V

"The Dragonborn is Arch-Mage of Winterhold?!"

Vinye could barely keep her voice below the strained whisper it was now as she interrogated J'zargo en route to the Hall of Elements. "Why didn't you say anything about this before?"

"J'zargo tried," said the Khajiit. "Three days ago, when we passed Mzulft. But those bandits did not let me finish."

Vinye remembered the ambush, and cursed herself for not asking him about it again.

"At any rate," J'zargo went on, "the Last Dragonborn is retired. He has been to planes of Oblivion where this one would never dare set his paw, and he has gained knowledge that the greatest of wizards would spend lifetimes searching for. Khajiit believes the Arch-Mage has earned his quiet and his peace after his life of adventure, and so he says nothing more on the matter." He nodded once at Vinye, his fur-lined face unusually stern.

"Why does he wear a mask?" Vinye blurted out, before she could stop herself.

J'zargo arched his brow. "The Arch-Mage does not wear any ordinary masks," he said cleverly. "He wears the phylacteries of the high priest-kings of the Dragon Cult—the men and women who devoted themselves to the World-Eater Alduin and his ilk."

Vinye knew of Alduin, and had heard word of his downfall like everyone else that called Tamriel home.

But something else had grabbed her attention. She was no expert on necromancy, nor did she wish to be, but she knew a phylactery was an object that a sorcerer could use to store his soul, thereby making the sorcerer immortal—and quite powerful as well. "Phylacteries," she mused. "So there's more than the one he wears?"

J'zargo laughed as they entered the Hall, and opened the door to the Arch-Mage's quarters. "How many there are, this one does not know. But he has eight that J'zargo knows of."

That surprised Vinye even more. "Really? I thought he just had the one, and that it … changed colors," she trailed off, feeling more foolish with every word she said.

J'zargo grinned. "Ah. That is Khajiit magic. Perhaps if J'zargo sees you as a competent mage, he will teach you as he once taught it to the Dragonborn, hmm?"

In other words, simple sleight-of-hand, Vinye thought with a wry smile. Still, she mused further, she could sense J'zargo had a very high opinion of the Arch-Mage—and she suspected the reverse was true as well, if a Nord of all people was willing to be taught the tricks of a Khajiit. The sheer irony of such a situation was almost amusing.

Yet the Arch-Mage's power—the Dragonborn's power—was undeniable. And only an hour ago, in that brief minute before the Dragonborn had exited the courtyard and into the Hall of Elements, Vinye had seen this power for herself.

And, for a very dark moment, she wondered what he could have done to a mere mortal like her.

She fought the urge to shiver.

Malys was grateful to be out of her beat-up elven armor. It breathed well enough, but the high collar of the cuirass made it very difficult to turn her neck, which she had been doing ever since she'd stepped into Grimnir's quarters.

The space was almost as enormous as the Hall itself. A sizable garden occupied the center of the room, lit by floating mage-lights and dominated by a single large tree. To Malys' right lay an assortment of soul gems and an enchanting table. One of these she recognized as a black soul gem, and she shuddered at the thought that a person's soul might very well be living inside it right now. On her left was a laboratory filled with enough ingredients to make any alchemist happy—the table next to her even had a whole tureen of what was labeled as vampire dust. Lucius' face swam in her vision briefly, and she glared at the flaky gray substance, wishing it would burst into flame.

Before her was Arch-Mage Grimnir, who presently wore an old, rusting mask over the robes that signified his position. Tolfdir was in the middle of presenting his report to him, and while Grimnir's face was unreadable, his tone and actions were far from it at the moment.

"Damn that priest!" he growled beneath his mask. "I should have known he'd try to find some way to go over my head. I hope he wasn't too drastic with you."

A few seconds passed by before Malys realized Grimnir was addressing her specifically. "Oh—well," she stammered, "I'm a little … shaken, yes. But nothing serious," she amended hastily; Malys decided it might be better not to mention Lucius' sword—Dawnbreaker, or whatever he had called it.

"I'm glad to hear it—you have my word that he will no longer be welcome inside College grounds," Grimnir said, gracious but perfunctory at the same time.

The mask turned back to Tolfdir. "You say this Solyn may be looking for Kagrenac's Tools?"

"Not specifically," replied the Master Wizard. "He wanted to seal away as many artifacts of the Dwemer as possible. He called it his way of honoring them."

"Hmm. I'd like to call it consolidating power," Grimnir mused. "This isn't the first time someone's used the dwarves' creations to achieve their own goals. The Synod Council's presence in Mzulft has not gone unnoticed, and there are rumors that the College of Whispers has turned its focus on Avanchnzel, far to the south. Even we are guilty of hoarding their power to some extent."

Tolfdir cleared his throat. "I was under the impression we weren't to talk about that incident," he said cautiously, looking at the novices uneasily, and back to Grimnir with a very odd expression.

Malys saw the mask tilt imperceptibly backward, and she imagined the eyes beneath it were looking towards the back of the chamber, past a partition separating the garden from the rest of the quarters.

She frowned. What was the College trying to hide?

For some reason, she found herself looking at the vampire dust again. There was something about it, she recalled; it was used in potions, and valued in covert operations, so she was told—but to what effect? Malys hadn't studied enough alchemy to know for sure, and while she knew it must enhance a vampire's abilities in some way, being accused as one did not make her keen to explore that particular subject any further.

And yet, she was certainly keen on answering that one nagging question …

Grimnir coughed, bringing her back to reality. "Yes, well—at any rate, it would take time to search for such powerful artifacts, no matter how much assistance Solyn might have in that regard."

Malys sidled closer to the table with the vampire dust while Grimnir talked. A daring idea had just taken root in her mind, and she hoped what little skill she had in sleight-of-hand and illusion would be enough to suffice.

"You're suggesting we help him, then?" Tolfdir asked.

"J'zargo is not so sure." The Khajiit looked anxious, and the tip of his tail was twitching. "It may be more prudent to keep these artifacts someplace where we know they are safe."

No one noticed Malys surreptitiously dip her hand in the dust, scoop out a handful behind her back, and dump it into her pocket. She sighed. That's the easy part, she thought, edging her way back to the rest of the group.

"As much as I'd like to agree with you, J'zargo," Grimnir said, "remember that the College is an independent institution—unlike the Synod and the College of Whispers. If we attracted too much attention by gathering so many powerful artifacts together, then we'd be inserting ourselves into their own arms race. Better that we keep our heads down as much as possible. Although," he added, "we must be mindful to our own future as well."

He nodded at the novices. "You may go," he said to them. "I would suggest that you speak with Urag down in the Arcaneum at your earliest convenience. He can provide you with any information you need on the Dwemer and their artifacts."

The three mages nodded, and headed towards the stairway that led to the College's main library.

Vinye had dealt with Urag gro-Shub once before; the Orc had been initially distrustful of her—especially since she had chosen his library to hide in after her botched summoning of that storm atronach. After a stern talking-to, though, the two mages had discovered a mutual predilection for knowledge and literature, and Vinye had agreed to make her errs up to Urag in secret: he would have her reshelf any books and scrolls left behind and reorganize the stacks as well, and in return, she could peruse whatever books caught her eye.

Nevertheless, having such an unlikely friend within the College didn't change the fact that Urag was the most intimidating librarian she had ever met. Nor did it help that the Orc pretended not to know of their little arrangement, and greeted the high elf with his trademark scowl.

"This is my library," he grunted. "My own little slice of Oblivion. I don't care if you're the Arch-Mage himself—one toe out of line, and you'll get to see how angry an atronach really is." He looked pointedly at Vinye, who couldn't resist a shudder. Urag was nothing, if not a master keeper of secrets.

Cosette scoffed. "First a cat for a master instructor, and now an Orc for the librarian?" she said with mock incredulity. "Next, you'll tell me one of the Arch-Mages was a sodding Sload."

Urag chuckled mirthlessly. "Nearly. But that was a hundred years before your time," he huffed. "Now, are you looking for something, or are you going to test my patience?"

Cosette shrugged. "You're the bookworm," she said airily to Vinye, and sauntered off to one of the nearby tables, leaving the Altmer alone with Urag.

"We're looking for books on Dwemer artifacts," Vinye said calmly. "Anything you can spare would do just fine."

Urag growled. "I thought you might," he said. "News travels fast around here. The sound echoes off the stone—in a place as quiet as my library, you tend to hear things one might not want to be heard."

He reached below his desk, and pulled out several tomes. "Here," he said, handing a particularly dusty one to Vinye. "Tamrielic Lore—written by Yagrum Bagarn: the last living dwarf."

Vinye was shocked. "The last living Dwemer?!" she whispered. "How is that possible?"

Urag gave a noncommittal shrug. "I never asked," he said. "Yagrum was … somewhere. Adventuring in some far-off pocket of Oblivion, I heard. He wasn't on Nirn when all the dwarves disappeared, and that's why he didn't go with them."

Vinye considered this. "I'll have to have a talk with him—what better person to ask about dwarven relics than an actual dwarf?"

"Hah! Good luck with that," Urag sneered. "Poor sod took ill with Corprus the moment he came back—nothing but a bloated, gibbering fool now. He's in no shape to tell you anything, even if he wanted to."

Well, that's that plan dead in the water, Vinye sighed.

Urag handed her a silver-bound book. This one looked much more recent. "Something else you might like," he said tersely. "The Aetherium Wars. Got a pristine first-edition copy earlier this year. It's going to stay that way, too, understand?"

"Not one drop of mead," Vinye smiled. She placed the two books in her satchel.

"Is that all, then? I have my own work to do," Urag said.

Vinye looked around, checking that no one else was within earshot. "Actually—" she began, and frowned.

Malys was nowhere to be seen. That was strange, Vinye thought; she thought the Dunmer had arrived at the Arcaneum with herself and Cosette. She shrugged—perhaps she'd turned in early for the day. It had been a tumultuous few days for her; that much was clear. Plus, she thought, Malys not being around made things easier.

"Actually, I'd like to ask a favor," she said, her thoughts returning to business. It was high time she started looking for answers to more puzzling questions than the disappearance of the dwarves and the location of their artifacts. "I can put in some extra time here, clean out the stacks, anything you need—I just need you to look into a couple things for me."

Urag's scowl deepened further. "And what would these things be?"

Vinye told him.

Once she was finished, Urag was no longer scowling, but was looking at Vinye with an inquisitive expression that he clearly did not use often. "Well, now. That's a first," he said. "This on your own time?"

Vinye thought of Malys. "Let's just say I'd like to avoid any questions for the time being."

Urag grumbled under his breath, thinking Vinye's proposition over in his head. Finally, he coughed gruffly.

"Fine," he grunted. "I might have some contacts in Morrowind I can check in with. But this is no ordinary favor you're asking me—so you'll have to do a lot more than clean spiders out of my stacks before I can call us even." He reached under his desk, and produced a small cube about six inches high that pulsed with a dim blue light. The telltale crest of the Dwemer was emblazoned on all six sides.

"Arch-Mage Grimnir gave this to me a while back. Told me I could do what I wanted with it—lock it up, or sell it, even chuck it in the Sea of Ghosts for all he cared. When he told me what it was, I asked him if Sheogorath had mixed the last pint of mead he drank."

Vinye poked the innocent-looking chunk of metal with a cautious finger. "And … what is it?"

"A damn good paperweight," Urag smirked. "But more to the point, it's a Dwarven lexicon. A thousand Arcaneums could fit into one tiny corner of this little beauty. How they did it, I don't know, and the Dwemer certainly aren't going to tell anyone." He chuckled darkly. "The dwarves used this particular lexicon to store the knowledge of an Elder Scroll."

Vinye's mouth fell open. Is he serious—an actual Elder Scroll?! "And you were using this," she said in utter disbelief, "as a paperweight?"

"What good is the knowledge of all possible futures and all possible pasts if you don't even know the language it's written in?" snorted Urag. "I was only being practical!"

Vinye sighed. "Fair enough. So—what do you want me to do with this?"

"One of our scholars went out to the ice fields up north about a decade ago," said Urag. "Name of Septimus Signus. Brilliant mind—no one in the world knew more about the Elder Scrolls than he did—but he couldn't be social worth a damn. He was going after the Dwemer, too, funnily enough."

"Really?"

"He up and vanished one day—said he'd found one of their artifacts under the sea. Went missing for the longest time, and we all thought him dead up until the Arch-Mage ran across him a few years ago.

"Septimus wanted to study the knowledge of an Elder Scroll, but he's no Moth Priest—his mind wasn't developed enough. If he even glanced inside an actual Scroll, his mind would be cooked as a cabbage before he even knew it. So he looked for a workaround, and found one with the Dwemer—and apparently Grimnir helped him out.

"But living on his own for so long took its toll. Septimus' mind was half gone already by the time the Arch-Mage caught up with him, so I was told. Guess he didn't want all that knowledge wasted on a madman, so instead of bringing the lexicon back to him, Grimnir brought it back here." He patted the lexicon with a broad palm and a broader grin.

"And you want me to bring it back to this Septimus?" Vinye asked. She liked this proposition less and less by the minute. But perhaps this Septimus character knew more about Dwemer relics as well. In the end, she decided it might be better to bite the proverbial arrowhead, and she nodded. "All right, I'll see what I can do. You're sure he won't misuse it at all?"

"Aye," Urag said. "Truth be told, I don't see how anyone can use this thing now."

He pushed the lexicon to Vinye. The Altmer regarded the object a while longer, then wedged it into her satchel with some difficulty. It'll do until I can fetch my pack.

"I'll check back with you in a week or so," she told Urag. "I hope that'll be enough time for those contacts of yours."

Urag merely grunted, and Vinye turned back to return to Cosette.

"What was that all about?" the Breton asked idly, skimming a copy of The Bear of Markarth with a bored look on her face.

"Just following a lead on this Dwemer project," Vinye half-lied. "Where's Malys?"

Cosette frowned. "Damned if I know," she shrugged. "Poor elf's probably curled up in bed, crying herself to sleep right now. Can't say I blame her—that priest was off his absolute nut."

As if to prove her wrong, one of the heavy oak doors creaked open, and Malys emerged. Immediately, Vinye could tell something was amiss: the Dunmer was moving unsteadily, like her knees had been locked into place. Her red eyes were bleary and wide as saucers, and her normally ashen face had lost all color to it. A slip of paper was clutched in her right hand, and her whole body was shaking violently.

"Where've you been?" Cosette chirped, flicking her eyes upward from her book.

Malys took a deep breath.

Once the Dunmer knew she was out of sight, she knew she'd only have a few seconds to put her plan in motion. It all hinged on that one handful of vampire dust that she had cupped in her hands. She took a deep breath, and poured the substance into her mouth, coughing slightly.

There was a flash of purple light, and Malys' heart jumped when she saw her hands—indeed, her whole body, robes and all—vanish from view. The only indication that she was there was a faint ripple effect.

No wonder this stuff's used in stealth potions, Malys thought. She'd had a huge stroke of luck by ingesting the vampire dust. But time was of the essence—vampire dust was not the same as an invisibility potion, which meant she couldn't waste any more time frolicking about.

As quietly as possible, then, she cast a muffling spell towards her feet. Her boots were already soft and padded enough, but she wasn't about to take any chances. Then, she made her way back into Grimnir's quarters.

"Savos Aren's father?" the Arch-Mage was saying. "And he told you this himself?"

Malys only barely caught a hint of puzzlement in his voice as she sneaked past him. Her footsteps were relaxed and measured: slow enough to not arouse suspicion, but mindful all the same of the limited time the combined effects of the muffling spell and the vampire dust had on her body.

"That he did," Tolfdir replied. "But you know how difficult Dunmer ancestry can be to corroborate outside of Morrowind. And Savos always preferred to keep the more personal aspects of his life to himself."

Malys exhaled a sigh of relief as she passed the partition that separated Grimnir's personal quarters; all three adults had been too engrossed in their conversation to notice the faint distortion slinking to the back of the chamber. Now, away from prying eyes, she began to take in the Arch-Mage's more personal refinements.

A double bed dominated the space; she poked a pillow with an invisible finger, and mouthed a silent "Wow" as she contemplated the number of birds that had been plucked to make such luxury possible. A trunk lay at the foot of the bed, large enough to fit her if she squeezed in. It opened silently, and with the touch of a finger, but Malys saw nothing but an assortment of staves.

Across from the bed was a safe, and above that a glass display case half as long again as her forearm. She readied her ice magic, intending to rust the lock to the safe the same way she had done with that set of doors in Rkund, when something in the display case caught her eye. She peered upward to get a closer look.

And froze in her tracks when she saw what was inside. She felt her body grow numb.

Azura, give me strength …

"The point is, we don't know how much of his story has been falsified, if any at all," said Grimnir. "We have no evidence to prove that this Solyn could be under the employ of another institution, and if we accused him of such, we would risk our neutral stance in Tamriel's political affairs."

"Still, it is a risk we cannot ignore," Tolfdir mused.

"And according to his letter," J'zargo chimed in, "we were only granted first rights to enter Rkund. This Solyn said nothing of paying for exclusives. Khajiit thinks there will be competition in finding these dwarven artifacts. We must act on this now, my friend!"

"E-excuse me?" A new voice piped up from behind them. The three mages turned.

A poorly-shaven man in a ragged hat and mismatched clothing strode into the chamber. The knapsack over his back identified him as a courier.

"What is it?" Grimnir asked warily. "Who sent you here?"

"I was told to give you this, sir," the courier recited, producing a scrap of parchment from his knapsack and putting it in Grimnir's palm. "It's for a Miss Cosette Ionsaithe. It sounded pretty urgent."

"Who is it from?" J'zargo asked, eyes narrowed.

The courier shrugged. "Not sure—I got it from a couple of people in brown robes and funny-looking tattoos. Looked like … fire coming from their mouth and their eyes."

The three mages shared a look of confusion. Wordlessly, Grimnir fished out a handful of septims from his pocket and gave them to the courier. "There's more where that came from if you wait a moment longer," he said. "I may need to deliver a message of my own soon."

He raised his voice. "But before I do that, Miss Malys, I'd like to know what you're doing back there!"

There was a yelp of surprise from behind the stone partition as Grimnir clicked his fingers once. One seconds later, a sphere of transitory purple fire erupted before him, revealing a very surprised Malys Aryon.

"How did you—?!" she shrieked, before falling utterly silent at the stern looks of Tolfdir, J'zargo, and the inscrutable mask of Grimnir.

That mask now turned to and fro. "Would you all please wait outside?" he addressed the others. His voice was even less revealing than his light-gray mask. "I'd like to have some words with this young lady."

Malys was so shocked by what had just happened that for a moment, she had entirely forgotten the magnitude of what she had just recently discovered. How did he know I was there?!

As J'zargo, Tolfdir, and the courier filed out of the room, she looked back up at Grimnir … and up. She realized that she was still in a crouching position, and hastily clambered to her feet. She gulped as the unmoving gray mask stared back at her.

"Now," Grimnir repeated evenly, "I'd like to know what you were doing back there."

Malys almost wished he'd shouted; she could feel her face blushing furiously red with guilt.

"I'd like to know how you managed to get your hands on this!" she spluttered, brandishing a dagger in front of Grimnir. The blade appeared to be made of pure blue crystal—and was too thick and blunt enough to have functioned as an efficient dagger. But Malys had recognized that blade as soon as she'd laid eyes on it, as well as the six spikes on the guard, the thinness of the hilt, and the crescent-moon shape that served as a pommel.

Without even thinking, she had swiped it from the display case, feeling slightly reckless as she did so—though not to the extent of touching the artifact with her bare hands, instead electing to use the sleeve of her robe. She had read the stories, and knew the mortal danger faced by anyone who wielded this dagger without proper protection.

"Keening," Grimnir said. Was it Malys' imagination, or was that regret she was hearing in the Arch-Mage's voice? "Kagrenac used this blade in tandem with the hammer Sunder; Sunder would draw forth power from the Heart of Lorkhan, Keening would focus that power—"

"—and Wraithguard would protect him from dying from that power," Malys finished, a bit defiantly. "I read the stories … sir," she hastily added.

Grimnir looked at Malys' outstretched hand—or rather, the bunched-up sleeve that separated her bare hand from Keening. "I see." He reached out with his own hand; Malys saw he was not wearing any gloves.

Before she could say anything, that bare hand had grasped Keening by the blade. Not forcefully—but not gently, either. Malys was so surprised by this that she instinctively released her hold on the artifact, and stumbled back.

"Be careful with that!" she cried. "If you touch that, it could kill you!"

To her shock, Grimnir remained calm. "By now, it certainly would have—or at least, it might have two centuries ago," he said. "Keening and Sunder were uniquely attuned to the energies of the Heart. But when it was removed from this world, the enchantments that Kagrenac wove into them—the same fatal enchantments you speak of—began to fade over the years. Now, they are only a shadow of their former selves." He chuckled grimly, and stared at Keening through his mask. "I doubt this blade is worth more than the boots on my feet.

"But that does not excuse you," Grimnir went on, his voice more stern now. "What you did was very foolish, Miss Malys—and could potentially have been very dangerous as well. You did not know this knowledge prior, and so you acted rashly."

Even as Malys bowed her head in shame, her brow had furrowed in confusion. It sounded to her like Grimnir was less concerned about her stealing from his personal quarters than what she had attempted to steal.

He laughed when Malys mentioned this to him—a genuine laugh, too, one that came as a surprise to the Dunmer. "Miss Malys, if I punished you for the simple act of larceny," he said, "I'd be as much of a hypocrite as half of Skyrim."

He indicated a nearby table and chair. "Please, have a seat," he invited Malys. At once relaxed and worried, she sat down, and the Arch-Mage (when did he change his mask? Malys wondered, when she noticed the previously gray face was now a dull orange) likewise took the chair across from her.

Once Grimnir was comfortable, he carefully laid Keening in the center of the table, and steeped his fingers. "I wondered if you'd indulge in an old man's tall tale while we were here," he said cheerfully.

Malys cocked her head to one side. "Is … this my punishment?" she asked with a little half-smile; she was genuinely puzzled, but not above a little jesting. The Dunmer was relieved to hear Grimnir laugh again—though was less so when he did not provide any further answer to her question.

"This was, oh, let's say three or four years ago," Grimnir began, coughing. "I'd only recently enrolled in the College as a novice like yourself. Yes, yes, I'm aware that's an inordinately short time," he said, apparently catching Malys' expression of surprise, "but for all intents and purposes, Tolfdir carries more weight in the day-to-day humdrum around here than I do. So you may think what you will.

"But I digress. Now, at that time, there was a scholar with the College: a Breton by the name of Arniel Gane. I only met him in passing at first, when I was inside the ruins of Saarthal. As time went on, he apparently noticed how advanced I had become in my studies, and requested my help in a project he'd been working on in his spare time."

"As with this elf Solyn you met in Rkund, Arniel was also fascinated with the dwarves—more to the point, he wanted to solve the mystery of their disappearance. And—after much trial and tribulation on both our parts—he confided to me that he wished to recreate the circumstances of this event."

Malys did a double take. "Recreate? How did he approach that?"

"He used a specially treated soul gem in place of the Heart of Lorkhan, and then after I'd acquired Keening for him, he struck the gem with the blade, and recorded the results."

Malys might only have been a novice, but her knowledge of the Tools was enough to tell her that there were holes in that plan wide enough to fit a Sload. "But a soul gem isn't the same thing as the heart of a dead god," she said incredulously. "And where was Sunder in all this? Keening was never supposed to be used on its own."

Grimnir folded his hands on the table. "Ostensibly, Arniel wasn't able to track it down. But I suspect he grew too eager to see his experiments bear fruit—and he paid a very high price in the process."

Malys suddenly felt a chill of dread crawl up her spine. "What do you mean? Was he successful?"

Grimnir slowly rose to his feet. "Arniel!" he called.

Malys whipped her head around when she heard the sound of a portal to Oblivion behind her. Unlike the ones she was familiar with, however, this particular portal was wreathed in bluish-white flame instead of the regular deep violet.

When she saw what came out of the portal—she gasped.

Not who, what—though he had the form of a human, that was all he had in that particular regard, Malys thought as she looked at the thing that must have been Arniel Gane in another lifetime. His body was the same shade of translucent blue from robes to flesh, and his eyes were snow-white, unblinking, and glowing with a bright light that was not of this world.

And until he opened his mouth, Malys had thought him a ghost—a shade that had not yet fully passed on to the next life. But the sounds the thing-that-was-Arniel made were not human noises; they were more akin to the tortured moans and inane babble of a necromancer's puppet.

"It … stabs," it rasped, while Malys stared in horror. "It … flays. Deeper—uhhh—than the earth … deeper than—unnh—the mind."

"Make of it what you will, Miss Malys—even I don't know how successful he was," Grimnir said mournfully, as the shade of Arniel continued to moan incoherently. "I don't suspect I ever will, either—not least because of his present state of mind."

" … They pound … they drum … the pounding drums … echoes of the deep … "

"By this time," Grimnir went on, "I had only just settled into my current position, and I forbade any further research into the Dwemer without my authorization. I did not wish for another incident like Arniel's to happen again."

"What's he going on about?" Malys asked, still trembling at the otherworldly sight.

Grimnir shook his head. "Who can say? Perhaps he is trying to describe to us whatever realm he was sent to. Most of the time, nothing he says makes any sense at all."

Arniel's shade turned suddenly towards Malys, and the Dunmer had the distinct impression that it could see right through her. Then, she yelped in panic as the ghost suddenly rushed for her, and gripped her by the shoulders.

"The devil … and the deep elves," moaned the shade in a death rattle, clutching Malys like a lifeline. "United then … and for all time … sealed where neither daedra … nor divine—urrragh—shall ever tread … "

Malys was shaking so violently her whole body appeared blurred. She was too petrified to even speak as the shade continued to speak, its spectral head only a foot away from her own.

"And—uhhh—as with … the dwar—"

And then he let out an unearthly wail; Malys felt icy fingers tighten around her lungs, and the air of the room became as cold as the weather outside. Arniel's ghostly fingers had slipped through her body; the shade was fading from this world, returning to whatever hell it called home—though not without some parting words.

"Thus the … lost … house … survives … " it breathed, and then it had disappeared from sight at Malys' feet, leaving a chilling silence in its wake.

Grimnir rose from his seat after a long while. "I'm very sorry that you had to see that, Miss Malys," he said gently, laying a calming hand on her shoulder.

The Dunmer was still trembling, and she felt her eyes sting with tears. She had never remembered seeing anything more horrifying in her life—and that included what little memory she retained of her experience in Windhelm.

"Are you well, Malys?"

No. No, I am not well at all! And yet, as much as she believed otherwise, she felt her head nod up and down only slightly. She squished her eyes shut for a few moments, then opened them again, and took a deep breath.

"I think … I think I should get some rest," she said wearily.

"I understand," Grimnir nodded. He reached for a slip of paper next to him. "Would you take this to your friend Cosette before you turn in for the night, though? I believe she is in the Arcaneum downstairs with Miss Vinye."

Malys numbly nodded, and stood up from the chair. " … Thanks," she gulped nervously, not entirely sure if she should be thankful at all—as far as she could tell, she had not been punished for what she had done. But never in her wildest dreams had she expected any of this to happen.

She turned to leave.

"Malys."

Grimnir had risen up after her, and though Malys could not see his face beneath the mask, she wasn't at all sure if she wanted to.

"I will help you in your efforts this one time," said the Arch-Mage firmly. "But this is as far as I will go. From now on, whatever might happen as a result of this endeavor—for good or ill—you must shoulder your own burden. Too many lives have been lost in pursuing the mystery of the dwarves. I will not add more to that list."

Malys sensed then that their conference had drawn to a close. Taking the sheaf of parchment in hand, she descended the stairs to the Arcaneum. The faces of Solyn and Arniel drifted through her head, silently taunting her—tempting her.

She wondered if she would ever be able to fully explain what had happened in here to Vinye and Cosette.

"You're joking."

Cosette stared at the Dunmer as though she'd sprouted two extra heads. Vinye looked to be having some trouble choosing between scandalized shock and silent awe.

"You stole one of Kagrenac's Tools from the Arch-Mage's own bedroom and you didn't even get punished for it?" Cosette laughed. "How much did you have to seduce him for that to happen?"

A pause, and then her round face puckered in disgust. "Damn the gods, I'm never going to get that out of my head!"

"Quiet over there!" Urag growled from his desk. Cosette scowled back at him in return, and made a rude gesture at him under the table where the Orc couldn't see.

"I'm really not in a mood to joke right now," Malys said, plopping herself down between the two mages. "What he showed me up there was a worse punishment than anything I'd imagined."

"That's not helping," Cosette seethed.

Vinye cleared her throat loudly. "Perhaps we should focus on our research?" she asked tentatively.

Malys sighed. "I can't stay long," she said, picking up Tamrielic Lore and leafing through it. "Right now, all I want to do is go to sleep. I just hope I can after all that's happened this week."

Her eyes alighted on a random page of the book, and she skimmed it over. "Huh," she said. "Listen to this: 'Aside from its historical importance in the Battle of Rourken-Shalidor, the Spellbreaker protects its wielder almost completely from any spell caster, either by reflecting magicks or silencing any mage about to cast a spell.'"

"That's a neat little trinket to have," Cosette said appreciatively. "Not a word to J'zargo," she added under her breath, even though the Khajiit was nowhere to be seen.

"The Rourken were one of the most well-known Dwemer clans of the First Era," Vinye recalled. "They put up freehold colonies in Hammerfell and Stros m'Kai. I think they even had some kind of Orrery on that island."

"The trouble is," Malys said, "the last time that anyone saw the Spellbreaker was a museum in Morrowind. And I've also heard that it's supposed to be a Daedric artifact as well. Peryite, I think it was."

Cosette groaned. "Then it could be anywhere! It might not even be in Mundus, for all we know!"

Vinye frowned. "Well, if that's the case … there is one other option. If we can't get to the Spellbreaker, why not make it come to us?"

The other mages stared at the Altmer, amazement slowly washing over them.

"Summon a Daedric Prince?" Cosette said in disbelief. "Are you out of your high-and-mighty-elf mind? You can't even summon a sodding atronach!"

Vinye recoiled at the insult as though she'd been stung, and she glared at Cosette.

"If we're getting the Daedra involved," Malys said calmly, "I'd much rather get Spellbreaker on my own—at least, if I were you, Vinye. You probably know more about conjuration than I do, so you're more equipped for this than I am."

"I wonder about that," Cosette grumbled.

"I'm flattered … really," said Vinye, a slight blush to her olive cheeks. "But I've already got another lead I want to check out for myself."

"Then I'll look into Spellbreaker," said Cosette. "I've heard there's a shrine to Peryite somewhere in the Reach, and I still know the area fairly well. And at least I know how to summon a daedra without any help," she added under her breath.

"What about you, Malys?" Vinye asked.

The Dunmer thought long and hard. "J'zargo mentioned the ruins of Mzulft that one time. Knowing what I know of him, I probably won't find much in there, but it'll be a good starting point for me. I'll work my way south along the Velothi range—there's bound to be a fair amount of ruins in those mountains."

"We should also set up a time and place to meet when we're done," Vinye added. "How about Whiterun in … say, a week's time?"

"Assuming none of us dies?" Cosette said dryly. "Sure, that sounds like a plan to me."

Malys suddenly remembered the sheet of parchment Grimnir had given to her. "Oh—Cozy, this came for you earlier." She produced it between her index and middle fingers.

Cosette snatched it from her fingers without even looking her way, and slid a finger through the wax seal. She unfolded the letter, and spent the next few seconds skimming it over.

And then suddenly, she stood bolt upright from the table, and her chair fell to the floor with a clatter. Concerned, Malys and Vinye looked upward at her; the Breton's round face had changed completely. It was harder-edged now, angular. All trace of color had drained from it completely, and Cosette was trembling head to toe.

"Cosette?" Malys waved a hand in front of her face. "Cozy, are you all right?"

And then Cosette stuffed the paper into her robe. She was looking straight ahead, her neck rigid, and her eyes unmoving. Malys saw the glassy expression in them, and sensed from this and the Breton's ashen face that she'd just received some very bad news.

"I have to go," Cosette said brusquely. Before either of the elves could say anything, Cosette had slung her bag over her shoulder, turned on her heel, and raced out of the Arcaneum with a manic fury that reminded Malys of the first night she'd met Vinye.

The Altmer looked as bewildered as she did. "That was … strange," she said.

Malys was inclined to agree. "Should I follow her, ask what that was about?"

Vinye shook her head. "I wouldn't bother. Whatever was in that letter must have been very personal, if it affected her the way it did."

Malys sighed. "Vinye, can I ask you something?"

"Is it about Rkund?" Vinye looked suspiciously at her, and Malys shook her head.

"No, no … it's about this whole Dwemer business. Have you … have you ever wondered if all this trouble we're going to might be worth it in the end?"

Vinye thought for a while. "I'm a scholar," she finally said. "I came to Winterhold to study not just magic, or history, or any manner of books. I came to study truth. I've put up with my fair share of lies elsewhere, and it's time I put my effort into studying something that's actually worthwhile.

"I've heard a lot of conjecture and so-called theory about the disappearance of the Dwemer in my time, Malys. I've listened to blowhards and snakes put forth their lies for the sole purpose of ingratiation and social standing."

She leaned closer to Malys. "And I want to prove them wrong."

"But at what cost?" Malys pressed on. "Is solving the mystery of the dwarves worth dying for?"

"If it meant dispelling the ignorance of the frauds I've dealt with in the past," Vinye said indignantly, "then yes! Yes … I would give my life to give Tamriel the truth it deserves to know!"

Malys listened to Vinye's speech with a quiet awe. She had come here merely to advance her own skills in magic—but after listening to the Altmer, she realized how … petty that particular goal sounded in comparison. This was a mage who truly did want to unravel the mysteries of Aetherius, and would try her damnedest to do so.

"There aren't enough scholars like you in Tamriel, Vinye," she said appreciatively. "And between you and me, I think that's why you're going to make a damn good mage—more so than Cosette, and more so than me."

Vinye really did blush this time.

"But if there's one thing the truth really does," Malys continued, "it's that it hurts. And the day the truth you've been following finally comes out … is the day when scholars like you won't have any place in Tamriel anymore."

Vinye grinned in a most un-Altmerish way. "I look forward to that day," she said boldly.

Malys yawned suddenly—she hadn't realized it was so late. "I think I should probably call it a night," she said, as she stood up from the table. "Good luck with your lead, Vinye." She flashed a wry grin. "Try not to die, all right?"

"Likewise," the Altmer smiled back. The two mages embraced one final time, and Malys departed the Arcaneum at length.

If she had thought to turn around at all, she might have seen that Vinye's green eyes had narrowed almost to slits, and were lingering on her rather longer than was necessary.

The prospect of going back into Eastmarch after her previous experience there did not sit well with Malys, and as a result she had to endure yet another sleepless night. Instead of Windhelm, she dreamed of another, nameless Dwemer ruin, but the faceless mass of eyes and mouths still chased her through the stone halls all the same. The steam from the pipes hissed at her in the voice of the "other Malys" while streaks of … something—whether it was pain or pleasure, she could not tell—shot through her body like lightning bolts.

Three times she tried to go to sleep, and three times the nightmare had woken her up in a cold sweat. By the third time, Malys had had enough; the first rays of the sun were shining through the windows, and she knew there would be no point in trying to rest any longer. Cursing the Prince Vaermina for her machinations, Malys donned her suit of elven armor, and began packing her supplies for the trip to come.

Vinye and Cosette had already left, by the looks of things—their beds were empty, and the alchemy table was almost bereft of potions and ingredients. Malys loaded everything that remained into her pack, donned her thick cloak, and departed the College for Winterhold proper.

Her spirits rose slightly when she saw the same horse and buggy from yesterday resting alongside the Frozen Hearth inn. The driver was huddled in his seat in a thick coat of his own, drinking a large bottle of mead. He looked up when he saw Malys.

"Where to?" he said idly.

"Kynesgrove," Malys answered, fishing some coins from her purse and handing them to the driver. "Take your time on the way—it's been a long night, and I'd like some sleep."

"Sure thing," grunted the driver, finishing off the last of his mead. "Just climb in back and we'll be off."

Malys clambered into the carriage, and reclined on the bench with a yawn as the driver flicked the reins, signaling the horse into a light trot. The soft clip-clop of the hooves against the snow-covered roads lulled her to sleep within fifteen minutes.

Somewhere in the Sea of Ghosts

"This had better be worth my time, mage," the ferryman said irritably as he maneuvered his wooden boat around the massive icebergs that dotted the sea. A thick mist rose from the black, ice-cold waters.

"I already paid triple your usual charge to go out this way, Gort," Vinye said calmly. Her breath formed clouds around her in the freezing air, and she had huddled into a ball inside her coat. "I'll give you the rest of your fee after we return to Windhelm."

"If this ends up being a wasted journey, I'll be expecting a lot more than that, too," Gort grumbled.

An iceberg, larger than any they had previously encountered so far, rose up before them. Vinye immediately knew she was on the right track. "That's it. This has to be the place," she said, noticing the second boat tied up alongside it, and the crude circular hatchway that seemed to lead into the blue-white monolith itself.

"You sure about this?" Gort asked, tying off his own boat as Vinye stood up. "This Septimus fellow sounds like he's been touched by the Madgod himself. And that's assuming he even exists anymore."

Oh, he exists all right, the Altmer thought to herself. There was no way that torch outside the hatchway had been burning as merrily right now as it must have been four years ago.

"All I need is fifteen minutes," Vinye said, gingerly putting a foot on the ice floe. Once she judged it safe enough to walk on, she exited Gort's ferry with a grunt. "I'm counting on you to wait for me until then."

And without another word, she pulled back the hatch and entered the iceberg.

It was considerably warmer inside, Vinye noticed—if only for the lack of wind. Nevertheless, it was still cold enough—or was she feeling more on edge than she thought? Vinye wondered—that she pulled her thick coat tighter around her body as she trekked further into the frozen behemoth.

"Dig, Dwemer, in the beyond … "

Vinye froze at the voice. It was wavering and singsong, and seemed to be coming from somewhere ahead of her.

" … I'll know your lost unknown, and rise to your depths … "

This was followed by a thin cackle, and Vinye shuddered, but she pressed on all the same; that had to be who she was looking for. The fissure took a sharp turn, and she could see light ahead.

"When the top level was built," the voice sang, "no more could be placed. It was and is the maximal apex."

Suddenly, the chasm opened into a massive cavern, large enough to comfortably fit a small house. Inside, Vinye saw the edge of a large square contraption below her; it must have been twice as wide and high as she was tall. Three giant blue crystals were set in its center, and were surrounded by concentric cogs of indeterminate purpose. It was completely at odds with the natural architecture of the cavern, and unmistakably Dwemer in origin.

A man in a dark blue robe paced back and forth before this enormous device, and he mumbled to himself all the while. "How long will it be sung?" he wheezed. "My feet were set upon the rock, but it turned to mud and drew me down!"

"Excuse me?" Vinye asked hesitantly. "Are you Septimus Signus?"

The man looked upwards, and Vinye could see that this man was very old indeed. He was bent nearly double with age, his wide eyes were clouded with cataracts, and his scraggly silver beard nearly reached down to his waist.

"The ice entombs the heart," he croaked. "The bane of Kagrenac and Dagoth Ur. To harness it is to know. The fundaments—the Dwemer lockbox hides it from me. But the Elder Scroll gives insight deeper than the deep ones, though, to bring about the opening."

Vinye decided to take that as a yes—though she thought Urag might have had a point. This man must have been very popular at the College, she thought sarcastically; ten years of near-total seclusion had not been kind to him.

The sooner I give him the lexicon, the sooner I can get out of here, she thought.

She reached into her rucksack, and pulled out the glowing golden cube. "I was told to bring you this," she said.

Septimus' half-blind eyes flashed in recognition. "Give it!" he gasped. "Quickly!"

Vinye tossed the lexicon on the ice at his feet as though it had burst into flame. Septimus let out a little cry, and cradled the device in his arms for a little while, whispering indistinctly to it.

"Are you … all right?" Vinye couldn't help but ask.

Septimus cricked his head upwards, smiling a gap-toothed grin. "Oh, I am well," he sang. "I will be well. Well to be within the will inside the walls."

Vinye could only blink stupidly. ... What.

He turned his focus back to the lexicon. "Extraordinary," he rasped. "I see it now! The sealing signature interlocks in the tiniest fractals!"

Vinye frowned. "Wait—are you saying you can read this?"

Septimus appeared not to have heard her. "Dwemer blood can loose the hooks," he rambled, and then suddenly he became crestfallen. "Ah, but none alive remain to bear it!"

The Altmer was looking around nervously. Something about this place was not sitting well with her at all—and it had nothing to do with the mad mage in front of her.

"Hmm … but a panoply of their brethren could gather to form a facsimile," Septimus mused. "Yes … a trick. Something they didn't anticipate—no, no, not even them."

He creaked his head in Vinye's direction. "You, highest one. Come you quickly to Septimus. The fractals of the universe have opened unto me, and I see now the way clear to render the cube's aperture."

Vinye didn't like where this was going, and she held up her hands defensively. "Just one moment—I was only told to bring you the lexicon," she said. "All I want is some kind of a reward; gold, information, anything. But whatever errand you want me to do, I'm not interested."

Septimus gave an odd little smile. "Ah, but as one block lifts the other, perhaps ourselves could help us each, hmm?"

Every ounce of Vinye's conscience was screaming at her to turn tail and run. "Go on," she said uneasily.

"The progeny of the First Folk is scattered to the winds," Septimus said. "You, most high elf, are but one of many branchings of their tree. Seek you out the forest and the snow; sift you through the dung and the ash. Then at the last, return you to your family, and we shall sing the song of the deep ones together."

Vinye tilted her head to one side, completely confused now.

The old wizard doddered over to a rotting cabinet. "A moment for Septimus," he wheezed, rummaging in its drawers. Eventually, he pulled out a mass of golden pipes about the same size as the lexicon, and gave it to Vinye.

"Begin you hence at Raldbthar. The first and second inside the third," he said cryptically. "Three tappings, two punctures, one threading into the deepest of reaches go you. Seek you thus your wind-swept children, and bid these tubules partake of their life-drink. Return you to Septimus when the replica is complete."

And with a final, thin cackle, Septimus Signus tucked himself into his bedroll, still mumbling to himself even as Vinye heard the slightest of snoring from him. Feeling her mind teeming with more questions than answers, she turned away from the icy chamber, and made her way back to the hatchway, back to Gort and his ferry—

—only to be rebuffed by a most unexpected sight. The bluish-white ice walls were turning a dark, sticky green, and slimy tendrils oozed from the fractures and pooled at her feet. Hundreds of eyes, the size of gold coins, stared back at her through the mess, inquisitive and calculating.

"Come," boomed a deep, beguiling voice that echoed in Vinye's mind more than it did her ears. "Come closer, and bask in my presence … "

Outskirts of Windhelm

"One thousand septims? This is a con! Do you know what I went through to get all this, you filthy son of a dripping kitten whore?!"

The Khajiit trader did not even blink at Cosette's tirade, nor did he bat an eye at the pieces of ebony armor she had thrown haphazardly at his feet—even though he secretly would have enjoyed being able to wear such a fine, if only slightly worn, example of craftsmanship.

"Ma'dran finds it easier to not ask questions," he said matter-of-factly. "More business that way, he finds.

"As to the nature of your proposal, I would be willing to discuss more if you were to find a matching helmet as well to complete the set. The sum is greater and more profitable than its parts, yes?"

Cosette seethed through her teeth, wanting nothing more than to set something—or someone—on fire. But the letter Malys had given her last night was more important than shady merchants or temper tantrums; right now, she didn't have the time to stand around and argue—or the patience.

And so, with the greatest mental effort she'd ever exerted, she managed to finally calm down.

"I have got to be the biggest sucker in Skyrim," she groaned. She relaxed her iron grip on the Forsworn blade hanging at her side, and aimed a kick at the shiny black boots that had once belonged to the mercenary she'd managed to roast in his own armor earlier this morning. "Take it all, then, you thieving little sod."

Wordlessly, Ma'dran counted out a large bag of gold. "May your road lead you to warm sands," he purred.

Cosette swiped the bulging sack. "I hope you die in a fire," she said half to herself as she made for the stables nearby.

She dropped the heavy sack of coins on a fresh pile of straw, and began attaching a saddle and a set of reins to the lone bay-and-white steed in the stable. She looked at the bemused pair of Altmer stablehands in annoyance.

"Keep the change," she said tersely. "I'm on a deadline, and I don't want to waste time on idle chatter."

Both the stablehands looked like they had plenty of questions to ask. But they weren't about to say no to the mass of gold at their feet, and so they let the Breton go about her business.

Once she was done, Cosette wasted no time in bringing her steed into a brisk trot. As she pulled out of the stable, she pulled out the letter to study it one more time. The penmanship was a spidery scrawl that she almost hadn't been able to read. There had been no postmark, no signature of any kind. But the five simple words that made up the message left Cosette in no doubt of who might have sent it to her.

You are not alone, Ionsaithe.

Pocketing the letter once more, Cosette grasped the reins tightly now, and spurred the horse into a full gallop.

Rkund

"Solyn! Solyn!"

The wizard looked up from his meager meal at the mention of his name.

One of the miners he'd sent topside was running in his direction. A lumpy package was clutched in his hand.

"A courier from Winterhold came by just now. He said this is from the Arch-Mage!"

Intrigued, Solyn set aside his plate of food and stood up. "Let me see it," he said. The miner brandished the package.

When Solyn felt it in his hands, a rush of adrenaline surged through his body. He immediately knew what was inside, and he had to fight the urge to smile in triumph for fear of alerting the other miners and hired hands. Turning away from them, he risked a small peek at the contents, and was further rewarded when he saw a sliver of Keening's crystal blade protruding from its wraps.

"At last," he whispered to himself.

A slip of parchment was enclosed alongside the legendary dagger as well. Solyn unfolded it, and began to read.

Solyn,

Enclosed is our response. The College hopes this will be a most enlightening and profitable venture for all parties involved.

We look forward to continuing our business with you.

Grimnir Torn-Skull

Archmagus of Winterhold

Solyn pocketed the parchment and the package within his robe. It took all of his willpower not to start trembling with anticipation. After so long, he thought, I'm that much closer.

"Ambrose! Roderick!"

A Breton and a Redguard rose from their seat around a fire. "You called?" the Breton asked.

"Ready the first of the shipments to Winterhold," Solyn instructed them. "The Arch-Mage will want to see his compensation posthaste, so do not delay in your efforts."

The two miners nodded, and hurried off.

Solyn, in the meantime, headed to the lift that led to the Reliquary. He pulled the lever, and the platform sank deeper into the bowels of the citadel.

It won't be much longer now, he thought, betraying a small smile of excitement. Soon, the last mystery of the Dwemer will be undone.

And when it is, I will be honored beyond my wildest dreams …

Next chapter: Cosette's past has finally caught up with her, and now she must make a choice.

A/N: Wow, sore throats are annoying. At least now you know why I released a second straight chapter full of blah.

Here's hoping I get better in both my health and my writing capacity soon, though. These next few chapters are going to be an absolute pain to tackle, and I won't lie—I'm very, very worried about how they turn out.

But that's enough wheezing for today. I hope you enjoy! - K