VI
On the banks of River Karth
It was sometime in the mid-morning when Cosette's horse collapsed. The mixture of fatigue, thirst, and the diverse climate of Skyrim—combined with the fact that the steed had been galloping at full tilt since Windhelm with hardly any rest breaks whatsoever—had finally proved lethal. The tongue hung limply from the horse's mouth, dry and cracked, and his eyes stared straight ahead, unblinking, unseeing. Flies were already beginning to gather around the body.
Cosette felt only a mild pang of sorrow as she picked herself up from the worn stones of the road, where the horse had dropped her in his last moments. The contents of the letter still occupied the foremost place in her mind—perhaps if things were different, she would have been more mindful of the horse's health, and perhaps managed to keep him alive along enough to make the trip to Whiterun.
But wishes, she reflected, were not so easily granted in Skyrim.
A quick look around the area told Cosette she was right on the eastern border of the Reach; the decaying fort in front of her was one she recognized as Harmugstahl. An alternative plan was forming in her head even now: the town of Karthwasten was less than a mile to the south, she remembered. If she followed the riverbank, she would eventually come across the road that led to the mining settlement. From there, she would seek information on the shrine to Peryite that she'd heard was located close by.
And so, unhooking her supplies from the dead horse, she set on her way with a grim set to her jaw.
She met nothing on her journey there—not even local wildlife, which she found unsettling—until after about ten minutes of walking, she came across a most interesting sight. A young man—a Breton, judging by his slight build—was sitting on the riverbank, bent double over a rock and coughing horribly. His skin was incredibly red, and Cosette would have taken it for sunburn if not for the earliness of the hour, and all the clouds in the sky.
As she approached him, the man seemed to have sensed her arrival, and whirled around. Instinctively, Cosette backed away.
"You finished ogling the grotesque?" the Breton said irritably, in spite of his apparent ill health. He coughed again, and Cosette saw something sticky and sickly green dribble out of his mouth and splatter on the grass.
"Are you all right?" she asked, concerned.
Eventually, after much hacking and more bile oozing from his lips, the Breton nodded more pleasantly. "Aye. Peryite smile upon you for your thoughts."
"Peryite?" Instantly Cosette was intrigued. "What do you know about him?"
The Breton smiled, and wiped his lips. "I'd be dead from this plague a year ago by now if it wasn't for his protection. My name is Duphraime. I'm one of the Afflicted."
Cosette didn't know what they were. "Then you must be going to Peryite's shrine, then?" she guessed. "To pray to him for further protection?"
Duphraime sighed. "No. I'm going back to High Rock. Our shepherd has turned his back on Peryite, you see, and I fear that His wrath may consume the Afflicted who are still loyal to him."
Shepherd? Cosette frowned at the religious irony of a shepherd losing his way. "Can you at least tell me anything about his shrine?"
Duphraime shook his head. "Kesh is the one you want to go to about that. He lives on a hill to the west, over Karthwasten."
Cosette rested her hand on her sword. "Take me to him," she said icily. "Now."
Duphraime eyed the blade with a wry smile. "Killing me would be an act of mercy," he said tonelessly, without any hint of fear at all. "This plague I carry is more painful than all the torments of the Pits of Oblivion. A blade to the chest is nothing compared to what I've been through."
Cosette laughed like a cat being told off by a mouse. "And what if Peryite is displeased that one of his little lost lambs has run away from the fold?" she smirked. "Would you be willing to take that chance?"
Duphraime's smile faltered—for only a moment, and then it was gone—but Cosette had seen the sudden change of expression, and she knew that she'd won. "I suppose you've a point," he said ruefully, hauling his form off the rock. "Come along, then. I will take you to Kesh. He'll tell you all you need to know about Peryite."
He draped an arm over Cosette's shoulders, and together, the two hobbled westward.
Kesh, to Cosette's minor annoyance, turned out to be another Khajiit—but there was an air about him that set him apart from the clever, scheming J'zargo and the silver-tongued Ma'dran. Kesh was more relaxed than either of the two, and even though he was surrounded by little more than a pot over a small fire, his bedroll, and a simple alchemy table, Cosette sensed that Kesh was more … content than his fellow cats, even in his simple surroundings.
As Cosette crested the hill, Duphraime in tow, the most striking thing about the summit was the large tree before her. It did not seem native to the Reach—Cosette suspected the mass of thick green vines at its roots that wrapped around the tree's trunk and branches might have something to do with that. A golden urn was situated before the tree, and wisps of smoke drifted lazily from the basin.
The Khajiit looked up from the bowl of unidentifiable stew in his paws at the sight of the two Bretons. "Ah, warm sands, travelers!" he greeted them. "You are pilgrims, then? You come to commune with Peryite—our Taskmaster and Blighted Lord?"
Cosette tilted her head at the titles. "Do you worship Peryite?" she asked.
Kesh grinned. "He is the pus in the wound," he said. Catching Cosette's expression, he continued, "The proper ones may curl their noses, but this pus does not spread the foul humors of disease—but drinks them instead, and restores the blood. I worship Peryite, yes, because sometimes the world can be cleansed only through disease.
"Now," he said, looking from one Breton to the other, "do you worship the Prince of Pestilence?"
"He does," Cosette said, idly jerking her head in Duphraime's direction. At a nod from Kesh, the sickly Breton edged closer to the tree, and prostrated himself before its roots. "But I have a question for you—and for your 'Taskmaster.'"
Kesh's grin grew wider. "Ah. You wish to entreat my lord?" he said shrewdly. When Cosette nodded, he went on, "I must warn you, friend, that not everyone has the stomach to do such a thing. But Kesh likes the smell of you,"—Cosette recoiled at the words—"and he just so happens to know how to prepare an incense to please His nostrils."
Cosette did a tiny double take. History was telling her this Khajiit was pulling a fast one on her. And yet, again, there was something that set him apart from J'zargo and Ma'dran. He was smooth, but not slippery; confident, but not overly so. It wasn't much to write about, but she'd not met a Khajiit who she'd been able to trust so quickly.
If he really knows what he's doing, she thought, getting this Spellbreaker will be a cinch.
Kesh rummaged in a satchel, and produced some seemingly haphazard odds and ends: a fresh cutting of deathbell, a polished ingot of pure silver, one of the fattest and finest-cut rubies Cosette had ever laid eyes upon, and a pinch of vampire dust. All of these were carried over to the basin before the tree. Kesh muttered an indistinct incantation, dumped them inside, and Cosette heard a thick, glutinous splash from within.
The smoke changed now from a thin, wispy grey to a billowing mist of green—the same shade of green, Cosette noted uneasily, as the vile substance she'd seen Duphraime spitting out every now and again.
"Yes, yes—a fine fume indeed, no?" Kesh smiled. He bid Cosette come closer. "Come then, take a breath, and we shall see if Peryite is roused, hmm?"
Cosette wasn't so sure. Now that she was closer to the urn, she could see the bilious green mire that filled it to the brim—and more importantly, she could smell it, too. It was easily the most disgusting scent to have invaded her nose, and she wondered if this was anything like what Malys had gone through when eating that charred skeever hide of hers.
Without trying to think about it, she inhaled—and promptly gagged.
Immediately, the colors of the land washed over one another, and became bright and saturated. The world spun before her in every direction, and she screwed her eyes shut to block out the overwhelming imagery.
She opened them again at length, and noticed that the world had stopped turning, though the colors ran worse than ever. Her gaze was locked before the tree, and she saw its branches undulating in a way that had nothing to do with the wind. Ghostly skeevers cavorted around its roots, sniffing at Cosette curiously.
Breathe deep, mortal. A sibilant voice, cold and haughty, echoed through the hallucinogenic scene. I would have you hear me well; so let these vapors fill your lungs.
A corner of Cosette's mind was still sensible enough to hear this. Peryite? she guessed. What's going on here? Did that cat poison me?
No more than a fool after too much wine, the Daedric Prince said nonchalantly. A lesser mortal than you would be cast adrift in the dreamless sleep of the drunk.
But you are here because you have proved most intriguing to me. I have watched you for a long while, and you have made some very … interesting decisions in your life. You may prove to be an able agent for a task of mine.
Task. Cosette felt an uneasy confusion at the word—not to mention Peryite's apparent curiosity in what she had done for herself. What kind of 'task'?
A shadow moved across the bleary image of the sun, and Cosette saw a massive winged shape hovering there, though it was too far away to make out anything further.
I sent a blessing to Mundus some years past, Peryite said smugly, and spread my most wasting plague to a number of villages in High Rock. Further, I bid one of my monks—a Bosmer, Orchendor by name—to collect the Afflicted left in its wake. I prepared them an ideal home in the ruins of Bthardamz—but Orchendor has since lost his way.
The sky darkened, and became suffused in the color of blood. I willnot stand for this betrayal, hissed the Prince, as fire leaped from the now-scorched earth and licked the air around a surprised Cosette. You will go to Bthardamz, and you will put this treacherous shepherd and his flock to the sword in my name!
Cosette recovered from the change in scenery. What has he done to 'lose his way'? she asked.
Impertinent. Irrelevant. Peryite's voice hissed like a swordblade in the wind. He is to die all the same. You will carry out my will—or you will not. You are not the only agent I have at my disposal.
Cosette hardened her face defiantly. You think I care about any of this? she cried at the winged form in the sky. You know why I'm here. You know what I want.
An icy cackle filled the air, and the hellish landscape slowly faded around her. Ah, the pettiness of mortals, Peryite sneered. Very well. Return when the blood of Orchendor stains Bthardamz' streets, and the escutcheon called Spellbreaker shall be yours to use as you see fit.
That's all I needed to hear, Cosette said, satisfied. Now get me out of here—I can't well kill anyone if I'm drugged up like a Khajiit on moon sugar now, can I?
Peryite laughed thinly. Indeed not, he smirked as the vision finally began to fade. Kill the elf, and you shall receive your reward.
It took a while before Cosette's head was free of the ghastly stench. When her head was sufficiently clear—which was more than she could say for Duphraime, who appeared to have fallen into a drugged sleep in the midst of his prayers—she made her way to Kesh.
"Bthardamz," she coughed. "Where is it?"
The Khajiit smiled, and pointed further to the west. Cosette followed his claw, and saw a large number of the Dwemer's telltale golden towers a fair distance away. Her heart rose considerably—she'd been worried of having to trek all the way to the other end of Skyrim again; Daedric Princes were wont to treat mortals that way.
Hoisting her pack once again, then, she gave Kesh a perfunctory wave, and started on her way down the slope.
How much does Peryite know about my life? Cosette wondered. She would not deign herself arrogant enough to be able to claim to understand their ways; the Daedra could be cunning and subtle, or blunt and candid, and could switch between any of those moods as easily as they could switch gender and form.
But the remark from the Prince had disturbed her greatly; there was much about her life she had withheld from public knowledge. The College, and Malys and Vinye, while certainly more open and understanding than she'd anticipated, could never know the whole story—not unless Cosette had no other choice but to tell them personally.
She'd only just reached the dirt path leading to Bthardamz when two children nearly ran headlong into her. They were Nords, each as fair-haired as the other, and their blue eyes looked very frightened.
"What's going on here?" she asked, her voice stern but concerned—not many families in the Reach had children, and those that did would surely have never let their own wander out and about in such a dangerous part of Skyrim. "What are you doing out here all by yourselves?"
While his companion caught his breath, the other child related his story to Cosette. "Bottar and I were playing near this old dwarven bridge down that way," he explained, pointing towards the northwest, "and these two men in brown robes scared us off!"
"They said they'd have our skulls for pestles!" chimed in Bottar. "We never ran so fast in our lives, did we, Sond?" Sond nodded.
"Brown robes?" Cosette asked them. Something about that didn't sound right. Surely it can't be … "Can you tell me what they looked like?" she asked the children. "Eyes, faces, anything?"
The one called Sond though for a moment. "Oh, yeah!" he said. "They had tattoos all over their faces. Orange tattoos—like they were shooting fire from their eyes and mouths. Kind of … like … yours … "
Cosette didn't notice that Sond had trailed off, and was pointing at her own tattoos in sudden horror; alarm bells by the dozen had been set off in her head, and she felt a cold sweat dripping down her neck.
No. That can't be. They can't be here!
Ignoring Sond and Bottar's cries, she pulled them closer to her, and bent down till she was at eye level with them. "Listen to me, and listen good," she said in hushed tones. "There's a redoubt just to the north of here. You run over there, and don't you dare stop, not for anything. If anyone asks, just say that Cosette sent you. Those two men won't get to you in there. Understand?"
They nodded, and sprinted away from the Breton as though a whole flock of dragons were hot on their heels. Cosette, meanwhile, resumed her trek westward with a combination of trepidation and renewed vigor.
Her heart leapt in her throat as she saw two forms approach from opposite Bthardamz, round the corner of the road, and walk towards her. As they drew closer, Cosette could see more of them in detail: they were male, and wore hooded robes of brown trimmed with gold weave. Each of them had a crude stone dagger thrust into their belt.
Quick as a flash, she readied a firebolt in each hand, and blasted them at the feet of the two men. "One more step," she growled, trying her damnedest to not betray her own uneasiness. "One more step, I dare you! That'll be enough reason for me to tear you apart and bathe my blade in your blood."
The two men looked at each other, and lowered their hoods in tandem, revealing shaved heads and ornamental earrings made from the skulls of young rock warblers. Tattoos of orange flames—identical to her facial markings—licked their eyelids and their lips.
"Spoken like a true Ionsaithe," said one of them, smiling warmly—his sharpened teeth notwithstanding.
Cosette lowered her hands, shocked beyond belief as the flames flickered and died. "I didn't want to believe those kids," she said softly, "that you of all people would be out here."
She took a step forward. "So you sent that letter, then?" She brandished the slip of parchment in one hand, waving it in front of their faces, while her other hand toyed with her Forsworn blade. "Come on, then—what do a pair of Cullers know about my clan?"
"We merely intercepted the letter," said the smiling Culler. "When we saw who it was for, we knew to go to Winterhold posthaste."
"Have you been looking for me this whole time?" Cosette asked suspiciously.
The Culler's grin widened. "That would imply we lost you in the first place, Cosette."
Cosette was afraid that had been the case, but that still didn't stop her from feeling extremely uneasy that these people had managed to keep tabs on her from all the way across the province—or that they still knew her by name after all these years.
The other Breton was more serious than his companion. "The remnants of your clan fled to Skyrim after the siege of Dragonstar, and the War of the Bend'r-mahk," he said. "They spread throughout the Reach, growing in numbers and in name, and when the Forsworn came to power, many of them were assimilated into their camps.
"That much you know," he continued. "But many elected to stay in High Rock. They propagated throughout the land, interbreeding with the other clans of the province. Though the clan as a whole is still very much alive, there are very few pureblooded Ionsaithes left in Tamriel," he said solemnly. "And with the heavy casualties sustained as a result of the Forsworn uprising, he believed you were the only pureblood still alive."
"He?" Cosette frowned. "Who exactly sent this letter?"
"The author's identity remains a mystery," said the first Culler, still smiling. "But it's not hard to guess. A single pure Ionsaithe has enough power in their blood to decimate an entire company of Imperial battlemages—power that the Forsworn craves more than anything. Even their wish to take back the land that was stolen from them."
Cosette's head was spinning. She knew about the Ionsaithe clan's abilities—and had even used them in her fight against that wispmother. Vinye and Malys hadn't ventured to inquire about its true nature, though; they had foolishly assumed it to be a simple absorption ward, when in reality it had the potential to be something far more deadly. But to hear that the Forsworn wanted this power …
The second Culler cleared his throat. "We drift too far," he said abruptly. "That letter was sent to you, Ionsaithe, because its author made a discovery that concerned your family. Your immediate family."
What? Cosette's eyes grew wider. "Are you saying—?"
"Yes," the first Culler said. "You are not the last of your kind, Cosette. Your mother and father are still out there."
Cosette's knees buckled, and it took every last ounce of her willpower to not sink to her knees at the revelation. "How do you know all this?" she whispered. "Where are they now? Tell me!"
"We dare not ask," said the other gruffly. "To do so would invite too much suspicion. The Forsworn believe us to be little more than legends—myths and tales of caution and vigilance. But we have infiltrated their camps, yet we have found no corpses with hair or tattoos that match the fire of your own."
Cosette frowned. "Then they must have returned to High Rock—reformed the clan. Every tribe needs purebloods to survive—otherwise they're nothing more than a litter of mongrels."
The second Culler made a growling noise. "Know your place, Ionsaithe. You may share their blood, but you would do well to share the same high regard we hold for your own family!"
"I know who I am!" Cosette hissed through her teeth. "I am Ionsaithe. I am invincible."
She unsheathed her blade, quick as a wink, and brought it to an attack stance. "Now—do you want an object lesson on the meaning of the word, or are you going to let me be on my way?"
The two Cullers looked at each other once more. Finally, they stepped aside, though the first Culler reached inside his robes as he did so. "Those two children," he said, pulling something from his pocket. "They dropped this when we ran them out of Deep Folk Crossing. We think it might be of use to you in your current … endeavor."
He placed a very strange object inside Cosette's hands—a sort of bluish, crystalline half-moon, a little less than a foot wide, with a toothy protrusion the size of her fist jutting out from the concave. It pulsed with a pale light, and tingled against her skin.
"What is it?" she asked, finding herself unable to tear her eyes off it. "Is it Dwemer?"
"We think so," said the second Culler, "but we have never concerned ourselves with the creations of the dwarves. And our advice to you, Ionsaithe, is that you stop pursuing the same."
Cosette narrowed her eyes, and leveled her sword at the Breton. "You don't get to order me around," she snarled. The Cullers have no command structure—no physical leader at all. I do what I want—it's as simple as that."
The Culler didn't blink. "Only so long as you bear in mind the oath you swore in your own blood!"
And then suddenly, he reached out and grabbed Cosette by the scruff of her robes, pulling her in close. The Breton could taste his rancid breath; were it not for her experience with Peryite, she might have fainted then and there.
"You are Ionsaithe," the Culler hissed in her ear. "But you are also one of us, and you cannot hide behind your family name forever, whelp. Because if you forget for even one moment that you still have a duty to fulfill … then the Forsworn will forget their duty as well."
The Culler threw Cosette back from him; she stumbled, but did not fall. At a nod from his companion, the Cullers replaced their hoods upon their heads without a word, and continued on their journey, leaving behind a very disconcerted Cosette.
The Breton didn't move from her spot until she was absolutely sure that the two men had disappeared in the distance. Her communion with Peryite had been forgotten, if only for the moment.
She entertained the Culler's last words in her head. You still have a duty to fulfill …
I know my duty, Cosette thought resolutely, as she resumed her journey to Bthardamz. I went to Winterhold to be strong—stronger than them, the Forsworn, or anyone.
What I do … I do for my family.
For my name.
The Dwarven ruins here were markedly different from Rkund, Cosette saw—and not just in their size and sprawl.
The same vines she had seen infesting Peryite's shrine seemed to be sprouting from the stone itself. Some of them bore bulbous, glowing shoots, whose smell reminded her of the sewers of Markarth even from a full house-length away. Scrunching up her nose, she ascended a stone staircase.
Two Bretons in mismatched robes and armor blocked the gate. Their skin was red as a ruby. Just like Duphraime, thought Cosette. Wordlessly, she unhooked her Forsworn blade from her robe, and readied her fire spells.
She had always liked fire, ever since she was little. High in the Druadach Mountains were giant coniferous trees, some reportedly standing as high as Direnni Tower itself; at a young age, she had learned from her mother that they could only grow in the wake of a destructive forest fire, as their seeds were extremely tough, and could only be cracked by the most intense of heat.
Fire is nature's greatest and most terrible balance, her mother had said that day. It is a destroyer of civilizations … but it is also a creator of worlds. A disease, and yet a cure.
The Afflicted moved to intercept. The one in the robes charged up a frost spell, and his right hand hissed as it released a chilling blast of air from his palm. It was slow on the move, though, and Cosette dodged it easily.
The other Afflicted, however, threw back his head as if to shout at the top of his lungs at her. Cosette, still in midair after dodging the ice storm, watched in fascinated horror as his lips boiled with sickening green sludge—and literally fired it at her like a weapon. His aim was abysmal, though, and the projectile splashed harmlessly a few feet in front of her. The stone hissed noisily as the vomit actually melted through the smoothly cut rock, leaving a misshapen, boiling hole in its wake.
Cosette stared wild-eyed at the sight, thinking privately that this task of Peryite's was becoming less and less worth it by the minute. I can't let that hit me, she thought, or I'll be finished for sure.
The Afflicted mage moved to release his own mucinous missile, but Cosette was already upon him: she charged headlong for him until she was merely inches away, then fed him a whole foot of her sword. The crude but brutal lashing ripped into the Afflicted's throat, emerging from the base of his spine, and Cosette saw his stomach bulge slightly green with the backfire as she frantically kicked his body away.
"You won't even live to regret that!" The other Afflicted moved to carve up her face with the dagger in his hand, but Cosette had already charged up her magic. The flaming missile hit the Breton full in the chest, burning through his diseased heart in a matter of seconds and killing him instantly.
Cosette saw no more guards as she proceeded through the exterior of Bthardamz; indeed, the only resistance she was met with was a pair of levers. One activated a spinning blade concealed in the staircase; thankfully, Cosette was able to get out of its range before deactivating the trap. The other lowered a spiked wall, leading to a door set into the rock.
Exhaling briefly, preparing herself for the journey ahead, Cosette stepped into Bthardamz.
Bretons had always been on the runty side, particularly the females, but Cosette was short even among her own race—both in stature and in temper. It wasn't a common sight, then, that could make her feel even smaller than the even five feet she stood.
Bthardamz was one of those sights. Where Rkund had seemingly been nothing but down, down, down, Bthardamz was here, there, and everywhere—it was absolutely sprawling. Even the corridors of the city—lit by gas-powered lamps, and more of the thick green glop she'd inhaled at Peryite's shrine, could have swallowed the towers of Markarth in a single gulp.
Cosette froze suddenly as she heard a pair voices in the distance, somewhere in a room off to her right. She brought spell and sword at the ready without a sound.
"Another request from Orchendor?" Grating, and choleric.
"Yes, brother," Meek, and subservient. "Our shepherd needs more of the ichor delivered to the Arcanex tomorrow. He believes using it alongside the machinery there will help him commune with Peryite."
A grunt. "I delivered ten barrels to him hours ago! You try me with your incompetence."
"Apologies, brother. The blessings of our Lord go with you."
Another grunt. "Yes, yes. Now leave me to my rest and go back to your post."
There was silence, then, broken only by the sound of padded footfalls coming closer. Cosette's breath caught in her throat as her boot slipped on some loose rubble.
Damn it.
"Hmm?" The meek voice instantly became alert at the noise, and Cosette backed up against the wall, watching for any sign of movement. A balding head peeked out—and was immediately sliced off at the neck by Cosette, who caught the armored body and laid it carefully to the floor so as not to make any more unnecessary noise.
Thirty seconds later, the old man to whom he had been speaking to had had his throat slit in his sleep, and Cosette moved on without a word.
She continued to fight more Afflicted as she delved deeper into Bthardamz, which was fast becoming a labyrinthine network without any hint of any definite entrance or exit. The passageways were becoming increasingly confusing to navigate, and it did not help that the wrong ways contained plenty of automatons waiting to spring out at luckless adventurers—she'd found that out the hard way after having to blow up no less than six spiders with a very hastily drawn rune.
After half an hour of fighting men and machines alike, Cosette's body was badly singed and smelled of spilt oil from all the automatons she'd come across. She fervently hoped Tolfdir was right about there being running water in Dwarven ruins—if she kept going on smelling like this, sneaking around would be impossible.
At length, she came upon a huge chamber, high and wide enough to fit a full quarter of Markarth. A number of Afflicted were situated inside, all of them gathered around a large, thin totem carved in the likeness of a dragon, and surrounded by more of the green slime. She decided to hold here for a moment, catch her breath and plan ahead—there were too many in there to take on at once. No—this was going to take some strategy.
"Peryite, heed our call if you deem us worthy," Cosette heard one of the Afflicted say, and guessed her to be some kind of priestess. "Our shepherd has led us here, and for that we are thankful. He has shown us that our suffering is not a punishment, but a blessing."
Cosette took a quick scan of the room. Three, four, five, ten, fifteen Afflicted—all of them too spread out for her firebolts to be effective.
"Yes," echoed the congregation, "a blessing."
Her eyes alighted on the glowing goop. Unless …
A second Afflicted spoke up, this one male. "We have sought your guidance for months on end, yet have heard nothing from you. If we do not please you, Peryite, give us a sign so that we may understand why."
It was time to test a theory—and perhaps show off a little now that Vinye and Malys weren't around to see what she was really capable of.
"Yes, a sign," chorused the Afflicted.
"We are lost without your guidance," said the priestess, and Cosette could hear the mixture of fear and faith in her trembling voice. "On the ninth of Rain's Hand our prayers went unanswered, yet here we stand. We will not falter in our faith in you—and we believe that you will show yourself to us."
Both her hands began to burn with fire—at exactly the same time, and at exactly the same temperature—and she brought them together slowly but surely. She would only get one shot at this.
"Yes, we believe."
"And until that day comes, we will continue to devote our lives to you … and suffer in your name."
"Yes, suffer."
Fifteen heads whirled around and upward at the voice that did not belong to any of them.
Now.
Cosette, grinning like a madwoman at the congregation below, released her fiery missile directly at the base of the totem, and threw up a ward right as the supercharged fireball made contact with the slime.
The slime exploded. A massive flaming sphere erupted inside the chamber with a thunderous roar. None of the Afflicted lived long enough to know what happened before the conflagration consumed them, leaving nothing but charred remains and the stench of burning flesh in its wake.
Only when the last of the flames had died did Cosette finally drop her ward. The shockwave had turned her red hair nearly black, and the heat had curled and frayed it severely. But she didn't care about that right now—the euphoria of what she had just done carried her like wings, and she felt like she could fly.
But she knew deep down that she had to remain calm. This was just another infiltration for her—one of many she'd undertaken in her life. It didn't matter if all of Bthardamz knew she was here now; if they were not prepared for her, then her mission was already complete. All that was left to do was clean up the mess.
Just like the Cullers, she thought. All those camps, those redoubts and caves—it's starting to feel like old times again.
She swung open a set of metal doors. They opened into a dimly lit pavilion as wide as the College courtyard—and yet it was still dwarfed by the immense cavern in which she'd just walked into.
All thoughts of her past memories—of the Afflicted, of the College and the Cullers, vanished at the sight of it all; she sank to her knees, it was too much to take in.
I am so lost.
One hour, two dozen Afflicted, and three dwarven spiders later, a badly battered Cosette had finally managed to drag herself into a secluded alcove where she could heal herself. Water spilled in front of her from a broken pipe high above; she greedily drank from it and stood within it, letting all the soot, oil, vomit stains, and general filth wash off her ruined clothing. She was tempted to go the distance and take a full-blown shower—Gods only knew the last time she'd had one of those—but there was no telling when more Afflicted patrols might show up, and she doubted she had Malys' capacity for seduction (she grimaced at her very loose use of the word) to complement her figure—or that the Afflicted would just as soon kill a naked young woman just as they would any other man or mer.
Cosette looked mournfully at her hands—one of the Afflicted she'd killed had managed to graze her unscarred hand with that damned poisonous vomit. The worst of it had been healed, but the wounds had bubbled and hissed more than they ought to as they sealed up. The flesh around her wrist and fingers was left knotted and bumpy, like badly kneaded dough, and Cosette suspected there might be some scarring if she wasn't careful—her healing magic could only go so far. Wounds this severe would need some very potent restoration potions.
Cosette noticed a small dwelling nearby, one that didn't look like it had any connection to the rest of the ruins. Her spirits lifted—there might be some potions in there, or even an alchemy lab. Maybe if she was lucky, there was a bed inside as well, and she could rest herself mentally and physically before her inevitable confrontation with this Orchendor.
She walked toward it, and entered the dwelling without a sound.
There was no alchemy table within sight, which was regrettable, but the presence of several large red bottles on the ledge opposite her more than made up for that. Surely that would be enough to restore her malformed hand and—
"Are you asleep?"
Cosette froze in her tracks when she heard the voice right there.
"I know you can't hear me, brother," said the voice of a young woman off to Cosette's left. A partition separated the two apart; neither knew the other was there. "But I don't like what we've become."
Cosette managed to calm her thundering heart after what felt like hours. As silently as she could, she reached for her Forsworn blade and crept closer to the edge of the grating.
"We've been here so long," the woman continued, "and what do we have to show for it?" Her voice was near to tears. "Orchendor promised us a place where we'd be accepted, taken care of. He promised Peryite would be present at all times, and give us comfort in our suffering."
Cosette heard a wet sniffle. "Forgive me, brother, but I have not felt Peryite's presence. Not for a long time."
Something shifted, and Cosette heard boots upon the stone. "I want out. I want to leave this place. I want to breathe the air of High Rock once again, to see our mother and father in Daggerfall. But the more I see their faces, the sicker I become … and the more I know I'll never see them again."
A scornful, pitiful laugh. "But who am I kidding?" she said. Cosette imagined a tearful smile, resigned to her fate as she stroked her sleeping brother's hair. "You'd never let me leave anyway, would you? I know how devoted you are to Orchendor—how you believe in his promises with all your heart.
"I also know this place is going to be the death of us. It's only a matter of time now. … But I will always regret that one summer day when I introduced you to Orchendor."
Cosette heard the faintest hint of a kiss. "Sleep well—for both of us … Kastus Ionsaithe."
Ionsaithe?!
And then, before she even knew what she had done, Cosette had launched from her hiding place, unsheathed her sword, and landed in a three-point attack stance all in one fluid movement. The red-haired woman sitting in the stone chair before her was too surprised to attack, but had enough wits about her not to shout in panic, and thereby wake her brother.
Cosette looked at the man in the stone bed. The tattoos were different—he wore two dark green streaks running from each eye to each ear, his sister a single bright red line extending horizontally from her lips. But the man's hair was just as red as her sister's … just as red as mine.
Cosette lowered her blade. "You're part of the Ionsaithe clan?" she whispered—not out of respect for the weary, but of total shock and disbelief. She willed herself to take a few steps closer, show the woman her own flaming hair, the orange tattoos that signified her heritage, and she saw the look of silent comprehension dawn on her face. But the woman did not rise to embrace her—perhaps because she wouldn't, perhaps because she couldn't—she was sick, and Cosette could see a simple cane next to the chair.
The woman swallowed, and her eyes became downcast. "No," she sniffled. "The Ionsaithe clan doesn't exist anymore. We mingled too much with the other clans in order to survive—the power we once possessed is too watered-down to have any leverage now."
Mongrels. Cosette's own words floated up from her memory. "My parents are Ionsaithe," she said. "Pure Ionsaithe—and so am I. I'd been searching for them for the longest time, and I was told that they're still alive." She took another step closer to the woman. "Don't you see? We can still rebuild the clan! We can become the name that sent fear through Jehanna and Evermor, and chilled the blood of King Eadwyre himself!"
The sickly woman stood up with a vigor that belied her state of health. "Jehanna is gone!" she hissed through her teeth. "Evermor has been wiped out!" She coughed, and slowly returned to her seat.
"Haven't you been listening to me?" she said, as if it were as simple as adding one to one. "The Ionsaithe clan doesn't exist anymore. Everywhere we settled, Peryite's plague followed. Our clan is all dead or dying because we chose to put our trust in that thrice-cursed monk."
Cosette didn't hear her sword slip out of her suddenly numb fingers and clatter to the stone. Dead … dying? " … What does Orchendor have to do with all this?"
"You know better than any of us what the Ionsaithes are capable of, pureblood!" the Afflicted spat derisively. "And so did Peryite. He dreamed of making a plague that could bypass the most perfect magickal barrier that Tamriel could ever produce … and he succeeded.
"When Orchendor learned of his master's success, he rounded us up, and herded us like cattle into this crumbling ruin. He experimented on us, the damnable elf. He knew through Peryite of the Ionsaithe clan's special traits, and he wanted them for himself. And when Peryite discovered the elf's treachery, he turned his back on him … on us."
Cosette was only dimly aware of the red haze filling her vision; a burning hatred, hotter than any fire she'd conjured before, was coursing through her body like molten iron. He experimented on dying human beings?
On my kinsmen?! My family?!
"I don't know who or what brought you here," said the woman sorrowfully. "But if you said you were looking for your family … " She indicated herself and Kastus, shaking her head. "This is the best you're likely to find."
Cosette took a deep breath—she figured it was only fair she come clean. "Peryite sent me here," she said, and she registered the woman's look of surprise, and then resignation. "He wants me to kill Orchendor."
The woman bowed her head. "Then you've got a long road ahead of you," she said. "We aren't the only Ionsaithes in Bthardamz. The only way through to the Arcanex—to Orchendor—is through the lower district of the city, and that's where he keeps the worst of the Afflicted … that's where he keeps what's left of our clan."
Cosette felt her breath stop in her throat. She knew what was coming now—somehow, she knew what the answer to her forthcoming question was going to be.
"Will they recognize me?"
The Afflicted sighed. "Would it make you feel better if they did?"
Cosette balled her hands into fists, unwilling to accept this. "Then I'll have to kill them, won't I?"
She nodded. "There's no other way."
"But this is my clan we're talking about!" Cosette protested. "I've been trying to bring the Ionsaithe name back to power for five years, and now you're telling me to wipe them out? That it was all for nothing?!"
"What else could you do?" the woman hissed. Her brother stirred in his bed, but did not wake, only mumbling slightly under his breath.
When the Afflicted next spoke, it was softer and heavier, filled with regret. "We were never a peaceful clan, you know. We were nomads, warriors—never truly at home unless we were on the battlefield. Orchendor saw our philosophy as a blight—but even with this accursed disease, we never forgot the truth."
Cosette frowned. "And what about you?"
A pause. "You heard me talking to Kastus," the Afflicted said. "I knew I was going to die in this place a long time ago—I've already made my peace. All I ask … is that you do me the same honor as you will the rest of our clan."
When Cosette looked back on it later, it still scared her how quickly she made her decision then.
She swallowed, and slowly nodded. "Better to die as a soldier … than to live as an animal," she said, retrieving her Forsworn blade from the floor.
"No," said the Afflicted. "Better to die as an animal … than to live as a slave."
Cosette lifted her blade, trying to think about something else—anything—besides what she knew she would have to do.
" … What's your name?" she asked after a while.
" … Marienne," said the Afflicted. She'd closed her eyes now, and looked peaceful.
"Marienne … that's a lovely name," Cosette said sweetly. The blade drew back.
Marienne Ionsaithe never made a sound as Cosette ran her through, the Forsworn sword piercing her heart and splintering her ribs. Blood pooled on the stone floor, and she smelled defecation.
It seemed to take forever for Marienne to die, but when she finally did, Cosette stood there for a long time, unable to comprehend what she had just done. Kastus continued to sleep, oblivious to what had just happened in the waking world.
Duphraime's words echoed in her mind. Killing me would be an act of mercy.
"Mercy."
Better to die as an animal …
" … than to live as a slave," Cosette finished. At length, she raised her blade, its crude ivory teeth still dripping with blood, and turned to the still-sound-asleep Kastus.
It was time to make a choice, she knew. The duty of the Cullers … or the survival of her clan.
This time, when Cosette looked back on it later, she was not scared by her decision at all. It was simply no contest.
The Cosette that emerged from the dwarven dwelling was far different from the one who had entered it some time ago. The potions inside had healed her melted hand, but the change was not so much physical as it was mental. Her round face was lined, the tattooed lips pursed and wrinkled, and her eyes smoldered with a flame more potent than any of her fire spells. Cosette wasn't furious—she wasn't even merely angry.
Marienne had pushed her over the edge; she was now in that state of mind where the cadence of her heartbeat and her footsteps were equally measured, and she imagined that if Vinye and Malys were here beside her, then her voice would be just as calm and even as well in spite of everything she'd seen and heard today.
In other words, Cosette was angry.
Kastus' blood still dripped from her swordblade as she continued on her way to the lower district of Bthardamz, never pausing in her step—not even to dispatch the two Afflicted guarding the doors. One went down to a salvo of firebolts before he could unsheathe his weapon, and she toppled off the edge. The other moved to intercept, and he too died, moaning faintly as Cosette ran him through without breaking her stride.
Cosette only stopped for a moment then, to catch her breath and open the door to the lower sections of the city. Her mind felt surprisingly clear—she had been worried that Marienne's words would have stirred it up into a maelstrom of thoughts and ill wishes to Orchendor.
Somewhat boldly, she privately hoped that the wood elf was ready for her.
Because she was definitely ready to face him now.
The double doors yawned open, and Cosette stepped over the threshold. There was no turning back now, she knew.
What I do … I do for my family.
For my clan.
The door opened into a large, well-lit arena—the largest one she'd yet encountered, even with the collapse of an entire corner. She imagined what it must have been like in its heyday—hundreds of Dwemer could easily have fit into this chamber.
Another totem had been erected on the plinth in the center, and a few Afflicted were gathered around it, praying silently. Even from here, Cosette could see they shared the same flaming red hair.
Ionsaithes.
There was no way she could sneak up to them. However, Cosette did see a lever tucked away behind a bench. She got on all fours, and crept her way to the contraption, staying out of sight and earshot of the Afflicted. Silently, she pulled the lever, and quickly popped her head upward to see the effect.
She was still too slow—by the time she'd leapt up, the Afflicted were already dead; no less than four threshing blades had erupted from the plinth, and they wasted no time in scything through flesh and bone like gossamer, throwing parts of the Afflicted in every direction and spattering blood and green ichor everywhere.
Cosette failed to suppress a shudder at the inhumanity of the device; she had no more of an idea than they did that the mechanism would have worked the way it did. It certainly raised some questions about the original purpose of the arena as well. How cruel were the Dwemer to have even conceived of such a room? And how cruel was she to have used that contraption just now—on members of her own clan, no less—and not feel any sort of regrets whatsoever?
She wanted to break down then and there, she wanted nothing more than to just let it all out and cry and scream and tear this ruin down with her bare hands. But every time she tried, that anger just kept getting stronger.
Cosette was not angry at herself—how could she be? She had no idea what she was getting into. No—it was Peryite, and Orchendor, that damned traitor. She felt that anger boiling up inside her, and it was taking more and more of her concentration to keep a level head—to keep that anger controlled—each time she continued to slay a man or woman she might one day have called part of her clan.
Bthardamz, for its part, was also doing its best to try Cosette's patience. Just when she'd thought the ruin would never become any more confusing to navigate, she'd take another wrong turn, or go in a complete circle and not even know it. At least there were enough Dwemer automatons to provide a welcome respite from the Afflicted—and the Ionsaithes among them.
Once, a pair of Dwemer sphere-men had joined in a fight against no less than a dozen Afflicted over a vast bridge that spanned the entire cavern within the district. Cosette wasn't sure if she'd activated them, or if the Afflicted had—or even if the rolling golems had sensed their presence and activated on their own. By then, her controlled anger had streamlined her thought process to the point where the only thought in her mind was being repeated over and over like a war chant: get to Orchendor.
Finally—at long last—she reached the door to the Arcanex, and with a physical strength she didn't know she had after spending so much time fighting just about everything this ruin could throw at her, Cosette pulled it open so hard she could have sworn she'd heard the hinges strain against the stone.
The chamber beyond was unlike anything Cosette had yet experienced in Bthardamz; a natural, sunlit grotto dominated by many Dwemer towers rising from the waters below. The overgrowth of the vines in this chamber was worse than ever—some of the towers had been collapsed by the sheer weight of the thick plants.
But Cosette wasn't here to admire the scenery. Orchendor was here; some voice in her head was telling her this—he had to be. And so she continued on her way.
The spiraling ramps took her a hundred feet, perhaps more, above the bottomless pool, eventually taking her to the threshold of a massive hallway that stretched on into darkness. She could hear a noise in the distance, coming from somewhere on the other end, and it sounded vaguely familiar to her: a clump-clump-clump noise, like a giant blacksmith's hammer striking stone, as regular as her own heartbeat.
For one moment, the anger that had been festering in her head wavered slightly, and a comparatively tiny amount of fear crept into her mind. Those were footsteps she was hearing—giant metal footsteps.
And they were getting closer.
The dwarven centurion chose that moment to step out of the shadows. It stared down at Cosette with impassive golden eyes worked into the unmoving metal face. Twelve feet tall, and filling the hallway completely, the massive golem spread out its hammer-and-halberd arms, blocking Cosette from going any further.
Whether Orchendor had charmed this automaton into protecting him, or the centurion was still fulfilling its duties four thousand years onward, Cosette did not know, and neither did she care.
It was in her way.
The monstrosity tilted backward just a little bit, and only Cosette's experience with the Afflicted saved her; she erected a ward at the exact moment the behemoth expelled a blast of scalding steam from its mouth. She felt a vaguely choking heat wash over her, not unlike the volcanic springs of Eastmarch, but the ward had stopped the worst of the attack.
The centurion charged, but Cosette remained where she stood, analyzing the automaton. It was big, and she bet three to two it hit like an angry mammoth. But the golem had very few joints in its construction, and it moved and attacked much more clumsily than an ordinary human as a result. Four thousand years of continuous operation probably hadn't been kind to it, either.
Factoring in all that, Cosette guessed this whole automaton was one big weak point. But it was still more than twice her height, which restricted her choice of targets to only one logical selection.
She charged a fireball, and fired at the centurion's groin as she charged. Right as she drew level with the monster, Cosette drew her sword and swung at the gyros inside with all her might. There was a loud CLANG as ivory struck metal, and the vibrations from the impact nearly caused Cosette to drop the blade. But the impact had been sufficient; something shrieked within the casing, and the centurion tumbled down the stairs and into the water. The arms still continued to twitch, and steam still billowed from the body—it was still operational, but Cosette's swordsmanship had ensured it would never walk again.
The Breton did not even allow herself a moment of congratulations—she was nearer to her goal than ever, and she didn't know how much longer she could contain her anger before having to let it out on the next best thing to Orchendor. And so she continued on, and the darkness of the hallway swallowed her whole.
She didn't know how long she walked that shadowy passage, but eventually she saw the welcome glow of light appear in front of her. She turned right, and the hallway suddenly opened up into another massive arena. There were pipes everywhere—on the walls, the ceiling, and even the floor, all of them thick enough for her to crawl through. But Cosette's focus was on the massive totem of Peryite in the exact center of the room—the locus of the myriad of glowing green-and-yellow vines that wound around everything within reach.
And prostrated before it, apparently without any knowledge that she was behind him, was Orchendor.
Before Cosette could stop herself, the dam finally burst. The impassive expression she'd only just been able to maintain for the past several hours finally crumbled, and her lips split in a feral growl that changed into a terrible, strangled scream as she charged for the Bosmer.
"MURDERER!"
Orchendor turned around at the sound of Cosette's screech; if the Breton's mind had been more sound, she might have been worried at how composed the old, white-haired elf appeared as he stared death in the face.
But there was no stopping Cosette now. The crazed woman was dead-set on destroying him once and for all; intent on slicing his windpipe open and roasting his throat with the hottest flames imaginable, on painting every inch of Bthardamz with his blood and bile, tearing into his flesh with her blade and her bare hands if need be, and inflicting every possible method of brutal and bloody injury to that gods-damned psychopath—
"Too much noise," said Orchendor calmly.
Suddenly, a familiar purple flame consumed him just as Cosette passed right where he'd been a second ago. One second later, both persons had disappeared from Bthardamz—indeed, from Mundus as they knew it.
The air had turned thick and choking, and Cosette had not expected to stumbled and fall upon dirt and loose rock. Shocked, she looked up; the ceiling of Bthardamz was no more, and in its place was the most hellish sky she'd ever seen—red and rusty brown with clouds, and crackling with lightning. She appeared to be on an island, except instead of water, there was searing hot lava.
Teleportation, she realized. He teleported me! But … where to?
"The Pits of Oblivion," Orchendor said, extending his arms around him. "Few mortals have the skills necessary to enter this place. Fewer still have the skills to survive."
He walked to Cosette, appraising her. "You're one of the Ionsaithe clan; I can tell by your hair. But there's something different about you, isn't there? Yes," he said, as Cosette stared defiantly back at him, hating him, "that power they talked about is much more potent within you, which must mean … you're a pureblood."
Orchendor grinned. "Peryite has given me a wonderful boon," he said, clapping his hands together. "You will tell me everything about this power, and after I've finished extracting it from your body, you will then join the rest of your clan as one of my Afflicted. It should only be fair for family to live with each other, shouldn't it?"
"Then you're going to have to kill me," Cosette snarled. "Because I killed them. All of them. I did it to save them from you."
Orchendor sighed. "You Ionsaithes always were a bull-headed bunch—always looking for an excuse to fight even in the midst of peace." He snapped his fingers. "But very well—I will grant your dying wish."
One flash of amethyst-colored flame later, and Cosette was back in Bthardamz—just in time to see Orchendor fire a spear of ice the size of a broadsword at her—larger and deadlier than Malys' frost magic could ever hope to be. Quickly as she could, Cosette fired two fireballs in response.
One fireball met Orchendor's ice spike, and the two missiles exploded against each other, sending shards flying every which way. The second fireball went straight for Orchendor. Its aim was straight and true—
—or at least, it would have been, if it suddenly didn't dissipate on contact with his black robes. This was so unexpected that for just one moment, Cosette forgot to be angry.
"How did you—"
"I learned much about your clan from Peryite," Orchendor gloated. "Their blood runs in my body—I'm just as much an Ionsaithe as you are! The greatest mage in the world could never touch me now!"
And just like that, Cosette was back to being angry again. "I'm more than a mage," she growled as she unhooked her Forsworn blade. "And you are no Ionsaithe, Orchendor. You're not even a half-blood, like all those Afflicted your master made me slaughter to get to you! You're a mistake—you should never have happened to these people."
She leveled her blade at the Bosmer. "I'm going to make sure of that!" She screamed another war cry, and charged.
Orchendor was ready for her. Another click of his fingers, and another violet portal sent them into the Pits—but not before Cosette had sliced into his robe near the shoulder. The Bosmer grimaced, but did not cry out in pain.
Cosette didn't care. "That was just the first cut," she hissed. "Next time it'll be two. Then four, then eight. Each time I'm going to double the wounds on your body until you're nothing but a bloody stain on my blade."
Orchendor stumbled to his feet. "Then don't waste time talking," he goaded her. "If you're so angry at me, then kill me already! I have better things to do then listen to talk of ven—"
He never finished his sentence. Cosette had lunged for him, too enraged to even speak. The Forsworn blade flashed once; it was the last thing Orchendor saw before his head parted company with the rest of his body. The slain wood elf toppled backward to the ruined ground, and his head sailed into the sea of lava with the force of the Breton's deathblow.
Cosette looked at the headless corpse at her feet, feeling an urge to say something after what she had just done. Eventually her brain settled on, "Never tell an Ionsaithe to kill you."
And with that pithy one-liner, Cosette felt suddenly lighter-headed, much more so than she had ever felt before her journey into Bthardamz—before Winterhold, even. She felt … relieved.
But that did not mean she was happy, not at all. After what she'd had to do to go this far, Cosette doubted she'd ever be genuinely happy again.
Orchendor is dead, she thought, bowing her head and trying to fight back the tears, but so is my clan.
The Ionsaithes are finished.
A shadow filled the sky all of a sudden; Cosette looked up to see the same winged form she had seen when she'd inhaled those accursed fumes. Now that she saw it without their influence, it looked to her like a very large dragon, only with an extra set of arms under the wings, and much more serpentine and slender in its shape.
It dived downward, and alighted on the broken boulders with an earthshaking THUD. The neck dipped downward towards Orchendor's remains, and the beast opened its jaws and lazily extended a long tongue. With a casual flick, the slimy muscle looped around the wood elf's body, and dragged him into the maw, swallowing him in a gulp.
Well done, mortal, said the Daedric Prince of Pestilence, dipping its neck again toward Cosette. All things are in their order, and Orchendor's soul has been consigned to these Pits for eternity. You may rest assured that his betrayal will be punished—and that your obedience has been rewarded.
A golden light gleamed at Cosette's feet, and she looked down to see a tower shield forming at her feet. It was definitely dwarven in construction, although it looked quite fragile in contrast to every other aspect of Dwemer construction. It was curiously shaped as well; Cosette noticed that it curved outwards rather than inwards.
So this is Spellbreaker …
She carefully picked up the Dwemer relic, giving it only a cursory inspection before turning to the dragonlike creature before her. "You played a very dangerous game, Peryite," she said. "I hope you know that."
And yet you chose to play it as well. Peryite tilted his head in mock curiosity. Why, I wonder?
Cosette felt her anger surge back up again. "I just butchered who knows how much of my clan in that damnable ruin!" she screamed. "And for what—for this?" She brandished Spellbreaker in her hand. "As far as I'm concerned, you're no better than Orchendor!"
Whatever connection you had to these Afflicted matters not to me, sneered Peryite. Were you thorough in your task?
Cosette did not answer him. She stared back at him with smoldering eyes, channeling every single scrap of hatred she had for this monster into her eyesight, imagining the Daedra withering before her like a burning juniper tree.
Hmm. That matters not, either. The Afflicted are mere vessels for my Blessing. It will spread to others through my own touch just as easily as theirs. As for Orchendor, a more … able Overseer shall take his place when the time comes. For now, all has been cleansed and ordered.
And you—Peryite pointed a claw at Cosette—are free to seek your own fate. Perhaps we shall meet again … afterwards.
Cosette's voice was icy and venomous. "You can say what you want, but at the end of the day, I was just another weapon to you, wasn't I? Just another tool."
She took a step towards the dragon, not even blinking. "I didn't kill my clan, Peryite—you did. Don't try to justify it, because I will never let that stand. I don't care if you are a Daedric Lord—if I ever see you again, I will kill you."
The dragon showed its serrated teeth in a horrible imitation of a smile. Go now—embrace order and hard truth, mortal. Goodbye.
Before Cosette could say a word, the dragon had opened its jaws wide and swallowed her whole.
She smelled grass, and the sharp odor of juniper on the wind. I'm … I'm alive?
Her mind had not yet caught up with recent events—even now, distant parts of her were still a little slow in realizing that Peryite had transported her back to his shrine somehow—and had not, in fact, eaten her alive.
Cosette opened her eyes; she was back at Peryite's shrine. It was nighttime, and Secunda and Masser filled the sky completely. She turned her head to the left; Kesh was at his alchemy table. She turned to the right, and there was Duphraime, still prostrate at the withered tree. He appeared not to have moved at all since Cosette last saw him.
She stood up, leaning on the dwarven urn for support, and the Khajiit chose that moment to look up and see her.
"Ah! You have come back," he said, his voice strangely sad. "I am sorry about that one over there."
He pointed back towards Duphraime, shaking his head. "He succumbed within the last hour. His illness was too great. I can only hope that Peryite will provide him the respite he deserves."
Cosette felt numb as her mind caught up with what Kesh was telling her, and the Khajiit might as well have been talking to her from the other end of Skyrim for all the attention she was paying him.
Kesh passed a letter to her. "He wrote this, you know—a long time ago, in the hopes he would be able to see his family one day. Perhaps you could do Kesh a favor, and pass it along?"
Cosette unsealed the thick scroll of parchment with thick fingers, unrolled it, and began to read.
Beloved,
I know you thought me a fool not to leave Cul Aloue with you and the others, but I couldn't abandon our children to the plague. Whatever fates you may have guessed for us, however, are far from the truth, and I send this letter in hopes that it will soothe a worried mind.
A week after you left with the rest of the healthy folk, I was patrolling the wall. Kelter had taken ill by then, and was unfit to ride. I prayed no bandits would be foolish enough to risk infection for our trifling goods.
Then, against the last rays of the sun, I saw a lone figure headed towards the village—an elf called Orchendor, and with him came a change in destiny for us all. He called us to assemble, crowding us into Cullete's barn; she was the most badly stricken, and unable to move without being carried by Orchendor himself.
There, the good elf gave us tidings that none could have guessed: he claimed that the sickness was not a curse on our village, as we were sure it had been—but a boon, a beacon that drew him to us. He told us that he served the Daedric Prince Peryite.
I know what you're thinking—Cul Aloue would never suffer the heresies of the Daedra. But we did, and not only that, but we raptly heard what he had to say. Maybe you think we were too sick, too weak, but we weren't.
Orchendor wanted to take us to a new home, a place where we could live out our days in worship of Peryite as his chosen—his Afflicted. No one refused. Some were carried in carts and litters, but we all made the trek with him across the border into Skyrim.
We have since lived in refuge, inside the ruins of an ancient Dwemer city. There are others here, too, many with tales much like ours, bound together by our divine illness. But this "sickness" no longer weakens us, but give us strength. We heal ourselves with concoctions that other men would call poison. And Orchendor keeps us safe here, by the blessing of our Prince. I am now his Apostle, tasked to disseminate the teachings of Peryite to our Afflicted.
So you see, beloved, the spirit of Cul Aloue lives on. I will never blame you for abandoning us that day, so long ago. I only regret that you were not likewise chosen to carry out His blessing.
Peryite preserve you, and know your children are well.
Duphraime
Cosette let the letter fall silently to the ground. Her hands were quivering violently, and try as she might she couldn't bring herself to stop. The tears were falling freely now, and within moments she sensed Kesh backing away slowly as she began bawling her lungs out, dropping to the grass on all fours and wailing like a baby.
Orchendor, she thought, cursing the elf with every ragged breath she took. Orchendor—it all led back to Orchendor.
Eventually, Cosette stood up, and dried her eyes on her sleeve. Her gaze alighted on the diseased tree before her, and idly, she wondered how it came to be this way. Peryite was the prince of disease, it was true. But Cosette also knew the nature of the gods, and their dependence they had on the mortal races of Tamriel in order to survive. She had disposed of Orchendor, and—she thought with a pang of all the Ionsaithes she'd put to the sword—all his Afflicted. That had reduced Peryite's faithful severely; perhaps how many followers he had determined if the shrine looked to be in disrepair. If that was the case, and if she was correct, the only thing left to do was—
"This one is troubled?"
They were the last words Kesh ever spoke. At the sound of his voice, Cosette whirled around, sword in hand, and beheaded him in one swift stroke. Her teeth were clenched in raw, unrefined rage, and her eyes, still red from crying, flashed with white-hot fire. The last of Peryite's faithful dropped to the ground, and his severed head followed in short order.
But Cosette was not done. Sheathing her sword, she turned to the tree that served as Peryite's shrine. Fire appeared in both her hands, and her body began to shimmer with the same glow as when she'd faced that wispmother.
Bretons were naturally resistant to all manner of magickal attacks, and were capable of siphoning the magicka of incoming spells for a short time, negating them and adding their energy to their own. But the natural abilities of the Ionsaithe clan took the latter one step further: a pureblooded Ionsaithe could generate a ward around their bodies that could absorb not only magickal attacks, but all the natural magicka around them—the latent energy contained within the water, the trees, and all of Mundus—and channel it into their own body.
This natural magicka was the reason why a mage could cast a flesh spell or release a lightning bolt—it acted as a medium for the spell. The Ionsaithes' abilities created a vacuum where that natural magicka once was—magickal attacks could go out, but the only way they could go in was through that absorption ward.
It was the perfect magickal defense combined with an inexhaustible metaphysical battery—all in one neat little package. It was the reason why their clan was called Ionsaithe—invincible.
And right now, Cosette was about to use it to deal the deathblow to a Daedra Lord.
She raised her hands, and without further ado, released fireball after fireball at everything within sight. The alchemy table, the cooking pot, Kesh, Duphraime, and the shrine to Peryite all disappeared in her relentless salvo of fire. Dead flesh popped and sizzled, and wood and grass alike burned like kindling as the explosions rocked the hillside, drowning out her war cries.
This continued on for a full minute, although to Cosette it only felt like a matter of seconds—and yet she felt so tired now it might well have been for hours on end. Yet as she looked around her, surveying the carnage, resting her satisfied eyes on the smoking hulk of a stump that used to be Peryite's shrine, a new feeling took hold of her—one that she had not felt in years.
It was a feeling of anticipation—of looking forward to things to come.
You cannot hide behind your family name forever ...
I have no family now, Cosette thought grimly. I destroyed my own fortress, my only hope for the future of my clan.
There's no point in hiding anymore.
Cosette left the desecrated shrine behind then, and set off on her way down the hillside. She never visited that part of the Reach again in her lifetime—nor did she have any wish to. She had better things on her mind right now.
It was time to fulfill her duty.
Bruca's Leap Redoubt
The camp was small, a mere outpost in comparison with the larger redoubts that dotted the Reach. But like all the others, it still served its purpose; it was only one of many gears in the Forsworn's crude but brutal war machine.
The Forsworn number higher than the blades of grass. Kill one, and three more stand in their place.
There were only two guards outside the entrance to the cave. Neither of them saw Cosette's firebolts until they blew up in their faces, charring and melting them into grotesque imitations of a human head.
The wind may howl at its highest, but the mountains will not yield—and the fire will only grow stronger.
I am a Culler. I tend the fire that will burn the Reach.
The first guard was already dead, but the other was still alive, her eyes and mouth fused shut by the heat of the fire. She swung blindly with her dual swords, and her muffled screams were mixed with fury and pain. Cosette put her out of her misery in passing, drawing and quartering her in a matter of seconds as she continued on her way.
I am Ionsaithe. I want to be invincible—even if I don't wish to be.
A taller person would have had trouble navigating the narrow passageway that led to Bruca's Leap. It was a crack in the rock, half as wide as she was tall. But the Bretons were just as suited for magic as they were for infiltration. Their physique was what made the Forsworn so dangerous—they were biologically perfect guerrilla fighters.
No … I am invincible. But I will not be the last one standing.
There were three Forsworn in the cave. One of them was already dead, Cosette could see, and laid out on a wooden table. The one standing over him was a briarheart—the most wonderful and terrible creation of the hedge-magic employed by the Forsworn. Neither living nor dead, but a force of destruction—a tornado of power and vengeance.
The irony did not escape her.
I swore an oath that my blood would stain the land …
The third Forsworn had already noticed her enter the cave, and brandished a sword not unlike her own in one hand and a rough stone axe in the other. She charged at Cosette, but the Breton had studied the attack patterns of the Forsworn inside and out, down to the angle of her enemy's arm.
Cosette, therefore, sidestepped the initial strike without any trouble, and disarmed the Forsworn by opening a gash in her right arm from wrist to shoulder. She instinctively screamed in pain, and Cosette used the opportunity to stick her free hand over the Forsworn's mouth—and bathed her esophagus in red-hot flames, killing her instantly.
… that the false blood might one day fill the Reach to its length and breadth.
The briarheart readied an ebony war axe, and the cave exploded in light and sound as he blasted a thunderbolt at Cosette. Cosette ducked behind a tree, and the lightning blasted a stack of barrels to smithereens.
Quickly, before he could charge another spell, Cosette picked up one of the swords of the Forsworn she'd just killed, and hurled it at the briarheart, where the crude weapon lodged itself in his throat. As he staggered back, Cosette lunged forward, reaching out with her hand into the crudely carved recess into his chest, where his namesake was embedded—held in place with nothing but leather straps.
That is the duty of all Reachmen.
With a mighty kick, she sent the undead warrior's body toppling over the railing, plucking his only link to life out of his chest. The briar heart was slippery in her hands, and its reddish, spiny edges still dripped with blood and viscera, but she didn't care.
She hefted the grisly object in her hand, and squeezed. Dark green juice ran in rivulets down her arm, and a sour smell pervaded the air of the cave as the heart was destroyed. The briarheart thrashed about in his death throes for a few moments longer, and was finally still.
Only then did the façade break, only then did the haze around her eyes fade—if only a little—as the cold reality of the situation began to take root.
The duty of all Cullers.
Spellbreaker was hers, if only for the next few days—but thanks to her, the name Ionsaithe was little more than a memory now; that her mother and father were still alive out there somewhere did little to comfort her. And yet, Orchendor and his master were no more; Peryite's only known shrine and worshippers in Skyrim had been destroyed, although if he was half the Daedric Prince that Cosette had him for, Peryite would be spending the time he could have manifested on Tamriel instead torturing the Bosmer for the atrocities he'd committed against her clan.
For now, her anger was sated.
Cosette retrieved the sword she'd thrown at the briarheart, pulling it out of his windpipe with a loud squelching noise, and hooked it onto her belt. She looked around the cave, paying only the slightest bit of attention to the dead Forsworn as she made her way outside, to Whiterun and hopefully to Vinye and Malys. The Reachmen had fought well, she admitted—but not well enough. If they were to fulfill their duty, they would have to be stronger than this.
And she would keep becoming stronger—becoming invincible—so that they would do the same.
What I do … I do for my family.
For the Forsworn.
Next chapter: Vinye's history with the Thalmor goes deeper than she's let on. Meanwhile, the Altmer's foray into Raldbthar has some earthshaking consequences.
A/N: WOW OKAY that was a lot longer than I thought it would turn out. And Bthardamz is a really big place, so I always knew this was going to be a doozy. But still …
Thankfully, these next couple chapters should be a few thousand words shorter, and therefore a little more flowing and coherent, I hope. However, they also might be a while coming; I'll be on holiday a couple weeks from now, and I'm not too sure when I'll have time to write during that time. Fret not, though: I should have at least one chapter done by the last week of July.
Lastly, I know I try not to actively seek out attention, but I feel that may have to change. I always want to be a better writer, and with this chapter and the next few I've got lined up, I could use that R&R more than ever to help improve my skills.
Thanks for reading! - K