Chapter 38
Wilhelm shook his head. The Dragonborn had warned him his small town was about to triple in size, but he hadn't expected both General Tullius and Ulfric Stormcloak to descend upon the tiny village with large numbers of their followers in tow. Marcus had assured him there would be no fighting, that this was to be a peace conference held at High Hrothgar, but men who came to talk peace usually didn't arrive with armies at their backs.
He had to admit, however, that the inn had never been busier. Wilhelm had worried that one side or the other would just come in and clean him out of supplies without paying for them, declaring it to be the prerogative of war. But the soldiers on both sides quietly paid for their food and drinks, and while they glared at each other across the room, the officers with them made sure no hostilities broke out. Wilhelm supposed he could thank the Dragonborn for that, as well. But he wondered how long the peace would last, and how long the lieutenants and captains could keep their fighting men and women from each others' throats. And he sincerely hoped they wouldn't feel the Vilemyr was a perfect place for a battleground.
As for the Dragonborn, Marcus was furious that both Tullius and Jarl Ulfric had brought so many men with them.
"I said this was to be a peace conference," he glared at the Imperial general, who was the first to arrive. "What will it look like to Ulfric Stormcloak if you have an entire battalion camped around Ivarstead?"
"If you think for one moment that Ulfric Stormcloak won't arrive with at least as many of his own men, Dragonborn," the general growled back, "then you're a complete fool." He sniffed. "And it's not a battalion. It's only a platoon."
So, less than fifty, but more than a dozen, Marcus thought sourly. He didn't expect the General and the Jarls in his company to travel unescorted, but there still seemed to be an awful lot of brown and red uniforms hanging about. "That's not the point!" he snapped now. "The point is to try to avoid a confrontation while we work out an amicable truce. Besides, this many people will put a strain on the local villagers here, at least with respect to what they can reasonably feed and shelter."
"You've never been in the military, have you, Dragonborn?" Tullius asked, almost pityingly. "You'd know that a real army brings its own supplies, and has a carefully constructed and guarded supply line established whenever it infiltrates enemy territory."
"High Hrothgar is neutral," Marcus reminded him.
"But Ivarstead isn't," Tullius shot back. "We're in the Rift now, and that's Stormcloak territory. So if you don't mind, I'll do what I have to do to protect the men under my command. We'll establish a base camp just south of town, Dragonborn, don't worry." He grinned unpleasantly. "You'll hardly know we're here."
It wasn't much better dealing with Ulfric, who – as if to lend credence to the general's words – showed up with at least as many men as Tullius had. Though not as well equipped or supplied, Ulfric insisted he needed his men and women close by in case "things don't work out."
"And what do you mean by that, if I may ask?" Marcus demanded warily.
"I mean," Ulfric said sternly, as if to a disobedient child, "that if Tullius doesn't agree to my demands, we have nothing further to discuss. If he refuses to make the right choices, then he leaves me with none."
"Wrong!" Marcus exclaimed. "That's the wrong attitude to go into this conference with, Jarl Ulfric, and you know it!" Why are they being so pig-headed and stubborn about this? he fumed to himself. "You can't go into a peace talk without at least considering the idea of a permanent peace!"
"I thought the purpose of this conference was to give you an opportunity to trap a dragon," Ulfric drawled. "Or am I wrong about that?"
Marcus seethed inwardly. "You're not wrong, Jarl. That is my goal here. But if you won't even consider a cease-fire going into the talks, how do you imagine we're going to achieve it?"
"There will be peace when the Empire pulls out of Skyrim and leaves us to govern ourselves," the Stormcloak leader replied.
"And just how are you going to manage when the Thalmor descend upon you, answer me that?" Marcus gritted out. "Because I can guarantee you they're just waiting for an opportunity like this! You read the documents. They have magic; you don't. They live practically forever; you don't. They play the long game and can afford to wait; you don't and can't."
"If we are to die—"
"Spare me the platitudes of an idealistic dreamer, Ulfric!" Marcus interrupted impatiently. "What happens to Skyrim if the Thalmor sweep in and take over? I'll tell you what will happen: every person you love will die. Every man, woman and child who looks up to you, who believes you are right, will die. And while some may die immediately in battle, the greater portion of your people will die slowly, enslaved and tortured because they believed in you, in Talos, and in a Skyrim free of the Dominion."
Marcus saw Ulfric's brow furrow in impotent fury, but he pressed on. "A generation from now – two generations from now – people in Windhelm will say 'Talos, who?' Children will be taught by Dominion scholars who will instill in them that Ulfric Stormcloak was a vile, evil man who tried to undo everything the good Dominion stands for. You will be remembered not as a hero, but as an enemy of the state. And do you know why? Because you drove the Empire out. Because that Empire that you love to hate is the only thing keeping the Thalmor out of Skyrim. Because they won't lift a finger to help you when the Dominion comes in. The Empire you say bent the knee to the Dominion did so to save Tamriel from falling under the yoke of Thalmor oppression. I've seen this all happen before in another time and place! Do you think Tullius loves the Thalmor? I can practically assure you he doesn't. But his hands are tied because of the White-Gold Concordat that he loves even less than you."
Marcus paused and took a deep breath. "Jarl Balgruuf has no love for what you've done to Skyrim, tearing it apart with this war, but he hates the Dominion almost as much as you do. Why do you think he's remained neutral in all of this so far? He couldn't pledge himself to your cause for personal reasons only known to the two of you; but he also couldn't bring himself to swear loyalty to the Empire he felt betrayed him. He admitted to me that the Jarls were never given a choice about the Concordat, that you were all forced to sign it whether you agreed with it or not. So why not use that now to your advantage. Instead of fighting against it, make it work for you."
"And how would you suggest I do that, Dragonborn," Ulfric sneered. The contempt of the title was back in his voice, Marcus noted despairingly. Great. Instead of bringing the man around to see reason, he had pushed him further away. Rallying a smile, he leaned in conspiratorially to Windhelm's Jarl.
"Come to the conference with an open mind, and you'll find out," he smirked.
Elisif, Jarl of Solitude and candidate for Skyrim's High Queen, looked out over the campfires illuminating the hollow where General Tullius' forces were encamped. She hated this. She would rather be anywhere but here. The noises, the smell, and the tension, were all enough to make her want to bolt and run all the way back to the Blue Palace. The only nice thing was seeing the Dragonborn again. He was an Imperial, to be sure, but she'd never seen anyone quite as strikingly handsome as him – except for Torygg, of course.
The thought of her late husband sent another shaft of pain through her. He had deceived her, had deceived them all. How could he? He had everything. He was Solitude's Jarl, and Skyrim's High King. Though he never included her in any of the court proceedings, he was kind to her in private, gentle in their intimate relations, and seemed to be the perfect host for all the dignitaries that visited. What would make a man like that risk everything to become a toady to the Aldmeri Dominion?
Now, after reading through all the journals and letters the Dragonborn had brought to her, she could see with perfect clarity how it had all been a front. Little things she thought were inconsequential at the time suddenly became much more important: Torygg cancelling all his appointments when Ambassador Elenwen showed up; Torygg pardoning a man known to have connections to a seamy underside of the world Elisif knew little about; the fake smile on Torygg's face when Skald the Elder came to visit, and the barely-concealed hostility he held for Dengeir when he was Jarl of Falkreath.
Other things came to mind: Torygg making a point of telling Sybille Stentor how much he admired Ulfric Stormcloak, and yet overhearing him as she passed his private study in conversation with an unknown visitor saying that the Jarl of Windhelm was 'a problem that will soon be dealt with'.
Elisif sighed. She wasn't cut out for this kind of court intrigue. She didn't want to be High Queen, but Falk and Tullius had insisted she take up the mantle to prevent Ulfric Stormcloak from driving the country into war. At first she had thought they meant the civil war. Now, she was not so sure.
"A septim for your thoughts, Jarl Elisif," came a voice that made her thrill.
"Oh! Dragonborn!" she breathed when she saw him emerge from the shadows. "I didn't notice you there!"
He chuckled, and his deep voice sent warmth spreading through her. "I think if I dressed in a tavern girl's outfit and danced around the fire you wouldn't have noticed. You were pretty far away."
"I've been right here all the time," she said, embarrassed and confused. She hoped the gloom of the evening would hide the blush that flamed her cheeks.
"Not what I meant," he smiled, "but that's okay. Are you comfortable enough out here?" he continued solicitously.
"Oh, yes!" Elisif said brightly. A bit too brightly, if she was honest with herself. "General Tullius has seen to my needs, and Falk is managing things back in Solitude for me. Though honestly I don't know why I'm here. I mean, it's not like the General needs my advice or anything, and to be honest, I really don't know what I should say—"
She stopped suddenly and felt silent, mortified at her own babbling. There was just something about the Dragonborn that made her feel like a blushing maid. It wasn't as if she wasn't a married woman. Well, to be honest, she wasn't. Not anymore. The sting of betrayal was still there. Torygg's last letter still hurt the most.
"As soon as I'm Emperor, we can discuss ways to rid myself of this unwanted union. It was my father's choice, never mine. Once that's done I can find a wife more suitable for the Empire, and one that has more than two thoughts floating in her brain. Divines! When I think of the inane chatter I've had to endure for the glory of the Dominion, it's enough to drive a man insane! I must be Tamriel's greatest actor, and no one knows it but me."
Lies. It had all been lies; an act meant to keep everyone from guessing the truth. Well, not everyone to be sure. Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak had known, and no one had believed him.
"Are you alright, Jarl Elisif?" the Dragonborn asked, concerned.
"I'm fine," she meant to say confidently, but it came out as a whisper.
"You don't sound fine," he said kindly, and Elisif was horrified to see two tears splash down on her dress. "You're crying!" he breathed, and the next thing she knew, he sat down next to her and put his arms around her, comforting her as if she were a child. That wasn't what she wanted from him, she realized, and the thought made her cry harder; silent, wracking sobs that shook her small frame and made her burrow into his shoulder.
He continued to pat her back and murmured, "There, there, it's going to be alright," as if she were much younger than he was. The knowledge she was making herself more of a fool in his eyes made her cry all the harder. It was some time before she got herself under control. He handed her a soft cloth to wipe her eyes and blow her nose.
"Y-you must th-ink I'm a t-terrible foo-ol," she hiccupped, when she could finally speak.
Marcus smiled reassuringly. "Not at all, Jarl Elisif," he soothed. "I think you're a brave young woman who had something forced on her she wasn't prepared to deal with, but who's been doing a great job so far."
"You're ki-ind to say that, D-dragonb-" She hiccupped again. "Drag-gon—" she tried again.
He grinned. "Try 'Marcus'," he suggested. "It might be easier."
"Marcus," she breathed, then smiled. "Ye-es, it is a b-bit easier."
Marcus rose and crossed her tent to a small table upon which rested a decanter and a couple of tankards. He poured some wine in each and returned, handing one to her.
"Take a few sips," he suggested. "It might help."
At least having a mug in front of her face would hide her emotions while she tried to get her hiccups under control, Elisif thought. Why couldn't she have met Marcus first? Her father and mother might have allowed her to marry him instead of Torygg.
Don't be ridiculous, Elisif! she chastised herself. Once High King Istlod made the offer to Father, he would never have backed down from the arrangement.
"Feeling better?" Marcus asked after a few moments, and Elisif nodded. "Good. Just to let you know, I don't think you're weak or foolish. I think you've had to be too strong for too long, without anyone you can confide in." He raised a hand as she would have spoken. "I know you have Falk Firebeard, your Steward, and as far as I can tell, he's a good man. But my opinion doesn't matter."
"What are you trying to say, Marcus?" Elisif breathed, her heartbeat hammering against her ribs. Could it be he was interested in her? That would be too much to hope for, that the Dragonborn would be interested in her as a woman. She wondered if he had an Amulet of Mara, then decided she didn't care.
"I guess what I'm trying to say is that you need to surround yourself with people you can really trust. People who will have the best interests of Solitude and Haafingar in their hearts. You inherited your court; you didn't hand-pick them yourself."
"There's room in my court for a new Thane," she suggested, leaning into him.
Marcus blinked. "Uh…that's not exactly what I—"
"Of course," Elisif continued, speaking quickly before her courage failed her, "I could only give the title to someone who's known throughout my Hold, and who owns at least one piece of property in my city. There's a very nice house not far from the Blue Palace that's available. Proudspire Manor, it's called. I'd even give you a Housecarl to watch over things when you're not there." She paused for breath and looked up at him demurely through her eyelashes. "But I hope you'll consider living there on a more…permanent basis."
The Dragonborn shifted slightly away as if to rise, and she drew back, giving him space. "Um…that's a very generous offer, Jarl Elisif—"
"Elisif," she corrected him, "Since we're on a first-name basis, after all." She gave him her most winning smile; the smile that her mother had told her would win her a thousand suitors. She'd only had the one, and look how that had worked out for her.
"Uh…yeah," Marcus stood and made his way to the tent entrance, clearly confused. "I'll…uh…have to get back to you about that. I need to think about how that would affect my family and all…"
Family. Elisif felt a wave of emotion flare through her. He had a family – something she and Torygg had never had. Now, she was glad about that, but at the time it had hurt her deeply that she couldn't give her husband a son. How many children did the Dragonborn have? She couldn't remember. She didn't think he had a wife. Something as important as the marriage of the Dragonborn would have been all over Skyrim in mere days.
"Of course, Marcus," she smiled now, feeling something inside her come alive again. "Give my regards to your children when you see them."
"Yeah," he said, backing out. "I'll do that. Goodnight, Jarl Elisif."
Elisif allowed herself a self-satisfied smile. Having the Dragonborn closer to the Blue Palace would not only give Solitude better protection from the threat of dragons – she'd read the reports of the one that was killed at Castle Dour – but it would also give her a chance to see him more often. She was sure she could win him over if she made him a Thane of Solitude. And he was right – her court was not hers. Both Bryling and Erikur had been appointed by Torygg, and Sybille had been around since Istlod's time. Strange, that was. She didn't look old enough to have been around that long. She must have been very young then.
Of course, Falk had also been around that long, though Torygg rarely consulted him on court proceedings. But Falk had always been very loyal to her, and protective of her sensibilities. It was Falk who had handled all the details of Torygg's funeral, and Falk who was really running things now. She was merely a figurehead. Perhaps that was why the Stormcloaks despised her, and called her a 'puppet of the Dominion.'
Well, she was nobody's puppet. It might take some time to prove that to the people of Skyrim, but she'd start with cleaning house and getting the Dragonborn – no, Marcus – to move his family up to Solitude. Feeling better than she had in a long time, Elisif summoned the female guard appointed to her to help her undress and prepare for bed. Her dreams that night were filled with flying away on a dragon's back with a tall, handsome, dark-haired Imperial holding her in front of him, whispering thrilling promises in her ears.
Marcus made his way back to the Vilemyr, his mind whirling in confusion. What the hell just happened? he wondered. All I wanted to do was see if she was being taken care of, and the next thing I know, she's coming on to me like a hormonal teen-ager!
Which, for all he knew, she probably was. He had no idea just how old Elisif was, but it couldn't be very much more than twenty, if that. People tended to get married very young here. He saw Fastred, Jofthor's daughter, as he entered the inn. She was at a small table in the corner, holding hands with Klimmek and staring adoringly into his eyes. There's a May-December romance, if ever I saw one, he thought. Though perhaps April was more appropriate than May, and September rather than December. Fastred was sixteen if she was a day, and Klimmek would never see forty again.
Not that there was anything wrong with that, he reminded himself. Even in his old life, older men often married women much younger than themselves. But it's not for me, he thought firmly. And it won't be with Elisif.
Determined to keep Elisif at a distance until he could figure out how to extricate himself from a potentially disastrous circumstance, Marcus checked in with Wilhelm to see if anyone else had arrived for the conference. He knew it was risky for Delphine and Esbern to show up, but hoped they would make an effort anyway. He knew the Thalmor were here as well, having seen the new Ambassador from a distance.
"I couldn't very well tell them they weren't welcome here," General Tullius told him when he asked. "What we discuss up there will be of great interest to them. The Dominion insists on being kept informed of any diplomatic relations held within the Empire."
"Discussing the terms of a peace treaty so I can trap a dragon is hardly what I would call 'diplomatic relations'," Marcus protested.
"Yes," Tullius demurred, "but you aren't an Imperial General, representing the Emperor's interests here in Skyrim. Maybe you'll have better luck convincing them of that than I could."
"I intend to," Marcus said grimly. But not before I make them hike all the way up to High Hrothgar, he thought smugly to himself.
Wilhelm told him a small contingent of Forsworn were seen encamped about a mile west along the south road, closer to the border with Whiterun Hold. No one else from the Reach had arrived to his knowledge
Delphine and Esbern may be with them, he thought. "Anyone arrived from Winterhold?" he asked.
"You mean that pretty little Breton mage girlfriend of yours?" Wilhelm asked with a knowing wink. "No, sorry, Dragonborn. There's been no one arriving from the College."
Disappointed, Marcus decided to head to the Forsworn encampment. With any luck, the Matriarch Maiara might be there as well, though he doubted it. Someone as important as the leader of a large encampment of Reachfolk might have stayed behind for safety's sake.
It was already completely dark by the time he approached the camp, and he was tired. It had been a long day, but Marcus knew he couldn't sleep yet until he confirmed who was traveling with the Reachfolk. He made the sign of non-aggression for the look-out and was admitted into the largest tent, set up at the back of a natural draw, with nothing but cliffs behind them. It was a very defensible position.
"Good to see you again, Dragonborn," came Delphine's voice as his eyes adjusted to the brightness of the campfire after the gloom outside.
"Ah, yes," drawled another familiar voice. "How's that plan to give me back my country working out?"
Madanach. If there was one person Marcus really didn't want to see just yet, it was the Reach King.
"Baby steps, Madanach," Marcus said, with a cheer he didn't feel. "It's going to take some time."
"Well," Madanach said sourly, "in case you haven't noticed, that's the one thing I don't have a lot of. In addition to a country of my own, that is."
Sure, dig the knife a little deeper, Marcus thought. "I'm working on it, Madanach," he replied sternly. "These things don't happen overnight, you know."
"Is everyone here?" Delphine asked, breaking in. Whether it was an attempt to distract Madanach or diffuse tension, Marcus wasn't sure, but he turned to her gratefully.
"No, I don't think so. Not yet. General Tullius is here, with Jarls Elisif and Balgruuf, and Ulfric Stormcloak, as I'm sure you've already noticed. The new Thalmor Ambassador is here, as well. He came with Tullius."
"Have you met him, yet?" the Blade asked.
"No, I've been studiously avoiding him, for reasons best left unsaid," Marcus smiled grimly. "Where's Esbern?"
"I felt it would be best if he stayed behind," Delphine admitted. "His health was never very good, as long as I've known him, and his time in hiding didn't help matters."
"He seemed alright to me, last time I saw him," Marcus frowned.
Delphine smiled faintly. "That's always been his way, hiding what he thinks of as 'failings'. Benor's staying with him."
"And Maiara has the best healers in the Reach keeping an eye on him," Madanach put in. "I hate to admit it. I never thought I'd like a Nord, but Esbern's got a keen mind. He's also the only one close to me in age – Maiara notwithstanding – who would understand the historical references I make."
"Glad to hear you're getting along there in the Karthspire." Marcus gave a lop-sided smile. "Delphine, have you given any thought as to how you're going to hide from the Thalmor Ambassador and yet still take part in the proceedings?"
"I have a few dice up my sleeve, as Brynjolf would say," she grinned. "I'll be there, don't worry."
It wasn't the answer he wanted to hear, but Delphine refused to elaborate, and with that, Marcus had to be satisfied. He made his way back to Ivarstead and the Vilemyr.
He glanced at Wilhelm, who was still behind the counter, but the man shook his head before answering Marcus' unspoken question. "Sorry, Dragonborn," he said with a sad smile. "No newcomers yet."
Marcus retired to his room and prepared for bed with a troubled mind. He wished Tamsyn had arrived. He wanted to discuss his plan with her before the conference. There were too many holes in it, he felt, which Ulfric or Tullius – or even Madanach – could waltz right through. Having the Reach King here was an unforeseen circumstance. He thought they would hammer out a plan and just let Madanach know about it afterwards. He should have known better. A man like Madanach wouldn't let something as important as this occur without being present for the discussion. He didn't question how the man had found out. Maiara must have sent word; in truth, it was quite possible he hadn't gone far after escaping from Cidhna Mine.
Well, there was nothing to be done about it now. The best he could hope for at this point would be to get all concerned to sit down to the table without stabbing each other in the back. He drifted off into an uneasy sleep.
The next morning, Marcus dragged himself out of bed. His eyes burned, his back ached, and his mouth felt like the entire Imperial army had marched through it barefoot. Food was the last thing on his mind at this point, but he had a long day ahead of him, and skimping on breakfast would not be a good way to prepare for what lay ahead. Wilhelm greeted him warmly and laid out a platter of fried eggs, toasted bread with cheese melted on it and an assortment of fruit.
"Do you have any milk?" Marcus asked when Wilhelm asked whether he preferred mead or ale. The innkeeper stared at him, horrified. "Oh, come on, Wilhelm!" he declared. "You of all people should know I'm no coward. I like milk, okay?"
Wilhelm nodded, and warily passed over a pitcher of the room-temperature beverage. A tentative sip made Marcus shudder. There was no refrigeration here, but that didn't mean he was without recourse.
"Fo!" he said to the ewer, though not as forcefully as he might have done to an opponent. The pewter container frosted over almost immediately, and after a minute or so, Marcus poured himself a fresh tankard. Taking a deep draught, he relaxed and sighed. So much better!
Seeing Bolli melt cheese onto his bread with a Thu'um had certainly been an eye-opener. Until that time, Marcus had thought – certainly as Master Arngeir wanted him to think – that the Thu'um was something to be held sacred, and not to be used for personal gratification or idle amusement. And it was Bolli who had used the first word of Unrelenting Force to push Master Einarth into a snowbank. Marcus chuckled fondly. If there ever came a time when he decided he was tired of the world and retreated to High Hrothgar, he hoped Bolli would still be there. They'd certainly have Arngeir tearing out what was left of his hair!
He finished quickly and went outside to find General Tullius and Jarl Elisif coming into town with a small patrol of Imperial soldiers. Legate Rikke was with them. The young, frail-looking Jarl's eyes lit up upon seeing him, and Marcus was reminded that he needed to tread carefully around someone who had recently had her heart broken twice by the same man.
"Dragonborn!" both the General and the Jarl said at once, though there was more welcome in Elisif's greeting.
"When are we getting this show on the road?" the general demanded. "It's a long climb to High Hrothgar and we'll have to make frequent stops to allow Jarl Elisif to rest."
"I'm heading up there at first light tomorrow, General," Marcus said formally. "Give me at least an hour's head start and you can get started on your way up any time after that."
"You're not coming with us?" Elisif asked, disappointed.
"I'm afraid not, Jarl Elisif," Marcus apologized. "I want to be there when all the delegates start showing up. It's the least I can do for the Greybeards, since they're hosting this conference, to be there to coordinate arrivals and make arrangements for lodging." The last thing he wanted was to have Ulfric's and Tullius' rooms too close to each other.
"And these 'Greybeards' of yours can be trusted?" a new voice insinuated suspiciously. Marcus looked past Tullius' shoulder to see a figure dressed in the familiar, hated robes of an agent of the Aldmeri Dominion.
"Oh, my apologies, Ambassador," General Tullius grumbled, though he didn't sound sorry in the least. "Marcus Dragonborn, may I present Ambassador Ramallion of the Aldmeri Dominion, who asked to be included in the conference. Ambassador, this is Marcus, called Dragonborn, a sort of local hero to the Nords of Skyrim."
"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Dragonborn," Ambassador Ramallion oozed. He held out his hand, which Marcus was tempted to ignore. After the briefest hesitated, he accepted the proffered handshake. No sense tipping off the enemy, he thought. He let go just as soon as it was polite to do so. "Though I must say," the Ambassador continued, staring keenly at Marcus, "I'm surprised that an Imperial is the celebrated Nord hero of legend."
"It's not like a hereditary title, Ambassador," Jarl Balgruuf said impatiently behind him. "Being Dragonborn is something the gods decide, not men. And the Greybeards are respected men of peace!" he added, still irritated by the Ambassador's earlier slight.
"As you say," the Thalmor dismissed in a bored tone.
"I must say I'm surprised to see you here, Ambassador," Marcus remarked casually. "This little meeting of ours hardly seems important enough to deserve the attention of the Dominion."
"Anything that involves this internal…skirmish of yours is, of course, of deep interest to my superiors," the Ambassador purred. "After all, with the recent developments at our Embassy, one could hardly expect us to overlook anything which involves both the Empire and the rebels."
"Something happened at your Embassy?" Marcus asked blandly, keeping his face carefully neutral.
A brief flicker of irritation flashed through Ambassador Ramallion's green eyes. "Unless you've been living under a rock, Dragonborn," he sniffed, "I'm sure you're aware of what transpired there."
"I've been out of touch for a while…fighting dragons," Marcus couldn't help pointing out. "Whatever it was, I hope you have it all under control now? I assume you must, or they couldn't have spared you to come all this way."
The Ambassador's eyes narrowed. "I can assure you, Dragonborn, that the Dominion always has everything under control."
"But clearly that's not true," Marcus countered smoothly, "if 'recent events', by your own admission, are any indication. If you'll excuse me, General, Jarl Elisif, Jarl Balgruuf." Marcus bowed politely to each in turn. He inclined his head so slightly to the Thalmor agent it was just short of insulting. "Ambassador." He turned and made his way north out of Ivarstead to clear his mind and watch the road. He hoped Tamsyn would arrive soon, or the Dominion might have to call up another Ambassador. He allowed himself a smug smile; at least the Ambassador hadn't learned anything of use from him during their short conversation. He hoped. One could never be sure just how much a trained Thalmor interrogator could glean from seemingly insignificant dialogue. He would do well to keep that in mind, he cautioned himself.
As the morning sun climbed higher into the sky, Marcus soon learned that the Imperials' delegation would consist of Tullius, Balgruuf, Elisif, the ever-present Legate Rikke, the Ambassador and at least a half-dozen soldiers, three of whom where Thalmor warriors. The majority of the Imperial 'platoon, not battalion' stayed behind in their camp. It bothered Marcus to know that many soldiers remained behind while he would be up at High Hrothgar, but there was little he could do about it.
"Hey, you!" he heard a voice call. "Imperial!"
Marcus turned to see a face he thought he knew, he just couldn't remember where he'd seen the man before.
"It's you, isn't it?" the soldier called. "You were the one at Helgen!"
Now Marcus remembered. What was the man's name? He had helped Tamsyn and him negotiate their way through the chaos that was Helgen after Alduin's attack.
"Hadvar!" he exclaimed, happy to have remembered on his own. "How are you?"
"Better for seeing you here, Dragonborn!" the Imperial Nord from Riverwood exclaimed. He led Marcus over to some logs that had been arranged around a central campfire and handed him a bottle of mead. "Oh yes, don't look surprised. I heard it from my Uncle Alvor that the Dragonborn had returned. He said he taught you some smithing skills. Is that true, or is Uncle Alvor pulling my leg?"
Marcus laughed. "It's true, Hadvar. Your uncle isn't lying. I didn't know a thing about it until he taught me. I still don't do much, but my son is learning from Adrianne, now, in Whiterun."
"Your son?" Hadvar queried, eyebrow raised in confusion. "But you don't—"
"—look old enough to have a child, I know, I know." Marcus chuckled. "I met Blaise in Solitude, at the stables. Poor kid was being run ragged working from sun-up to sun-down. I wanted to give him a better life, so I adopted him."
Hadvar smiled. "So you have a son, now?" he grinned. "How old is he?"
"Twelve," Marcus said. "Almost thirteen." Without really knowing why, he found himself telling Hadvar all about his children, how he'd found them and adopted them. He left out the part concerning their kidnapping. "So," he said at last, "who's being left in charge while Tullius and Rikke are making their way up the mountain."
Hadvar grinned. "You're looking at him." His smile faded a bit. "And it will be a job keeping everyone here in the camp or in the village, I can tell you. The troops are restless with the Stormcloaks so near. I just hope they don't decide to break ranks and fight. It would be the end of my military career if things got out of hand on my watch."
"Who's in charge of the Stormcloaks while Ulfric's gone?" Marcus asked.
"I have no idea."
"What if I go over there and ask?" Marcus offered. "Maybe I can arrange for the two of you captains to meet and come to a truce of your own down here while we talk peace up there. It would set my mind at ease, I can tell you."
"You can try," Hadvar shrugged. "But they're Stormcloaks. I doubt—"
"They're people," Marcus insisted. "They're Nords, just like you. They might not believe in everything you do, but they're still your people. I'll talk to them."
"Suit yourself," Hadvar shrugged again. "Just be careful."
The Stormcloak camp was northeast of the village, near Shroud Hearth Barrow. Marcus made his way over and asked to speak to Ulfric Stormcloak.
"He's busy now, Dragonborn," Galmar Stone-fist told him. "We're preparing to make the climb up the mountain tomorrow. What did you need?"
"I just wanted to speak with whoever will be in charge down here while you're gone," Marcus replied.
"Mmph," Galmar grunted. "You'll want to speak to Ralof, then. He's over by the quartermaster." With that, Galmar turned his attention to his supply list and ignored the Dragonborn.
Ralof, eh? Marcus thought to himself. Could it be the same Ralof? He wasn't sure how common a name it was here. But one glance at the tall blonde Nord consulting with an equally tall, muscular woman sporting a thick blonde braid down her back told Marcus what he needed to know.
"Ralof!" he called, grinning in spite of himself.
"Marcus!" the young Nord boomed, and immediately wrapped him up into a huge bear hug, practically lifting him off his feet. "It's good to see you, Dragonborn!" he exclaimed happily. "Dagmar, look who it is! Oh! I forgot! Marcus, this is Dagmar, our quartermaster. Dagmar, this is the Dragonborn, Marcus of Whiterun!"
Dagmar's eyes raked him over, up and down. No blushing teen, this one. The scars on her arms and across one cheek testified she'd seen battle. "I'm honored to make your acquaintance, Dragonborn," she said, her voice thick with the Nord accent. "Ralof has told me much about you and your exploits. We hear about them, even in the camps."
"Ralof exaggerates," Marcus said, teasingly, elbowing Ralof in the ribs.
"You haven't heard what he's told us about you, though," the woman shot back with a twinkle in her eye. So this one had a sense of humor, too? Good! He'd met far too many dour folks lately.
"Nothing good, I hope?" Marcus chuckled. "May I borrow this man for a moment, Dagmar? I need to speak with him."
"We're done here for now, I think," the woman said easily. "And I need to pull some things together for Jarl Ulfric and Galmar to take up the mountain with them." She nodded to the two men and headed back to the main tent up the hill. Marcus noticed how Ralof's eyes never left Dagmar as she walked away.
"So, what's the big secret, Dragonborn?" Ralof asked as Marcus led him over to a pair of recently-cut tree stumps.
"Galmar tells me you'll be in charge of the Stormcloak camp while they're at High Hrothgar," Marcus began.
"Yeah," Ralof nodded. "It's an honor for me, really, to be entrusted this duty while they're gone. Why?"
"Do you believe you can keep your men and women in line?" Marcus asked him.
"Of course I can!" Ralof protested. Marcus shot him a keen look.
"Honestly?" he pressed.
Ralof blew out a breath. "Honestly, I hope I can," he admitted. "I won't deny there's a lot of restlessness around here. I just hope the Imperials stay on their side of town. I'll try to keep my men and women on our side."
"Hadvar is about as confident as you," Marcus mused out loud, watching the Nord carefully.
"Hadvar?!" Ralof's eyes widened in surprise, and several emotions flickered through them in rapid succession. Fondness, as if at old memories, anger, betrayal, and finally sadness, as though he'd lost something important. Something, or someone, no doubt. Ralof and Hadvar had grown up together in Riverwood, that much he had learned from Alvor while working at the forge. The two had been very close as boys, and Marcus had learned that at one time, Hadvar had courted Ralof's sister Gerdur, at least until Hod had come into town one day and stayed.
"Hadvar is in command of the Imperial camp?" Ralof asked suspiciously. "Why him?"
"Why anyone?" Marcus asked in return. "The same might be asked about you. Why Ralof? Isn't there someone older, more qualified? Maybe. The point is, he's there and he's in charge; and you're here, and you'll be in charge. If you're worried about keeping the troops in line, why not go discuss it with Hadvar. You know each other, so you know he'll play straight with you."
"He'll probably slit my throat and be done with it," Ralof said bitterly. "He thinks I'm a traitor, that we're all traitors."
"He doesn't even know you're here," Marcus felt it fair to point out. "You have a slight advantage there. You could meet the acting commander of the Imperial troops one on one and discuss…like the gentlemen you are…ways to keep your people in line so no one gets hurt, including the townsfolk, and neither one of your superiors has anything to complain about when they get back."
Ralof shook his head doubtfully. "It's not that easy, Marcus," he said sadly.
Marcus blew out an exasperated breath. "Yes it is, Ralof. It's just that easy. You meet, you talk, and you set up guidelines. And if anyone on either side puts a foot wrong, you discipline them. But you have to be willing to try. Look, I would do it myself, but I have to be up there, trying to get your boss and Hadvar's to agree to the same thing."
Ralof chuckled at that. "And I don't envy you your job one bit, my friend." He blew out a breath of his own. "Alright, tell Hadvar I'll be the one in charge here. Tell him I'll agree to talk; just him and me. And you, of course, if you still have time."
Marcus grinned. "For this, I'll make time."
It was easier than Marcus could have hoped for. Reluctant and suspicious at first, it wasn't very long before the two men were guardedly sharing old memories, as Marcus hoped they would. It was clear neither of them wanted an all-out skirmish that would put innocent lives at risk, so schedules were set up that allowed no more than ten soldiers from both sides to be in town at the same time, and 'shore leave' was restricted to six-hour shifts. Differences of opinion about politics and religion were to be kept to oneself, and any other disagreements were to be resolved by arm-wrestling. Marcus quirked an eyebrow at that, but both Hadvar and Ralof assured him that a test of strength was a valid solution – as well as a deterrent – to anyone wanting to pick a fight. Those caught disregarding the rules would be sent back to Windhelm or Solitude, respectively, for further disciplinary action when General Tullius and Jarl Ulfric returned.
Treatment of the townsfolk was to be respectful at all times, and the women of the town were to be left strictly unmolested. Anyone caught violating this order would be sent back home, but in a birch wood box.
Marcus had the feeling the Jarl was watching him closely to determine what kind of negotiator he would turn out to be, and he wondered with some amusement what General Tullius would say if Ulfric challenged him to an arm-wrestling match. He also learned that Ulfric's delegation would consist of just the Jarl himself and his Housecarl Galmar, and a half-dozen hand-picked Stormcloak soldiers. He frowned. They were already outnumbered, and he wondered what, if anything, he could or should do about it. Shrugging, he informed the Jarl of his intention to leave in the morning, and asked only that Ulfric not start up the mountain at the same time as the Imperials. The less conflict on the Seven Thousand Steps, the better, he thought.
He visited the Reachfolk camp and found out that Madanach intended to ascend the mountain with only three other people: his bodyguard Borgul the Beast, whom Marcus remembered from Cidhna Mine; his Second, a Reachwoman named Kaie, and another Reachwoman in heavy warpaint whom Marcus didn't recognize. Madanach assured Marcus they would wait until both the Imperials and the Stormcloaks had started up before they would begin their climb.
"And where's Delphine?" Marcus asked, scanning the encampment.
"You don't recognize her?" the old Reachman grinned, pulling the woman with the heavily painted face under an even more heavily feathered headdress. "Say hello to my niece, Delafane. We call her 'Del' for short."
Marcus gaped. He simply couldn't help himself. "You…I mean…how…uh—" It was disturbing how well she looked in the skimpy Forsworn armor.
"Well, if I can fool you, Dragonborn, I suppose I ought to be able to fool the Thalmor Ambassador. At least long enough to get into the negotiations." Under the face-paint, Delphine grinned.
"Or you open your mouth," Madanach growled. "Whichever happens first."
"I'm a Breton, same as you," she frowned.
"I'm a Reachman," Madanach clarified. "While I have some Breton blood, that's not all that's in there. You don't speak with the same inflections on some words that we do. And the Thalmor Ambassador is bound to realize that."
"Fine," the Blade huffed. "I'll keep my mouth shut – for now."
Shaking his head, Marcus left the camp to return to the Vilemyr to make his own preparations. He frowned, troubled. Tamsyn hadn't arrived, and he was out of time. He needed to be there at the monastery to diffuse any potential altercations – though, truth be told, he was certain Master Arngeir and the others were more than a match for a handful of stubborn warmongers.
Why didn't she at least send a letter to say she couldn't make it? he wondered. If something at the College had prevented her from coming, a note to explain that couldn't have taken long to write or send. Angry with himself over feeling the way he did, Marcus went back to the Vilemyr to rest until early dawn, when he intended to make his own way up the Throat of the World. If he was lucky and encountered nothing along the way, he could be there by late afternoon, and the conference could begin the following day.
Ulfric Stormcloak had protested at first the delay in leaving for High Hrothgar, rather than everyone traveling at the same time. "You would leave two armies down here unsupervised, Dragonborn?" he sneered. "Is that wise?" It was a matter of some importance, Marcus noted, that Ulfric didn't consider the Reachfolk a threat. That was foolish, he thought, because he knew he would never discount their courage or prowess. It was also telling that it was Ulfric who suggested fighting might break out.
"Your respective Captains have the matter under control," Marcus said wearily. "I trust that you'll show some restraint while I'm gone, Jarl Ulfric," he added, tired of the haranguing.
"Of course I will!" Ulfric snapped. "The question is, will Tullius?"
Marcus sighed. "Why do you always assume the other side has less honor than you?" he asked. "Doesn't that make you seem less of a man for having considered it?" Ulfric had glared at him before turning away and barking out orders to his soldiers nearby.
General Tullius hadn't been much better. "Are you sure Ulfric can be trusted not to cause a disturbance down here until we can all meet like civilized people at the conference table?" he asked caustically.
"Not you, too," Marcus muttered. "Jarl Ulfric has the same concerns about you, General," Marcus said, as if to a stubborn child. "He thinks you might not be able to control yourself while Daddy's away."
"I am not your child, Dragonborn," the General said stiffly. "And you would be well advised to take this matter more seriously."
"Oh, I am, General," Marcus nodded. "Believe me, I am. But I think the two of you need to learn to trust the other just a little bit in order for this to work."
"Don't worry about me, Dragonborn," the General snapped. "Worry about him!"
Paarthurnax's words came back to Marcus. "I can be trusted. I know this. But they do not."
It's the same thing here, he mused to himself with a sigh. Each of them swears they can be trusted, but they don't know that they can trust the other. Maybe that's what they need…something on which to begin building some trust. He sighed again and shook his head. It wasn't going to be easy.
Marcus awoke instantly from a dream in which Alduin had chomped down on him and was shaking him like a rag doll. He sat bolt upright, hand reaching instinctively for the Akaviri blade he kept close by.
"Dragonborn, it's me! Wilhelm!" the innkeeper said hurriedly, stepping briskly out of the way. "You wanted me to wake you an hour before sunrise."
"What?" Marcus turned bleary eyes towards Wilhelm's plump form and relaxed. "Sorry, Wilhelm. I guess I overreacted."
"You were tossing and turning rather briskly," the older man said. "I was afraid to wake you, but also afraid not to."
"Sorry," Marcus said again. "Any chance of an early breakfast?"
"I'm just getting the kitchen fired up now, Dragonborn," Wilhelm said apologetically. "It will be a while before anything is ready."
Marcus threw off the fur covering and stood, reaching for his armor. "No, don't worry about that, Wil," he said kindly. "Just some fruit and cheese, maybe."
"And milk?" Wilhelm asked, a twinkle in his eyes, and Marcus knew he was forgiven.
"Yeah, definitely milk," he grinned. "Don't worry if it's not cold. I can take care of that."
Barely a half hour later he was geared up and ready to leave, and Wilhelm gave him a pack full of food for the journey. He gave the man a hefty pouch of coin and said, "If Tamsyn shows up—"
"I'll let her know you've already gone up the mountain, Dragonborn, don't worry," the innkeeper assured him.
Daylight was filtering through the clouds overhead, which obscured any glimpse of the moons or stars. It would be another cold, dreary day. He remembered his first time up the Seven Thousand Steps, put off by a day due to rain, with Lydia in tow. But Lydia wasn't here today, and rain or not, he would have to make the climb.
"Hey, Marcus!" Klimmek called out from the stream that rushed by the village.
"Hey, Klimmek!" Marcus grinned. "You're up early. How are the fish biting?"
Klimmek grimaced sourly. "Not at all this morning," he said. "Hey, are you headed up the Seven Thousand Steps today?"
"Yeah, I kind of need to be there," Marcus nodded. Everyone knew what was going on at High Hrothgar this week. It was a secret to no one.
"Any chance you can take some supplies up to the Greybeards?" the fisherman asked hopefully. "I would have asked one of the others, but…well…"
He'd probably been too intimidated by their bristling weapons and grim faces. "Sure," Marcus smiled. "Not a problem. I'm going up there, anyway."
Klimmek smiled his relief. "Thanks," he said simply. "I should have gone sooner, but—"
"Don't give it another thought," Marcus said to the older man. "I'm glad to help."
Two hours later, he was starting to rethink that generosity, shifting the heavy pack of supplies to a more comfortable position on his back. The problem was, there wasn't one place that didn't ache. He set it down and rested on a stone step jutting out above him. The skies, surprisingly, had cleared as the morning wore on, and now he had a rather impressive view looking out over the Rift. Far off in the distance he could just make out the Stormcloak camp, and he wondered if Ralof and Hadvar would be able to keep their troops in line.
Squinting against the sun, which was climbing higher in the sky, he saw a golden haze to the northeast which was the Aalto plain. Almost involuntarily, he peered down the trail up which he had climbed, but he was the only one on this section of Steps. The beginning steps were hidden from view here, so if anyone was starting up at this time, he wouldn't be able to see them. He told himself his was not looking for a certain Breton Arch-Mage.
With a grimace, Marcus stood and hefted the heavy supply pack onto his back once more and continued the climb. If not for the heavy pack, and the sinking feeling twisting his gut, it would have been a very nice hike up the Throat of the World. For the umpteenth time he wondered if he was doing the right thing, bringing together three diametrically opposed men to try and hammer out some kind of lasting peace. For the double-umpteenth, he wondered what had happened to Tamsyn to prevent her coming. The Wayshrines along the way marked his progress, and he dutifully read each one as he ascended, finally feeling at the tenth one that overall sensation of being blessed and at peace. The knot in his stomach loosened, and he took a deep breath. He was here, and now it was time to get to work.
He would have put the supplies in the chest, as he had done on his first trip to High Hrothgar, but it seemed silly to leave them outside when he was perfectly capable of bringing them in with him. In his eagerness to get in out of the cold, he nearly plowed into a figure sitting on the steps outside the huge bronze doors; a figure which rose at his approach.
"I'm sorry!" he blundered breathlessly, reaching out to steady the person before they could topple over.
"Hello, Marcus," the dearest voice in the world to him said. "Nice running into you again!"
Unbelievably, Tamsyn stood before him, cheeks reddened by the cold, eyes dancing with mischief. Marcus didn't care if anyone was peeking out the windows. He pulled her close into a long, hard, passionate kiss that left them both breathless.
"How in God's name did you get here?" he gasped when he finally let her go.
"I've been here for a couple of days already," she breathed, smiling.
"But I've been in Ivarstead this whole time, and I never saw you!" he protested, unable to keep the note of irritation out of his voice. "And you never replied to my letter. I kept expecting a note or something to tell me whether or not you'd be here, but there was nothing!"
Tamsyn's eyes dropped. "I'm sorry, Marcus," she murmured. "I couldn't trust what I had to say in a letter, and I wasn't going to not be here. Let's go inside. I've been waiting out here for two hours, and I'm really cold!"
"Two hours?" he exclaimed, incredulous.
"Yeah, fire runes helped, but I'm still freezing." She turned and tugged at the heavy doors, and Marcus helped her pull one open so they could slip inside.
He dropped off the supplies near the entrance, knowing Bolli, Einarth or Wulfgar would collect them, then turned back to Tamsyn.
"We need to talk," they both said at once. Tamsyn giggled.
"I like that we're both on the same wavelength," she grinned. "Come on. Master Arngeir has given me a private room. I like him. They've all been very kind, but he seems especially nice."
"I'll have to introduce you properly to Master Bolli, then," Marcus grinned. He followed her to a part of High Hrothgar that was usually closed off and seldom used. It was open now, and fires burned in the braziers, driving away the chill and the damp. Rooms spurred off both sides of the corridor here, and the black basalt had been cleaned until he could almost see his reflection in the dark, dull surface.
"Here we go," Tamsyn said, opening one door and stepping aside for him to enter. She closed the door behind them, locked it and made a gesture with one hand, then turned to face him. Marcus looked around the room. It was very plain and spare. The furnishings consisted of a bed, a nightstand, a chair and a table. A set of shelves next to the door completed the room. There was nothing else.
"Looks similar to the room I had when I stayed here," Marcus grinned. "I wonder how the dignitaries will feel about the accommodations."
"Dignitaries," Tamsyn said sourly. "Yes, I wanted to talk to you about that. Why on earth – or Tamriel, even – did you invite Madanach here?" she demanded.
"I didn't," Marcus replied succinctly. "He invited himself, just as the new Thalmor Ambassador did. I didn't have a chance to say no about Madanach. He came with Delphine."
"And where's Esbern?"
Marcus glanced towards the door. Tamsyn guessed what he was thinking. "Don't worry," she grinned. "Targeted Muffle spell. No one will hear us."
He wasn't really worried that the Greybeards would overhear their conversation. In point of fact, none of the elderly monks would have cared what the Dragonborn and the Arch-Mage discussed, but Marcus had learned caution in his time on Tamriel. Visibly relaxing for the first time in days, Marcus grinned lecherously. "No one, eh?" he asked, grabbing her playfully around the waist.
She batted his hands away. "Focus, Marcus!" she scolded. "Business first, pleasure afterwards."
"Is that a promise?" he leered.
Tamsyn chuckled. "It could be. Now let's be serious for a minute."
Heaving an overly-dramatic heavy sigh, Marcus let her go. "Fine. Tell me how you got here, then. I kept watching the roads but you never showed up."
Tamsyn lifted an eyebrow at him. "I am the Arch-Mage of Winterhold, Marcus," she reminded him primly. "I am not without ways to move about unseen. I came ahead of time and avoided most of the wildlife by casting spells on myself to remain silent and invisible."
"It would have been nice of you to let me know that," he said, some of his earlier pique returning.
"I couldn't risk a letter being intercepted," she hedged.
"You're sounding awfully paranoid, you know," Marcus frowned.
"I have reason to be," Tamsyn said, very seriously. "I'm being watched, Marcus. The entire College is being watched."
Marcus stiffened, suddenly alert. "By the Thalmor?" Tamsyn nodded.
"When I first arrived at the College, the Dominion had a representative there named Ancano. He was supposed to be an observer, a sort of advisor to Arch-Mage Aren. In reality, he was a spy for the Thalmor. He stuck his nose into every research project the scholars and Masters did, to make sure it wasn't something the Dominion would have to be concerned about, and he reported directly to Elenwen about his findings."
"Wasn't he the guy we killed during that whole 'Eye of Magnus' thing?" Marcus asked.
Tamsyn nodded. "When I became Arch-Mage, I refused at first to allow another Thalmor 'observer' present at the college. But both Tolfdir and Enthir advised me to let them send one anyway. Enthir said the quickest way to arouse the Thalmor's suspicions that we were plotting against them would be to deny them access to the College. And Tolfdir said if we didn't allow it, they might send someone in as a spy under the pretense of being a student."
"So you let them send a representative."
"I had to, Marcus!" Tamsyn exclaimed. "I didn't want to, but I had no choice. And now I'm constantly watching my back up there. It's bad enough I trusted Nirya," she finished bitterly.
Marcus frowned. "Remind me again, who was Nirya?"
"I don't think you had the displeasure of meeting her," Tamsyn shrugged. "She was an Altmer scholar who seemed to be as much against Ancano as the rest of us. I…may have opened up to her too much in the beginning," the Breton girl admitted with embarrassment. "She seemed so kind and interested in my opinions, and I was trying so hard to justify my presence there. But when the whole thing with the Eye of Magnus began unravelling, she became more and more…unhinged. She was always arguing with Faralda, the Destruction Master – who's also an Altmer, by the way – and Sergius wasn't helping matters. He handles Enchanting, but he was always pitting them against each other, letting them believe that he had a say in who would become Master Wizard should anything happen to Mirabelle Ervine."
"So what happened with Nirya?" Marcus asked.
Tamsyn looked decidedly unhappy. "I killed her," she said finally. "I didn't have a choice there, either. I caught her writing a letter to Ambassador Elenwen, before she died. When I confronted Nirya about it, she became wildly unstable and declared that the Dominion knew about our secret plots against them and that they would destroy the College. Then she just started lobbing Destruction spells everywhere. J'Zargo's fur is only now just coming in again, and Drevis Neloran, our Illusion Master, may walk with a limp for the rest of his life. Even Collette, the Restoration Master, couldn't heal all the damage that was done."
Marcus digested this information for several moments. "So this Nirya was reporting to the Dominion, then. For how long, do you think?"
"I'm not sure. Weeks. Maybe months. It wasn't long after…after her death that the Dominion began requesting to send a new 'advisor'. I held them off as long as I dared, until Tolfdir and Enthir suggested I let them go ahead and do it. And now I have Illarion breathing down my neck at all hours of the day demanding to know what sort of studies we're teaching the novices, what kind of experiments the scholars are conducting. The Masters are getting angry at the interruptions and interference, and I've had to specifically instruct Phinis Gestor, our Conjuration Master, not to kill Illarion and raise him back from the dead so the Dominion wouldn't notice his absence!"
Marcus couldn't quite keep the smirk off his face. "It might solve your problem, though," he grinned.
Tamsyn scowled. "You're not helping!"
At that Marcus chuckled openly. "My poor girl," he crooned, gathering her in. "You've had it rough, I see. Anything I can do to make it better?"
"Yeah," came her muffled voice against his chest. "Stamp out the Dominion."
Marcus released her and blew out a breath, running a hand through his hair. "I'm working on that," he said.
"Well, work faster," Tamsyn urged. "As soon as everyone gets here, we'll need to start the conference. How are we going to address the topic of getting rid of the Thalmor when the damned Ambassador is right here among us?"
"How do you know that?" he demanded. "I never said he was here."
"I saw him come in with the Imperials," she explained. "It was supposed to be Elenwen who shows up in the game," she told him, "but you put the kibosh on that when she got killed."
"That wasn't my fault," Marcus protested.
"Wasn't it?" Tamsyn countered. "You handed over the Blade of Mephala, remember? You pissed off a Daedric Prince enough for her to arrange for the sword to get stolen from you. Mind you, I'm not really blaming you. Elenwen deserved it. I'm only saying that without your intervention and free will, it would be her confronting us now, not that other guy."
"Ramallion," Marcus said glumly. "His name's Ramallion, and he's a slimy bastard." He paced the floor, waving his hands helplessly. "We'll have to meet some other time, I guess, and keep the conference's subject strictly to brokering a peace treaty so I can do what I need to do."
Tamsyn watched him carefully. "We may never get another chance like this, Marcus," she said slowly. "And how are we going to negotiate a treaty when all Ulfric wants is the Reach? With Madanach here you know that's going to be impossible!"
"I know, I know!" Marcus exclaimed in frustration, pacing the room again. "Damn the man! I might have been able to get the Reach issue settled after dealing with the dragons, but his showing up here was something I didn't anticipate."
"Have you talked to any of the others yet, to see how they feel about the conference?"
Marcus rolled his eyes. "Oh, yes," he sighed. "They've all given me such votes of confidence!"
His sarcasm wasn't lost on the Arch-Mage. "That good, huh?" She blew out a sigh of her own. "I'll assume you showed them the papers and journals beforehand?"
"All except for Madanach and Balgruuf," Marcus said. "I'm going to assume they've been filled in by their compatriots. So yeah, for all the good it will do now, they know."
"Don't be so pessimistic," Tamsyn scolded him. "You act as if we have to get this whole thing settled in one day. Peace talks can sometimes go on for weeks."
"We don't have weeks," Marcus reminded her. "I need to destroy Alduin sooner, rather than later. And Jarl Balgruuf won't let me use Dragonsreach until this is settled."
"Have you spoken with him?" Tamsyn asked.
Marcus shook his head. "I barely saw the man down in Ivarstead before they headed up here. Other…issues cropped up that demanded my attention." He didn't tell her about Elisif, but he did mention getting Hadvar and Ralof together and about them setting rules of conduct while their superiors were away.
Tamsyn rewarded him with a genuine smile. "I'm so glad!" she exclaimed. "I'm sure those two will be able to keep the peace down there while we're busy up here. You see? You can negotiate!"
"Ten years on the First Methodist Church of Des Moines' Ways and Means Committee ought to count for something," Marcus grinned. "It was like pulling teeth back then to get them to agree on anything! Everyone had their own pet idea, and everyone thought their idea was the best way to go. Talk about negotiating!"
"And that's how you'll have to handle these peace talks," Tamsyn smiled.
"This is an entire country we're talking about," Marcus protested, "not a Church budget committee meeting! We're talking peoples' lives here. It's an entirely different thing!"
"Not so different, when you really think about it," Tamsyn assured him. "Now I think we'd better wrap this up for tonight. My Muffle spell has almost run its course, and I'm starving! People will start arriving soon, and we'll have to assign them places to sleep. You'd better pick out a room for yourself before they get here."
"You mean sleep alone?" Marcus grumbled.
Tamsyn chuckled. "For now. It shouldn't be too much longer. You're closer to the end of all this than you realize."
Marcus stopped, his hand on the door latch. "Am I?" he asked her solemnly, turning back. "Am I really close to the end of this story?"
Tamsyn gave a hollow smile. "You're closer to defeating Alduin than you were a few months ago," she said cryptically. "And yes, once we've successfully hammered out a peace treaty, all that is left for you to do is to summon and trap a dragon and fly to Skuldafn Temple, where the portal to Sovngarde and Alduin lies. After that—"
"After that, all I have to do is kill the Dragon God of Destruction," Marcus smiled wanly. "It should be easy. I'm the Dragonborn, right?"
Tamsyn had no answer for him, but gestured helplessly as he kissed her forehead and ushered her to the dining hall in hopes of finding something to eat before retiring for the night.
The only one present was Master Einarth, who nodded politely to Tamsyn and rumbled a whispered "Dovahkiin" to Marcus as he ate his evening meal.
They ate a simple meal of bread, fruit and dried fish, quietly discussing ordinary day-to-day subjects, and made their way to the great hall to prepare to receive their guests. Master Arngeir joined them, and together they bid welcome to High Hrothgar as each delegation arrived. Tamsyn took charge of the women in each group, seeing to their comforts, while Marcus found rooms for Ulfric and Tullius at opposite ends of a long corridor. There was an explosion of dismay from both Imperials and Stormcloaks when the Reachfolk showed up, and Arngeir's face was a mask of stoicism. Whatever he was thinking, he never revealed it to anyone present as he led them into a separate wing of the monastery. Each group received the same admonitions against violence, and all were bidden to relax and partake of the hospitality of High Hrothgar. The conference would begin the day after tomorrow, when all had had a chance to rest and recover from their journey.
It was late when Marcus finally escorted Tamsyn back to her room, kissing her deeply before letting her go to find his own bed in which to sleep. His dreams that night were muddled and confused. Tamsyn was pushing Ambassador Ramallion off the top of the Throat of the World while Ulfric sang a drinking song with Bolli. Paarthurnax looked over the proceedings with amusement and turned his great, gray head towards Marcus to ask him, "Are you ready, Dovahkiin?" Marcus tried to answer but Elisif was kissing him and grabbing his crotch. Balgruuf and Tullius were playing dice in the corner, but instead of pips, the dice had markings in the dragon language on them. Marcus tried to push Elisif off his lap, but Delphine said, "This is for the good of the Empire!" and pronounced them Dragonborn and wife while Madanach gave the bride away and Tamsyn flew away from High Hrothgar on the back of the World Eater.
He awoke with a start drenched in sweat with the worst boner he'd had since his days with Ysolda. The sun had not yet come up, and Marcus lay there in his bed, exhausted, dreading the day to come.
[Author's Note: Well, I know I promised "Season Unending" this chapter, but things quickly developed in a different direction. It seems setting up a peace conference is a lot more involved than it looks. Marcus isn't the type of person to leave things to chance, so having a full day before the actual peace talks presents certain opportunities it would be foolish to ignore.]