IV
It took a few moments for Solyn's words to sink in. The sounds of the Dwarven machinery seemed to magnify tenfold in the pause in conversation.
"Your … father?" Tolfdir finally asked. Gone was his jovial, avuncular attitude; now, the old Nord looked visibly rattled. "I don't remember Savos Aren ever talking about his family."
Solyn's face fell only a little—if he was disappointed, he certainly wasn't letting it show. "I can't say I'm surprised," he said heavily. "For the longest time, I tried asking him, son to father, to move on and change his mind. Perhaps if he had, House Telvanni might well have made a damn good wizard out of him.
"But Savos was adamant about Winterhold—even after the Great Collapse that nearly destroyed the city. He told me—rather forcefully at that—that his decision had nothing to do with proving himself through magic, but through acts of good faith for Winterhold and its people, so they might be able to stop blaming the College on that unfortunate incident."
He sighed. "Perhaps his heart was in the right place," he admitted. "Then again, he said the same words to me when I told him I had more interest in the history and culture of the Dwemer than in magic. Suffice to say, Savos and I got along less and less as we grew older."
Malys saw Tolfdir and J'zargo exchange glances. She'd not heard of this Savos Aren before, but clearly these two had been very close to him on some level in the past. It was clear that they hadn't been earlier informed of any of this—and they did not look pleased to hear it.
A sudden grating noise jolted her out of her pondering: the Dwemer machines were beginning to move again. The centurions were flexing their arms threateningly, and the wasps' soul gem 'stingers' were starting to crackle with electricity. Whatever this change in behavior implied, Malys wasn't sure she wanted to see for herself.
Solyn noticed this, too, and immediately his arms began to glow a bright green, all the way to his shoulders. He waved them this way and that for a few seconds, before slamming them down on the carved stone floor. A huge green sphere of energy erupted from the point of contact, washing over the automata like they were never there.
Then it was gone, as swiftly as it had been born, leaving only a faint green haze hanging over each automaton.
"Calming magic," Malys whispered in realization. He's controlling the automatons with just illusion magic? Vinye rounded on her, and the Dunmer knew she'd come to the same conclusion. That's master-level magic, at the least!
Who is this elf?
"That's impossible," Vinye said, shaking her head. "Automatons are just metal and steam. They shouldn't even have a mind to calm."
Solyn smiled. "I won't bore you with the details," he said, "but it can be done. I will say this, however—it's not exactly something every mage has the raw skill to accomplish. Such a feat is very rare, even among the Telvanni."
Malys couldn't resist a sidelong glare at Cosette. "'Illusion doesn't sound all that useful,' huh?" she smirked.
The look the Breton gave her in return would have burned through solid ebony.
"So what in the world brought you to this little corner of Skyrim?" Tolfdir asked, clearly anxious to change the subject. "You said that even the Dwemer didn't know about this city?"
Solyn nodded. "Correct. I'm a scholar of the Dwemer in Morrowind, although the Argonian invasion forced me to, shall we say, travel abroad for a while. It wasn't until recently that I came across a set of tomes inside a Dwemer ruin in the Redoran District. They were ruined through and through, but I managed to translate enough of the books to discover the existence, and the location, of this citadel. Further research alluded to a rebellion among the Dwemer clans, shortly before the end of the War of the First Council, and their subsequent disappearance."
"A rebellion?" Tolfdir was intrigued. "Over what, precisely?"
Solyn was silent for a moment. "How much do you know," he said, "about Kagrenac's Tools?"
Malys gasped. She indeed knew what they were—every Dunmer knew of the profane Tools that had changed their ancestors, the Chimer. "They were some of the most powerful artifacts the Dwemer ever made," she said softly. "Keening, Sunder, and Wraithguard—they were created by the Tonal Architects to control the Heart of Lorkhan and ascend to godhood."
"And we all know how that turned out," Solyn sighed mournfully. "There was a popular theory among the dwarves before their disappearance that using the Tools on the Heart would lead to their undoing—a theory that was rebutted by Bthuand Mzahnch and his discourse, The Egg of Time. Well, we scholars would say rebutted—although a number of Dwemer instead believed at the time that it had been forcibly suppressed."
Vinye still looked skeptical, but her expression was slowly turning into a kind of quiet awe. "Are you saying the Dwemer censored the majority opinion of their entire population?" she said.
"If those tomes I found were any indication, then yes," answered Solyn. "As you can well imagine, some of the Dwemer didn't like that, and a respectable band of them deserted their clans in disgust. They journeyed to this place, and they constructed this entire ruin in secret. After it was completed, they planned to steal Kagrenac's Tools from the Chief Tonal Architect himself, and bring them here to be sealed away for all eternity."
Malys was thunderstruck. Looking around, she saw similar expressions on Cosette, Vinye and J'zargo. Tolfdir, however, still looked very worried, and she couldn't blame him. Stealing Kagrenac's own Tools—that's thievery worthy of the Guild, if that's true.
Solyn motioned to the three platforms around him. "Please, see for yourself," he invited.
Malys felt her legs moving numbly to the nearest podium. From a distance, it looked unremarkable. But now that she was much closer to it, she could see a T-shaped alcove carved into the rock—large enough, she surmised, to hold a fairly small hammer.
And then, as if that hammer had just delivered a crushing blow to her chest, she staggered back.
Sunder.
Suddenly Malys was sprinting to the next platform, and out of the corner of her eye she could see the others following suit, interested to see why she was suddenly so excited. This next plinth also bore a unique indentation, just the right shape and size to fit a large dagger.
Keening.
By the time she reached the third platform, Malys already knew what would await her, and yet the shock and awe still came. This carving was larger than the other two: a pair of armored, life-size hands, folded together in a V as if in prayer.
Wraithguard.
"By Azura," she whispered, unable to believe this was happening, that this was all true. The end of the Dwemer … the transformation of the Chimer … all of it caused by three little tools. And they could have been here, right here in front of me …
"Yes," Solyn said, and Malys wondered if he had read her mind. "It's almost enough to wish the Dwemer were still here, isn't it?
"Unfortunately," he said sorrowfully, "for the Dwemer, there was no if—only when. The rebels knew from the beginning that their actions would eventually be discovered, no matter how much planning they did; they could only hope they succeeded before they were exposed. Alas, the tomes I translated say that Rkund was sacked not twenty years after the first stone was laid. Its architects and citizens—even the women and children—were dragged back to Morrowind, and summarily executed."
Vinye looked unusually pale as she bowed her head, and Cosette wore an expression that suggested she'd suddenly experienced a very nasty taste in her mouth.
"Which brings us back to where we began," Solyn said, "and why I have called you all here."
"Go on," Tolfdir said apprehensively.
"For the longest time while I studied the Dwemer," Solyn said, "I entertained the slightest possibility that maybe—just maybe—there would come a day when the Dwemer would return to Tamriel, and all the mysteries they left behind would be solved at last. But ever since discovering Rkund and its history, I've begun to question if such an endeavor would be worth it in the end. The Dwemer did great and wondrous things, it is true, but they also committed many atrocities against their own race and others. And the risks, I fear, would far outweigh the rewards.
"So I've decided to give up pursuing the subject of their return. It pains me to say it," Solyn amended, seeing Tolfdir pull a double-take in confusion, "but there are some secrets that should remain so."
"But … the Dwemer," Vinye breathed, perhaps unable to believe that such a powerful wizard could be defeated simply by sheer reluctance. "How can you just give up on them? Don't you at least want to know where they disappeared?"
Solyn fixed her with a stern glare. "There are mysteries of Aetherius, young mage, that neither the Daedra nor the Divines will ever solve," he said solemnly, "and the disappearance of the dwarves is one of them."
Vinye's argument died on her lips, and she closed her mouth. Deep down, Malys knew Solyn was right, but there was one more question that was bothering her. "What does all that have to do with us?"
"Straight to business, aren't you," Solyn said approvingly. "Very well. I will remain here and see this excavation through to the end. Until the last bit of rock has been cleared, which I estimate will take some more months, I would like you and your College to bring as many relics of the Dwemer as you can spare to Rkund. I will make sure your institution is handsomely compensated for your efforts."
Immediately upon hearing the phrase "handsomely compensated," J'zargo emptied all his pockets in one fell swoop, and a massive amount of gears, levers, and other Dwarven trinkets Malys didn't recognize fell to the stone floor with a cacophonous rattling noise. The Dunmer laughed in spite of herself, and Cosette merely slapped her scarred hand over her eyes.
Solyn didn't seem fazed at all. "I adore initiative as much as the next mer," he smiled, "but I'm not looking for just any old Dwarven artifacts. Only the oldest and most powerful of their creations will do."
That was when it hit Malys. "You want Kagrenac's Tools."
Everyone was silent, and—if only for the slightest moment—Solyn looked understandably unnerved to see five pairs of eyes fixed accusingly on him. But he recovered quickly.
"Yes," he said, surprisingly casual given the circumstances. "But there are older, and perhaps more powerful relics as well. Many Dwemer died to make this Reliquary possible—and I can think of no better way to honor them than to fulfill their dream at last. Kagrenac's Tools, and all the other paragons of the dwarves, will be sealed here forever—and Tamriel shall be all the safer for it."
He looked Tolfdir in the eye. "Do we have a proposition, then?" he asked.
Malys could almost see the wheels turning in the Master Wizard's mind. Surely he knew as well as Malys did that the locations of the Tools had been lost. The last to possess them had been the Nerevarine, and that legendary hero had journeyed far to the east, it was said, and perished in Akavir two hundred years ago.
If she was honest, Malys was interested in finding the Tools, but not looking forward to finding all three. Those artifacts had given the Tribunal godhood, but at the expense of their own people. Solyn was right to honor the Dwemer and the Dunmer for what the Tools had done to both races, she felt. But the prospect of their reunion—even if he was trying to bury the proverbial hatchet—was too much to think about.
Toldfir finally stepped forward, his mind apparently made up. "I think it would be best if we returned to Winterhold for the time being," he said definitively, "and asked our Arch-Mage to consider your offer. We'll send a courier with our decision by week's end."
For a moment, Solyn looked as though he wanted to negotiate terms for a little while longer before he cleared his throat. "All right, then," he said, smiling genially at Tolfdir. The old Nord didn't smile back. "I eagerly await it."
He nodded perfunctorily at the rest of the mages. "And I look forward to doing business with Winterhold's best and brightest," he added, before stepping off into the shadows.
"We should probably take our leave," Tolfdir murmured, glancing left and right at the charmed Dwemer machines. "There's no telling when that calming magic is going to wear off."
Malys and the others were only too happy to agree.
None of them remembered how long it took them to find the exit to the lost Dwarven city—it might have been many hours, or mere minutes. Each of the five mages had too much on their minds to really pay attention.
"This could be beneficial for us," Malys heard J'zargo say in a hushed tone to Tolfdir, as they rounded the corner to the final set of doors that separated them from Skyrim. "Perhaps more so for the College, and even for the city of Winterhold."
Tolfdir said nothing.
"This one is troubled, perhaps?" J'zargo asked cautiously. "Khajiit will listen."
"Mm … I'm afraid I'm not quite sure," the Master Wizard murmured. "I don't know if I should just brush it off as an old man's intuition … but that wizard, Solyn. For him to just come out of the blue the way he did … "
"Then you think Solyn was not being honest."
"I wish I knew for certain," Tolfdir mused. "But you were at Savos' funeral, J'zargo. You saw how few people outside of the College came to the service. Why, the only dark elves there were Drevis and dear Brelyna. Not a hint of his family at all!"
J'zargo smoothed his mustache with a claw, apparently deep in thought. "Like father, like son," he finally said. "Perhaps Savos' father did not approve of his decision either, and disowned him for it?"
There was a long period of silence.
"J'zargo, my boy," Tolfdir said, his voice tired but final, "I think, for right now, it would be best if we not discussed this any further."
The Khajiit seemed to take the hint, and Malys only caught the slightest nod from him.
They pulled open the final doors, and Malys had to shield her eyes as the bright sun blinded her. That was odd, she thought. We were in there for who knows how long—I thought it would be nighttime by now!
"Hold it right there."
It was only at that moment that Malys realized that it wasn't daytime—and that that light wasn't coming from the last rays of the now-setting sun.
No less than ten guards—from Riften, judging by the color of their cloaks and the crossed daggers painted on their shields—had surrounded the mages in a semicircle, brandishing every kind of weapon imaginable from battleaxes and torches to bows and arrows. Tolfdir immediately raised his hands in the air, and indicated the others should all do the same.
"What is the meaning of this?" J'zargo said indignantly.
"What does it look like, cat?" one of the guards shot back. "You're under arrest, the lot of you!"
Malys went rigid. Under arrest?!
"On whose authority?" Cosette asked defiantly.
"Mine." The bright light that Malys had previously assumed to be from the sun dimmed suddenly, and revealed another man in the middle of the formation, wearing a yellowish-brown robe and a triumphant smirk.
He was advanced in years, Malys could see, perhaps even as much as Tolfdir, and his eyes were a uniform milky white. But the strength of the light emanating from his hand left her in no doubt that this man was far more than just an ordinary guard—and perhaps more than just an ordinary mage.
"Malys Aryon," said the old man. He was looking right at her, in spite of his blindness, and the Dunmer instinctively knew this was not so much a question as it was an order.
"Who wants to know?" she replied warily.
The old man smiled with the leer of the cat that'd just caught the mouse. "In the name of the Lady Meridia," he said, "I arrest you, 'mage of Winterhold', under suspicion of the crimes of seditious conspiracy—and vampirism."
One day earlier
"Vampirism?" Colette Marence showed genuine shock at the word. "You're telling us one of our novices is infected with vampirism?"
"Vampirism is not some mere infection," Lucius told her, as he paced the floor of Arch-Mage Grimnir's quarters. "It is a blight on this world; one that should never have existed, nor should have any right to."
"Nevertheless," the hooded Nord to Colette's right gently said, "this is a very serious allegation you are making, priest. I should hope you have some proof of this."
Lucius cleared his throat. "The night before this one," he began, "two bodies were recovered on the edge of the city limits. The town guard deemed them to be vampires, and thought it wise to send for me."
Faralda jerked her head upwards; Lucius made a mental note of this reaction. "Those two bodies I saw … I had thought they were merely bandits. And now you're saying—"
"They weren't," Lucius finished for her. "I was able to identify the telltale signs of Sanguinare Vampiris. Those so-called 'bandits' were Volkihar vampires. Their activity has increased of late, and they represent a more serious threat to Skyrim than ever. Such a serious threat, I feel, warrants such a serious accusation, Arch-Mage—and demands equally serious action!"
"And we still demand proof of this accusation," Phinis Gestor said heatedly. "And if you don't offer it to us this instant, I will personally have you escorted from the grounds until such a time that you do!"
"Phinis," Grimnir grunted warningly. The Breton sucked air through his teeth, but said nothing further.
Lucius growled a little bit—he had expected such learned and experienced mages to recognize the severity of the situation. "I studied the ways of the vampire as a Vigilant of Stendarr, before I took up Meridia's burden," he explained. "These creatures seldom travel alone, and almost always in groups of three.
"Knowing this, and having examined—and summarily disposed of—the two bodies, I then made for your College to seek the third. The guards had informed me that someone had arrived at your gates, on or about the same time as the vampires' attempted attack."
"'Attempted?'" Faralda frowned suspiciously. " … How exactly did these vampires die?"
"My examinations revealed massive puncture wounds to their vital organs. They were more consistent with magickal means of attack than from physical weapons. Ice magic, more to the point."
"So a novice fended off two vampires?" Phinis crossed his arms. "All that seems to prove is that we've picked up a damn good novice."
"Although," Faralda said, "I seem to remember that Dunmer being injured when I tested her for entry."
"Dunmer?" Lucius instantly became alert—now they were making progress. "What Dunmer?"
"The last novice I let through was a Dunmer. It's possible she might be who you're talking about."
Lucius looked Grimnir directly in the eye—or at least, where he thought there might be eyes. "Where is she now?" he demanded.
Grimnir pondered this. "I would imagine she's in the Rift," he said, "within the Dwarven ruins of Rkund. She is with a number of our other mages there."
Lucius swore under his breath, and silently begged Meridia's pardon. "Then you have made things infinitely more complicated than they had any right to be," he said. "A vampire is a serious threat—a Dunmer vampire is even more so. And you, Arch-Mage, chose to commit an incredible act of folly, and let it loose!"
Colette was incensed. "How dare you! We had no prior knowledge that this Dunmer might possibly be a vampire!"
"Nor do you have any knowledge on the matter, Master Anglinius," Faralda added. "Thus far, all you've offered for proof is conjecture. And you're asking us to hand over one of our own students on such a flimsy basis?"
Lucius sprang to his feet, his sightless eyes sparking with fury. "I am a priest of Meridia!" he protested. "I am bound by honor and duty to carry out her wishes and purge this world of all traces of the false life! I am not obligated to answer to your mundane institution!"
Colette lost her temper. "You are obligated to abide by our judgment!" she shouted, rising from her chair as well. "And we judge this to be an internal matter. Neither you, the Vigil, nor your mistress have any power in this!"
"You are aiding and abetting a creature of the night!" bellowed Lucius. "I would have you judged as such for allowing this corruption to flourish on Tamriel!"
"ENOUGH!"
Grimnir's roar was so loud that it shook the rafters. Colette and Lucius quieted down immediately, and turned to look at the Arch-Mage, who was quietly rising to his feet.
"Madame Marence, you will not make such decisions on my behalf," Grimnir rumbled from under his hood. "Master Anglinius, you will not antagonize my staff or my students under any circumstances."
He heaved a sigh, and sat back down. "Now—that having been said," he continued calmly, "I consider this within the College's territory. Therefore, we will conduct our own investigation into the matter. However,"—Grimnir held up a gloved hand in Colette's direction—"however, I will allow you to journey to Rkund, and escort our mages back within College grounds. I trust that they will come to no harm."
Lucius said nothing, but remained at his feet. Colette directed a very angry look at him.
"And a word of warning, priest of Meridia," Grimnir said, the already low temperature of the chamber dropping further still with every word he spoke. "One of the mages there is my Master Wizard; I am already expecting a full report from him on his findings. And if I learn from him that my trust in you has been misplaced, then neither the Daedra nor the Divines will save you from me."
He stood up abruptly. "That will be all." He turned to Colette. "Show him to the Hall of Countenance; he can sleep in Mirabelle's old quarters for the night."
"Yes, sir," said Colette acidly, stalking out of the chamber. Lucius followed after her.
"I think you'd best explain yourself," Tolfdir said warily, crossing the distance between himself and Malys in a few strides and standing protectively behind her. "Vampirism is a very serious accusation to make."
"So I've been told," Lucius Anglinius said dismissively. "Your College made that very clear." He proceeded to explain, for the third time in two days, the circumstances of his initial arrival in Winterhold.
Malys grew more flabbergasted with every word he spoke. She had assumed the vampires were the stuff of legend—they were virtually unknown in Morrowind, though she had heard the old stories about the Quarra and Berne tribes. Now, to hear that not only did they exist, but that she had killed two of them? She was unsure whether to feel elated or terrified at this news.
"When did you first arrive at the College?" Lucius asked.
Terrified it is, then, she thought. "Um … three nights ago?"
"When did you first encounter the vampires in Winterhold?"
Malys frowned. "The same night I came to the College," she said awkwardly, as though it was common knowledge. "Are you trying to say they infected me?"
"It wouldn't matter," Vinye piped up, off to Malys' left. "Sanguinare Vampiris isn't the same as vampirism—not unless you spend too much time without treating it. Cosette over here"—she indicated the Breton—"gave her an antidote for a skeever bite she had earlier this morning; I watched her make it, and I watched Malys take it."
"Why should we believe you, Thalmor bitch?" one of the guards said brashly, leveling his sword at her.
For a long moment, Malys thought those would be his last words; so terrible was the look on Vinye's olive face. But the high elf inhaled deeply and stared at the guard with cold fury. "Were I as civilized as you," she whispered, loud enough for him to hear, "I would burn you for your words, and burn your ashes until nothing of you was left."
"Now, now," Lucius said, smiling like a father chastising his squabbling children. "There's no need for any of us to be so vulgar. I did not come all this way just so we could open old wounds between nations."
As he lowered his blade, Malys heard the guard mumble what sounded like "Speak for yourself."
"Well, there you are," she said, feeling a little better in spite of the continued tension. "I'm sorry to say this, but I'm afraid you came out all this way for nothing. If these vampires even infected me at all, I was cured this morning. So, if you'll just be a good boy and send us on our way—"
"I'm afraid it's not that simple," Lucius interrupted. That smile was still on his face, but the exasperation had been replaced by something like exhilaration—something that made Malys even more worried. "Where were you on the night before you came to Winterhold?"
Malys stopped. That was a question she hadn't been expecting. Neither, apparently, had Tolfdir. "How is that even relevant?" he demanded.
"All in good time, Master Wizard," Lucius said knowingly. "Now, please answer my question, and we won't have to do anything we might come to regret."
Realizing she had little choice but to comply, Malys thought … and thought …
… and thought.
Nothing.
"I … " she finally stammered, shaking her head, "I don't know."
Bad girl.
Nothing.
Lucius furrowed his brow. "Surely you must remember something," he said, in what he must have assumed was a reassuring voice.
I remember. The wicked voice echoed in her head, hissing like a snake.
You again?!
I remember everything.
"I don't … I don't remember." She was beginning to shiver again.
Then be a good girl. Open it up.
Why can't I remember?
Her joints had locked into place; her feet were frozen to the stone.
"I don't know," she mumbled again. "I don't remember … "
Rip it apart. You've done it before.
I can't—
"Where is the nest from whence you came, vampire?" Lucius shouted. Flecks of spittle landed on her cheek and in her ear. "Tell me!"
Tear it to shreds, you lying little whore …
Nothing—
"I don't know!"
It was only when she screamed the words that Malys realized she was crying. Tolfdir immediately came up to put a comforting arm around her, and he rounded on Lucius with undisguised anger.
"Now look what you've done!" he cried. "Have you no sense of tact or shame? Would you be little more than a common bully to satisfy your mistress? It's perfectly clear this poor woman has no idea what you're talking about!"
If Lucius was at all moved by Malys' display of emotion, he didn't show any sign at all, other than his heavy, barely controlled breathing. "She is being deliberately uncooperative," he said. "And you, Master Wizard, are treading a very dangerous line. Your Arch-Mage has ordered me to escort you back to your College, that they might begin their own investigation regarding her."
The wizened Nord straightened a little at this, clearly surprised.
"As for myself," Lucius went on, still taking heaving breaths, "I am not persuaded. There are too many unknowns, all of which will yield no proof whatsoever if we continue to bicker like unruly children. Fortunately, I have a more … definitive way to separate the un-life from the living."
He reached into his robe, and drew out a shining sword. It looked a little short for a man his size, but he still looked as though he could use it. The guard was perfectly round, and almost nonexistent against the wide, sizzling blade; in its center, suspended in midair between the blade and the handle, was a blinding orb of light.
"This is Dawnbreaker," Lucius said reverently. "An ebony blade bathed in the light of the Colored Rooms, where Meridia makes her realm, and which burns away all manner of corruption and false life."
The mages immediately tensed up, and flames licked Tolfdir's hands. "Now you go too far!" he declared. "You will not kill her simply to prove that you were right all along!"
"I don't intend to kill her," Lucius said simply, raising the blade level with Malys' neck, but keeping it a good six inches away. The Dunmer did not find anything about his words or actions relaxing. "If she has been cured, or was never affected at all, then she will be unscathed. But if the foul taint of the Volkihar lies in her blood—or indeed, that of any other of their breed … well, that punishment is not mine to give," he shrugged.
He raised the light below the blade to his lips. "May Meridia's radiance cleanse you … "
Suddenly, that light blossomed into a beacon that shone like the sun. An eerie, glowing energy rushed along the blade, lengthening into a second, larger blade more appropriate for a broadsword.
" … body, mind, and soul," Lucius intoned. He twirled Dawnbreaker effortlessly, and sliced.
Malys only had time to register the mages' cries of disbelief before the ethereal blade passed through her neck like it wasn't even there. A force like a hot, blunt knife followed in its wake, and she staggered to the ground in shock.
The first thing she noticed as she hit the stone floor was that she felt the impact, first on her back, and then her head. The second thing she noticed was that this meant the nerves in her spine had not been compromised by the blade, meaning she felt every bit of that painful blunt-knife force traveling through her body, which in turn meant—
I'm … not dead?
Quickly as her aching body could let her, she clambered up to her feet. Lucius was staring at her with an odd look on his face, like a heavy weight had just been swung into it. The rest of the mages, and every single one of the guards as well, were dividing their attention between him and Malys with the same look of bewilderment.
"You are clean," Lucius finally declared, though it was clear that even he didn't want to believe his own words. But Malys could see the gears turning in his head; she knew as well as he did that to contradict the verdict of a Daedric Prince was tantamount to blasphemy. There was only one thing he could do now.
"Stand down," he said to the guards, who promptly sheathed their weapons—some more reluctantly than others. Malys let out a breath she didn't realize she was holding.
Tolfdir had recovered from the shock, and now looked very angry indeed. "Well, I hope you're satisfied," he snapped, brushing off his robes as he glared at Lucius. "The Arch-Mage will be informed of this harassment. And there will be no further investigation into this matter, I can promise you that—on our end, or on yours!"
He turned to the mages. "We're leaving for Merryfair Farm," he said, without any trace of his former geniality and bluster. "We'll take the first carriage from Riften at dawn … and I think it would be best if we avoided any more unwelcome distractions during our journey," he added, looking behind his shoulder at Lucius, who still hadn't moved from his spot, and was gazing from Malys to Dawnbreaker and back again in a strange way.
"Come along, then," Tolfdir said quietly, a little more calm and gentle now, "before Meridia's 'faithful priest' has another half-baked reason to hold us here."
And on that note, the five mages set on their return journey. The sun had already set by the time Rkund disappeared from view, but none of them wanted to risk a look back at the shrinking speck that was Lucius.
Though she had no doubt that everyone was at least incredibly confused about all the things that had transpired today, Malys' thoughts were in especial turmoil—and her brush with death was only the least reason for this.
She didn't want to talk about her sudden lapse of memory with Tolfdir. For one thing, he would probably dismiss it as a result of the pressure from Lucius. And while that was true—to a point—Malys was less and less sure about how 'sudden' this loss of memory really was.
The loss was not a complete one, thankfully; while she had been frantically dredging for something to remember, the taste of the hackle-lo ash yams her mother loved to serve had appeared on her tongue, as fresh as if she'd just downed a whole steaming plateful of them. She remembered Skyrim, too; she remembered the snow and biting cold, a sharp contrast to the hell that Morrowind was now—
And she remembered Windhelm.
"Go back under the ash where you belong!"
She shivered. First, there had been Gjavar, that bandit from the other day, and that … thing inside her. Now there had been this blackout in her memory, and that thing was talking to her now? Malys failed to repress a shudder.
What is happening to me?
The question never left Malys' mind, even as they reached Merryfair Farm and pitched their bedrolls for the night, or even as she lay there under the stars, her red eyes wide open in fear, refusing to shut for an instant.
Outside Fort Kastav
"Malys, you look awful."
Sunlight crept over the mountaintops as the mages' carriage traveled over the road to Winterhold at a fair clip (Tolfdir had paid the driver extra to go double time). The Dunmer had woken to Cosette sneaking glances under her hood, and the Breton was looking at her with an unusual amount of concern.
Malys knew Cosette was right—she had slept very little last night, and very badly. She had dreamed Gjavar had returned with some friends and abducted her in her sleep. She'd woken up in Windhelm, inside an alley within the Grey Quarter, surrounded by narrow, burning eyes and fanged mouths that screamed curses and threats at her in the same voice she always imagined the "other Malys" to speak in. She had tried to escape the city, but the faceless, roiling mob had cornered her at every turn. Then it had solidified into the emotionless, ghostly face of Lucius, whose jaws—complete with hundreds of miniature Dawnbreakers for teeth—closed in around her, the blades piercing her flesh like needles. She had woken with a start, and had failed to get any more sleep until after they'd boarded the carriage at dawn.
"Tolfdir thought you were having a seizure," Cosette said grimly, after Malys had given an—albeit filtered—summary of her dream. "I thought he was going to paralyze you. For your own health," she added hastily as Malys became alarmed.
"It was just a dream," she shrugged—oh, if wishes were fishes, she thought ruefully. "Maybe once we get back to Winterhold, I can take a nice, long nap.
"Speaking of, where are we?" She yawned, stretching her arms as wide as she could—sleeping in armor was extremely uncomfortable, even if it was mer-made. The air was cold, and she felt snowflakes on her face. "Are we close to the College?"
"It'll be a while," Vinye answered from further up the wagon. "We passed Windhelm an hour ago—we'll be going through Kastav Pass soon. From there, it's a near straight shot back to Winterhold."
Malys exhaled. "That makes me feel a lot better," she said truthfully. "Those Stormcloaks weren't acting suspicious about us at all, were they, Vinye?"
The Altmer didn't answer.
"Vinye?"
Malys frowned, and looked at the front of the carriage. Vinye was not there; and she saw Tolfdir and J'zargo looking over the edge of the wagon. Both looked deeply concerned. Malys followed their lead—and puzzlement gave way to complete shock.
Vinye was sprinting alongside the cart, her long legs keeping her almost neck-and-neck with the carthorse's gait. Malys only saw her face for a split second; there was a grim determination in her green eyes and dead-set jaw, and no indication that the cart or its occupants existed to her. A burst of athleticism that Malys would never have expected from the high elf suddenly chose that moment to appear, and Vinye slowly pulled away from the cart.
Malys followed the road, and saw three humanoid forms in the distance, coming up in the opposite direction. They did not appear to be aware of anything out of the ordinary—least of all aware of Vinye, who as far as Malys could tell was heading straight for them.
"What in the world is she doing?" Tolfdir mused out loud.
His answer came in the form of a violent battle cry from Vinye, whose body was beginning to glow blue—followed by more magickal lightning than Malys had ever remembered seeing in her life. Lightning bolts flew in every direction; some of them hit the carriage, sending splinters of wood flying everywhere and scaring the carthorse to a skidding halt.
And in the thick of it, Malys could see Vinye locked in a battle to the death with the three figures, who—now that she had a closer look—were all high elves, wearing polished armor not unlike her own. One of them was already dead, his corpse cooling rapidly in a pile of snow.
Meanwhile, Vinye was turning and twisting like a miniature tornado, never stopping for a moment to catch her breath, or to give in to the thrill of killing, like the other Malys had done three days ago. No—what Malys was witnessing must have been familiar territory to Vinye; as they drew closer, she could see she was wearing the same impassive face as before. It was nothing short of a one-sided massacre—no, it was more than that, she thought.
It was routine.
She'd done this before, Malys realized—somehow, she knew how these elves fought, knew their strengths and weaknesses, their attacks and defenses; and Vinye knew how to exploit them all.
Lightning coiled around her hands like twin whips, now, thrashing this way and that without any care what they hit—or who, apparently, as Malys hastily ducked a bolt that sailed inches over her head. Another bolt ripped through a second elf's chest, reducing his heart to cinders in a mere moment.
With one last war cry, Vinye released a final blast of lightning from each hand. The bolts sailed in opposite directions, reduced the trees they bounced off to kindling, and electrocuted the last, luckless elf behind her. He toppled to the road, and the dagger that fell from his dead fingers clanged noisily on the stones.
There was absolute silence as the odor of charred flesh mixed with a dry, musty scent that smelled familiar to Malys: it was the same scent she had smelled that first night in the College—the scent of a thunderstorm.
No one wanted to say anything, especially not since Vinye was walking back to the carriage, as calmly as though this massacre had never even taken place. The Altmer took her seat, and took several deep, even breaths before she finally spoke.
"I would … really appreciate it if you never mentioned this to anyone," she said to the group, as the carriage began to move again.
"What in the blazes was that all about?" hollered the driver.
"Nothing you need to worry about," Vinye snapped. "They're dead—they don't know anything now," she added under her breath.
Cosette peered over the carriage at one of the bodies. Her eyes widened. "Those were Thalmor Justiciars," she said, turning back to look accusingly at Vinye. "You'd better damn well believe we're worried."
Thalmor—the word stirred something in Malys' memory. "Those elves were with the Aldmeri Dominion?" she gasped.
The Justiciars were the enforcers of the Dominion, far off in the Summerset Isle. Arrogant and supremacist—and in the eyes of some Nords, genocidal—they were believed to be the true instigators behind the Stormcloak Rebellion, according to High King Varulf. Even before that insurrection, though, they had very few supporters in Skyrim.
But the fact remained that no one was enough of an idiot to threaten even one of the Thalmor with lethal force, let alone three. Malys was still looking wild-eyed at Vinye with this in mind.
"What is it with you and the Thalmor?" she asked, the encounter with that wood elf and that one town guard coming back to her. "Did they—" Malys paused here, uncertain of how to politely phrase this, "get to your family? Is that why you're here, all by yourself?"
Vinye inclined her head, and Malys was surprised to see her green eyes swimming with tears. "No," Vinye said. Her voice was hard as a diamond. "You don't want to know what they did."
Malys recoiled at the forcefulness in Vinye's words.
"I don't know how long you've been in Skyrim," the Altmer continued. "I don't know if you take the words of the Nords at face value. But you probably hear them talk about the Thalmor—how oppressively they treat anyone who believes in nine Divines instead of eight, how they think Nords are nothing but diseased beasts to be put down."
She looked Malys in the eye. "And if you think they're exaggerating," she said, leaning far too close to her for comfort, "then you're wrong. Because the same thing happened in Alinor when they came to power, and it was still going on when I left for Tamriel. I know what the Thalmor are truly capable of—because I was there to see it."
She returned to her resting position to blank stares from Malys and Cosette. The two mages exchanged looks with one another, and Malys shrugged.
Might as well …
"I don't like the Nords," the Dunmer said, "and I don't particularly care what they think about the Thalmor—or what they think about anything else, for that matter. Their thoughts were enough to run me out of Windhelm a long time ago. I'm still not sure why they did it," she said—
You aren't—but I am.
Oh, be quiet, you fetcher.
—"I mean, they probably just didn't want any more dark elves in their city, for all I know … but one thing's for sure: I can never go back to Windhelm."
Vinye looked wounded. "Is that why you wanted to take the long way around the city?" she asked, referring to the first leg of their trek through Skyrim.
Malys nodded.
"And the armor—?"
She nodded again. "Like I said, you can never be too careful."
Both of them now turned to Cosette, who at first was taken aback by their expectant stares. "What?"
"Don't tell me you don't have anything to share with us," Malys said. "Go on—it can't be any worse than what we just shared, right?"
Cosette smiled daringly, and for a moment Malys wondered if she was about to eat her words. "There's not much to tell, really," she sighed. "I like the Nords about as much as the both of you, really. I lived in Markarth up until a few years ago, after the Stormcloaks took control of the city. There were a lot of changes made, I'll tell you what—some more deserved than others.
"See, the new Jarl—Thongvor Silver-Blood—was a ruthless leader. He had the guards detain anyone he suspected of being with the Forsworn, and everyone they came across got clapped in irons and thrown in Cidhna Mine beneath the city. Even the women and children weren't safe. I remember I saw a girl in there that couldn't have been more than ten—and there she was, swinging a pickaxe and chipping that goddamned silver out of the rocks."
"You saw her?" Vinye frowned. " … Then you got arrested, too?"
Cosette nodded. "Mm-hm. Trumped-up assault charge. I was a Breton—a half-blood—and I knew that was enough reason for those racists to grab me. I knew if I protested, they'd kill me then and there. So I backed down, I did my time; when they let me out, I left Markarth for good—and it'll take more than all the septims in the world to make me go back."
Malys was surprised at Cosette's admission, if only pleasantly. This certainly explained why she tended to act so tough—or even outright hostile—around everyone else. The details inside the mine were less pleasant—Malys had no idea how anyone, even a Jarl, could brush off what amounted to child labor and false imprisonment.
Vinye, on the other hand … Malys shook her head. The way she had reacted to those Thalmor had invited more questions than answers. While Malys hadn't heard that much about them personally, she had to wonder if Vinye had really been telling the truth about how they acted around everyone else.
At any rate, the wind and cold of Skyrim seemed the least harsh thing about the province now.
Winterhold
The carriage was silent for the remainder of the trip. Most of the passengers were visibly anxious to disembark—Malys in particular had sprung from the cart the moment the horse had stopped as though a giant had punted her off. She was halfway to the ramp leading up to the College before anyone else had even dismounted.
Vinye was the last to leave; though she would not admit it to her friends, the encounter with the Thalmor had deeply disturbed her, more than the vitriolic Bosmer or that guard from Riften. It was the suddenness of it all more than anything. One moment, she had seen their characteristic golden armor and midnight blue cloaks; the next, she had felt that same desperate urge as before—as with all the other times before.
I wonder if they knew me.
Her eyes stung, and she smelled smoke from the torchlight of a passing guard. She shook her head, trying to clear it—she could hear that infernal voice again, and the sounds of explosions and screaming.
They can't know me, she thought frantically. They mustn't—not now, not ever!
I don't exist to them. I never did.
"Vinye!" Tolfdir called, from one of the magickal fountains lining the bridge to the College. Another snowstorm was about to move in from the north. "Come along, my dear—you'll have some time to rest after we see the Arch-Mage. Quickly, now—before you catch cold!"
The wind was fast becoming too loud for Vinye to answer back. She waved in response, pulled her robes closer together to fend off the cold, and started across the bridge before the biting gusts grew strong enough to blow her off the precipice.
The winds howled louder, and echoed all around her. She could barely see Tolfdir and J'zargo ahead of her, motioning at her frantically to come inside. But the bridge—even if it was reinforced by ancient magics, so the rumors went—was still half crumbled, and against the massive outcrop of rock that the College of Winterhold was built upon, the narrow bridge might as well be a thread.
The wind howled louder still. A rime of frost was beginning to coat her face.
But something was wrong—the wind was coming directly from her left. Why, then, did it sound like it was coming from directly behind her?
She glanced at Tolfdir once more. He, and J'zargo as well, looked properly terrified even through all the blowing snow—and now, Vinye was starting to feel the same way. She risked a quick look backward—
—and regretted it immediately when she saw the dragon right there.
Forgetting the cold, forgetting Tolfdir and J'zargo, and forgetting the College, Vinye stood there with her mouth half open, frozen to the stone floor in terror. The great beast was hovering barely a house's length away, and was already so close to her that she could see the individual purple scales on its monstrous, triangular head. Eight beady yellow eyes the size of apples—four on each side of its reptilian snout—blinked at her with malicious intent.
One ancient, long-lived species surveyed another for a few seconds longer. Then, as the dragon reared back—bluish-purple vapor spilling from its jaws—Vinye turned and ran.
She did not hear the deafening thunderclap as the dragon expelled a bluish-purple wave of energy at her, nor did see it—and neither did she care. All she wanted to do was outrun the dragon—outrun the same living hell that had nearly killed her not two days ago. She did not feel her lungs bursting with every ragged breath she took, or her soles aching with every step.
She didn't even feel the force of the energy blast exploding behind her, the force of the impact effortlessly carrying her upward like a ragdoll and into J'zargo's arms, crushing the Khajiit against the gate and forcing it open with a harsh scraping noise. Even as her body skidded to a halt on the stone pathway, her legs were still running in place for a few moments afterward.
Not again, she kept thinking over and over, panic clouding her vision. Not again not again not again—
BOOM.
The earth heaved beneath her feet, and she heard a deafening crack above her—the dragon must have landed on the battlements above her head. Bits of stone fell to the courtyard.
"Wo faal Dovahkiin?" bellowed the dragon, as more panicked students and staff fled indoors. "Daar sul feyn se Alduin qahnaaraan."
Vinye just stood there, too scared to even tremble. She heard Faralda's voice far off in the distance, shouting at her to get to safety. But though she tried as hard as she was able, she could not turn herself away from the sight.
And then, another voice—louder than the dragon, and louder than the storm—shouted above them all.
"Strun … Bah QO!"
Immediately, the weather around them changed. The air became warmer, more humid. The snow became a trickle of rain—then a shower, and within seconds a full-blown downpour. Bolts of lightning, far more powerful than the pitiful sparks Vinye could produce, crackled in the air, striking everything within range.
One particularly large jolt struck the dragon, burning a hole through its wing as wide around as a barrel. The monster roared; whether in pain or anger, Vinye did not know.
The dragon took to the air again as one electrical blast after another pummeled its scaly hide. "Mey," it rumbled. "Vus ni uth naal nunon joor. Lok … Vah KOOR!"
There was another clap of thunder. The rain slowed to a light drizzle, eventually stopping entirely, and the stormy skies rapidly dissipated. The sun's rays broke through the clouds, bathing the College in light and warmth.
"Zu'u ni krif kaal jul!" roared the dragon, its scaly wings—wide enough to span the entire courtyard—spreading to their fullest extent, casting a shadow over the entire College. "Fen krif kinbok se dovah!"
The other voice spoke again. "Mul … Qah DIIV!" A bright yellow light engulfed the tower where the figure stood, obscuring him and blinding Vinye.
"Qo … Nah ZAAN!" More sapphire-colored energy gathered within the beast's jaws; unlike the smoky substance that had nearly killed Vinye moments ago, this was more akin to her own lightning magic—though even before she saw the dragon release that energy in a narrow, destructive beam, she knew that this lightning was undoubtedly more powerful than even the bolts that had rained down from the sky mere minutes ago.
So when she saw a second, identical ray of electricity blasting from the tower, slamming into the dragon's lightning breath right over the font in the center of the courtyard, and sending shockwaves reverberating throughout the courtyard, she was immediately transfixed at the sight. She forgot how fearful the dragon had caused her to feel.
This was not like that mountain climb at all, she realized. This was not one dragon against another dragon—it was one dragon against one man.
And so far as she could tell, they were evenly matched.
But the dragon's lightning attack was slowly winning. Whoever was controlling its twin must have noticed this; the flow of electricity stopped, leaving the dragon's attack free to bombard the parapet, turning the battlements to dust in the wind.
No! Vinye thought.
"Nikriin," spat the dragon, as it climbed higher into the air. "Fent ni filok."
And then it dived, raising its wings behind its head and dropping like a stone. Vinye tried to turn and run, but the dragon had already landed in the courtyard, its heavy claws destroying the statue in front of the fountain. The monster lowered its head, and Vinye belatedly realized it was looking right at her.
"Krosis," the beast murmured in a low growl. It inclined its head only a little, and the Altmer, in some corner of her mind that wasn't stone cold petrified, instinctively realized it was talking to her. "Ni krif, fahliil."
Cobalt-tinted energy gathered in its jaws again, and Vinye felt her hair standing on end. "But you are in the way."
Vinye gasped. It can speak Cyrodiilic, too?!
"Fus … "
And just when Vinye was certain she was about to die a painful death, several things happened at once.
First, a purplish sphere erupted directly beside her—but there was no atronach or familiar inside it. Instead, there was a man wearing stately blue robes and a heavy black mask over his face. Spectral golden spikes covered his head, arms and upper torso like ghostly armor. He was strikingly tall—almost matching Vinye inch for inch—but the Altmer felt a raw power about him that she found intimidating.
" … Ro … "
"Tiid … Klo UL!" bellowed the man. His body glowed briefly blue, but nothing else appeared to happen. Still, Vinye had seen and heard enough to grasp the meaning of this, and it left her stupefied.
Is he speaking the dragon's language? Can he actually understand it?
The man in the gray mask—gray? Vinye wondered. I thought it was black just a moment ago!—was moving so fast he appeared blurred around the edges. In the span of a single second, he had opened not one, but two portals into Oblivion. A golden, translucent wyrm as thick around as his arm slithered from each of these, and took up positions flush with each of the mage's hands as they balled into fists.
Vinye gaped. Is he—?
" … DAH!"
Her question was immediately answered as the mage assumed what must have been some kind of fighting stance (was it her imagination, or had his mask now turned from gray to green right before her eyes?). Seconds later, he had punched the air with a right uppercut, and the rightmost wyrm had leapt out like he'd released a child's toy kite—and actually headbutted the monster in the jaw, hard enough to make it stumble a few feet backward. The burst of energy that had been building up in the dragon's mouth exploded harmlessly into the air.
Vinye mentally pardoned her Cyrodiilic, but she had to admit—that was gods-damned awesome.
The mage made a left jab, and that wyrm rushed forward and caught the dragon in its ribcage hard, sending it crashing against the Hall of the Elements. A right jab hit it even harder, enough to rattle the large window above the beast.
Finally, the mage reached out with both hands, and the wyrms stretched the length of the courtyard, burying their ethereal jaws inside the dragon's flesh, and wrapping their slender bodies around its neck. Then the mage twisted his arms and lower back and spun around, like he was parrying with a broadsword.
The wyrms twisted with him.
The next sound an astounded Vinye heard was the bone-jarring snap of the dragon's spine as the monster's head was forcibly rotated in a half-circle. The dragon made a horrible gurgling noise, twitched violently, and fell limply to the entryway with an earth-shaking THUD.
Vinye tottered up to the mage's side; words had failed the Altmer completely. "I-Is it dead?" she stammered.
No, she recanted, J'zargo's words echoing in her mind. Only the Dragonborn can truly kill a drag—
Her eyes widened, as the pieces of that puzzle slowly began to fit together.
It can't be …
The mage held up a gloved hand, and Vinye immediately stopped where she stood. The mask (a rusty-looking brown now instead of the bright green before) shook his head very imperceptibly.
"Krifaan voth zin," Vinye heard him say under his breath. "Ziil gro jul ulse. Zu'u fen draal bormahu Akatosh—dovah kos sahrot laas, ahrk dovah kos sahrot dinok." He raised his arms outward in the dragon's direction, as if he was preparing to embrace an old friend. "Lok, Thu'um."
Vinye stared wild-eyed as the dragon's scaly body suddenly erupted into flames. Within seconds, the flesh of the monster had been consumed, leaving only a glowing skeleton. But the light was fading from their bones; more than that, Vinye could see—it was actually rushing towards the mage, whose body was now glowing a similar color.
Between the hushed speech and the way the dragon's body had been set ablaze the way it did, Vinye suspected she had just witnessed a very intimate encounter here, as the light from the dragon's remains wove around the mage's body and finally disappeared inside him. This had been more than a battle of survival, she surmised. It had been a display of power—a challenge for dominance—and the dragon had lost.
Only when the mage's body had stopped glowing did he finally move a muscle. The masked face bowed slightly, and Vinye wondered if that was sorrow she was sensing from him.
"He is dead," the mage said reverently.
And so it was that Vinye met Grimnir Torn-Skull: the Arch-Mage of Winterhold, and the Last Dragonborn.
Next chapter: Vinye, Cosette, and Malys have a lot of homework ahead of them—and there are plenty of opportunities for outside projects as well.
A/N: Blah. I apologize for the late update; I've spent a fair bit of the past few days laid up in bed with an IV in my arm, so this chapter is not as up to snuff as those before it, I feel.
And before my inbox is inevitably inundated with intrigued inquiries:
There is actually a Spectral Dragon summon in the Creation Kit, and using that particular spell to wrestle a dragon to death seemed to me like a very "Nord" way to go about magic.
QO NAH ZAAN (Lightning, Fury, Scream) – Basically the draconic equivalent of Lightning Storm.
TL;DR – creative license is awesome, this chapter ... not so much. But I hope you enjoy it all the same. - K