"Do you have everything you need?"

"Yes, Bel."

"Money's safely packed up?"

"Yes, Bel."

"Are you warm enough?"

"Yes, Bel."

"…You're sure you have everything?"

"By the gods, man," the driver snarled, jolting the brothers from their conversation, "grow a pair and let me ride off here."

Henri eyed the man nervously. Bjorlam was a hardened, gnarly man who looked better suited lopping off heads on a battlefield than driving a wooden cart. The last thing he wanted was to spend four days on the road with him…however, his only other option was walking that distance, which was out of the question. This impossibility, though, was seeming more and more plausible the more Henri got to know him.

"Now be careful with the money," Belethor said, repeating instructions that were already carved on Henri's skull. "There's 500 for the college, 40 for any travel expenses, and then an extra 40 for anything you might need in Winterhold. The college will give you everything else. Be sure to keep it out of sight; you never know who you're going to meet on the road…"

"Don't worry about bandits," Bjorlam grunted. "Bastards know to stay away from the likes of me. Boy's coin'll be safe until we get to Winterhold. Now if you'll stop your pussyin, pay me my gold and get on your way!"

Belethor gave his brother a significant look and then pointed surreptitiously to the boy's pocket; Henri knew that he was referencing the dagger that had been hidden there that morning. Although Bjorlam had never given anyone reason to suspect him before, the temptation of a 14 year old carrying 500 septims was one that Belethor was worried the driver wouldn't be able to resist. Thus, he had given the dagger to his brother, instructing him to use it without hesitation should the situation arise. At the time, Henri had had a slight tremor of excitement at the idea of experiencing that intense of an adventure. Now, however, he doubted the iron blade would even cut Bjorlam's beard, let alone any part of his body.

Belethor stepped away from the carriage. "All right, then," he said, "safe travels to both of you!" He paused and gave his brother a sheepish look. "I'll tell Lyd you said goodbye?"

Henri winced. Ever since she found out that he would be leaving, his sister hadn't said a word to him. "Please," he said. "And tell her I'll miss her."

"She'll miss you, too," Belethor said. "We all will."

For an instant, Belethor seemed so lonely that Henri had the sudden urge to jump off the cart and put an arm around him. Before he could do anything, though, Bjorlam spat over the side, cracked his whip, and sent the carriage lurching forward.

"Bye!" Belethor called, growing smaller and smaller the farther they went. "Good luck!"

Henri waved back vigorously, heart suddenly cold. Up till that morning, he had been convinced that he was doing what he was meant to do. Now that the time had come to say goodbye, though, his conviction had been greatly shaken.

The carriage turned around the corner. Belethor disappeared from sight.

Henri twisted back around in his seat. It was very early in the morning. The few people awake were all concerned with opening their stores and paid him no heed. He knew none of them very well; it suddenly struck him that he likely never would.

"You ever left Whiterun before?"

Henri jolted. "Sorry?"

Bjorlam huffed impatiently. "You ever left Whiterun before?" he repeated. The carriage was drawing nearer and nearer to the city gates.

"N-no," Henri admitted, suddenly very aware of the huge consequences he had accepted. "I've never been atop the walls."

The carriage had stopped in front of the gates; a guard standing watch signaled up to the nearby tower to open them.

"Then you'd better want to get a second pair of pants," the driver grumbled.

Then the gates rumbled open, and Henri's mind went blank.

The walls of Whiterun were not exorbitantly tall; the Jarl's castle of Dragonreach towered well above them, and even certain roofs in the city's Wind District had a nice view of the surrounding countryside. Henri, however, had never had access to this privilege, and thus the only real glimpse he'd ever had of the outside world had been the massive Throat of the World, whose peak was visible wherever you went. Life existed within Whiterun's walls; anything beyond was either myth or legend.

Now, all that had changed.

"Big" didn't even begin to describe things. "Giant" didn't do much better. "Immense" came a little closer; still, words just didn't seem to describe the incredible vastness he found himself looking upon. Before, things had always had a definite end: streets veered around corners, buildings stopped at other buildings, and everything ended at the great finality that was the walls. The plains that stretched before him didn't follow this law. The land out here was expansive as the sky itself, and were it not for the massive mountain jutting out from the horizon Henri would have been easily convinced that it all went on forever.

"I think I'm going to need that change of pants after all," Henri murmured.

He thought he caught a slight smile on the driver's face; however, at that moment the carriage hit a bump in the road, and by the time everything had corrected itself Bjorlam was back to his grim self.

The day's journey was a long one, but Henri didn't mind. Everything he saw elicited new questions—he hadn't experienced such wonder since reading the tales in his mother's book of Breton stories brought back from High Rock. Skyrim was beautiful; although the route took them away from the Throat of the World, the rest of the countryside was so expansive Henri had no room to complain. In one day, they managed to drive past waterfalls, roaring rivers, and skirt around a forest so thick he couldn't see fifty ten feet into it. He was sure his incessant questioning was irritating to Bjorlam. However gruff his responses were, though, the driver never told him to stop.

The first inn they stopped at was located at the foot of a set of small mountains. Henri couldn't stop staring at them while Bjorlam was untying the horses in the stable. "Do those mountains have a name?"

"Them are hills, not mountains," the driver grunted. "The locals call em the Three Brothers."

Henri stared at the hills a bit longer. "Do they have mountains like these up in Winterhold?"

"Again, them ain't mountains." Bjorlam stood up and tied the horses to a hitch in the stable. "And yeah, they got some real mountains up there. Most of em are covered in ice, though—mighty cold up in Winterhold."

Henri was about to ask if that was why the hold was named the way it was; however, before he could, the door to the inn opened and a grizzly blonde woman walked out. "You plannin on stayin here tonight, Bjorlam?" she said, walking up to the wagon.

"I sure ain't tyin up my horses for shits and giggles," Bjorlam shot back.

She glared at him. "There's only one room available. Five coin for the night."

"Ask the boy," he said. "I'm sleepin with the horses."

"That's five coin too." Scowling, he pulled a few pieces out of his pocket and tossed them to her; she caught them so fast Henri was convinced she had to know some magic herself. "So, you want a room, boy?" He nodded. "If you have the coin, you're welcome to it," she said, pocketing Bjorlam's fare. "However, there is somethin I need to ask – how many gods are there, boy?"

He blinked. "W-what?"

The woman's eyes were boring a hole through his skull. "How many gods are there, boy?"

Henri's throat went dry. The Great War had caused all sorts of problems with religion. A key part of the White Gold Concordat that had ended it had been outlawing worship of Talos, the human emperor made a god. The Aldmeri Dominion had claimed that it was impossible for a mortal to be made divine; Pierre Étielle, however, had thought it had more to do with the fact that he was human.

"If Talos had been an elf, we'd have had the opposite problem," his father had grumbled one night. "Those damn Altmer would have made him the only god. There'd be Talos Parades, the empire'd be renamed "Talosland", children would have to lays lilies at his shrine every day…"

"I like the sound of Talosland," his mother had said, looking up from her sewing.

His father had smiled at her. "Well, maybe we can keep that one. The fact of the matter is, kids, the only reason those elves hate Talos is because they think it makes them inferior to us – which, of course, they are…"

"Pierre! Tais-toi!" Morenne had said in exasperation. "Do you want the children thinking like that?!"

"Sure I do," he said, "so long as they don't repeat it outside of this house." He turned back to his children. "Never tell anyone tell anyone your thoughts on religion, you three. Someone's gonna get upset, and in this country that could get you in a lot of trouble."

Remembering these words, Henri swallowed nervously and said, "The gods are just several parts of one holy power…"

"I'm not a priest, boy, I don't need all that hocus-pocus shit!" the woman barked. "How many gods?!"

Hands clutching his tunic nervously, Henri panicked and decided to tell the truth. "N-nine. There are nine gods."

The woman seemed satisfied. "Good. Looks like you Bretons are on our side after all. Now forget that fact if you know what's good for you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Bjorlam asked, frowning.

"We got Altmer stayin with us tonight."

Bjorlam leapt to his feet, scaring the horses. "Fuck that! You let them bastards into your inn, Felsi?"

"Don't look at me like that, Bjorlam!" she shot back angrily. "What was I supposed to do? Slam the door in their faces and let em cart me off to some bloody prison in Cyrodiil? You know if them Mer told you to cart em around the province you'd do it, no questions asked!"

Bjorlam looked defeated. "Don't mean I like it."

"I ain't exactly throwin em a party myself," she retorted. "Anyway, food's free for guests, but you know that. Come in if you change your mind about freezin to death tonight. And you, boy, make sure you stay the hell away from them High Elves, you hear me? I don't want any trouble."

Henri nodded numbly and followed her inside. He'd never met a High Elf before. His father had painted them like demons, with gleaming golden skin and an appetite for human children. While he had a feeling that was exaggeration, there was still something terribly exciting about finally seeing the monsters that had kept him awake as a child.

The inn was a low-roofed room, lined with tables full of food surrounding a giant fire pit. The flames were dim, bathing half the building in shadow and obscuring most of the other guests' faces. It was a quiet night; one man was half-heartedly playing a lute that no one else seemed to be listening to. Henri strained his neck trying to catch a glimpse of an Altmer; however, everyone he saw seemed to be human.

The innkeeper noticed this. "Inga," she murmured to one of the barmaids, "where are them High Elves?"

The girl shrugged. "They just went into their rooms; that tall one seemed pretty pissed about something."

"Elves are always pissed about somethin," Felsi said. "Good, though, it'll keep things quiet. Did you ever find that silver?" She shook her head. "Ah, well, never used it anyway. Boy!" Henri jumped. "Your room's in the back corner. Eat what you want out here, but don't bring anythin back, I don't want rats in my inn."

Henri nodded quickly and ducked away from here, taking a seat at a table in the shadows. He wondered which of the doors lead to the Altmer's room – it was too bad that they'd shut themselves in their room. Suddenly starving, he grabbed a hunk of bread, a sausage, and a bit of water and began eating ferociously, all the same paying attention to the conversations going on around him.

"I still can't believe Felsi let some of them Thalmor in here," a burly man with a neckbeard next to him muttered next to him. "It's a bleedin disgrace!"

"What was she supposed to do?" his neighbor, a thin woman with thinning blonde hair, hissed back. "Throw em out in the cold? You know that'd be suicide."

"Just ain't right, is all," the man replied, lifting a tankard to his mouth. "Don't like it."

The men to his other side were talking about Morrowind. "They say the province's still in ruins," one said. "Those who have the money to leave have left and everyone else is living like dogs."

"By the gods," the other man said, shaking his head. "It's been seventy years! What are the Dark Elves doing?"

"Dying?" his friend offered; the man didn't seem to find this funny.

There was a loud bang and a rush of cold air; Henri looked over to see Bjorlam barge into the room, looking unhappy. "Bjorlam!" one of the guests said. "I didn't know you was here!"

"Yeah, and keep it that way." The driver sat down near Henri and pulled a leg off a roast rabbit, biting off a huge chunk. "Pass me some cheese, kid."

Henri obeyed, rather enjoying the idea that he was the only one Bjorlam was willing to talk to. The other patrons shrugged and turned back to their conversations. Henri yawned and grabbed some more bread. The journey had taken more out of him than he had realized; sleep would be welcome.

Suddenly one of the room's doors flew open and three Altmer stormed out.

Henri's spine stiffened automatically; from the looks on everyone else's faces, he wasn't the only one unnerved (Bjorlam continued scarfing down his rabbit without blinking). There was one woman and two men; judging by the way she held herself, Henri guessed she was in charge. All three were tall and thin, with olive skin, bright gold hair, and loping foreheads. Their faces weren't too different from humans; sharper, though, as if an artist had gone in with a chisel and sandpaper. The woman wore flowing green robes lined with rabbit fur to protect against the Skyrim cold; her companions wore sharp, black armor. All three still had their swords attached to their waists.

"Where is Felsi?" the woman in front asked the barmaid. Her voice was crisp and clear, in a Nordic that was frighteningly good for a foreigner.

"I'm here," the innkeeper grunted, coming out from the back. "Whaddya want?"

"Felsi," the woman said, "I'm afraid there is a rather large draft in my room."

"We're in Skyrim," Felsi said, "the whole damn country's one giant draft."

"I've been made aware of that fact," the woman replied coldly. "That does not mean that I shall accept it in my living quarters, no matter how humble they may be. Fix it."

"Fix it yourself!" Felsi snapped. "You damn Mer want to control everythin anyways!"

Henri's heart was pounding. Even those who'd never seen an Altmer knew they were not used to being disobeyed. The entire inn had gone quiet; the tension in the room was oppressive. Felsi seemed to realize what she had just said – though her expression had not changed, she was visibly paler, and Henri noticed that she had suddenly started to sweat.

"What," the elf said quietly, though loud enough to be heard by the entire inn, "did you just say to me?"

Felsi opened her mouth, then closed it. "I…I…I m-mean—I can f-fix the draft, that's not—"

Henri's stomach was churning; he hated seeing other people in distress. Besides, watching someone as gruff as Felsi be forced to grovel in front of her clientele hit him with such a wave of embarrassment that he had to look away.

"I'm not talking about the draft," the Altmer said, walking forwards; the men behind her put hands on their swords, sending a slight chill through the inn. "That sort of speech is usually associated with insubordination – and I'm sure you know what happens to insubordinates…" Her guards drew their swords, making Inga the barmaid scream.

Henri couldn't bear it. "Ma'am," he cried, jumping up from his bench and standing in front of the fire; everyone in the inn swiveled towards him, eyes wide. "Why can't we worship Talos any more?"

"Oh, fuck me," Bjorlam muttered, grabbing more rabbit; everyone else suddenly became extremely preoccupied with their food. Heart still beating loudly in his ears, Henri suddenly realized that his course of action may not have been the best-advised. For an instant he had a vision of the two guards running forward to cut him down; however, before anything happened the woman in front smiled.

"That's a very interesting question," she said in a voice better suited for a four-year-old, apparently having totally forgotten about Felsi. "Why, what do you think about it?"

"I…," Henri didn't trust her tone of voice. Aware that the entire inn's attention was on him, he cleared his throat and said, "I'm not sure. I don't, of course, but I see shrines to him everywhere and I know that he was still a god before the war…"

The Altmer sighed and said something to her guards in Altmeri. "This province is full of heretics and heathens. This would never be an issue in Cyrodiil. Do you know anything of the history of the world, child?" Henri decided it was best to say no. "Well, many centuries ago, a very great man named Tiber Septim united all of Tamriel under the Empire. Man, mer, and beastfolk were controlled by one nation for the first time, and this feat led many to believe that he was a god."

"Were they wrong?" Henri asked, frowning.

She smiled, almost predatorily. "Divinity is a strange thing, almost impossible to understand and even more so to attain. The idea that any mortal could attain true divinity is preposterous."

"Then why do so many people believe in him?"

"Power," she said simply. "Men liked the idea that one of their own could attain the highest rank of existence, and so they chose to believe it. Naturally such an action merely served to cheapen the divine nature of the Gods, so when we signed the White Gold Concordat to end the war, we Altmer decided to…relieve you of your folly."

"But if people had already believed in Talos for so long," Henri said without thinking, "why change it now? The Gods can't mind after so many years, can they?"

The Altmer stared at him coldly, and Henri had the instant impression that he had just said something he perhaps shouldn't have. "Talos is a False God; he is a lie. As beacons of Truth, the Gods hate lies, and thus they hate Talos. Worshipping him is therefore an offense against nature and a crime to the Empire, am I understood?"

Henri had blushed furiously. "Y-yes, ma'am."

"Would that everyone in this province were as fast a learner as this boy!" she cried, turning towards the rest of the inn; the other patrons slunk further into the shadows, except for Bjorlam, who continued eating his rabbit unfazed. "Your worship of the False God has gone on for far too long! That will change in the years to come, mark my words!"

"Er…madam?" Felsi said, shuffling forward meekly. "I, uh, just peeked around your room and, uh, I think your draft'll be taken care of now. I even lit a fire in case you wanted things even warmer…"

"Wonderful," the Altmer said, rising to her feet. "Do be so kind to heat some wine and send it into my room. I believe I shall retire for the night." She turned around and walked gracefully back into her room, followed by her guards – but not before Henri caught a glimpse of one of them pocketing a silver bowl off a side service table.

Wide-eyed, Henri started to point; however, before he could, someone grabbed his arm and dragged him back to the table. "Sit your ass down, boy," Bjorlam growled, tossing a rabbit on his plate.

"Did you see that?" Henri hissed, ignoring the food. "I—"

"No, I didn't," Bjorlam shot back. "And even if I did, I wouldn't open my fool mouth about it! Now eat and shut up!"

"But the sil—"

"Is none of your business," the driver replied. "If you know what's good for you, you'll stay out of this mess and go to sleep, you here me?"

Something in Bjorlam's tone told him he shouldn't argue. "Yeah, I hear you," Henri mumbled.

"Good." Apparently satisfied, Bjorlam concentrated back on his rabbit; having suddenly lost his appetite, Henri muttered something about being tired and retreated into his room.

Hours later, Henri was lying awake, staring at his ceiling.

His room was small but clean, with a comfortable bed and a small chest with a lock and key. The thick wooden door had done a good job muffling out the sounds of the rest of the inn; now, however, everyone had gone to bed, leaving the place deathly quiet.

The Altmer guard's crime still weighed heavy on Henri's mind. He knew that the Altmer were not to be challenged; still, stealing silver from an inn was so petty a crime for members of such a rich and powerful organization that he couldn't help but feel deeply scandalized by the whole thing. Now, of course, it was too late to do anything – if only he could have found a way to get to the stolen goods and get them back to Felsi…

He suddenly had an idea – a stupid one, to be sure, and a potentially very dangerous one too, but one that might get the silver back. Henri threw off his blanket and crept over to the door, cracking it open to check if anyone was still awake. The room looked empty. Henri slipped through the door and silently made his way towards the Altmer's room.

"Where do you think you're going?" someone asked behind him.

Before Henri could yell, a rough hand clamped down around his mouth and pushed him back into his bedroom. Kicking wildly, Henri tried to hit his attacker before being pulled silently to the ground.

"Gods be damned, calm down," Bjorlam snarled in his ear. "You wake anyone up, we're done for."

Henri froze. Grunting quietly, the driver dragged him back to his room, closing the door behind them. They stared at each other for a moment, both panting. Then, Henri said, "How did you know I was going to go out?"

"I didn't," Bjorlam said. "But I know you saw that elf take the silver, and I didn't want to take any chances."

"They don't have the right," Henri said. "They have Felsi's silver!"

"And you think she don't know that?" Bjorlam snapped. "Of course Felsi knows they have her silver, they took it right under her nose! But do you see her out here, risking her neck for it? Of course not! Silver can be bought back, boy - lives can't!"

"That silver belongs to her!"

"That silver belongs to the elves, you idiot," Bjorlam snapped. "Everything belongs to the elves! You belong to the elves, I belong to the elves, everyone in this inn belongs to the elves!"

Henri was blushing furiously. "That's not fair!

"And that counts for horseshit!" The driver's face was right in front of his own. "You think these elves care about what's fair and what isn't? You think them elves are gonna bother about what you feel and how you think? Like hell they will! Just because you didn't deal with em in Whiterun doesn't mean you can act like they ain't got power in the rest of the country!"

Henri was quiet for a moment. "I didn't know you were such a coward, Bjorlam."

The driver's face went black. "Don't act like you know more about me than you do, boy. I fought with the emperor against em, and the emperor betrayed me. Now I got to look out for my own neck, and if you're smart you'll do the same." He paused. "This school you're going to – eyes are gonna be on you. That much magic in one place…everyone'll be watching. Don't be a damned fool and get yourself killed." He shook his head. "I'm going back to the stables – you better stay in this room till morning, you hear?"

"I hear," Henri mumbled. Bjorlam grunted and left, heading back to the stables.

The room fell silent. Henri lay down on his bed and stared at the ceiling, heart pounding. Life outside of Whiterun was going to be more dangerous than he thought.