A/N: There is a section of this chapter that contains numerous but minor grammatical errors. These are a stylistic choice I wanted to try out, and are therefore intentional, along with any such passages in the future.
Apologies in advance for any confusion. This one was really tough for me to write. Hope you enjoy! - K
II
The Hall of Attainment was drafty, and the constant howling of the wind made it tough for anyone to have a decent night's sleep. But the beds were more than comfortable enough to make up for that, Malys thought; she couldn't remember the last time she'd slept as well as she did.
She wished it could have lasted longer. Unfortunately, J'zargo had decided to shake Malys awake so vigorously that even now—as she, Vinye and Cosette descended the ramp and into Winterhold proper—she was nursing a small crick in her neck. The Altmer and the Breton hadn't fared any better, by the looks of it; Vinye looked more alert than Malys had seen her last night, but she still noticeably winced every time she turned her head. Cosette, on the other hand, hadn't stopped muttering curses under her breath since they'd left the College, and was massaging her neck so forcefully that it looked like she was kneading dough.
"I hate cats," Malys heard her say more than once.
J'zargo, merrily unaware of Cosette's grumblings, had taken the lead ahead of the trio, and was strutting along with such gusto that he might have just been appointed thane of the entire hold. Tolfdir brought up the rear, humming "Ragnar the Red" to himself absentmindedly.
"Wait," Malys said suddenly, as they passed Birna's Oddments.
"Is something wrong, my dear?" Tolfdir asked.
"I need to stop inside for a few things, that's all." And with that, the Dunmer ducked inside the general store, and reemerged ten minutes later wearing a suit of elven armor that looked like it had seen better days. The dull chink-chink of many potions clattering against one another sounded from her backpack with every step she took.
"You can't be too careful in Skyrim," she explained to the group, as she wrapped a traveling cloak over her armored body and backpack, pulling the oversized hood over her short black hair. "The other night, I got attacked by bandits not five feet away from where we're standing right now." She indicated a patch of snow with her thumb.
"Ah, so that's why you were hurt," Tolfdir said. Malys gave a sheepish smile back at him.
"It was dumb luck, was all," she shrugged. "They had a good bit of gold with them, too. That's how I was able to pay for most of this stuff." She patted her backpack.
"Still, you can't assume bandits will just roll over for you before they take your money," Vinye admonished her, her voice muffled by her own bulky cloak. It was the first time Malys had heard her speak today; the high elf had risen from her bunk without a word, proceeded to cram as many books as she could into the rucksack slung over her shoulder, and been the first to leave the grounds after Tolfdir and J'zargo. "If you aren't the one to make the first move, you won't live to make the second move."
"Speaking of moving," Cosette interjected, still a little irritable, "can we get a move on and head to this Dwarven ruin before I freeze my sword arm off?"
There was a general murmur of assent; though Malys couldn't help but glance at the Breton's choice for winter clothing. She had eschewed a traveling cloak, substituting it for fur-and-leather wraps around her arms and legs that looked crude, but definitely thick enough to protect them from the wintry weather. A small, magical fire was crackling merrily in Cosette's left hand as well, giving off heat that Malys could feel even from fifteen feet away.
"You heard the lady—on to adventure!" Tolfdir said as boisterously as only a Nord could, attracting a few scattered laughs from the rest of the group, J'zargo's loudest among them.
Adventure, Malys decided some time later, was highly overrated.
Last night's storm had forced most of the wildlife back into their dens, though they came across the occasional fox foraging for snowberries, racing across the road in a blur of white fur. Once or twice, however, they encountered a few wolves, though well-aimed firebolts from Tolfdir and J'zargo had sent them scrabbling through the snow with their tails between their legs. Other than this, there was nothing to suggest that their expedition to Rkund was going to start off as anything resembling "adventurous." Indeed, no one even said a word over the wind until after Winterhold had already disappeared behind the group; by then, the sun was high in the sky, and the clouds were beginning to clear.
The road veered to the right, now, running west towards the towers of an imposing-looking military fort. The snowdrifts to the south of the group, on the other hand, looked deep but passable. The eroded stone ruins of an old Nordic structure were visible in the distance. Much further beyond those was the faintest hint of a ship's furled sail.
"The old Nords certainly loved their stonework," J'zargo commented, indicating the ruins. "That is Snow Veil Sanctum. J'zargo has heard tales of the treasures within these tombs. But the locks on this tomb are strong, he has heard. No one can pick them, not even J'zargo. At least," he added, "no one who has come back alive."
Malys had heard about the burial crypts of the ancient Nords, and the Draugr who still walked the catacombs within, and silently thanked Azura for good craftsmanship. That was one thing she could respect the Nords for, at least.
Tolfdir pointed at the sail in the distance. "That looks like the docks for Windhelm," he noted.
J'zargo pondered this. "If we could cut through here, we could take much time off our journey," he said, stroking his mustache. "Plenty more Dwarven trinkets for J'zargo to find that way, yes?"
"I've no doubt about that," Tolfdir laughed.
"I don't think that's a good idea," Malys said suddenly. Everyone turned to look at her. "The shortcut would take us too close to Windhelm," the dark elf explained. "They don't like magic in there."
Tolfdir tsk-tsked. "Oh, come now, my dear," he chided, "I've made the trip to Windhelm quite a few times in my day, and I've never gotten so much as a cold shoulder from the city guards there."
Malys was in no mood to argue or to show due courtesy right now. "You're a Nord," she said tersely. "I'm a Dunmer. Maybe you should remember that the next time you go through the Gray Quarter."
Tolfdir's wrinkled face drooped a little as Malys' words sank in. "Oh … Oh, I'm terribly sorry, miss," he said, fumbling over his words in genuine sympathy. "I … should have realized … I didn't mean to offend you at all."
Malys sighed. "I understand," she said, deflating a little. "I just—I had a bad experience in Windhelm when I was younger." Seeing Tolfdir's curious look, she hastily added, "I'd … rather not talk about it right now, if that's okay."
Tolfdir immediately nodded. "Of course, my dear. Far be it from me to bring up an old ghost."
Malys' decision was not entirely by choice. It had felt so long ago, she thought, and so hard had Malys tried to forget the incident that much of the circumstances and details had been lost to her. But even if she lived to be a thousand years old, she would never forget the raw, ugly rage that she had had to face that night.
… Go back under the ash where you belong! …
… Get away from my children, you gray-skin slut! …
… Gonna poison you in your sleep, stinking elf! …
"Ghosts be damned," Cosette was saying as Malys pulled herself back to Mundus with some difficulty. "If we follow the road, it'll be nighttime before we reach Windhelm."
"And Skyrim is more dangerous at night than it is during the day," Vinye agreed.
"J'zargo?" Tolfdir turned to the Khajiit. "What do you think we should do?"
J'zargo peered once towards the fort in the west, frowning. Then, turning back, he scanned the snowy fields before them, holding a paw in front of his eyes to shield them from the glare of the sun. He sniffed the air once, twice, and three times before he finally nodded.
"J'zargo sees nothing he cannot handle," he said confidently.
And on that note, he began to navigate a path through the snowdrifts with purpose in every step. Cosette and Vinye, then Tolfdir, and finally Malys followed him.
It seemed to take an impossibly long time to traverse it all, and the wind blowing in from the east was not helping matters at all. The descent only got more treacherous when the snowdrifts turned into large masses of icy rock. Everyone, even J'zargo, managed to slip on the rocks at least once; Vinye had even needed some restorative attention from Tolfdir on one occasion. Yet slowly but surely, Snow Veil Sanctum was growing larger before their eyes, and before long, the five mages felt smooth, carved stone beneath their boots.
Tolfdir called for a few minutes' rest. Before he'd finished talking, Cosette had plopped down with a grunt against a Nordic totem, next to a large metal grate over a wide pipe that stretched down into darkness. A wild rabbit had run across their way while they climbed the rocks, and a well-timed burst of magical flame from Cosette's hand had provided the first potential meal of the journey. After she had borrowed J'zargo's dagger to skin the rabbit, Cosette promptly began roasting it with her flames again, and she had already wrenched off one of its haunches to eat.
Suddenly, J'zargo leapt to his feet, slitted eyes bright and round as flawless diamonds. "Everyone, up!" he ordered.
So urgent was his tone that even the hungry Cosette obeyed him without a moment's hesitation—and not a moment too soon; an unpleasant smell had invaded the ruin, a mixture of decaying flesh and a military latrine that made Malys sick to her stomach. Their source wasn't far behind; three wide, misshapen forms, almost perfectly camouflaged against the snow, were lumbering towards them with primal ferocity in every step.
"Trolls!" Vinye shouted. Immediately, blue-white sparks danced around her hands, and she sent off one lightning bolt, then another. Both bolts hit the leftmost troll in the hip; it stumbled, but this only seemed to make the three-eyed hulk even madder. It roared in aggravation, beating cauldron-sized fists against its hairy chest.
Make the first move, indeed, Malys thought.
Cosette had seemed to forget that she was hungry, or that she was a mage; she was swinging away at a second troll with a bizarre-looking object that Malys could only guess was some kind of weapon. The troll, for its part, was matching her blow for blow, but Cosette was slowly winning; not only was she dodging and blocking any attacks from the troll's heavy claws, but a steady stream of fire from her other hand was burning it alive. A few seconds later, the monster collapsed at her feet with a final, grunting roar, and lay still.
One down.
Meanwhile, the stench of the trolls was quickly being replaced with the acrid odor of Vinye's lightning magic as she continued to pelt her target with one bolt after another. Malys could see a pulsing blue aura around her body; high elves could naturally regenerate their magickal reserves so quickly, she knew, that the effect was actually visible to the trained eye, which further explained why Vinye was able to survive on the offensive for as long as she had. But the troll wasn't even being slowed by Vinye's relentless assault; now catching up to her, it lashed out with a massive backhand, and caught the Altmer right in her lung. A winded Vinye spun once on her feet from the force of the impact, and tumbled into the snow.
"Vinye!" Malys called out. Knowing it probably wouldn't do much good, Malys made a half-fist, built up some magic in her hand, and expelled a blue-white burst of ice as long and wide as her forearm. The troll, who was just about to finish off Vinye with a piledriver to the chest, caught the ice spike directly in the middle of its three eyes.
Almost immediately afterward, there was a flash of orange light directly in front of Malys, and a massive BOOM ripped through the air. There was a disgusting stench of burning hair and flesh. It didn't take long for Malys to figure out why: a charred, gaping hole had opened up in the troll's chest. The brute only just seemed to realize this when it tilted its ugly, bearded head down to see what had happened, and then it toppled over, dead as a doornail.
Two down.
Malys turned to look behind and to her left, where the blast of fire had come from, and saw J'zargo with an outstretched, smoking paw and a cocky, lopsided grin on his furry face. "The trolls do not like fire," J'zargo explained to Malys, not bothering to disguise his glee. "But Khajiit loves his incineration spells, yes he does."
Malys arched her eyebrows in grudging admiration. Expert-level fire magic? I guess the little n'wah wasn't lying after all.
Tolfdir, in the meantime, had engaged the remaining troll in a spectacular battle between magic and muscle. The old man, who had surrounded himself in a cloak of whirling fire, was constantly ducking and weaving the troll's erratic swings, and in the interim, chipping away at him with the occasional firebolt.
It was truly mesmerizing to see, Malys admitted, to see a master wizard of Winterhold going toe-to-clawed-toe with such a creature. Though she'd known the man only briefly, she could already tell he practiced what he preached. Nothing was exaggerated in Tolfdir's movements, no magicka wasted in his attacks—this was "true control."
Malys saw Tolfdir step off to her right, and immediately saw an opening. She readied another ice spike, and then rushed forward. If she could make a closer shot, maybe she could get lucky and catch it in the eyes a second time.
She fired. Immediately, she could tell she wouldn't need her eyes to track the path of her attack—she already knew the ice spike's aim would be straight and true.
She also knew, however, that she'd fired only one ice spike, and so Malys was momentarily confused when she saw no less than four frozen missiles impale the troll in its head, chest and shoulders. The four attacks together achieved what one alone could not, and so great was their combined power that the troll was lifted off its feet, and propelled into a snowbank thirty feet behind it.
But Malys had no time to glory in her sudden stroke of luck. She had just noticed the sudden chill crawling up her spine—no, not just her spine; her arms, her entire body was slowly getting colder and colder and colder—
And even before she turned around to see the thing behind her, she knew her luck was about to turn for the worse.
A long time ago, it might have been beautiful. From a distance, it certainly was—as graceful as the trolls had been crude. But Malys was just far enough away to appreciate that, yet close enough to see the dozens of serrated teeth in the ethereal humanoid's mouth. Naked save for tatters of thin clothing around its body, the strange creature regarded Malys with an inquisitive, almost childlike expression, floating mere inches above the snow.
Then it screamed—an inhuman shriek that instinctively made Malys clap her hands around her ears in pain—and charged for the elf.
Just as the thing raised its hand to perform another deadly spell, Malys was unceremoniously shoved aside by Cosette. Turning to rebuke the Breton, the diatribe died on Malys' lips when she saw that Cosette, too, was glowing—but rather than the pulsing blue from Vinye, hers was more of a shimmering bluish-white. It wasn't just from the ward she'd erected around her, either; a small cocoon of distortion surrounded her body, and somehow, Malys didn't think the ward had anything to do with it.
She had no idea what it was, but judging from how the ice attacks from the ghostly monster before Cosette seemed to flicker and dispel before her eyes, she suspected it was more than a ward, but some kind of absorption spell as well. That was very rare indeed, Malys thought—she'd never remembered seeing any spell or enchantment like that. Perhaps it was a special trait of the Ionsaithe clan, or—
"Don't just stand there—heal me!" Cosette barked at Malys, her right hand blasting away at the creature with firebolt after firebolt. "Heal me!" she said again, as a few tiny shards broke through her ward, ripping into her skin. "That attack's too strong for my ward, and I can't take the full brunt of it forever!"
Malys waited another few dangerous seconds to clear her head, and then fired the same restoration spell she'd used on Faralda at Cosette. The effect was immediate; the shards of ice that had made it through the double ward and were embedded inside Cosette's flesh melted away, and the wounds they left were resealed within seconds.
By now, J'zargo, Tolfdir, and Vinye (still a little dazed from the troll's attack) had joined in to lend a hand. With one final incineration spell from J'zargo, the entity opened its toothy maw in one last, silent cry, and finally exploded in a burst of fine ash and sickly green light.
After drinking some essence of elves ear and white cap to replenish her magicka, Malys turned back to the pile of ash with an incredulous look on her face. "What in Azura's name was that thing?" she asked.
"A wispmother," J'zargo said, looking unusually rattled. "An ancient spirit of the frozen lands. J'zargo only saw one of them in his life until today—he had convinced his friends there was only the one." He sighed. "But even a powerful mage like J'zargo still has much to learn, it seems."
"No kidding," said Cosette, wiping flecks of her blood off her sealed wounds and replacing the "sword" back under her robes. Now that Malys could see it better, she could see triangular points of sharpened ivory lashed with thick leather to a length of wood. It was the most ridiculous-looking sword she had ever seen—and yet, something about it told Malys that she did not want to be on the other end of such a brutal-looking weapon.
"What is that?" she asked.
Cosette followed her eyes down to the weapon, and grimaced. "It's a Forsworn blade," she answered. "Nasty piece of work, isn't it? But it was nothing compared to the maniac who used it."
"Forsworn?"
"Group of tribal Bretons in the Reach. Some say they're terrorists, others say they're freedom fighters—and I say the less said about them, the better," Cosette said emphatically.
Her round face brightened a little. "By the way," she added, "thanks for covering me back there."
"Thanks," Malys said. "Is this the part where you tell me I owe you one?" she added only half-jokingly. Cosette, however, wore an expression that did not suggest any joking whatsoever.
"Don't start on that," the Breton sighed irritably. Clearly she had not heard this for the first time. "I'm not saying I don't appreciate what you did, Malys, but don't expect me to start relying on you lot for backup, either. I've spent more time away from people than I have with—and if I'm honest, I work better that way."
Well, thanks for nothing, Malys thought.
Before she could object any further, Cosette had turned away from her. "We should keep moving," she remarked to the group. "Still a ways to go before we reach Windhelm."
J'zargo and Tolfdir looked at each other. "She has a point," the old man agreed. "The things a man can run into during the night … "
"This one agrees," the Khajiit said. He was still smiling, but the euphoria of the ambush was beginning to wear off—and it showed in the form of a tired yawn. "Although—unnh—although J'zargo was right, yes?" J'zargo added, after failing to conceal his fatigue.
"What do you mean?" Vinye asked, frowning.
"J'zargo did not see anything he could not handle."
It took the three novices a moment for J'zargo's words to sink in. Malys would have been angry, but the fact that the five mages had just taken down a whole den's worth of trolls and a Tribunal-damned wispmother almost balanced it out—almost. She therefore settled for burying her face in her hand and groaning at the antics of the Khajiit. Vinye looked rather annoyed—but Cosette was beside herself.
"You mean you knew about these things?!" she screeched at J'zargo. "Are you saying we could have avoided all this if we'd just taken the road around?!"
J'zargo shrugged. "Perhaps," he said. "But if you had the chance to do so again, would you?"
Cosette opened her mouth, and stopped—evidently she was coming to the same conclusion Malys had. She raised a finger, then lowered it, and finally gave a frustrated sigh.
"I really, really hate cats," she snarled, and aimed a kick at the snow. "Let's just … let's just go before I decide I need a new fur coat."
On that sour note, the group continued their journey south. Malys clung further back to Tolfdir and J'zargo now; she did not want to be anywhere within reach of Cosette, spell or sword—somehow she doubted mere elven craftsmanship would stand up for long against either.
"I think you could have handled that better, my boy," she heard Tolfdir remark sorrowfully.
"Do not be so quick to accuse," J'zargo said. "This is merely the first step—the same step we took with Onmund and Brelyna when—"
"Mmm … yes. I remember Savos gave you four what for after what happened in Saarthal," Tolfdir said. "How you rushed in after me, deliberately disobeying me, just because you thought I might be in trouble." He chuckled nostalgically. "I never did properly thank you all for your concern, my lad."
"Nor do you need to," J'zargo smiled.
Malys frowned. Was this why J'zargo had elected to come along—simply because he'd been in their shoes before? She looked at the Khajiit, strutting about again like before—though this time, Malys felt he had a reason to. Khajiit weren't well known for excellence in magic, and yet J'zargo had progressed so far …
For some reason, Malys found that extremely uplifting on her spirits, so much so that everyone else, even Cosette, wondered why she was humming merrily all the way to Windhelm.
When they reached the docks at sunset, though, Malys' good mood had evaporated as quickly as it had come.
That's more guards than I remember, she thought, as she looked at what had to be a full dozen Stormcloaks in full armor patrolling the docks. The only others on the dock apart from ships' mates were a handful of Argonians; these reptilian folk were dockworkers, forced to live outside the city in a separate building—even the dark elves had more than that. It was a bitter dose of irony—the Argonian invasion of Morrowind had made Malys distrustful of their kind, though certainly not to the extent of those thrice-cursed Nords.
Instinctively, she pulled her hood lower over her face, and willed herself to shrink further into her armor. How long it had been since that day, she'd lost track. Nords weren't always the brightest candles in the hall, but Malys couldn't be too careful—with her luck, one of the guards would be smart enough to recognize her.
The sooner we move on, the better.
Besides the city proper, there was only one other way through to the rest of Eastmarch hold—and that was the mouth of the White River. It was a short swim to the other bank, but with how bitter cold Windhelm was, there was no telling how chilly the water would be. Tolfdir was already passing around a bottle of frost mirriam and crushed snowberry he'd concocted earlier, which he had said would help protect against the cold water. Her portion of the potion tingled on her tongue, which Malys found inexplicably delightful, and she instantly felt warmer—and dare she say it, stronger—even as the last rays of the sun sank beneath the horizon.
Quickly, before the effects of the potion wore off, Malys jumped into the river. Instead of the water being deathly cold, the potion had warmed Malys enough to where she merely found it a little brisk. It was oddly refreshing after the skirmish of earlier today, and she had to fight the urge to linger behind everyone else and enjoy it.
Just as she felt the water beginning to get colder, the other side of the river came into view. A few seconds later, Malys had surfaced with a deep breath—
—that promptly choked in her throat when she saw the Stormcloak directly in front of her, hand rested on a highly polished steel sword. She barely managed to turn her cry of surprise into a hacking cough.
"That's why you don't go swimming in the White River, elf," said the guard disapprovingly. "'Specially not this time of day. Freeze the points of your ears off, you will."
Malys nodded, pulling her hood so far forward her entire face was almost concealed. "Sorry. I … I didn't feel like taking the long way around." Please don't know who I am, please don't know who I am—
The guard grunted. "There's a reason we have roads," he said brusquely to her and the other mages, who had hurried over to catch up with Malys. "Common sense—that's the only school that matters. We didn't have that, we'd all jump in the lake like you lot."
He turned around to resume his patrol. "You mages keep your noses clean while you're here, hear?"
"Hear, hear … damn Nords," Cosette said out of his earshot, not noticing Malys slump her shoulders and exhale in relief. "You'd think things would've changed after Ulfric got what he deserved."
"I … take it you supported the Empire?" Vinye asked hesitantly.
"I don't particularly like them, either," Cosette groused. "I just think everyone was a bunch of idiots for fighting such a pointless war."
"They fought for what they believed in," shrugged Vinye. "If I was a Legionnaire, that would be point enough for me. If you had a reason to fight in a war, would you?"
Silence.
"Cosette?"
The Breton didn't answer. Her pale face had turned unusually dark, but it was more brooding rather than threatening. At any rate, it made Malys uneasy, and she directed a glance toward Vinye, indicating that it might be best not to bother Cosette further about the subject. The Altmer furrowed her brow briefly, but nodded in reply.
They passed a few more Stormcloak patrols in silence before they reached the tiny settlement of Kynesgrove, but they were just far enough away that Malys did not need to worry about her being discovered. Still, the events of the day had taken their toll on her, and no sooner had she paid for a room at the Braidwood Inn and a pint of ale than she promptly collapsed on her bed. She had no recollection of falling asleep.
Jarl's Longhouse, Winterhold
A burly fist pounded on the door to the guard barracks. "Thorvald!"
The captain of the guard was more easily roused today than yesterday. "What is it, Yngmar?"
Yngmar pointed a thumb to the door outside. "Some priest here for you. Says he's here on account of our little problem from the other night."
"Then what in Stendarr's name is he doing outside?" Thorvald grunted. "Get him in here now—before we end up with another body to thaw!"
Not bothering to salute, Yngmar disappeared for a moment. When he came back a moment later, it was with a man in a simple yellow cassock. Beneath the hood, Thorvald could see a sizable grayish-white beard. The elder's left hand, surprisingly muscular in spite of its owner's age, rested on the hilt of a sword that—even through the thick cloth of his robes—glowed with a hundred candles' worth of light, which was a hundred candles more than enough to make Thorvald nervous.
"Lucius Anglinius," said the man. His voice was not at all the reedy wheeze Thorvald had been expecting; rather, it was loud and clear as his old war horn, and invited about as much debate. It also had an unmistakable Cyrodiilic accent, which made the Nord even more anxious—even though he had accepted that even someone ex-Legion was most likely an Imperial as well. "You have vampires, Captain."
It was not a question. "Aye," Thorvald answered tersely. "Right this way." He led the Imperial to the war room, where the bodies had been closely guarded since yesterday.
"Two of them, just showed up on the outskirts of town," he explained. "We can only guess why they were here—aside from creating more of their kind," he added in a growl. "They didn't get very far—both were dead by the time we found them in the snow."
He reached the bodies in question, and pulled back the linen wraps that covered their naked bodies.
The old man, meanwhile, had lowered his hood to reveal his balding head, and two snow-white eyes that took Thorvald aback. He's blind as a Falmer, he mused. How in the Nine did he find his way here? He can't have come on horseback—we don't have stables anymore! Just to be sure, he listened outside for whinnies and plodding hooves, but heard none.
Lucius was now hovering his left hand over one of the vampires. It was emitting a bright, warm light not unlike the one that seemed to come from his sword. Every few seconds or so, he would grunt to himself, nod, or otherwise make some sort of affirmation.
Then, finally, he stood back. "Just as I thought," he said. "Volkihar."
The word sent shivers through the guards present. Volkihar vampires were the most dangerous of their kind known to live in Skyrim. It was said they made their homes inside the frozen north, and could move through solid ice like it was water.
"How can you tell?" Thorvald asked, before he could stop himself.
Lucius chuckled darkly. "You think me a blind fool, Nord? I am not a fool, and neither am I blind. I merely do not require your light to see the truth laid bare before me."
Thorvald was confused. Our light?
"Sanguinare Vampiris is endemic to the Volkihar clan, and by extension, endemic to Skyrim," Lucius explained. "Though Poryphilic Hemophilia is much more common, it is seen mainly in my homeland, and rarely in Morrowind since the Argonians invaded. Neither clan would have much reason to venture so far to the north of Tamriel."
Despite his prejudice, Thorvald was impressed. He's certainly done his homework—and he's blind to boot. We could learn a thing or two from priests like him.
"But there are two things that disturb me," Lucius continued, stroking his beard. "One is that these vampires died in battle. They attempted to heal their wounds with their foul blood magic, but the scars yet remain." He stroked a gloved finger across the chest of the vampire before him. "Magically inflicted wounds, it seems—and judging from the extent of the scarring, I would surmise that these vampires were killed by ice magic."
Yngmar's ruddy face brightened. "Gretta!" he called to the woman outside the war room. "Didn't the College take in a new novice the night these vampires showed up?"
Gretta thought for a moment. "I … don't—wait, I think they might have! You're saying that novice was able to kill these two vampires?"
"Mm, that's the other thing that worries me—Volkihar vampires never travel alone, but most often they travel in groups of three." Lucius' voice was grim. "Which begs the question: why are there only two bodies here?"
The war room seemed to get a little colder as the implications of his words sank in.
"I must go to the College," Lucius said abruptly to Thorvald. "You no longer need me here. Bolster your nightly patrols, Captain. No one enters or leaves Winterhold without your knowledge. If you think them a vampire, detain them and inform me posthaste. Make sure you are absolutely thorough in your findings before you do so—better to detain one vampire than to detain a hundred innocent citizens."
Thorvald's head was spinning with all the orders. "You're asking me to do all that? Why?"
"Because Winterhold was not the first time."
There was a pregnant silence. "What?" Gretta asked.
"There's been two attacks on citizens in Solitude, and a third in Dawnstar," said Lucius. "All of them occurred over this past week. All of them occurred at night. And I can say with certainty that all the attacks were instigated by vampires." He paused to regard the effect of his words on the Nords. "The Volkihar have been growing bolder in their actions of late—and I aim to know to what end."
He unsheathed his glowing sword; Thorvald now saw that the light from under his robes was coming from an orb located where the grip met the blade. "I suggest you stand back," Lucius said shortly, turning the blade downward, angling it right at the heart of the vampire before him, and bringing it down with surprising strength.
There was an explosion of bright blue light, a rushing sound, and a rapidly expanding wall of deep blue fire that knocked Thorvald and the rest of the unprepared guards flat on their backs. When they managed to get back up a few seconds later, they saw that both bodies had been reduced to neat little piles of ash.
"What manner of blade is that?" exclaimed Yngmar. "Such power … "
"More to the point, what manner of priest are you?" said Thorvald accusingly. "Arkay's followers are rarely so armed."
Lucius chuckled as he walked to the door leading out to Winterhold. "I venerate Arkay with all the respect that he and the rest of the Eight Divines deserve," he said, emphasizing the number with blatant condescension. "But no, I do not worship him outright."
He opened the door. "I have pledged my life and service to Meridia," he said, zeal in his voice. "Through her and her token, the Dawnbreaker, I make sure that the dead and buried of Mundus stay dead and buried in Mundus."
With this declaration, Lucius departed the longhouse, leaving behind two very confused-looking Nords and a commander who, reluctant as he was to admit it to his compatriots, was now very, very uneasy.
So not only is he a Daedra worshipper, Thorvald thought, gritting his teeth, he's a fanatic Daedra worshipper. Wonderful—just what Skyrim needed.
"I'm not alone in this, am I?" Gretta wondered out loud. "In thinking that priest is going to spell trouble?"
"He's two pints short of a barrel of mead," Yngmar remarked, "but damned if he hasn't got the fire to match. If you're going to worry, Gretta, then worry at least about that vampire—assuming it's still out there, anyway."
Gretta laughed. "Heh—if that sword can turn a dead vampire to ash, then I'd like to see what it could do to an undead vampire!"
Thorvald, for his part, remained stoic. "I wish I had your confidence," he said softly. "I really do."
Eastmarch
The following morning saw Tolfdir, J'zargo, and the three novices setting out from Kynesgrove. They elected to stay on the road this time, so as not to encounter any more unwelcome threats (J'zargo had accepted this with some displeasure, but ultimately agreed).
They had also taken their time before leaving the inn; Malys was not the only one who had had something to drink before turning in for the night. But of the five, she was certainly the worst off; her stomach had not taken well to the ale at all, and even now, she was still tremendously tired. Most of the cause for the delay—and for her fatigue—had been due to have to clean up the mess of ale and vomit she'd made. It turned out that the proprietor of the Braidwood Inn had seen this a few times in his day—but then again, as the barman had angrily reminded Malys, they'd all had the decency not to throw up onto their bedspreads.
"Give me some sujamma any day of the week," she yawned.
The weather in Eastmarch was far more pleasant than in Winterhold. There were only a few clouds in the sky, and the wind was soothing rather than biting. Cosette loved it; she was acting so exuberantly that if it wasn't for the events of last night, Malys might have suspected they'd switched bodies somehow. That someone who was willing to kill without hesitation could act so joyfully was, in her opinion, even more unsettling than her normal mood.
"It reminds me of home," she explained to the Dunmer when Malys asked. "I lived in Markarth for a few years. I remember I'd always want to visit the Dwarven ruins under the city. The guards would never let us in, though."
"Speaking of Dwarven ruins," Tolfdir spoke up, "have a look over there." He pointed eastward with his finger, towards the cliffs in the distance.
Malys could barely see it through the trees, but there it was; the unmistakable combination of weathered gray stone carved to perfect smoothness, and gilded bronze metal, expertly crafted and fitted into the sculpted rock.
"That is Mzulft," J'zargo said. "J'zargo was inside those ruins not long ago."
"Not by yourself, I hope," Vinye said. "Those guards kept you out of the ruins for a reason, Cosette. The Dwemer may be gone, but they left a lot more behind than those machines of theirs."
"Khajiit are never alone, even when they appear to be," smiled J'zargo. "There were four of us who entered the ruins then. Perhaps you would like to hear about J'zargo's friends? He was much like you once, you know."
"Oh, this I have to hear," Cosette remarked.
"There was Brelyna Maryon," J'zargo said, ticking his claws off one by one. "Ah, you know the name, then?" he said at Malys' expression of recognition. "She comes from the line of the Telvanni wizards. Very clever elves, they were—more clever even than this one.
"Then there was Onmund. The Nords may not like magic, and neither did his family. But neither does a Nord back down from a challenge. And we saw many challenges in our time.
"And finally"—J'zargo's grin grew wider—"there was the Dragonborn."
As if to provide a dramatic moment, a strange sound, like a great beast roaring far off in the distance, echoed through the air.
Cosette scoffed. "That's a tall tale, even for you," she said skeptically.
"And you're saying you know something about the Dragonborn?" Malys retorted.
"I know enough about those old Nord legends," said Cosette. "That, and the big scaly monsters coming back for no other reason at all was a pretty big hint. But the Dragonborn doesn't need a place like the College. That kind of power isn't something you can just learn from a book."
Vinye nodded sagely. Tolfdir and J'zargo exchanged glances, and the old Nord cleared his throat. "Actually, Miss Ionsaithe, ever since the Dragonborn came to Winterhold, we've been in talks with High Hrothgar, where it just so happens 'that kind of power' is studied."
"Onmund is there now," added J'zargo. "Ever since the Dragonborn's return, he had hopes of being able to study and speak the Voice, and perhaps match him one day. It was not easy for the Greybeards to accept his plea—and J'zargo still does not know how or why—but they did."
"So he's not a student at the College anymore?" Vinye asked.
"In a sense, he still is," Toldfir said. "Students at Winterhold are essentially free to come and go as they please. We're not as structured as most institutions of magic in Tamriel—the Arch-Mages, both past and present, have long believed in a hands-off approach to education. They like to let the mages learn for themselves, you see."
"What about Brelyna?" Malys wanted to know. "If she's part of House Telvanni, she must be in Morrowind, I'm guessing."
"Oh, not all the time," Tolfdir answered. "The last time we spoke was a few years ago. She hoped to study under the Telvanni masters—family tradition, I'd imagine. At least one of them lives in Solstheim—a wizard by the name of Neloth. Our illusion master, Drevis Neloren, went with her—J'zargo has been doing a masterful job in his stead."
The Khajiit gave a little bow.
"They've expressed hopes to recolonize the mainland of Morrowind after everything that's happened over there," Tolfdir continued. "They send letters every so often, and things seem to be going rather well so far."
"That's nice of them," Malys said. "And what about this Dragonborn, then? What does a hero of prophecy have left to do once his prophecy is fulfilled?"
J'zargo was about to answer, but then an arrow thwacked into his hip.
As the Khajiit yowled in pain, everyone else sprang into action. Malys whirled to the west, where the arrow had come from. Bandits—four of them, from a campsite near the cliff. Three of them were rushing towards them, swords drawn and yelling battle cries. A fourth held back, and were already nocking more arrows.
"Stay behind me!" called Tolfdir. J'zargo herded the other mages behind the Master Wizard as best he could.
Quick as a flash, Tolfdir fired a lightning bolt at the lead thug. The attack hit the robber's broadsword, disintegrating it into lethal shards that ripped into the luckless Redguard's body. The hilt flew out of his hand, catching Malys in the leg and causing her to stumble. A second lightning bolt, this one from Vinye, caught the wounded bandit right in the chest, killing him instantly.
Cosette grit her teeth as another arrow found its mark, this time in her shoulder. She responded by unleashing two firebolts in rapid succession towards the archer. The woman evaded one with ease, but this put her in the path of the other. Her unprotected face took the full brunt of the blast, and she toppled off the cliff.
Malys, meanwhile, was doing her best to duck and weave the battleaxe of the Nord in front of her. The outlaw's charge had been so unexpected that her ice magic had hit nothing but air, so wildly had she been flailing about. Now, with her magicka depleted and no time to drink any of her potions, Malys could feel her heartbeat beginning to accelerate, and her vision was rapidly beginning to blur.
"You grayskins don't belong here!" bellowed the Nord. "Skyrim belongs to—"
Exactly who Skyrim belonged to, the Nord didn't have time to say: Malys, in a sudden burst of strength, had lashed out with her fist, and connected hard—right in the side of the Nord's exposed neck. The bandit toppled to the ground, unconscious.
The other mages looked stunned. Vinye was looking at Malys, head slightly tilted. Cosette and Tolfdir were wild-eyed. Even the remaining bandit had stopped attempting to land a hit on an equally distracted J'zargo—though the Khajiit, no stranger to distraction himself, quickly finished him off with a wave of his paw and an offhanded fireball.
As the dust settled, there was a very uncomfortable silence as the mages continued to look at Malys.
"What are you looking at?" the Dunmer snarled. Her voice was entirely different from before, now: it was keen as a razor, and so cold that the air around her had changed; it felt like the mages were still in Winterhold.
"Get going!" she hissed angrily. "I'll catch up with you later." She turned to the bandit. "This one is mine."
The four mages didn't need telling twice. At a hushed whisper from Tolfdir, they continued their journey to Riften at a noticeably faster pace—desperate to avoid whoever, or whatever, had managed to have that effect on Malys.
Once they disappeared over the ridge, She went to work.
Her hands danced with a gentle light; Her left hand enveloped the prone form of the bandit She was standing over, the other was a flickering green that extended over the nord's face. The combination of magic had a slow but sure effect; the bandit was slowly regaining consciousness.
She knew She only had a few seconds to mentally prepare herself. It had felt so long since She had done this—years, certainly, but it felt like decades or even entire centuries. The conditions weren't exactly ideal, either, but She would have to play with the hand She was dealt.
The bandit's eyes fluttered open.
Now.
"You're awake," She said. Simple, but soft and seductive—give him just a hint.
The nord looked around. His movements were sluggish. "What … what happened?" he asked, as he saw the bodies around him.
"They tried to turn on you," She lied.
The nord tried to get up, but She was upon him in an instant, pushing him back down with the weight of her body, spreading his arms outward with Hers. "No, no," She said in a falsely soothing voice. "Shh, shh, don't try to move. You've been injured. You need to rest. Don't worry—I'll take very good care of you."
The greenish glow of Her calm spell was beginning to fade.
"You … you did this! You killed them!" growled the nord as his senses finally came to him. he reached for his axe—only for a thin spike of ice to nail his palm to the road. his roar of anger turned rapidly to a bleat of agony.
Bad boy.
"What did Mistress tell you to do?" She asked, preparing another ice spike. When the bandit failed to answer, save for more pained gasps, She released the magic, impaling the Nord's other palm, pinning him helplessly to the road.
"Answer Me!" She screamed, slapping him in the face for good measure. Some ice magic was still left over; it had collected on Her hand after firing the ice spike. It shredded the bandit's face, causing him to scream again.
A curious sensation snaked through Her body at this. It certainly had been a long time, then, hadn't it?
"Don't move!" he said finally, muffled through the fresh blood running into his mouth. "You told me not to move!"
She smiled. "That's a good boy." Her hands glowed with the same magic as before, and passed over the bandit—healing his face, calming him once again. She knew the others would come back for Her eventually—but that did not mean She couldn't take Her time.
Her smile faded. "Will you tell Mistress your name?"
This time, She got a response much quicker. "gjavar," gasped the bandit.
"gjavar … what?" She asked. Her eyes flitted to the ice spike on Her left. She grinned wickedly, and shifted her position a little—enough to let the nord know exactly what She was about to do. She planted one of her armored boots on top of the spike, smiled warmly at him—
—and then drove her foot down hard, shifting her heel as she did so, and slowly, cruelly twisting the shard into gjavar's flesh. his screaming was as loud as any dragon.
"gjavar, what?" she repeated again.
"gjavar, Mistress!" he shouted.
"Thank you," She said. Good boy.
Another healing spell, another flash of green light. "Do you know who I am?"
gjavar frowned. " … Mistress?" he asked. his voice was as small and innocent as a child's.
She slapped him again, and She regretted She did not have any more ice left on Her hand this time. "you will not be smart with me," She said sharply. "It's too late for you to tell Me you've decided to grow a brain, s'wit."
She placed a boot on the other ice spike. "Now … who am I?" she asked once more.
gjavar thought for a few moments. "You're that elf," he finally recognized. "The mage with all the others."
She relaxed Her foot, but still kept it rooted to the ice shard. "And what did you say to 'that elf'?" She asked acidly.
"i … i called You a grayskin," he choked. Tears were beginning to stream down his cheeks, and She felt another twinge of euphoria ripple through Her at the sight.
"And?"
"And … and that Skyrim … belonged t—AUUUUGH!"
She had brought down her other boot on the ice spike, much harder than the first time, and gjavar's tortured screams surely much have been heard all the way back to Windhelm; they were so loud that She had to resist the temptation to cover Her ears from the volume.
"And that's why you've been a bad boy," She sneered, as gjavar slowly began to hold back a sob from the pain. "Skyrim does not belong to selfish little garbage like you, or any of your kind."
"Maybe not," gjavar said defiantly, choking back his tears, "but i belong to her."
She didn't even bother with a simple slap this time; angrily, She charged up another ice spike—this one longer and thinner than the other two—and fired it right into the nord's throat. There was an obscene choking noise, and gjavar's eyes widened until they were in danger of leaving his skull, but he did not cry out in torment this time.
"you do not belong to Skyrim," She hissed through clenched teeth, "you belong to Mistress, for as long as I wish!"
She moved Her foot towards the shard in his throat, intending to nail it in further and twist it just like before—
—and suddenly felt a strong hand clamp down on Her arm.
Malys gasped.
Tolfdir had arrived at the very last moment. The aged wizard was straining with all his might on Malys' arm with his right hand, while his left hand sent a stream of healing magic in Gjavar's direction. The bandit's scars sealed up after some time, and he slowly rose to his feet, gulping for air and coughing loudly.
"Go," Malys barely heard Tolfdir say to the bandit. He'd never sounded so stern.
Gjavar didn't need telling twice. "You mages are insane," he gasped out, backing away in a combination of hate and fear—though fear was clearly winning out. "You hear me? You're insane!" With that, he ran down the road in the direction of Windhelm, and did not look back—not even to notice he'd abandoned his axe on the shoulder.
Meanwhile, Tolfdir was doing his best to calm Malys down. She had relaxed enough to where he had gently released his hold on her, but that hadn't stopped her from feeling the onset of a textbook panic attack.
What was that? Why did I—no. That wasn't me. That can't have been me!
The Dunmer began to shiver, in spite of the warm air.
Liar. Bad girl.
Her muscles had seized up completely. She couldn't move, she couldn't breathe.
Malys.
That was a long time ago! That's not me!
Sweat was forming on her neck; her red eyes were rolling back into her head—
Mistress. Malys.
You. Are. Not! Me!
She felt herself falling down, down, a hundred Red Mountains put together, while simultaneously feeling her insides being sucked high into the heavens—
Malys. Malys!
Stay away from my children, you gray-skin slut!
"Malys!"
There was a bright flash of green light. The calming spell, coupled with Tolfdir's panicked shouting, had been enough to bring her out of her frightened state—but only just. She was still shaking visibly, tears rolling down her cheeks, but the Master Wizard was holding her now, embracing her as warmly as he would any of his grandchildren.
"It's all right, my dear," she heard him say. "It's all right … "
It wasn't until they met up with Cosette, Vinye, and J'zargo later that afternoon, as they stopped for a rest in Shor's Stone, that Malys felt comfortable enough to talk to Tolfdir.
" … When Gjavar called me gray-skin," she said over a mug of mead to help calm her nerves, "it set something off in me. I don't know how long it's been hiding, but … I'd managed to keep it under control for the past few years. It's … almost like another me—another Malys—only she isn't."
"A projection," Tolfdir mused, sitting across from her and listening attentively.
"Sorry?"
The old wizard twiddled his gnarled thumbs. "Understand, Miss Malys," he said, "there are many forces in Mundus and Aetherius that even the most learned of scholars know nothing about, least of all a doddering old fool like myself. And what goes on in here"—he tapped his balding head—"is only one of those forces.
"However, it would seem to me that you've been harboring these emotions, this hatred, for quite some time. Years, possibly, if what you've said is any indication. It also seems to me that you've been keeping a close eye on them … putting them under lock and key, as it were."
Tolfdir leaned forward. "To be sure, that's a very mature way to handle your emotions, Malys," he said seriously. "But you must take care not to overdo things. You tried to force too many old ghosts into that wardrobe—and had no one else been around … "
He let the implication hang in mid-air, and Malys gulped. "Emotions, for all their complexity, are much like magic, Miss Malys. Eagerness must be tempered with caution—"
"—or else disaster is inevitable," finished Malys, to a beaming look from Tolfdir. "But what should I do?" she asked. "Are you saying I should just go ahead and let that … that thing out of me?"
" … Yes, and no," replied the Nord. "Take J'zargo. A wonderful mage he's become—and yet he yearns for more. More adventure, more trinkets and riches … and more knowledge. Not being able to travel with the Dragonborn as in those days of old has put a damper on that. So how, might you ask, does he manage to stay the same Khajiit he was back then?"
Malys thought. "Well, if he already knows Expert-level magic … I'd just say he practices a lot."
"Exactly, my dear—practice and imagination," Tolfdir affirmed. "Perhaps that is the solution to your problem as well."
Malys frowned. "How exactly do I do that?"
Tolfdir laughed. "Come now, Miss Malys," he said. "If I gave away all my secrets, well, I wouldn't be a Master Wizard of Winterhold now, would I?"
The dark elf couldn't help but agree with that.
"Feeling better, then?" Tolfdir asked. When Malys nodded, he stood up. "All right, then, we should probably head to Riften before it gets too dark. Come on, let's go and fetch the others."
Malys hurried after him, feeling significantly better.
Of course, with the way their luck had been so far, there would be one more challenge they would yet have to face.
Riften
"Stop right there!"
"Ugh. Now what?" Cosette groused under her breath, as the two faceless guards in front of the city gate leveled their swords at the mages.
Tolfdir stepped forward. "Is something wrong, gentlemen?"
"City's closed off to outsiders," said the guard closest to them. "Orders of Jarl Laila Law-Giver."
"We were hoping to get some rooms at the Bee and Barb," Tolfdir explained. "Did the Jarl receive any word about a College expedition into the Jerall Mountains? If she did, then that expedition would be us." He indicated himself and the mages behind him.
"You don't want to go in the Bee and Barb," said the guard. "This damn war reached a new head last night. Six people died in there during the night. Horrible scene. Jarl Laila ordered city-wide evacuation this morning, and there's talk of martial law if this gets any worse."
"What war? What's going on in there?" Cosette asked.
The guard huffed, and lowered his sword. Motioning for his companion to do the same, he asked the mages, "You know of Maven Black-Briar?"
Tolfdir frowned. "The woman who ran that meadery? Who was killed a few years ago?"
"She didn't just run the meadery," the guard said condescendingly. "She ran all of Riften. But someone didn't like that. The scum went so far as to order a contract on her head."
"A contract?" Malys' eyes were wide. "You mean they contacted the Dark Brotherhood?"
"No," said the guard. "They contacted the Morag Tong."
"What?!" Malys was incredulous. The Morag Tong was an assassin's guild from Morrowind, similar to the Dark Brotherhood. But where the Brotherhood glorified Sithis, the Tong celebrated the Daedric Prince Mephala. "I heard the Tong disbanded a long time ago! Wiped out—forced into hiding!"
"So did we—but that little slip of paper we found stuffed in Maven's severed windpipe proved us wrong. All signs point to the Tong killing Maven Black-Briar. Except one—and this war's the proof of that."
"What do you mean?" Vinye asked apprehensively. Malys was wondering the same thing herself—it sounded like there was more to this so-called "war" than the guards were letting on.
"That's not your place to know, elf," snapped the guard. "All you need to know is that if the Tong really were behind Maven's death, we've have those murderers clapped in irons by now."
"So is that it, then?" Malys asked Tolfdir. "Are we just going to have to go around the city?"
The guard sighed again. "Listen, if you're that badly in need of a place to sleep, the Merryfair Farm's a stone's throw from here." He pointed westward, and indeed, there was a farmhouse very near to where they were. "Talk to the elf inside, he'll give you a place to sleep if you've got the money."
"Thank you," Tolfdir said. "Best of luck to you—the times are changing, but they are still as troubled as ever."
The guard merely grunted as the mages departed for the farm.
Vinye jumped with a little squeak as Malys nudged her in the ribs. "Please don't do that," the Altmer scolded her, recovering remarkably quickly from the scare. "I don't like being surprised."
"Sorry," Malys hurriedly apologized. "So, are you thinking what I'm thinking?"
"About the Morag Tong?" Vinye sighed. "You're from Morrowind, so I'd be surprised if you didn't know this already. But if the Morag Tong really killed Maven Black-Briar—writ and all—then whoever did the deed would have turned themselves in to the guards."
Malys nodded—that was how the Tong operated; they were a legally sanctioned assassin's guild, so they had to abide by the legal codes of the area where they carried out their duty to Mephala. "So the guards weren't just posturing," she said.
"Right," Vinye said. "And the Tong isn't legal outside Morrowind. Which can only mean one of two things: that Maven's murderer is a rogue Morag Tong … "
" … or they got tricked," Malys finished. Then, something hit her. "Wait, why are we even talking about this?" she asked Vinye. "We're mages of Winterhold, not assassins and murderers! This doesn't concern us." And I hope to Azura it never does, she thought.
Vinye thought about it for a moment, then shrugged. "Well … it certainly gave us something to talk about," she said hesitantly.
And with that, the two elves walked towards the farmhouse, each feeling that she might have just found a new friend in the other.
Next chapter: Who is the mysterious person behind Rkund and its excavation? What was the purpose of the ruins—and what connection does this person have to the College of Winterhold?