He gradually awakened to a hum of voices. Saraven opened his eyes on a room that he at first did not recognize, other people in the beds, more talking in the doorway. The warm light of day poured in through the doorway from the outer room. A slight movement of his hand found his sword still with him, red and evil-looking in its scabbard.
Anvil. He squinted as memory ambushed him. He did not feel sore this morning. Apparently Dibella's priestess had healed that too. He sat up slowly, and only then realized he had no pants on under his coverlet. The loincloth wrap he normally wore as an undergarment lay draped over the end of the bed. He glanced around, shrugged, and got up to dress. Nobody paid him much mind. To see a naked person of either sex getting dressed in here was not so unusual. Usually only the very youngest were shy.
His things were mostly dry. Apparently he had slept longer than he realized. He armored up, put on his baldric and boots, and went up to see if there was food. No one was in the dining hall., a long, narrow upstairs room with a couple of big wooden tables with benches and many cupboards lining the walls. By the condition of the light, it was probably already after lunch-time. He ended up eating two potatoes, a chunk of salt pork, two oranges and a half-loaf of bread. He drank water and not mead. He had not touched alcohol in some years except where the water was really bad and small beer was the only option. Vampires would pounce on any slightest sign of weakness or distraction.
He had better go and check on Zudarra. If she hadn't found some poor fool to feed on during the night he would have to do something about that, too. He looked forward to that possibility with a dull, leaden feeling in his gut, but it was his responsibility, no one else's. Saraven set out for Lavinia's house in the sun of the early afternoon. Some of the bodies were already gone, all of those that were human or mer or beast-folk. A few children were even out, prodding at dead daedra with sticks, shrieking and running back into their houses as their parents worked at getting things back in order.
Zudarra got back to picking up the house when Saraven had left, glad to have him and his damnable scent away. It was torture to smell what she couldn't have when she was already hungry. Lavinia kept insisting that Zudarra go upstairs to bed. Zudarra knew her mother couldn't see well enough to avoid the broken glass and ceramic all over the floor, so she finished cleaning while giving her mother a brief summary of what they had done inside the Deadlands.
When that was done she let her mother help her out of her armor and went upstairs for a well-needed bath. She still had blood encrusted on her face and neck, with only a neat little circle of clean white fur in the area where it had been burned away and regrown. The bathroom was uncomfortably tiny and it was impossible for Zudarra to completely submerge her body in the little claw-foot tub, but at least the warm water she poured over herself was pleasant. She watched the water turn a frothy gray-red as she scrubbed her fur with soap and rinsed it away with a cup.
Her mother had left old clothes neatly folded at the bathroom door. Zudarra's lips stretched back in the faintest hint of a smile as she picked them up. The old scent of a mortal Khajiit still clung to the clean linen, a high-collared, long sleeved shirt and tan trousers. The shirt was a faded dull gray-blue, but the remembered when it had been vibrant.
The linen stretched across her broad muscles, just tight enough to be uncomfortable sleep clothes without being too ridiculous. Zudarra had always been muscular, but more so since becoming a vampire. Her extra change of armor padding would probably have been better to sleep in, but Lavinia meant well and Zudarra wasn't sure she'd be sleeping that night in any case.
She came downstairs to see her mother had made a bed on the cushioned bench and was fast asleep, scrunched up uncomfortably in the little space. Hiding in the cellar for hours, listening to screams and wondering if Zudarra was dead had to have been mentally exhausting for her.
There was only one bedroom upstairs. It had once housed two beds, but Zudarra had insisted on getting rid of hers when she moved out, to give Lavinia more space. Zudarra gingerly scooped up her mother, quilt and all, and slowly edged her way upstairs. She had to turn sideways going up, back pressed against the wall. It was a wonder Lavinia slept through it, but she did, and Zudarra laid the Imperial woman down gently on top of the coverlet and arranged the quilt to cover her legs. Then she turned downstairs and quietly closed the front door behind herself, stepping into the cool Anvil night. The bottom hinges on the door had been ripped from the wall. Zudarra had brought enough gold to pay for repairs, although she had a feeling it would take awhile to find someone to do it.
The streets were mostly quiet. Zudarra bumped into guards a few times, and from them she learned that all survivors were being sent to the castle while the Anvil guard and volunteers swept the city for remaining daedra. Every alley and side street was utterly deserted save for the guards who always traveled in groups.
There was nothing for her here. She might make her way to the castle to feed, but the chances of finding a person alone? Not likely. Zudarra gave up after a few hours of fruitless hunting and returned home. She didn't need to feed, but it would have been nice. She wasn't used to going without for any stretch of time thanks to her thrall, and the burns she'd suffered had taken so much out of her.
She plopped down tiredly on the downstairs bench. She was far too tall to lay down on it, but she could lean back and maybe doze till morning. Sleep was always shallow and dreamless for her. It felt good to be still and warm and silent, but it wasn't restful the way sleep was to a mortal. Zudarra tried to turn off her brain, but her thoughts kept returning to Coldharbour and other things she did not want to face.
It was almost a relief when the sting of the sunrise fell across her nose. She jerked awake, glaring at the peach-and-purple sky outside the broken window. It wouldn't kill her, Zudarra knew, but it was an uncomfortable prickle like needles stabbing all over her skin that wouldn't let her rest. She retreated to the upstairs hallway and sat at the top of the steps, eyeing the sliver of light that fell across the ground from the broken door.
Lavinia got up about an hour later, and Zudarra ignored her protests at having been given the bed, but she gladly took a turn in it for a nap while Lavinia washed her clothes. She laid with the blankets hunched up over her head, wondering what she was going to do about this predicament, when Lavinia yelled up the stairs that Zudarra should come down for lunch. She groaned and rolled out of bed, the sun from the upstairs windows already stinging her.
The Khajiit's face was haggard and weary as she trudged downstairs, shoulders slumped and tail tip jittering in the stinging light. She winced at the brightness in the downstairs room, ears flattening against her skull for the little protection that offered them. Lavinia had a big pot of porridge stirring over a small fire in the hearth.
"I'm not hungry, Ma. I had a big breakfast while you were asleep," she said.
"Well that's nonsense," Lavinia said, just as a knock sounded on the door. Zudarra was closest, but the idea of pulling open the door and being hit with the full brunt of the sun made her stomach clench.
"Who is it?" she barked, leaning out into the entry hall.
"It's Saraven Gol," said a voice from outside the door.
Zudarra groaned and stalked over to yank open the door, quickly retreating back into the other room without looking at him. Now, in addition to sitting in the burning sun, she'd have to burn while wallowing in his intoxicating scent. It was torture, pure torture.
She slumped down on the bench across from the hearth, shoulders hunched up for the little good it did to cover her neck. Lavinia stood, smiling widely at the Dunmer as he entered with her hands clasped in front of her chest.
"Welcome back, Mr. Gol. You got all patched up at the chapel, then? Zudarra told me everything. I'm so proud of both of you. Lots of people in Anvil owe their lives to the two of you."
The room had been picked up since last night, a wooden bin full of broken bits pushed against the wall by the kitchen table, and Zudarra's armor was all laid out up against the wall. The Khajiit looked over sullenly at him from the bench, tail tucked beneath the cushions.
"Yes, Ma'am. Thank you, Ma'am." Saraven bowed. "In strict justice, that was mostly Zudarra. She is a terrifying warrior." Saraven looked strong and alert, armor and padding free of stains, the bags under his eyes almost gone; they had never been completely gone since he was a young man. He shut the door behind him as he looked around the room. The Cathay-raht looked miserable. If he was any judge she had neither slept nor fed. Saraven's shoulders heaved in a soundless sigh as he looked at her. The lines around his eyes deepened for a moment. It was seldom that he had felt pity for a vampire, and never that he had felt it for Zudarra. At least it called up no invading memories. There was nothing for it to trigger.
"I wonder if I might borrow your upstairs so that Zudarra can have a look at the buckle on my right greave, Ma'am," he said. "I think it may be warped, but I can't quite get a nail under the rim. A Khajiit's claws would be of some service, and if you'll excuse my mentioning it, I should hate to suddenly lose my trousers here in the kitchen if something should go amiss."
The two women stared at him for a moment, Zudarra's eyebrow shooting up incredulously and Lavinia tightly pressing her lips together to suppress a smile. She quickly glanced from the Dunmer to her daughter with a knowing twinkle in her cloudy eyes.
"Go on ahead," Lavinia said, nodding and waving a hand up towards the stairs. She turned around and went back to stirring her porridge. Zudarra stood stiffly, wondering what this was about. Maybe he really did need her help, but more likely Saraven had something to tell her in private.
Saraven preserved a solemn face under scrutiny, not twitching a muscle. He went upstairs and slid into the bedroom, glancing around at the gentle clutter of a comfortable life. It was a strange feeling, twanging bits of him that were long buried and that he had thought dead. He avoided spaces like this. He lived a life in Guilds, in caves, in camps and inns, unconstructed or anonymous and impersonal.
She followed him to the upstairs bedroom, which opened up on their left. The bed was a single, a window over the headboard bathing the room in bright noon light. The covers were a rumpled mess, thrown to one side when Zudarra got up. Toward the front of the house was the closed bathroom door. This room was less cluttered than downstairs, with only one side table by the bed and an armoire against wall opposite the doorway. Her knees gave her trouble, so Lavinia only came upstairs when she had to. All of the furniture was in good condition for its age, blue paint just beginning to flake off from some of it.
"Do you really have a warped buckle?" Zudarra asked skeptically, leaning against the wall by the doorway to avoid the light from the window as much as possible.
He turned to look at her for a moment. Zudarra chose the one place in the room that was out of direct sunlight. Then he unbuckled his baldric and hung it over the doorknob as he pushed the door shut.
"No, and I apologize for that. How much restraint are you able to master right now? I don't want to upset your mother, but you obviously haven't fed."
The Khajiit's face scrunched in confusion, narrowing her eyes at him.
"I am as fully in control of myself as you are," she said sharply, an obvious lie. It took considerable self restraint not to pounce on him the moment she knew he was offering himself freely, but Zudarra would rather die than appear needy in front of Saraven. "And why should you care? You don't owe me anything. The city is safe now." A sly little smile broke across her face then, and she crossed her arms over her chest as she considered him. "Could it be that you... enjoyed my feeding the other night? I told you it could be pleasurable, if you let it."
"No, you're not, I can't trust you for five minutes if I pass out," he said bluntly. There were areas where she would lie automatically and with conviction, he was discovering, even if circumstances made her obvious. "And no, I didn't. It hurt. It'll always hurt. Without your mind control it's just like any other injury." He moved to sit on the edge of the bed, the cords of his neck tense, shoulders bent. "Come on, Zudarra."
You didn't protest too much at the time, she thought. She wanted to argue, to force him to answer: why? But if she did that, Saraven might change his mind and leave, and Zudarra wanted to drink very badly.
Zudarra moved slowly, awkwardly, to sit on his left side. That stinging sunlight was on her hands and the side of her face again, needles driving into her skin. She wanted to hurry up and drink, but what was she supposed to do with her hands? Should she say something before starting? Zudarra had never fed from a consenting person before. This wasn't a situation that came up in the etiquette guides.
Vandalion loved her so; if only she told him what she was and asked for his blood, he might have said yes. But it never occurred to Zudarra that she should ask for what she took. If Saraven had been anyone else sleeping beside her that night, who did not smell as he smelled, she still would have fed.
"Give me your arm," she said, more gently than usual. Being fed on from the neck would probably make him feel more vulnerable. "You can whap me across the nose if you think I'm taking too much - but I won't."
He pushed back his sleeve and the sleeve of his mail shirt. The vessels throbbed quite close to the gray surface of his wrist and forearm. She could hear his heart beating slightly faster as he offered her his arm. He did not care how it happened. Either way he was doing something that he had considered anathema, abomination, as little as a month ago. Either way he was feeding a vampire from his own veins.
Better me than some unwary soul who's done no wrong. I can't kill her. I chose to heal her. The responsibility is mine.
"Well, we'll see," he said.
She leaned forward, grasping his arm in her hand to steady it as her fangs sank into the softer flesh of his arm's underside, nose nearly against his fresh, clean skin. She had never fed this way before, but she could feel the throb of his artery and knew just where to bite. Zudarra was certain that she could do with just a little bit and then stop, but when the hot blood flooded over her tongue she found herself lost in the pleasure.
Every hot gulp was divine, every drop of blood inflamed her desire even more. Her hand clenched on his arm, half-unsheathed claws poking his skin as she instinctively held her prey.
Saraven tried to relax as he felt fangs puncture his skin, but it ran contrary to thirty years of entrenched reflexes and instincts. Without exhaustion, without despair, he had to fight himself not to jerk away. His body was so taut that it hurt him. She held on with her claws half-out, and he knew she couldn't help it, was not fully in control.
Even from the smaller vessels it did not take long before he began to feel dizzy. He did not protest. She would not hear him, and his strength would hardly be sufficient to pry her loose. So he waited, free hand supporting himself on the rumpled coverlet. He exhaled as he realized he was holding his breath. Everything started to relax as the world became fuzzy around the edges.
You have to stop, you have to show control! Zudarra's mind screamed at her.
Just a little more, just a drop more, the other half argued. She yanked her mouth away, growling at herself, still with an iron grip on his arm. Her nostrils flared as she looked at Saraven with wild, dilated eyes. She had stopped, but she was so thirsty still. The sunlight no longer bore into her back, her mind was fully awake as if rested and fed, but still it wasn't enough.
It would never be enough. She hated this thirst. For a short moment as the feral gaze faded from Zudarra's face and her mask of civility returned, Zudarra hated what she was. Of course she didn't like relying on others to keep herself alive! Of course she didn't like being reduced to a snarling animal! If she had known what this thirst was like... If only someone had warned her...
She released his arm with a start, realizing how tightly she held it, and quickly leaned back away from him. She raised her other hand to heal him and the thick punctures faded quickly under the short burst of blue light. It was everything she could do not surge forward and lick at the drops that rolled down his arm.
He couldn't hold the tension in his muscles by the time she let go. The small pain from the punctures faded as she healed him. The weak, floating feeling of blood loss only partly dissipated.
"You did let go," he said distantly. "I give you that. Most vampires can't at your age."
He looked paler; weary. Did she really take so much? Surely it couldn't have been, as thirsty as Zudarra still felt.
The ache was fading slightly as the blood settled in her belly, the pleasure of drinking forgotten. Every single time she would discover it anew. The sensation was so intense that she couldn't fully grasp the memory when she wasn't feeding.
As relieved as she now felt to finally be free of the sun's horrible glare, Zudarra hated to be beholden to Saraven. She hated having to restrain herself. It was such an uncomfortable feeling, to receive help from another. An inferior. Zudarra would have to find another slave soon; she couldn't go on like this forever.
Why not him? she suddenly wondered. That had been her plan all along. Was she really afraid of Molag Bal's threat? Yes, she realized. If Saraven were a thrall, he couldn't think for himself. He might be able to fight, but not very effectively with her draining his blood on a daily basis. She had to choose someone useless.
"I still don't understand why you did this," she said. "We're no longer of use to each other." Even as she said it, cold dread clutched at Zudarra's heart. What fate awaited her if she didn't work at stopping whatever Dagon was trying to do?
"I asked you to get the sigil stone," he said. "You did it even though it hurt you badly." He stood up, slowly so that he might not fall down again, and moved to take up his baldric. He felt giddy for a second, forced to pause and lean on the door frame as he regained his equilibrium, but it came back readily enough. "That has value. And it should be me rather than some poor soul whose family needs them. If it all went wrong – well, no one would look for me."
He was disclosing more than he ought again. But where was the harm? He asked himself through the fog. She could guess from what he had already said that he had no one. He shut his lips and moved out into the hallway, headed for the stairs.
He would have to budget at least another day in Anvil before he moved on to look for the next gate. That was bad, lives might be lost; but he would not make it to Chorrol or Skingrad if he tried to ride out like this. Worse things than Zudarra might find him lying in the road if he fell off his horse again. Assuming he still had a horse. He could not call to mind clearly whether the stables had still been standing or not.
Zudarra watched him leaning weakly against the door, again facing little trickles of emotion she'd rather not acknowledge. What was it like for him, to willingly feed one of the monsters who had killed his entire family?
"I don't kill the people I feed from," she replied hotly, irritated by his insinuation that she was such an awful beast. She had killed them accidentally, this was true; but Saraven didn't know that. He was judging her unfairly. For some reason she didn't quite understand, Zudarra needed Saraven to see her as something different from the one who had ruined his life.
There was more she wanted to say, but then he was out the door and she couldn't risk her mother hearing. Zudarra followed him down the steps, this time with alert eyes and perked ears, although her tail still flicked in mild annoyance. She didn't understand the Dunmer at all. She didn't understand herself.
He did not even attempt to argue with her. He knew that it probably was true sometimes. Maybe even most of the time. She had obviously managed not to kill Vandalion through enough feedings to turn him into a complete idiot, and she had chosen not to take his life even when he was completely helpless.
But never? No. Every vampire would kill in their first two or three feedings. It made them easier to track. After that they might become subtler, but at some point it would happen again. The idea that there might be vampires who did not kill in their first feedings and were therefore impossible to find did not even occur to him. If it had, he would have rejected it out of hand.
"Did you get your buckle all sorted out, Mr. Gol?" Lavinia asked cheerfully when she heard their footsteps. She was sitting at the table, scraping out the last spoonful of her porridge. "And have you eaten?"
"Yes, Ma'am, it's all fixed," he said. "Thank you, but I've eaten. I'd better be getting back to the Guild. There will be a lot to do in these next couple of days." He still needed to get to the Waterfront and see if he could get Morvayn's silver. Assuming the ship had not been burned. Assuming Morvayn was still alive. And none of that was going to happen today. Today he was going to drink water and lie flat. He had earned a rest, he told himself desperately. He couldn't ride out again today. Could not.
"Oh, all right. Take care of yourself. You're welcome back here any time, you know," Lavinia said. She stood, bowed deeply to the Dunmer, and watched as Zudarra showed him out.
Off to get your gorget, to protect from the likes of me and my kind, Zudarra thought, following Saraven to the door and standing in the annoyingly bright light as he walked down the short stoop. Even well fed, she always felt a bit weary during a sunny day, as if her body knew she ought to be resting. It was another annoyance Zudarra wished she had been better informed about before letting herself turn.
But her vampiric abilities had proven useful in the arena, quickly granting her local fame and lots of gold to send back to her mother. She probably owed her survival in the Deadlands to those powers as well. She had no regrets, Zudarra firmly reminded herself.
"See you around, Saraven," was all she said, even though she wasn't so sure of that, and turned to go inside.
Saraven bowed to Lavinia and raised a hand to Zudarra in farewell. He felt drained of words on top of the rest of it. He moved slowly, careful of his balance. The sun was warm and pleasant as he walked streets that were still nearly empty. Occasionally his boot crunched on broken glass. He cured himself as soon as he was out of sight of the house, just in case. The last thing he needed was to contract porphyric hemophilia.
The daedric carcasses were gone now, gradually evaporated as the souls they had contained fled back through the waters of Oblivion. They had left strange stains and silhouettes behind: the outline of an arm, a tail, a toothy muzzle. It only made all of it more surreal as he walked on through a world gone soft and vague. His head ached a little. That was probably a bad sign.
And you don't even know that it was enough for her. She's larger than most Khajiit. He would not be able to do it again for days, and she would be hungry again before that. She was hungry often, or she would not have been hauling Vandalion around with her on his own horse, with his own gear. Of course, he did not know if the Altmer had been enough, either, or how long she normally kept a thrall. Was it until they died? Or did she let them turn, loose another bottomless thirst on the world?
He was leaning against the front of a building without being entirely sure how he had come there. Saraven looked around. The black-on-red banner of the Fighters Guild hung from the high stone front. As he looked at it the door opened and a Nord came out, a big blond woman with a steel greataxe strapped to the back of her iron cuirass.
"Are you lost?" she asked him.
"No, I'm a member," he said, and blundered his way past her into the darker interior. There were a couple of people in the practice room, working on repairing their armor. One was a Redguard in light leather armor and one looked to be an Imperial, with the sturdy form and brown hair and beaky nose characteristic of that race. The hammers made a hard, regular sound that echoed around the stone walls. Three more people were asleep in the beds, including an Altmer with a little golden goatee who seemed vaguely familiar, but the bunk he had used yesterday was still free. He hauled off his boots, undid his baldric and shrugged out of his mithral chain shirt to drop it into the chest at the end of the bed. He lay down in his padding, facing into the room with the sword resting on his palm, fingers curled loosely around the hilt.
For a long time he drifted in and out of sleep. He was not sure how long. He was ultimately awakened by a weight settling onto the bed beside him. His eyes flew open as his hand closed around the hilt of the sword, other hand reaching out to brace the scabbard.
The Altmer with the blond goatee sat on the edge of the bed. He had short blond hair as well, nearly the same color as his golden skin, and his eyes were almost orange. He was out of armor completely, wearing a loose linen shirt and trousers. Now he raised a placating hand.
"Easy, old fellow. Are you all right?"
Saraven squinted at him, dredging up a name. "Arallon," he said. "Bruma? Six years?"
"That's right. And what an afternoon that was." He grinned. "I haven't seen Clara since then, mind, have you?"
"Once, in the Imperial City," Saraven said. He rolled onto his back and set up, then paused to lean on his hands while he waited for the head rush to clear. "I'm not up for fun and games today."
"I should say not. You're looking a bit ghostly, if you'll excuse my mentioning it." He tilted his head, looking the other mer over. "I hope you got the vampire in the end? Are you still hunting?"
Saraven grunted noncommittally. "Other work to do now."
"Oh yes, I did hear that you were there at the gate. You and Zudarra the Bloody – is that really what she's called?"
"Yep. Used to fight in the Arena."
"So she's not a guildmate," Arallon said. There was a questioning air to his tone.
Saraven shrugged. "I've never asked."
"How'd you ever meet?"
"You're asking a lot of questions, Arallon." He swung his legs over the side of the bed, reaching for his boots. The Altmer stood up sinuously to give him space.
"Well, I admit to curiosity. She seems like such a... dramatic figure."
Saraven snorted. "She's a one-Khajiit army. We were both captured in Kvatch, woke up in cages in a dremora fortress next to each other. We fought our way out, closed the gate more or less by accident, and then we came down here so she could see her mother and it just..." He shrugged again. "I don't imagine we'll see one another again."
"Mm. What are you doing the rest of today?"
"Like I said, not fun and games." He got up to get his chain shirt. "Just an errand for a smith."
"Is there anything you need?" the Altmer asked. "Food, water, a new spell?"
The mention of food produced an embarrassing growl from his stomach. Saraven tugged the chain shirt into place over his head and turned to eye the Altmer. There was a good six inches' difference in their heights. "What's this about, really? We only met the one time." He remembered that afternoon with enjoyment, but he had not expected to really see the Altmer again.
"I don't think you realize how important this is," Arallon said, gesturing with one long-fingered hand. "So far the only people to go into a gate to the Deadlands and close it are you, Zudarra the Bloody, and that Argonian from Kvatch – Got-No-Home, I think they call him. And you're here in the Guild looking like death warmed over. That's not right, my friend."
"I don't need recognition. I can get food upstairs. If you really want to help me, I could use a lightning spell, though. Fireball doesn't do much to dremora." He buckled on his baldric as he spoke.
"Shouldn't think so," Arallon agreed. "I could lend you the book I got mine from. You'll probably pick it up fast enough. Is that really all you want?"
Saraven nodded. "I'd be obliged to you."
"Very well. I'll get it."
Arallon brought him the book and left him with it as he trudged upstairs to find lunch. He read as he ate. It would take some work to pick up a spell this way, but at least it cost him nothing. After he had eaten and drunk he started the long walk out to the Waterfront. The ship was there all right, its crew rattled enough that they gave him exactly what he asked for, and it proved to be a dull, sweaty, but entirely successful trip back to Morvayn's Peacemakers hauling the cask of silver on one shoulder.
Morvayn was still standing. He had even gotten nearly everything back onto the shelves. He turned from putting a steel helmet back into its assigned place when he heard the broken door pushed aside.
"Glad to see you made it," he said. "I was wondering if I'd see you today."
"You too. Here." Saraven set the cask on the counter with a solid chunk. "I expect you haven't gotten to the gorget yet, with everything that's happened?"
"On the contrary. There's been no other business today, what with nearly everyone still holed up in the Castle or out on the Waterfront. My apprentice is still out there, in fact." He rummaged under the counter and came up with the gorget and bracers. "They'll be a bit stiff until they're broken in, mind."
"Thank you." Morvayn watched him lace himself into the leather pieces.
"I heard your friend closed the gate to Oblivion," he said.
"Don't know that we're friends, but yes, she did."
"Maybe you should find someone else to feed her," Morvayn said, switching to Dunmeris even though there was no one else in hearing.
"All right, all right," Saraven said. "But I don't expect I'll see her again in any case." He tightened the neck-laces and tucked them into the top of the gorget. "Thank you for this."
"Good luck, Serjo Gol."
"Serjo Morvayn," Saraven said, and bowed.
He washed up behind the Guild and spent the evening resting and studying. By the time the sun went down he thought he had a decent grasp on the concepts of the lightning spell, so he went out back to practice. It took another two hours to actually succeed in casting it, and by then he was starting to feel dizzy again. He gave the book back to Arallon, thanked him, and went to bed.