I

Winterhold

"Cross the bridge at your own peril!"

Faralda's voice cut through the snowstorm battering Winterhold like the crack of a whip. The woman before her stepped back a few paces as if she had been stung.

Immediately, the Altmer sorceress wondered if maybe she had spoken a little too sharply. Tonight's storm made speaking at a more reasonable tone difficult, however, and as much as Faralda knew the College of Winterhold could use more students right now, it wouldn't do to take just anyone in—they needed the best.

However, she thought, how fortunate it was to see yet another prospective scholar on the College's doorstep—the third one in two days, if she recalled correctly. One had arrived this morning, and had cast an excellent firebolt spell at Faralda's insistence.

And so, she continued on with the speech she felt like she'd given thousands of times. "The way is dangerous, and the gate will not open. You shall not gain entry!"

She studied the woman before her. Her skin was grayish, almost blue from the wind and cold: a dark elf. The hood over her head allowed only a faint glimpse of the blood-red eyes of the Dunmer. Very red indeed, Faralda thought; like freshly picked apples in season.

"Who are you?" the Dunmer asked. She sounded raspy, a little out of breath, and the way she was nursing her right arm led Faralda to suspect this might not be due to the cold. Sure enough, as she looked to the entrance of the town, she saw one of the town guards hunched over several bodies. A flicker of irritation moved across her brow. Damned bandits.

"I am here to assist those seeking the wisdom of the College," she explained to the Dunmer, lowering her voice a little, but compensating with a slightly more no-nonsense tone. "And if, in the process, my presence helps to deter those who might seek to do harm, so be it."

The Dunmer said nothing. Confident now that this was indeed a hopeful student, and not just another foolhardy bandit, Faralda pressed on. "But the more important question is: why are you here?"

She waited a few seconds before the Dunmer responded. "I want to unravel the mysteries of Aetherius," said the elf.

Faralda nodded in appreciation, though she couldn't help but wryly smirk to herself. If I had a septim for every time I heard that … "The immortal plane," she said, her voice considerably warmer now. "It is said to be the source of all magic. This is a noble goal indeed.

"It would seem the College has what you seek," Faralda continued. "The question now is what you can offer the College. Not just anyone is allowed inside. Those wishing to enter must show some degree of skill with magic. A small test, if you will."

It was another few seconds before the Dunmer spoke. "All right. I'll take your test," she said. She sounded a little more confident now.

Faralda smiled; already she had the perfect test lined up for this one. Dark elves were naturals at fire magic; another firebolt would be too easy for this one. Perhaps … yes.

"Those invested in restoration magic find Healing Hands to be essential," she finally said. "Can you cast it on me? That would prove your skill."

The Dunmer considered this for a moment, and then wordlessly raised her good hand in the Altmer's direction. For a second, a bright light began to dance across the dark elf's gray fingers. One second later, that light was being fired in a gentle beam towards Faralda, its rays enveloping her, warming her freezing body as if she'd just stepped inside the Frozen Hearth Inn.

Then, as quickly as it had started, the Dunmer's hand had lowered, and the blizzard was blowing again. But the warmth still persisted, much to Faralda's relief. Much better.

She did her best to contain a sigh of contentment. "Well done, indeed," she said to the Dunmer. "I think you'll make a superb addition to the College."

The high elf reached out to shake her hand. "Welcome, apprentice."

She regretted the action right as the Dunmer returned the gesture—her hand was cold, almost frostbitten, even! Had she been traveling through this cursed snowstorm in nothing but a simple robe and boots?

"I'll lead you across the bridge," she said, feeling her maternal instinct kick in. This woman needed to get inside, and fast. "Once you're inside, speak with Tolfdir in the Hall of the Elements. The large door, right down the middle of the courtyard. Tolfdir's our Master Wizard; he'll get a bed set up for you in no t—"

She broke off suddenly, her eyes fixated on something in the distance, bounding over the freezing bodies on the outskirts of Winterhold. Within moments, it had arrived at the entrance to the College, barely feet away from her. She knew immediately what it was now that it was this close.

Conjuring a familiar was not a spell Faralda tested on potential students; even a novice could do that. But somehow, she suspected that this spellwork was much more intricate than a simple conjuration. This familiar looked much more lifelike, and Faralda would have it for the genuine article if it didn't look so … well, ghostly. But what really drew her attention wasn't the familiar itself.

What in Oblivion?

As Faralda looked on in confusion, the wolf was dispelled with a yelp of pain and a burst of purple magic. The thing it had been holding in its mouth dropped to the snow, and Faralda was only just able to catch it by the tips of her fingers before the wind blew it away.

It was some kind of scroll, she noticed. The whole thing was shimmering a metallic green color, similar to an armor spell. Stoneflesh, she deduced, as she poked a finger experimentally at the scroll—the layer of magicka protecting it from the elements was of roughly the same density as that particular spell.

A trained familiar, and a magically sealed scroll …

Faralda frowned. This was apprentice-level magic, surely. But the inventive way it had been used indicated someone with quite a bit more skill than that.

She looked behind her shoulder; the Dunmer had apparently tired of being delayed, and was now passing over the narrow bridge—the only link between the College and the outside world—spanning the chasm that had opened below in the wake of the Great Collapse, and taken much of the old Winterhold with it.

Her mind made up, Faralda hurried in her wake, coming narrowly close to bowling the Dunmer over the edge in her haste as she made for the Hall of the Elements, only sparing enough time to gasp out a brief apology.

Whatever this scroll was, it was obviously important.

And somehow, Faralda knew it could only be for one person.

Eventually, the Dunmer finally arrived within the College's main hall, and no sooner had the great door banged shut than she had started shaking all the snow out from her clothes. The precipitation collected in puddles on the floor.

If she was honest, it wasn't much warmer in here than it was out there. There were few torches, if any; instead, magical spheres of white light were suspended a few inches above their sconces. A mass of blue energy swirled from a well in the room beyond: an impressive stone chamber, completely round, and blocked off by a metal gate almost as large as the door she'd just passed through.

As she pushed this open, too, she saw she was not alone; there were four figures in the chamber, three of whom were clustered together. Of this group, two had their backs turned to her; she judged them to be students, from the tan robes and hoods they wore. A third, however, was in plain sight—an old Nord in a grayish-purple robe, with a satchel slung over one shoulder. This must be the lecture hall, she surmised.

Which means that old man must be Tolfdir. She decided to stay back near the steps for a bit, as he appeared to be in the middle of a lesson. Maybe it would give her clothes a little more time to dry off.

But Tolfdir chose that moment to look up and notice the new arrival. "Ah, welcome, welcome!" he said genially. He had a demeanor about him that felt highly infectious, and warmer than any hearth an inn could hope to have. The Dunmer couldn't help but smile back despite her surprise.

"We were just about to begin," Toldfir said, inviting her over. "Please, stay and listen."

The dark elf shrugged. Might as well. Slowly, she rose up from the steps and strode to the rest of the group.

"So, as I was saying," Tolfdir said as he returned to his lecture, "the first thing you must understand is that magic is, by its very nature, volatile and dangerous. Unless you can control it, it can and will destroy you."

"I tried to cast a firebolt when I was little," related the student to the right of the Dunmer, a rather short, fiery-haired girl. Her round, pale face and beady little eyes, made more so by the dark orange tattoos that seemed to spill from her eyes and mouth, told the elf that this was a Breton—one of the half-elves native to High Rock, west of Skyrim. "It worked a little too well—scarred my hand pretty badly."

She held up her left hand, and the Dunmer could see a nasty, reddish-brown splotch running from palm to wrist. She caught a faint whiff of something acrid as well—like burnt juniper—and fought the urge to sneeze.

"My point exactly, Miss Ionsaithe," said Tolfdir. "You all possess inherent magical abilities, to be sure. But what I'm talking about is true control—mastery of magic. It takes years, if not decades, to practice and study it."

The Dunmer couldn't resist a little snort. She knew a thing or two about mastery of magic, if earlier today was any indication. Her right arm gave a twinge where it had been wounded, and instinctively she clutched it tightly.

Tolfdir paused at the interruption, looking at the Dunmer with a concerned expression. "Is something the matter, my dear?"

The dark elf looked up. "Nothing's the matter," she said a little too forcefully. "Just … I just got a bit of a scrape on the way over. That's all."

Tolfdir inspected it, humming to himself. "Oh, dear," he said gently. "Just hold still, and—"

His hand briefly lit up, and touched the wound on her arm. Before she could even think to cry out, the rather large cut had resealed itself, and much of the feeling had been restored to her hand.

"Ah. Much better, yes, Miss—?" Tolfdir stepped back, smiling warmly at her, until he apparently remembered that he had not yet asked for her name.

"Malys," she replied automatically. "Malys Aryon, House Hlaalu."

"Pleasure to meet you, my dear," Tolfdir said graciously, extending his hand. Malys waved it away, trying to be polite. She wasn't all the way warm yet, and Tolfdir's healing magic hadn't gotten rid of the aching feeling completely. Thankfully, the elderly wizard seemed to understand.

"So … why are we just standing around?" asked Malys, feeling a little bolder now. "Aren't we generally supposed to learn something at a College?"

The other student glared at her; this one was unmistakably a high elf, Malys could see. Altmer were a full head taller than most other men or mer in Tamriel—and ten times as haughty, so said their enemies. But in spite of this elf's apparent dislike, Malys caught something else mixed in: a constant sense of paranoia, like the Altmer was going to blow up like a badly drawn rune every time she turned a corner. More apparent than that, however, was the way she smelled—it was a dry, cloying odor, like a very bad thunderstorm.

Tolfdir chuckled. "Quite right, quite right," he said. "But this is exactly what I'm talking about, Miss Aryon. I say this to every student who wishes to master the arcane arts: eagerness must be tempered with caution, or else disaster is inevitable."

Malys privately admitted that between the Breton and the Altmer, there certainly appeared to be enough of both for one person. "As cliché as it sounds, you never know until you try," she said, sparing herself a roll of the eyes at the suggestion. Her father had been full of those old sayings, she recalled fondly.

Tolfdir considered this. "Hmm. Well, I suppose you're right," he admitted. "I usually teach the more practical lessons later on, but something tells me you all can handle it. However, I still place a priority on safety, so on that note, we'll be starting off with wards today."

Malys knew what wards were. Generally, they were protective spells that could block just about everything possible. The most complex could take dozens of people to perform over a very long time, but could seal anything from a door to an entire tomb. The wards she assumed Tolfdir was talking about, however, were mainly used to block most magical attacks.

Tolfdir turned to the Altmer. "You've been quiet so far," he noted. "Would you mind helping me with the demonstration, Miss—?"

" … Vinye," the high elf said, after a rather long, awkward silence, and she slowly stepped forward.

"Are you at all familiar with ward spells, my dear?" Tolfdir asked kindly.

The elf reluctantly nodded. "A little," she said. Malys wasn't surprised; this Vinye seemed more likely to be the fire-and-flee type than any kind of battlemage. Not that this automatically labeled her as a coward; Malys was merely of the opinion that natural surroundings like rocks and trees often offered the best type of protection—a sentiment the elf seemed to share.

"That's all right," soothed Tolfdir. "That's one reason why I'm giving this lesson. Now, if you could just stand right over there"—he indicated the seal before them, a five-pointed star with an eye in the center—"then I'll cast a spell at you, and you'll block it with your ward."

Vinye obeyed, planting her feet firmly on the eye of the seal. She took a few deep breaths, altered her stance slightly, and spread out her palms before her. What looked like a translucent silver flame sprouted from her left hand; Vinye reached out with this flame towards Tolfdir …

Meanwhile …

Two floors above the Hall of the Elements, Faralda paced the stone floor with a manic energy, while a stocky man in ornately woven robes studied the scroll she had just given to him.

"'The city of Rkund,'" the man quoted from the letter. His thick Nordic brogue rolled over the unfamiliar name with some difficulty. "I wasn't aware the dwarves had built a city that close to Riften. I've heard there were ruins, yes, but nothing to suggest a full-scale settlement."

"You think the letter's a fake?" Faralda asked. "There wasn't any name, either—if I'm honest, I've got a very bad feeling about this."

The Arch-Mage of Winterhold shook his head. "It took me a full thirty seconds to break the seal on this scroll," he said. "Whoever sent this is definitely telling the truth, or else he wouldn't go to such lengths to keep his message a secret."

"Still," Faralda said, "Riften's a long way from here. Who's to say whoever sent this doesn't just want you out in the open?"

"Who, me?" the man laughed. "Arch-Mage Grimnir Torn-Skull?"

Faralda didn't smile back. "Maybe I wasn't talking about the Arch-Mage."

Though she couldn't see Grimnir's face, the Altmer didn't have to imagine the shadow falling across it.

But it was there for only a second. "Why don't you speak with Tolfdir?" Grimnir offered. "He may be getting on in years, but I think he'd still jump at the chance for another field trip."

Faralda started. "You're not suggesting—!" She closed her mouth suddenly, and chewed her tongue. Then, a little more quietly, "With respect, Arch-Mage, how do you know this isn't going to turn out to be another Saarthal? Don't you remember what we found in there? Don't you remember what it led to?!"

"Of course I do." The Nord's voice was as cold as the blizzard outside. "And I have faith that nothing of the sort will happen again. Faith in the College, and faith in you."

There was a long pause.

Faralda sighed in resignation. "Then send J'zargo, too. He may be an acting master instructor, and he may be a Khajiit, but he's still a damn good mage. If there really is a Dwemer city out there, Divines know that might be all the incentive he'll need to come along. And with all the practicing he does in the Hall downstairs, I think he'd appreciate a chance to get outdoors for a change, put his skills to use."

Grimnir considered this for a time. "J'zargo is an expert in destruction magic," he conceded. "I remember the first time he asked me if I'd mastered those spells. I knew then and there it was only a matter of time before he'd be doing them himself. Once a Khajiit sniffs an opportunity, he'll go as far as he can to get it."

He stood up from his chair. "The matter is settled, then—we'll explore this 'city of Rkund.' I'll stay behind and wait for your findings. Inform Tolfdir and J'zargo—tell them to be ready to leave at dawn."

Faralda nodded. "Of course, sir." That could have gone better, she admitted, but the Arch-Mage had proved to be fair, just, and above all confident in his tenure thus far. She had little choice but to see his decision through.

Nords and their adventures, she thought as she descended the staircase to the lecture hall.

"There we are," Tolfdir encouraged her, as the flame in Vinye's palm slowly blossomed into a clear, liquid shield. "Keep it up … "

And then suddenly he moved faster than any mage Malys had ever seen, his right hand a near-total blur. The Dunmer wondered if this was some underhanded trick, to goad his pupils into overreacting. And for a moment—just before blinding sparks of magical energy blasted forth from Tolfdir's outstretched fingers—Malys thought she might be right; the ward suddenly brightened as Vinye let out a startled gasp, and it came very close to destabilizing then and there.

But it was clear this was just a practice spell Tolfdir was using, nowhere near as destructive as what a mage could be capable of; the sparks were also expertly spread out—Tolfdir certainly hadn't earned the title of Master Wizard for nothing. Moreover, Malys noticed something rather odd; Vinye's right hand was coursing with lightning magic not unlike Tolfdir's, though it was much less noticeable and even less concentrated—almost invisible from a distance. What was even odder was that she was not firing it at the old mage, or anyone in particular—instead, it looked like she was actually feeding it into her ward somehow.

Is she strengthening it? Malys wondered. Is that possible—combining restoration magic with destruction magic? Or is she just trying to show off?

Whatever the reason, by the time Vinye was finished, Tolfdir was beaming. "Excellent, excellent work!" he exclaimed. "A wonderful start already, if I do say so myself. Now, then," he turned to Malys and the Breton, "which of you would like to go n—"

He broke off suddenly, looking at a point past Malys' shoulder. "Excuse me, please," he said, his voice a sudden hush, and strode off abruptly.

Malys turned around, and saw the Altmer she'd met at the entrance to the College striding into the chamber. She did not look happy.

Tolfdir met her halfway across, and the two master mages commenced a hushed conversation that Malys, try as she might, could not make out at all. The elf was gesturing everywhere, pointing her finger towards the ceiling quite a few times, and even towards Malys' general direction once or twice.

Eventually, they leaned away from each other, and both now walked towards the students.

"Well, good news and bad news, I'm afraid," Tolfdir said as he approached them. "The bad news is we'll have to leave this lesson right here for the time being. Don't worry, ladies, I trust you'll all practice your ward spells further before we meet again.

"The good news is we've just received word from the Arch-Mage that a fascinating excavation is taking place in the ruins of Rkund. Faralda here has informed me we've been invited to explore their work so far, and I think this will be an excellent learning opportunity for us all. We'll meet there in two days' time if any of you are interested. That's all for now, thank you."

With that, the three students dispersed. Malys made as if to say hello to Vinye, but the Altmer had already rushed out of the hall like a sabercat on skooma—not bothering to mutter so much as a good-bye.

"Why am I not surprised?" said the Breton in a reedy voice as she watched her go.

"Hmm?"

"Don't tell me you didn't see what she was doing?" Her round face was stony. "That elf was cheating, and she knows it. She just didn't want to own up."

"What makes you think Tolfdir didn't see anything?" Malys replied, somewhat defensively. "He was closer than any of us—I don't see how he wouldn't have noticed."

"This one thinks the elf would make a good Khajiit," said a low voice.

Malys jumped—she'd all but forgotten about the fourth figure thanks to the impromptu lesson. Now, however, she could see him in greater detail as he stepped from the shadows: a Khajiit—a catlike race from the deserts of Elsweyr, in the very south of Tamriel. He was covered head to toe in dark gray fur, and wore robes and a satchel much like Tolfdir's, though his clothing was a light green where Tolfdir's was more burgundy. Bizarrely, the Khajiit sported a sizable jet-black mustache in addition to his whiskers, and Malys could see the Breton doing her best to not burst out laughing at the ridiculous thing.

"J'zargo did not mean to scare," the Khajiit purred in an oily voice, tail swishing side to side. Malys rather doubted that—there was a reason the Khajiit were among the least-trusted races in Tamriel. To be fair, none of the beast-folk were treated any better in Skyrim than the elves were. The Nords were the worst offenders—she didn't like to talk about it, but there was a reason Malys never went to Windhelm anymore.

"Why do you think she'd make a good cat?" the Breton asked, finally managing to swallow her laughter.

"She reminds J'zargo of someone else when he walked in your boots," J'zargo smiled, a toothy grin that sent a tiny chill up Malys' spine. "A powerful magician who mastered the expert-level Destruction spells quicker than anyone else J'zargo knew."

Malys couldn't think of a more contrasting comparison. The Breton, meanwhile, kept on asking questions. "You knew expert-level spells when you were still a novice?" she scoffed. "I thought you Khajiit were supposed to be good at lying."

J'zargo kept smiling that odd little smile. "It does not matter what this one could do when he was young," he said, twirling his mustache in what he must have imagined was the indicator of a wise man. "It only matters what this one can do now." He clapped his furry paws together. "So, what is it they call you?"

"Cosette," said the Breton, in a voice as sweet as nightshade. "Go ahead and call me 'Cozy'—the last person who did saw his own insides before I killed him. Most people I kill don't even get that much."

J'zargo raised an eyebrow, but otherwise said nothing. Malys, meanwhile, suddenly found herself wishing she wasn't standing so close to the Breton. Something in Cosette's beady eyes had changed, she could tell; where the tiny half-elf had been confident, if perhaps overly so, now it sounded like she was ready to make good on her threat.

Quickly as she could, Malys moved to defuse the tense situation. "Malys Aryon, House Hlaalu." She moved rather closely to J'zargo, grabbing him by the collar of his robe with just the slightest bit of forcefulness, and adopted a husky voice that would have made Helviane Desele proud, Azura rest her soul.

"But if you know what's good for you," she hissed in his ear, in a whisper loud enough for the Breton to hear—and very lightly stroking J'zargo's forearm with two fingers for good measure—"then you will call me Mistress Malys."

She released her grip on his robe, and stepped back to enjoy the effect of her words. Cosette looked as though she'd been slapped in the face with a baby mudcrab. Her mouth was half-open, and her face was almost as red as her hair. J'zargo, meanwhile, was standing stock-still, his ears standing up on end. Then, to Malys' complete surprise, he threw back his head and laughed—long and hard.

"Ha ha ha!" J'zargo cackled, wiping a tear from his face and slapping his knee. "By the Mane, you amuse this one! Perhaps J'zargo was wrong—you might have more Khajiit in you than the high elf, no?" He grinned, showing his teeth again. "It is good to be around mages who can keep up with J'zargo."

"Who says I want to stop there?" Malys challenged, a daring smile on her face.

"J'zargo!" Tolfdir was calling from across the hall. "J'zargo, my boy, might I have a word with you?"

The Khajiit waved a paw in reply. "J'zargo does not need to say anything," J'zargo said slyly, turning back to Malys. "J'zargo only needs to do, and he will win." And with that, he strode through the hall to Tolfdir. The old man put a friendly arm around the cat, and together they strode out the door and into the courtyard.

Malys watched him go, feeling a little foolish—though only a little—about her actions. "Well," she finally said, turning around to Cosette, who was still furiously red in the face. "A Khajiit as a mage. That isn't exactly something you see every day."

"Forget the cat!" Cosette burst out. "What in Oblivion was that all about?"

"For a Khajiit, being underhanded isn't just a stigma," Malys said. "Sometimes, it's a way of life. It's their way of competition, that's all; I was only—oh, how do those Nords say it—getting on his level?"

She turned back towards the door where J'zargo had left. It was getting close to nighttime, and she was beginning to feel a little tired. She suddenly realized that she'd entirely forgotten to ask Tolfdir where she would be staying, and made for the door to the outside.

"That's not what I meant!" said Cosette, hurrying after her. "Why were you getting all … you know?" She choked on the words, as if she wanted to say something else completely, but couldn't bring herself to.

"We Dunmer know a thing or two about stigmas ourselves," Malys said, opening the door to the courtyard. Mercifully, the snowstorm had died down substantially; now there were only a few errant flakes falling from the sky. "It's not uncommon for female dark elves to act that promiscuous when they're young—or have you never read about Queen Barenziah? If anyone knows something about a Khajiit's p—"

"Finish that sentence and I will skin you alive," Cosette said flatly.

"And that's another thing," Malys retorted. "Fine thing for you to say to someone you've never met, 'Oh, hello. I'm going to make sure you die a horrible death one day.' What were you thinking, saying something like that? Do you say that to everyone you meet?"

"You've never heard of the Ionsaithe clan?" Cosette was incredulous.

That caught Malys off guard. " … No?"

Cosette huffed. "What about the War of the Bend'r-mahk?"

" … Let's say I haven't."

As they passed through the College courtyard, Cosette proceeded to explain to her how, two hundred and fifty-odd years ago, the Bretons and Redguards of High Rock and Hammerfell had waged war with Skyrim, how the city of Dragonstar had been split in two for over thirty years while the war raged on, and how the whole war had been used by Jagar Tharn to create a Shadow of Conflict. Malys was grateful she did not explain those to her—if she was as enthusiastic about them as she apparently was about war, they might be here well into the night.

" … My clan fought in Dragonstar for all those thirty years," she concluded, as they finally made their way to the Hall of Attainment, where their dormitories were located. "When it was inevitable the Nords would win, we decided to flee the town, and we went through to Skyrim."

"That … doesn't quite answer my question," Malys said, as they entered the dormitory. Like the lecture hall, the Hall of Attainment was a circular tower with a well of blue energy at its focus. Beds for students and scholars alike lined the outer wall, along with facilities for enchanting and alchemy.

Cosette sighed. "The Ionsaithes are a clan that values bloodshed above all else—well, they used to be, anyway. My parents and I are probably the last pure-blooded Ionsaithes alive right now." She laughed ruefully. "When death threats are more or less your family's way of saying 'hello,' it can be easy to take things the wrong way. That's probably why there aren't that many of us left."

Indeed, Malys thought, rolling her eyes. "So why come here, then?" she asked, deciding to ignore that particular mammoth in the room for right now and focus on being a little more cordial. "It sounds like you know enough ways to kill someone without having to study magic."

"In the old tongue, 'Ionsaithe' means 'invincible'," Cosette replied. "It's the one thing I want to be." Her voice suddenly grew uncharacteristically quiet. "It's also the one thing I don't want to be," she murmured.

Malys frowned. "Sorry?"

"Never mind." There was a moment of silence as the two managed to find a pair of unoccupied beds on the top level of the hall.

"What about you?" Cosette asked, once the two mages had made themselves at home. "Why are you studying here?"

Malys brightened a little bit—Cosette's brief moment of melancholy (she would have to ponder that later on) seemed to have mellowed her out a little. "Illusion, mostly. But I want to work on my conjuration and destruction, too. I'm not terrible, but I'm not all that great, either."

"Illusion?" Cosette tilted her head.

"Of course. Didn't you ever want to turn invisible when you were young?"

Cosette's pallid face drained further still, and Malys instinctively knew she'd hit a sore spot. " … Forget I asked."

"It's all right." Though she recovered quickly, Cosette's voice suggested anything but. "It's just that illusion doesn't sound all that useful next to all the other schools of magic. I can maybe understand Invisibility and Muffle, but all those others like Calm spells and Fury spells—they're gambles. I don't leave things up to chance—if it wants to kill me, fine," she said hotly. "I'll just kill it first."

Malys shrugged. "Suit yourself," she said. "You have your ways, I have mine." Please, please, please don't ask about my ways, she thought pleadingly.

Thankfully, she was spared from that possible line of questioning when Vinye walked in. She had a book clutched in one hand—which, upon closer inspection from Malys, turned out to be The History of Raven Rock—and a whole stack of them in the other. Malys briefly wondered if she was going to do the same thing as before and ignore both her and Cosette completely. But at the last second, she halted and turned to them, apparently just now seeing they were there.

"You should get some sleep," she said tersely. Her voice was still a little unsteady after Tolfdir's lecture. "We're leaving for the Rift first thing in the morning."

Now that she had a better look at her face, Malys decided the elf uncannily resembled her mother. From her bobbed blonde hair to the permanent frown that creased her face, Vinye looked like she would be more at home in the College as a professor or a librarian. All that gave her away as a student were her vivid green eyes, or more to the point, the downcast expression they wore. But behind that air of nervousness, Malys could see a desire to learn—not just of magical theory or technique, but also of truth. And if she was honest, it scared her a little.

Vinye laid some of her books on Malys' and Cosette's end tables. "Here," she said, pushing the books gingerly towards the novices as though they might bite her. "Something to read for the trip ahead. Just make sure they're in one piece when you're done—Urag doesn't like damaged goods."

Malys peered over her bed to look at them. All of them seemed to be about the Dwemer—the technologically advanced race of elves who had mysteriously disappeared long ago in the First Era—and there were a few titles she vaguely recognized: Tamrielic Lore … Ruins of Kemel-Ze … Chronicles of Nchuleft …

"Um … thanks?" she asked tentatively.

Before either of them could say anything more, the Altmer had turned away from them, and strode across the hall to her own bed. She promptly tucked herself in, and cracked open the book on Raven Rock that Malys had seen earlier.

"I'd rather she just ignored us," Cosette said very quietly after a while.

"What is it between you two?" Malys asked in a whisper. "Do you have some kind of history with her?"

"No, nothing like that," Cosette said defensively. "She only just got here a day before I did."

"So?"

"It was just before you got here," Cosette explained. "When I first arrived in the main hall this morning, the first thing I saw was complete panic. Half the students and staff were running around like headless chickens. It might have been funny if there wasn't a storm atronach chasing after them all."

Malys almost forgot to whisper. "A storm atronach?" That was an expert-level conjuration spell, she recalled—something that was not at all lightly taught or learned. She looked at Vinye in disbelief. "Are you saying she—?"

"She did," Cosette nodded sagely. "Only something went wrong. She summoned it, but I heard she forgot to bind it in the process. It went wild—started attacking everyone within reach. I heard the Conjuration master—Phinis Gestor—needed to get the Arch-Mage's help to even banish the damned thing."

Malys cringed. "What happened to Vinye?"

"They found her in the library on the next story about a half-hour later," Cosette said dispassionately. "She wasn't hurt, but she was scared out of her wits, from what I was told. As well she should be," she added, a bit sourly. "I don't know why, but she never got punished. No one else is even mad at her, as far as I know—though I'm pretty sure that's the real reason why Tolfdir gave us that speech on safety."

Malys looked at Vinye, her olive-skinned nose buried in a different book, now. Did she finish that last one already? She squinted at the cover—Rising Threat, it looked like, though she couldn't be sure from this distance.

"What does that have to do with her being a cheater?" she asked.

"She's a novice, Malys," Cosette said insistently. "She shouldn't have been able to summon a storm atronach in the first place!" Her eyes narrowed. "She must have used a scroll behind her back. Probably got swindled by one of the caravans when she got it, too. It was a cheap imitation, or it was poorly written, and that's why the atronach went berserk."

Malys was skeptical. Granted, that wasn't the most unbelievable explanation she'd expected to hear. But right now, she had a suspicion that Cosette was merely feeling petty jealousy towards the Altmer. Bretons were adept in magic, true—perhaps more so than dark elves—but high elves were on a whole other level above both races.

"Maybe she was taught someplace else before she came here," Malys mused. "The College of Winterhold can't be the only one of its kind in Tamriel, right?"

Cosette shook her head. "It isn't. But high elves are very particular about where they learn their magic," she said. "The only places I can think of that she'd even consider going to would be the Synod and the College of Whispers. And from what I've heard, there's a lot more politics involved over there than actual magic. Even J'zargo would have had a hard time avoiding everyone trying to undercut him at every turn."

Malys didn't know much about either of those institutions—only that they were splinter cells of the Mages Guild in Cyrodiil, formed some two hundred years ago in the wake of the Oblivion Crisis. If Vinye did indeed go there at some point in time, though … She thought of J'zargo and his first words to Malys. Perhaps Vinye really would make a good Khajiit, she mused. She certainly has us puzzled enough.

"The only other explanation is that she had a tutor," Cosette said. "If that's true, I'd like to meet whoever taught her to do that. Because I have no idea what in Oblivion she's doing in this snow pile."

She inspected one of the books Vinye had left for her, turned it around, and put it back on the table with a grunt that quickly turned into a monstrous yawn. "Oh, forget it," she said, half to herself. "I'm too tired to memorize anything anyway."

She turned to Malys. "Oh, before I forget," she said. "I don't say this to just anyone—and if I hear anyone else talk about it to me, I'm going to deny it to my death." She took a deep breath, like she was being forced to swallow frostbite venom. "It's good to know a friendly face around here."

Malys smiled and shrugged to herself. I suppose that's about as much as I'll get. "Same to you … Cozy."

Later on, she would admit that it was worth it to see Cosette whirl around at her as fast as she did—and doubly so to see the hard lines of anger on her doughy face slowly melt into the more subtle curves of an appreciative smile.

"They don't make people like you every era, Mistress Malys," she replied, emphasizing the word "Mistress" with mock servility. "You'll part of a rare breed."

Her smile widened. "Let's hope it doesn't go extinct."

Malys kept on smiling in spite of the veiled threat. "Good night, Cosette," she said to the first real, if rather unexpected, friend she'd made since she'd arrived in Skyrim.

Cosette grunted, and shifted into her covers a little more. She was snoring loudly within minutes.

Malys, on the other hand, had had trouble getting to sleep for as long as she could remember, and it was several hours—or, by her reckoning, a half-dozen more books read cover-to-cover by Vinye—before she finally fell asleep. Her last thought before she finally fell asleep was that she should've had a pint to drink at the Frozen Hearth, as she was feeling rather thirsty.

Jarl's Longhouse, Winterhold

"Thorvald? Thorvald!"

The former Stormcloak-turned-commander of the town guard was unpleasantly roused from his sleep by the shout. "Talos' sake, what is it, Gretta?"

"It's about the bodies Yngmar found on the road earlier," said the fair-haired woman at the foot of his cot. "There's something you need to see."

Cursing Dibella and her priests for teasing his dreams so, the dark-haired Nord put on his armor and mail as quickly as he could, then crossed the length of the longhouse to the Jarl's war room.

Of the three occupants currently occupying the chamber, only one was among the living—another Nord like Gretta and Thorvald, but darker-skinned and completely bald. The other two were a pale bluish-gray from a combination of cold and death, and were mostly covered in dirty linen sheets.

"This had better be good, Yngmar," Thorvald said irritably.

"If only it was," Yngmar remarked. He sounded very unnerved, and was talking in a very animated manner, throwing his arms every which way. "We just finished thawing them out a few minutes ago. There's hardly any blood from their wounds, and at first I thought the snow might've soaked it all up. But then I got a closer look at their faces."

He pulled back a sheet, exposing one of the bodies. "See for yourself."

Thorvald did.

" … Kynareth save us," he said ten seconds later, when he'd managed to get his breath back. He replaced the sheet with a whitened, trembling hand.

"What now?" Yngmar asked. Gretta looked fearful.

"We need to get word to Jarl Korir right now," Thorvald said. "Is he still in Whiterun?"

Gretta nodded. "Aye. Assur's with him, too. Wasn't enough for the boy to be Jarl after his father; now he wants to join the Companions."

Thorvald tore off a piece of linen, and started scribbling on it with a piece of charcoal for a few seconds. When he was done, he thrust the scrap to Yngmar like it was on fire. "Send for a courier," he ordered. "Have him deliver this to Korir personally—Jarl's eyes only, understand?"

Yngmar saluted, and sprinted out of the longhouse.

"Gretta," Thorvald continued, "go to the Jarl's wife. Put together a squad and escort Thaena to Whiterun. Actually—" The commander of the Winterhold guard stopped to think for a moment. Was it worth going to them over a pair of cooling bodies?

… Yes, he decided. They could worry about cost and benefit afterward, but right now, he couldn't risk taking any chances. There might not be much of a Winterhold to protect, but dammit, there was still a Winterhold. And so long as Thorvald remained guard commander, he'd make sure it was protected.

"Actually, Gretta, I need you to send for another courier before you do that. There's someone who specializes in exactly the sort of situation this could turn into if we're not careful. He's ex-Legion"—he said this as though it caused him great physical pain—"but no one in Skyrim's better equipped for this than he is."

"Escort Thaena, send for a specialist." Gretta ticked off two fingers. "What should I tell them? It won't be easy to persuade Thaena to leave Winterhold, and this specialist sounds like some kind of mercenary to me."

Thorvald's face was grim as he reached for another scrap of linen to write on. "Tell them we have vampires."

Next chapter: On the road to Rkund, J'zargo relates many tales of his friends and past exploits, and Malys reveals something very unpleasant. Meanwhile, someone in Winterhold is asking very strange questions.