quiet lullaby. The breeze sang gently through the open window, shrouding him in darkness. For a moment, there was absolute silence. Then, he emerged from it, his soul ripped off from his chest. The wind carried him through the clouds, far above, until it ceased to blow. Singird was falling, down into the depths, cold air freezing his soul, until he was caught again, rising and sinking with every flap of the giant wings.
His carrier was a giant gold eagle, gliding on the currents of the wind with absolute ease. It carried him far across the mountain ridges, presenting to him the vast land of snow and tundra grasses. But far in the distance, dark plumes were rising to the skies. Singird heard cries, both brave and terrified, and as they approached, men fell under him like a house of cards, staining the land in red. Heavy stench scorched his nostrils, and the air grew dark. Further along, a city fell to dust under the blazing flames of Oblivion. Men and women and children, all cried, all wept for their lost hope.
Singird was dropped to walk on his own, to feel the fire burn his cheeks. The world was crumbling around him, but still, people rose and fought, only to fall again, lost in an endless circle of despair. Their wounds contorted and decayed, but even then, they would not find their peace, as though an invisible force lifted them on their feet, freeing them of their sanity. He trod slowly through the dying land, finding a solitary mound. A statue had been raised there, its head laying in its feet. And just before it knelt a woman, deep in prayer.
There was laughter, first quiet, then it gained on strength. A demon emerged from the flames, and as Singird looked at him, he froze in horror. The demon had no face. Only darkness gaped at him, deep and empty. The beast loomed above the woman, crooked talons rising to sink into her. She turned a desperate gaze to Singird and he felt his heart stop. Silver eyes stared at him, pleading, glistening with silent tears.
He ran to her, breathless, mindless of the heat and the gusts of wind that whipped his arms and singed his face. As the demon plunged itself into attack, he pushed her away, taking her place. The woman cried, reaching out her hands. Singird gasped as the claws tore his soul apart, bit by bit, and the blue of his magic mingled with the red of his blood. Pain, pain was everywhere. He could not cry out, his breath had been stolen. Everything blurred and faded. Everything but her cries. Then he looked above at the beast that was leaning over him, tasting his flesh, and the sight made him forget the pain. The demon wore his own face.
Singird sat up with a gasp, eyes snapping open at once. Breathing heavily, he took a while to just sit there, let the tension flow away on the rays of moonlight passing through the open window. Thuds and cries carried from the outer corridors of the inn, speaking of guests in high spirits, perhaps the liquid ones too. He wiped the sweat from his forehead, exhaustion weighing on him almost as much as before he had laid himself to sleep. Gathering all his willpower, he forced himself on his feet, draping a woolen cloak over his shoulders.
Tossing a few coins to the bartender for his second night, he passed through the inn as casually as he could, entering the cold night. Two drunk soldiers almost collided with him, voices rising in a very off-key version of The Age of Aggression which would surely make any bard from the local college pale with distaste. Singird picked up his pace, not eager to listen to whatever they yelled after him. As he neared the archway to the training grounds, he scanned his surroundings. Not a soul around, or so it seemed. He confirmed with a few inconspicuous detection spells before making himself properly muffled and invisible. In the pale light of the moons, he was nearly undetectable without magic.
On his way up to the fortification wall, he avoided a guard, lazily waving a torch to pretend caution. There was another one just before the entrance to the third floor, but fortunately, he was pacing back and forth over the wall, eyes fixed mostly on the possible entrances. Naturally, no one expected an invisible intruder. Singird pressed himself to the door and waited, following the guard's trail with his eyes until he was far enough to not hear the door open. And just when the guard gazed down into the distance, he slipped quietly inside the castle, finding himself in an unlit corridor. He cursed under his breath. Night eye was a spell he had never mastered.
He checked with detect life again to find the closest person a floor lower. Legate Rikke was right. The guards truly did not enjoy staying here. As his frame materialized out of the thin air, he pulled his moon-shaped necklace from under his robes, watching its typical turquoise glow. It helped little with the surrounding darkness, but at least Singird now knew where he was placing his steps. He checked one room after another, treading lightly on the planked floor, confirming from time to time that he had no company. On his way, he discovered a deserted dormitory, a dining room, a small armory and something he would call an indoor garden with various plants and fungi lining the walls if his eyes did not deceive him. At last, at the very end of the corridor, he finally opened a vast room that welcomed him with the heavy scent of dust and paper. After one last check, he dared light it with magic, staring at lines of shelves, bookcases, and a few desks at the center of the room, all buried under piles of books, scrolls, and various documents. Everything was covered in dust, from the floor and lacquered red wood to the last inch of paper.
Singird knit his brows. What blasphemy to treat books this way.
Containing the urge to sweep the dust away, he followed the only pair of footprints in it to a remote half-empty shelf filled with various volumes tied in a very disorderly manner. Singird frowned at the pages, creased and overlapping at their ends, before he took one that stuck out from the line.
Markarth Incident Report, the title said, scribbled likely in haste. The document summarized Ulfric Stormcloak's raid on Markarth, how he had overthrown the rule of the Reachmen and killed every single of their supporters. Singird held a hand to his mouth as his eyes scanned over the list of atrocities that had taken place there, the torment of women and children alike. It had been proven that at least half of those rumors and testimonies were false, but that did not justify the other half. Ulfric was certainly not the people's jarl. He was ruthless and stopped at nothing to have his own way.
With a sigh, he put the report away. This would not help him.
He took another volume. East Empire Company: Clearance, 4E 203 Sun's Dawn. Of course the East Empire Company prospered the further the war dragged on, even if they tried to claim otherwise. The Legion needed supplies and there were always citizens to extort from. He returned the book to its place with a snort, not bothering to open it.
One after one he went through the volumes and scrolls, finding various reports from battles, secret or not so secret letters, dossiers, lists, memoirs, and some old battle plans and strategies. But there was no mention of any battle near Winterhold, nor could he find a file on Selas Travi. After a while of fruitless searching, Singird shifted his weight nervously, taking a glance at the door. Quietly as he could, he cast a detection spell, but he was still the only person on the entire floor. He took a breath and returned to the texts, invisibility spell at the ready lest someone try to enter the room.
He frowned. The reports he was now browsing were more than a year old. He had doubts he would find anything useful there, but he refused to give up. There had to be a reason why Legate Rikke had pointed him here. Unless she wanted to drive him into a corner. He shook his head, refusing to consider it an option. His hand fumbled almost automatically for the next book. Opening it, he stared at the title, expecting another accounting book or some ancient battle report. But as his eyes found the name under it, he froze.
Case F Suspects
Reporter: Ranmar Larkwing
4E 202, 16th Second Seed
The document contained a list of names and a letter. As Singird opened it, he recognized his father's thin neatly aligned script, not unlike his own.
Dear General,
Upon the request of Legate Rikke, I am sending you the list of the Case F suspects. These names have been gathered after a thorough investigation. The list is likely incomplete but even I am not foolish enough to accuse people based on groundless assumptions. You can find my notes on each of them at the end of this document with references to the recent events. I have placed citations from several reports in the text. All of them can be found in section F in the old archive.
Despite all this, I ask that you treat these people fairly. They have been deceived and completely unaware of their own circumstances. On my next visit to Solitude, I would like to schedule a meeting with you regarding the source of this deceit. I dare not speak of this openly as the knowledge could fall into the wrong hands. I strongly advise you to consider the suggestion I gave you on our last meeting. Please, do not overlook this matter. I believe we share the same interest.
Yours,
R. Larkwing
Singird stared at the document, unmoving, lost in thought. So his father had found something. If the feeling that his death was no coincidence had been a mere hunch before, now he was certain. His father had made a discovery for which he had been willing to break his neutrality. Just what could it have been?
He sifted through the attached reports on various people, most describing their actions and strategies in battles and political dealings. At the bottom of the very last one, he could see a scribbled note. Castle Dour: Section F, Intelligence Division, Part III.
He looked over the room, eyes sliding over the old, dusty furniture. In the other half of the room, several bookcases were marked by letters and numbers engraved in silver plates attached to them here and there. At least something in this place had the proper order. Section F was uncomfortably low, and he had to squat down to reach it. It took him several blind picks before he found the first document of the Intelligence Division, Part III. It was a thick dossier titled The False Imperial Army. He opened it at the first page.
4E 202, 30th Sun's Dawn: Reports from our scouts and generals repeatedly mention smaller battles and skirmishes that take place in various parts of Tamriel. Lately, there have been many occurrences of these in the province of Skyrim and its borderlands. Specifically in Skyrim, the clashes seem to involve the Stormcloaks and the Imperial Legion, rarely any other party. However, the Generals unanimously deny that they or any of their men have ever taken part in the battles. Many of them seem orchestrated to put the Legion in a bad light and stir hatred within the locals whose families, crops and cattle get decimated.
The term False Imperial Army has become very popular amongst the legionnaires for those who fight falsely in the name of the Legion. However, as these people wear genuine Imperial armor, walk under the Imperial Dragon standard and even know some of the Legion's strategies, it is strongly believed that they are in fact part of the Legion, traitors who act in favor of the Stormcloaks. The Legion also suspects that they may be a part of a cult as many of them walk into battle knowing that they are not going to return.
These units must be suppressed. They pose a threat to the Imperial campaign and support distrust amongst the people of Skyrim. The White-Gold Tower has sent the Legion to end the terror that has been started by Ulfric Stormcloak. Any obstacle to that must be eliminated at once.
The following pages contain a list of the documented incidents, their reporters and known names of their victims. Any future records will be added to the collection upon their delivery.
Singird felt his hands tremble as he stared at the text before him. Fake battles? False army? Whoever was behind this must have had some unbelievable resources at their disposal. Not to mention their authority. But if that was the case, then who could have taken Yrith? Did General Tullius have any chance of finding her at all? Perhaps the General had not known about the battle or Selas Travi before Singird's arrival. That would explain the surprise in the face of Legate Rikke. Singird commended the two of them inwardly for the excellent act.
He suppressed the need to sink down on the closest chair and bury his head in his hands. He had to search on, find anything that would lead him to her. What had the captain of The Winterbreath said about his father? That he had stopped some battles from happening?
I strongly advise you to consider the suggestion I gave you on our last meeting…
That was what he had written in his letter. Now he could see the meaning behind the words of General Tullius.
"If it is the same thing your late father asked for, then the answer is still no."
Of course. The only logical suggestion in this situation would be for the Legion to officially withdraw from the war. And naturally, General Tullius would not have a word of it. The false army was harming the Legion while a withdrawal would mean clearing the entire field. Who would gain from it? The Stormcloaks? But they hardly had the resources to lead their own campaign, much less form an entire new army, even if from the ranks of the Legion itself. It would require months, or even years of planning, absolute precision and the undying trust of many a Legionnaire. Ulfric could hardly afford it. Unless...
Singird frowned. Unless he had an ally that would grant him the power to do so. What a powerful ally it must have been. And Singird could only think of one that fit into the picture.
But then Toddvar must have known. If the False Imperial Army had anything to do with the Stormcloaks, then why would he allow them to abduct Yrith? Good old Toddvar, a friend of his for years, friend to his parents and friend to…
Singird froze, hands still clutching the book. The light of his magic died out, leaving him in darkness disrupted only by the faint moonlight coming into the archive through the draped window. "Damn it," he breathed to himself, for once not bothered by his choice of words. "The ignorant fool I have been!"
He recalled Yrith's words from the morning after the avalanche.
"Even I can recognize the sound of a walking mountain clad in steel when I hear its footsteps."
But Toddvar? He was not a mage. Or was he? But then how could Drevis Neloren had controlled his mind so easily? Unless he only thought he did, which would be entirely possible for someone who had managed to set Yrith's atronach against her parents.
Singird thrust the book frantically back to its place on the shelf, lighting another spark to help him find his way to the section on the Stormcloaks. One after another he picked up lists of names, searching until he found him.
Toddvar Ansgarsson. Father: unknown. Mother: unknown. Allegiance: The Stormcloak Rebellion, rank: General. Former allegiance: The Royal Imperial Army, Cyrodiil's Fourth Infantry Regiment, rank: Captain.
Below was a rather superficial biography along with a list of tactics and weapons Toddvar liked to use. Singird scanned the text, searching for more. Attitude, diplomatic skills, no, no, that was not what he was looking for. How could he even have made it to the Legion, not to mention the Stormcloaks, when his origin was unknown? If there was just one hint, one single clue that would point him in the right direction…
The door slammed open. Singird winced, frozen as he stood face to face with an armored man gripping a torch. The man gave him a triumphant smirk, spending a moment to size Singird up before he entered and sidestepped to make way for the person behind him. Face lit with the flickering flame of a candle he was holding, General Tullius stepped inside. He gave Singird a long, pensive look, finally letting out a sigh.
"So the guards were right. We really had a visitor. To welcome the same guest twice already, to what do we owe the honor?"
His voice was smooth and calm, as though he was only engaging in a weather talk. Singird lay down the book he had been holding, raising his hands in a gesture of resignation. "I missed the place," he said just for the effect.
"I am pleased our castle brings you such comfort," Tullius replied in the same manner of affectedness. Then he turned to the man at his side. "Is Rikke here yet?"
"She should be here any moment, General, sir."
Just as the man finished his sentence, footsteps from the outside announced the arrival of the said Legate. She walked into the room with her head down, eyes devoid of any question or sign of resistance. She stopped just before the General, her voice quiet as she spoke.
"You wanted to see me, General."
"That I did. Gallin, leave us alone."
"Sir." The man bowed and backed away from the room almost reverently, shutting the door behind himself. Tullius waited before the sound of his footsteps faded away in the distance. His eyes found Legate Rikke and his face was one of a father scolding his favorite child after a great disappointment.
"What is the meaning of this, Rikke?"
The Legate raised her head to look him in the eye. Her reply was low and even, the kind that spoke of clear conscience and just intentions. "General… he has the right to know. His parents…"
"For the hundredth time, Rikke, he is not his parents. Obviously, they were decent enough to not even talk to their own son about the Legion matters. And now you're breaking their pact of loyalty! This could be classified as treason. And you know the price for it."
The Legate's look hardened as she straightened to full height. She was smaller than Tullius, staring up at him with glistening eyes, face steel-hard with determination. For a moment, she did not say anything. The two of them stood there, looking at each other, and Singird could only guess their clashing thoughts. Then she spoke in the same unyielding tone as before.
"If I never took any risks, General, I would not be standing here before you. I did what I think is right. I am more than prepared to bear with the consequences. After all, we are in a war. I have been killing my own people for several years now, just to do the right thing."
"Rikke, you…" the General rubbed his temples, clearly at a loss for words. "Why are you doing this to me? After all this time…"
"We are still serving the people, General," she added softly.
Singird looked at Rikke with more than appreciation. As she stood there, firm in her conviction, strong, yet delicate and true to herself, he saw a different face. Before him stood Yrith, with her silver eyes gazing up at the General, unyielding even if it took all of her courage. The Yrith who would always fight for the right thing at the risk of losing everything. The Yrith who more than once had chosen the way of her heart before reason, standing strong, yet so vulnerable. A beautiful person with a beautiful heart. He felt his chest tighten. She was waiting for him somewhere out there. She would endure, fight till the very end, never give up no matter how much it hurt. But unlike Rikke, she was fragile… and she could not kill to survive.
In his head, Singird went over the last day, replaying every bit of conversation, every thought he had, rereading the lines that had turned his whole world upside down. Things that had been unclear, things that had confused him or even irked him, they now made perfect sense to him. He stepped forward, clearing his throat to gain the attention of the General and the Legate.
"General Tullius… please, hear me out."
Tullius sighed, running a hand through his thinned grey hair. "I am listening, but know I am doing you a great favor."
"And I am grateful." Singird bowed slightly. "I was reluctant when I first saw you. Just like you, I was not sure where to put my trust. But Legate Rikke helped me understand. Reading some of the local records, I know now where my father stood. And I know where I will stand. I think we could help each other. I will tell you everything I know."
For just a brief moment, Singird could swear he saw a smile flash over the General's lips.
"Then let us hear it."
The tea was warm, a gentle plume of steam rising from it. Singird could notice an apparent increase in quality. This was a Tamriel classic, mountain flowers with dragon's tongue, and its typical lightly sweet taste sent warmth into his whole body. He sat across General Tullius and Legate Rikke in a small circular room with windows from all sides. The view of the whole Solitude with its elegant spires and timbered gables was breathtaking even in the pale moonlight. Singird could imagine himself spending long hours just gazing into the distance, past the great buildings, to the glistening sea.
But now his attention was on General Tullius who shifted in his seat, resting his chin on his laced fingers.
"Ravencroft," he mused. "I've heard that name before."
"You have?"
"Not too long ago, actually. A Redguard boy came to visit us about two weeks ago. And he…"
"Redguard? Was his name Qassir Tahlrah by any chance?" Singird felt his hands clench in his lap. The memory of his last encounter with the audacious boy was still vivid in his memory. He burned with rage just remembering that smooth, confident voice.
"Why yes, it was indeed. So you are acquainted?"
"I am." He could not stop the sting of ice from creeping into his voice. It seemed to amuse Legate Rikke who chuckled softly as she bent down to fiddle with something down by her feet. Both Singird and General Tullius regarded her with raised brows. When she finally emerged from under the table, she was holding a small scroll, extending her hand to pass it to Singird.
"Then I think you should take this."
The hand of General Tullius shot up to stop her. "What is this and why do I have no knowledge of it?"
"The boy gave this to me before his departure," she gave a light shrug. "He told me to give it to the right person. 'You will know when they appear,' he said. Now I believe he meant Master Larkwing here. As for what it is… I have no idea. I tried to break the seal," she gave an apologetic smile, "but no matter what I did, it would not open. Not even the paper would tear apart. Maybe it can only be opened with magic."
"You people and your magic," Tullius shook his head. "Very well. Go ahead, Sir Larkwing."
Singird's mouth twitched. "You only said that so you could have a peek."
"Am I that readable?"
"Quite so."
"You're the same damn bastard as Ranmar Larkwing was. Go on and open that thing."
"I hope you did not pull it out of your boot, Legate," Singird said as he reached for the scroll.
Rikke gave a nonchalant shrug. "I stored it in my dagger scabbard. But if I knew I would be handing it to a Larkwing, I would surely have hidden it close to my sweaty feet."
Singird took the scroll with a wry smile, inspecting the seal as he let the flickering candlelight fall on it. It looked like a simple wax seal, easy to break, but then Singird noticed its details and froze. The image on it depicted a flask standing on a maple leaf, bearing three letters. AWA.
"What a coincidence," he muttered to himself sardonically, ignoring the curious looks of his hosts. Just to make sure, he pressed a finger on the seal. Not even the smallest crack appeared on it. He sighed, assaulting it with a thread of magicka. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, a thin line of text appeared on the outer side of the paper, and Singird recognized the lavish handwriting of his Redguard student.
I reveal myself when the light of the moon that walks the righteous path touches me.
He frowned. "What kind of riddle is this?"
"What have you found?"
He handed the scroll back to the Legate. She looked at it with knit brows, stroking her chin deep in thought. "I guess it wouldn't help to try opening it by the window," she mused. Tullius leaned to her to glance over her shoulder, letting out a snort.
"I wouldn't be surprised."
Doubtful, Singird took the scroll to the window and let the moonlight fall upon the seal just to appease them. Again, he tried to break it with both his fingers and magic, but to no avail. It stayed hard as stone, ridiculing him in the way of its creator. He let out a breath, imagining the face of Qassir Tahlrah. What method would the Redguard use to hide what was only meant for a certain person?
"He told me to give it to the right person."
And if the person was him…
He gave a smile. The answer was surprisingly easy. The AWA surely must have tracked the location of all sorts of magical artifacts. And one of them happened to be his family heirloom.
He took his moon-shaped amulet, sliding a tip of it over the seal as though he wanted to cut it. The fake wax sizzled and dispersed into fine dust, sinking down onto Singird's robe in a gentle shower. He frowned, almost certain that the Redguard had done this on purpose. As he unrolled the scroll, his eyes found an eagle with wings raised high to the skies, the symbol of the Aldmeri Dominion, the one that adorned every gilded helmet of the elven craftsmanship. The paper creased under the clutch of his hands as he scanned it.
Thalmor Dossier: Toddvar Ansgarsson
Status: Asset, Active, Acting upon the Appointment of the Great Regent
Description: Supreme Commander of the Thalmor Forces, General of the Stormcloak Rebellion, Imperial Legion veteran
Toddvar made the first contact with the Aldmeri Dominion ten years prior to the First War against the Empire, in 4E 161. Ever since then, he has been a valuable asset in planting the seed of distrust amongst the non-elven races of Tamriel. Despite him being a Nord, he showed unprecedented devotion to the elven deities and authorities and exceptional skill in the arcane arts, but also surprisingly vast knowledge of our own tradition. His continuous reports play a major part in developing our strategies. One of his most commemorated feats was bringing Ulfric Stormcloak to us and establishing a long-lasting connection to the Stormcloak Rebellion of Skyrim. Atop of that, he remains influential among the Imperial ranks, granting us nigh absolute control over the Tamrielic lands.
Operational Notes: Direct contact should be avoided, if possible, to ensure the confidentiality of his actions. Toddvar is to maintain balance between the forces of Tamriel at all costs. To all those standing outside, he is an enemy of the Dominion and should be treated as such as long as his influence and our dominance is not harmed. However, as his true motive remains to be unknown, should he display any sign of disloyalty, he is to be disposed of with immediate effect.
Singird felt the time stop as his eyes reached the end of the document. Every expression he had ever seen on Toddvar's face, every joke that came out of his mouth, perhaps even his partiality for mead, all of them were a lie, a guise to deceive the eyes of everyone around him. But why would he do it? Why would he target his parents and the Ravencrofts?
If he contacted the Dominion in year 161, then he had been serving them for over forty winters. Singird stared at the paper, rereading the text over and over again in disbelief. Even if he looked like a seasoned warrior, there was no way he was that old. Who was he? Who in Oblivion was he?
He felt rage rising in him, filling him with hatred that he had never felt before. He had trusted him. Yrith had trusted him. How many times must she have turned to him with a smile on her lips, unaware of all the atrocities he had done? He wanted more than to just save her. He wanted justice. He wanted to kill. To rip his soul apart like Toddvar himself had done so many times before, so that he would never rise again.
"Sir Larkwing?"
He raised his head to look at the questioning face of General Tullius. Legate Rikke held a hand over his shoulder, likely after a long while of demanding attention from Singird.
"General," Singird said, trying to suppress the rasp in his voice, "I think you should see this."
