I awaken, groggy, to the sounds of rustling armor, shuffling feet, and hushed voices. One of those voices is the smooth, deep tone of Brother Martin, and I half sit, half roll in my blanket bundle to see over my shoulder to the entrance.

The patrolmen have returned. Their armor is dry, and I notice the patter of the rain on the chapel has stopped. Martin is with them, deep in conversation. The group is rather fuzzy to my sleepy eyes.

Rolling back and settling in, I rub my face and swallow, fighting the urge to clear my throat; I don't feel like drawing attention at the moment. I simply lay in the silence for several minutes, not bothering to open my eyes. My blanket is nothing special, almost threadbare and a bit scratchy, but it still feels like heaven pulled over my shoulders, pressed to my cheek, and smelling like some slightly damp underground storage room. The pillow is much the same, almost flat and thin enough to feel the floor beneath, but it's only the second bed I've ever slept in, and I love it.

When I really start to feel awake, I notice food has been set out next to my bedrool: a loaf of bread, some cheese, a carrot, and half a glass of mead. I tear the loaf in half and begin pulling off small bites, along with crumbling bits of cheese. It's amazing how hungry I begin to feel once the food hits my empty stomach; I hadn't even realized.

I've finished off my half of the bread, part of the cheese, and the whole carrot, and am downing the wine within minutes. The door to the chapel creaks and shuts as I'm finishing, and I hear Martin sigh before he comes back over.

"Ah, you're awake." He smiles softly as he sits, but he still looks strained.

"Have you slept at all?"

"Yes, for a while."

"Did you eat?"

He stares at me oddly, then chuckles. "Who's supposed to be caring for who here?"

"Depends on who needs cared for, I suppose."

He hums in agreement at that, and I push the plate of bread and cheese closer to him. He selects the bread and takes a bite out of the corner.

I sit up the rest of the way while he chews. "What did the patrolmen want?"

Swallowing, he answers without looking at me, "Funeral rights for the Count."

"You did not wish to perform them?"

The bread pauses on its way to his mouth. "I . . . prayed all night in this chapel while the daedra overran our city. Prayed and prayed and prayed. For help to come, for salvation. And it never came. My faith . . . as it is, it would be sacrilege for me to perform funeral rights."

"Understandable." What else do I say? The silence stretches out and he eats, staring at the floor. I feel like I should offer comfort, that I should defend the gods—but these are the gods that showed Uriel his death and let us do nothing to change it, who killed that good man right in front of me.

"All this destruction . . . " Martin mutters, letting the bread drop back the plate. "All this death. If this is all part of some larger plan, I cannot see it. I want no part in it. Or part with gods like that."

He pulls his knees up, laying his arms across them so his head can rest there. He looks defeated.

I cannot allow my Emperor to be defeated.

And he is my Emperor now.

"I'm sorry," he says after a moment, raising up and smiling a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "I do not mean to say such things. I would hate to hurt the faith of another just because I am struggling with my own. Belief is a powerful and comforting thing. I miss it already."

He's chuckling again. I cannot laugh.

"Help did come."

"Hm?" He looks to me, brows pulled together.

"You said you prayed all night for help. It did come. I came. I was slow, and I am sorry for that. But I came."

He stares for several seconds, then looks away. "Yes, you did. Thank you. I'm sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry for. I am not very happy with the gods and their plans at the moment, myself."

I watched a good man die because of them.

Martin doesn't ask about that. Instead, he says, "The patrolmen spoke highly of you. You are being hailed as the hero of our city."

"Am I a hero that I could not sit back and watch others die? I call that basic decency."

"You are a stranger here, not of this city. Some would say it wasn't your fight."

"Some are cowards, and that is their prerogative. I could not walk away. It was not a choice. It is not in me."

"That is what makes you a hero, is it not?"

I look at him this time. "If it is, then it does not help me feel like one."

Unworthy is what I feel. Corpses are all I see, every time I close my eyes, every time I stop to think.

"Heroes seldom feel heroic, from what I can tell."

"Then I fit right in."

Martin chuckles again, and finally resumes eating. I let him, and let the quiet remain for a time, trying to work through my own thoughts.

We have to go. There's no telling how much time I've wasted sleeping. If the daedra attacked here once to take his life, they'll certainly return when they realize they didn't get the job done. I have to move him, and quickly.

Which means I have to explain. Everything.

I have to tell him his father was the Emperor. And is dead. Along with his three half brothers. And that he's next on the assassin's list. His whole town was destroyed because daedra are after him. He's the next Emperor.

The list gets longer the more I think about it. It makes my head throb.

"Why did you come to the city, then? Were you passing by and saw the smoke, like the patrolmen?"

And here it is, I suppose. He's brought it up himself, in a way.

"No. I came here looking for you."

"For me? Whatever for?" He appears mildly curious, nothing more. That changes quickly with my next words.

"For the same reason the daedra attacked this city." He is shocked, and I meet his wide eyes with a steady, serious gaze so he will not doubt me when I continue. "What do you know of your father?"

"My father?" His brow crinkles. "He was a simple farmer. Both my parents died when I was a baby, I was raised at an orphanage here in Kvatch. What does he have to do with this? And what do you know of the daedra attack? Tell me!"

He reaches out, a rough hand grasping my shoulder.

"Your father was not a farmer, Martin. He was Emperor Uriel."

That hand loosens as Martin's eyes widen once more. "What? No . . . no, that's not . . . that's impossible, my father couldn't be—You must have the wrong man."

"I do not. You are his spitting image." It hurts to say. My throat tightens, eyes burn. Gods, when will the thought of him—practically a stranger—stop hurting so much? It is too soon to ask such a thing, I suppose.

I look away, clearing my throat, letting Martin have a moment to process this. His eyes are darting back and forth as I look up, his mind miles away.

"The grandmaster of the Emperor's personal guard confirmed it," I add slowly. "He spirited you from the castle himself, as a baby, on the Emperor's orders. Brother Martin, priest of the temple of Akatosh in Kvatch."

" . . . he sent you to find me?"

"No, he just told me where to look. Emperor Uriel sent me to find you."

"The Emperor?" Martin looks up, face drawn and strained. "The Emperor is dead."

I open my mouth. Nothing comes out. It hurts. I cringe.

"Yes." My voice cracks a bit as it finally emerges. "Yes, he is dead. I was with him . . . when he died. I couldn't protect him."

I bow my head. It all swells inside me, hot and angry and sad and ashamed, bombarded by images of him—alive, dead, dying, fighting. Never smiling. Did he ever smile for me, before the end? Who would, knowing what was to come? I can't remember. There is so much I can't remember, and it is this most painful thing that I can't forget. Gods, I would hate myself if I did.

"I am so sorry." I can't look up. "I couldn't protect him."

I want to repeat it a thousand times. I couln't protect him. I should have. I didn't. I tried, by the Nine, I tried.

" . . . it's alright. I'm sure you did everything you could." His hand is on my shoulder again. It feels heavy. "He had plenty of guards; if they couldn't have protected him, no one could."

It does not feel good enough. But I let out a long breath, trying to let it go, and nod.

"I'm sorry you never got to meet him."

"Not knowing my father is something I've lived with my whole life. Learning his identity has not changed that." Martin shrugs, and his hand slips away as he looks around at the misplaced benches, haphazardly set out bedrools, and scattered stores of food. "Everything that has happened . . . all this destruction and death . . . has been because of me. Because the daedra were after me. Because . . . "

Hs expression falls, changes, morphs into wonder and confusion, brows pulled together.

"Because I am the Emperor's son?"

He is coping as best he can, but I can't help but keep adding to his burden, though little by little do I try to heap it on him. "And the only living heir to the Septim throne."

"Heir?" Startled again, he stares at me. "Me? You can't possibly want me to rule, certainly?"

It is my turn to shrug. "I do not know what is in store for you, Sire. The grandmaster I mentioned, Jauffre, asked me to escort you to him. He will know what to do next. But, most likely, you will take the throne. Only one with Septim blood can light the dragonfires, as I understand it. You are needed. And you are not safe here."

"No, and it would seem that no one else is safe while I'm around, either." Sighing, Martin stands and reaches a hand down to me. "We should go, and go quickly."

I hesitate. "You believe me so easily?"

"I am told you destroyed that Oblivion Gate yourself. You went to battle with my people, gave them hope, and helped them drive the daedra back. After risking so much, why would you lie? As incredible as your story sounds, it also rings with pausibility, and it is a pausibility I cannot ignore. You saved my city, and I owe you for that, at the very least." He pauses, and I take his hand. He helps pull me up, and doesn't let go once I'm on my feet. Waiting till I meet his eyes beneath my hood, he continues, "I do believe you. I have my doubts about it all, but you, at least, seem sincere. I will go with you."

My grip on his hand tightens, then I pull away, turning towards the door. "Grab food if you wish. I have a horse, but it is still a three hour journey if we cut across country—nine if we go by the main roads."

"Where are we going?"

"Weynon Priory, outside of Chorrol."

"We can buy food ourselves if we take the main road, and it is not long to go without if we cut across. There's no need to take from what little Kvatch has left."

Thinking of his people before himself. Uriel's son, indeed. "The terrain is rough if cut across; it will be hard on the horse, especially with both of us in the saddle. Still, it seems like the better option to gaurantee we aren't followed."

"You think someone would follow us?" Martin tsks himself almost as soon as he's spoken. "Of course we could be followed. It was people who assassinated the Emperor, after all. They may have used daedra to attack this city, but that is most likely an extreme measure. They will be after us on foot after this, once they've learned I'm alive."

"And after your heroics rounding up survivors and barracading the church, word will get out quickly, I'd say."

"Then across country we'll go."

Outside, the sun is still in hiding, but the ground is drying. People are scattered about here and there, mostly carting off debris and clearing roads so everyone can get around. It's barely been a day, by the look of it, but already the rebuilding of Kvatch is underway.

"These are good people."

Martin smiles softly at my words, and has to stop several times to wave, say hello, and ward of thank yous as we go. Hasty explanations are given—"I'm afraid I won't be around to help, I'll be staying with my friend for a while"—as we wade through aquantances and finally exit the city. Almost as soon as the gates are shut, Martin exhales audibly.

"I feel foolish and terrible, lying to my friends; telling them I am leaving with you when they need my help rebuilding. And realizing I couldn't have told them your name if they'd asked me."

I glance back at him as we continue to walk.

"It's Erin."

"It's good to meet you, Erin."

"Hmph." I smile a little at that. It isn't good to meet me at all. It's been terrible for him.

Prior Mayborel's horse is still standing behind the barricade, a bit farther back than I left her, grazing lazily. There isn't much grass left for her, sadly. I can't believe she didn't cut and run, what with the fiery gate to Oblivion and the daedra running about.

I pet her, running my hand up and down her neck. "Good girl."

Unfastening the saddle bags, I jimmy them between a few rocks on the hillside for hiding. "There, we should both be able to ride now—though, I doubt it will be comfortable. I apologize for that."

"It's fine. I can hardly complain when you are trying to keep me alive."

"Hm, true enough." I climb on, then offer him a hand. It isn't easy getting him up behind the saddle, especially when a second rider was not meant to be back there, but we manage it. "Keep hold so you don't fall off. And let me know when you need a break. We can walk some of the way and give the horse a rest."

"Um, keep hold of what?"

"The back of the saddle is fine, or my shoulders or waist, however you're most comfortable."

"I think I have ahold of the saddle."

"You think?"

"I've got it."

"If you say so."

I urge us forward, and Martin jostles a bit behind me, but he settles well enough as we trot down the hill. The road's wide and even, but I start us off easy, not wanting to chance throwing Martin with all the twists.

His weight feels good behind me, his presence a comfort. His body radiates a natural heat, as people do, and it doesn't feel at all like the warmth of magic or the burn of the Deadlands.

At the bottom, we reach the fork in the road and find a wolf waiting for us. Annoyed, I dismount and summon my dagger, ready to take care of it.

"Allow me, sir. Stay back."

I stop, a patrolman coming up from the opposite way. He dismounts, jangling loudly in his heavy armor, drawing the wolf's attention. He unsheethes his sword and strikes the dog down. It takes him a few more strikes than I would have liked, messy and painful for the creature.

"Are either of you injured?" he asks once the deed is done.

I shake my head and turn back to the horse, more than ready to be on my way.

"Might I ask the two of you a few questions?" He has put his sword away, and approaches openly enough.

I halt in my remount to show I'm waiting.

"The regular patrols haven't returned from their rounds since yesterday, and we have reports of smoke and daedra near Kvatch. Have either of you seen or heard anything?"

How troublesome.

Martin spares me having to answer. "Daedra did indeed overrun the city. It has since been retaken, but the damage is extensive. The patrolmen have gone up to help, first with fighting off the daedra, and now with the cleanup. The rebuilding has already begun. I'm sure any more assistance the patrol could offer would be greatly appreciated. Many, many homes were destroyed and the citizens are living in tents and crowding in the chapel."

"That's terrible news!" The patrolman steps back to grab his horse, leading it with him as he walks up to us. "Though I'm glad the attack has already ended. I will confirm things with the others in the city and ride back to Anvil for more assistance."

"Thank you, sir. They will be most greatful."

The patrolman stares at me oddly for a moment, not seeming to hear Martin. "Where, might I ask, are the two of you headed?"

"Leyawiin," I answer smoothly. "My father is ill, and a devote follower of Akatosh. We have offered the priest a place in our home until Kvatch is rebuilt, so long as he remains at my father's bedside as he passes to pray with him. I was on my way even before the attack took place."

"Is that so?" The patrolman steps forward, releasing his horse and drawing his sword. "Because underneath that hood of yours, you fit the description of a woodelf prisoner that went missing from the Imperial City Prison when the Emperor was murdered!"

What!? Gods, did Baurus not clear me to the other guards? Did he even make it out of the underground alive?

"You're under arrest, woodelf! Surrender, or be cut down!"

What do I do? He's a man of the law, only doing his job. I can't fight him. But I can't let myself be arrested, either. I have to get Martin to Jauffre.

"Wait! There must be some misunderstanding—"

Martin is lost beside me, reaching forward to grab the reigns as the horse knickers uneasily.

"If there's a misunderstanding, come with me to Anvil and we'll get this cleared right up," the patrolman says, sword still ready.

We'll lose time. But what choice do I have? This man is right, and he is innocent. I can't fight him. I can't.

"Alright," I relent, holding my hands up. "I surrender."

I'm careful not to hold them up high enough that they reveal my manacles. If he tries to bind me, he'll find them, though. That's not something I'll be able to explain.

Without taking his eyes off me or pointing his sword away, he backs up and uses his free hand to rummage through his saddlebags, and comes back with robe. Curses.

My luck doesn't seem to have run out just yet, however. The patrolman doesn't bother to push up my sleeves when he binds me, wrapping the rope around the fabric instead. His binding is secure, but his inexperience is suddenly rather obvious.

He remounts his horse, leaving me to trail along side him, trying to keep up, as my bindings are only at one end of the rope. He holds the other, tugging me along when he doesn't like my pace.

Behind us, Martin repositions himself into the saddle and begins following. The patrolman doesn't like this, and stops.

"What are you doing, civilian?"

"I'm going with you to Anvil, of course. And when my friend is cleared of this misunderstanding and released, we will get back on our way."

"If you try to free him—"

"He surrendered peacefully, and I am a priest. There will be no escape attempt, or he wouldn't have surrendered in the first place."

The patrolman glares between us, before snapping at Martin, "Fine. But you ride ahead of us."

"I do not know the way."

"The road does not divert. Just follow it."

The man is losing his patience. Martin relents to his request, and goes around us, leading the way for the rest of the rather boring and tedious trip.

I do not enjoy being imprisoned again.

My new cell is rather different from my old one, I admit. Much nicer, actually. But that does not lessen my displeasure at being behind bars onnce more in the slightest.

Gone are the damp stone walls of the Imperial City Prison, and instead I find my lodgings warmer, cleaner, and more accomodating. There's a bench, a small table, and a loaf of bread to eat, which is something, and two bedrolls laid out. They are about as comfortable as the one from the chapel in Kvatch, but there is nothing to do in my imprisonment besides lay there and wait, and that is exactly what I am forced to do for what turns out to be a full twenty-four hours.

I get sleep while I can, but I wake easily, at every coming and going of the guards, and what little rest I get is fitful and nightmarish, overrun with images of death and memories of battle. It is with relief that, the next time I wake and sit up to watch the guard make his rounds, he stops at my door and unlocks it.

"Word has come from the Imperial City that you were given an Imperial Pardon prior to the Emperor's death, and didn't escape after all, and had no part in his assassination." He eyes me as though he hardly believes this, and I don't really blame him. But I feel a bit better knowing this means Baurus must be alive, after all. "You are free to go, with the Countess' apologies for any inconvenience. You can pick up your things on the way out."

Slipping past him, I do just that, and make my way out. I'm escorted all the way to the courtyard before the guards finally leave me to my own devices. My devices include only one task: finding my companion.

Crossing the bridge and entering the town proper, I find the chapel directly on my left. Figuring they might have offered a fellow priest a place for the night, I check there first.

An Imperial woman approaches me warmly. "Blessing of Dibella upon you, stranger. I am Dumania Jirich, Primate of Anvil. I speak with the voice of Dibella, and greet you with love."

I fight the impulse to step away. Her friendliness puts me off.

"Greetings, Primate." Is that the right way to address her? I don't know. She doesn't object, so I continue. "I traveled here with a friend, but we got seperated on the road. I wondered if he had come by here? He's a priest of Akatosh."

"Oh, yes! Handsome fellow." She smiles in such a way that I am struck by the urge to curse her. I resist. "He came by yesterday evening, asking for directions to the inn. Shy, I thought, but sweet enough."

Directions to the inn, huh. I wonder if he was just as weirded out by this place as I am.

"Thank you, Primate. The Nine go with you."

"Oh, and with you, sir."

I waste no time leaving.

A chapel of Dibella? My mind tosses a few lewd associations with the name of the divine, and I frown. Not a goddess I'm fond of, then.

I pass up a large building as I walk, and fnd myself drawn to it. The sign hanging above the door depicts an eye, "Mages Guild" written above it. I'm tempted to step in, but I know I need to find Martin and get out of town, the sooner the better.

The inn is easy enough to locate. A sign hangs above the door much like with the guild, the building being at the other end of town. I approach the innkeeper inside, and he's friendly enough, but thankfully, not overly so.

"How can I help you?"

"I'm looking for a friend of mine, a priest of Akatosh. I'm told he came here last night for a room."

The innkeeper nods, but frowns thoughtfully. "Yes, a priest came in just before dark. Didn't have enough money for a room, however. Got to chatting with Velwyn Benirus on his way out, though, and they left together. Velwyn came back this morning alone though. That's him, over there at the corner table."

The inkeeper shoots a thumb over his shoulder. The table's just off to the side of the bar, occupied by a chatty Imperial and a Dunmer woman. She leaves as I approach, and gives me a winning smile, not waiting for me to even speak as he launches into his own speal.

"Looking to settle down, miss? I just happen to be selling a manor located right here in Anvil. Beautiful place, old family home."

"I'm just looking for my friend, the priest of Akatosh that was here last night."

"Oh, that fellow." Velwyn's smile slips. "He was looking for room for the night, and I, uh . . . well, I thought he might . . . bless the house and such, you know, in compensation for a place to sleep, free of charge."

I don't like his hesitation. "Where?"

"It's the place at the end of the road on the corner, by the fountain and the Fighters Guild."

I give his chair a kick. "Take me."

Flinching, he none the less stands and leads me out.

Gods. Most important man in all Cyrodiil, and he's doing free blessings on houses for a place to sleep. There are assassins after this man's life, for goodness' sakes.

The manor, I must admit, is impressive. The water fixture beside it is beautiful, with a statue in the center and a short dock. The yard is large, and despite the obvious age and disrepair, it has an appeal to it. There's a stone gate around it, steps, and it's two stories with shuttered windows and a stone porch.

It's on this porch that Velwyn stops, biting his lip.

I narrow my eyes. "Problem?"

"No," he laughs. "Of course not. This is the place. The bedroom is right upstairs, I'm sure your friend is up and about so you just head on in and—"

Purple smoke glitters around my hand as my dagger materializes, and the man stops.

"Alright!" His voice is gruff, gone all of his earlier fake cheer and friendliness. "So the old place is haunted. I thought the priest could do some good, drive out the spirits with his divine power or something. The priestesses of Dibella in this town won't go near the place, they know all the rumors. But your friend was new, and more than willing to help for a bed, and I didn't think any harm could befall him in one night—"

Velwyn is pressed against the wall, my knife at his throat in seconds.

"What happened!?"

He stares down at my dagger in fear. "Ghosts attacked us! I stayed as long as I could, but I can't fight those things! He wouldn't leave, though! He was fine when I left, determined to fight them off and clense the place! I left a key with him in case he wanted out of there, but he told me to lock the door behind me when I went! That's the truth, I swear!"

Growling, I pull my hand away and shove him towards the door. "If he's injured, I will injure you in all the same ways."

Gulping, Velwyn unlocks the door and I follow him inside.

The front room has seen better days, but the elegance of the place beneath the mess is not lost on me. There's a beautifully carved stone fireplace and pillars around the door, and a balcony leaning over from the second story above. The furniture, however, is in shambles.

I move towards the kitchen—and am hit by a gaseous green glow.

The ghoul hovers over the smashed dining table, the fallen chandelier having delivered a crushing blow. It charges me through the air, moaning as it comes.

Martin has been in here, all night and most of the day, with these creatures. If they are still alive, then he—

"AHHHHHH!" I charge it right back, my whole arm igniting as I pull it back and throw it forward. I doubt punching a ghost does much good, but the fire does, and it screeches as the flames burn it. I feed the fire with my magic, adding to it, until the creature caves in on itself and trickles like puss to the floor, where it puddles.

There's another in the next room at the base of the stairs, and I dispose it of without much problem. Velwyn is of no help, cowering behind me. At least he hasn't run.

"Killing them does nothing," he tells me. "They just keep coming back."

"I don't care. I just need them gone long enough to find Martin and get him out of here."

There's a door here, but Velwyn has said the bedroom was on the second floor, so up I go.

At the top of the stairs is the bedroom—and an empty bed. The floor is covered with more ghost goo, and one of the spirits is back, or was never dispatched, and I can feel my magicka drain to almost nothing as I fight it off. Once it's dead, I ignore my depleted magic and head out onto the balcony, and then into the study. Mercifully, there are no more ghosts—but no Martin, either.

"That door downstairs," I round of Velwyn, frantic anger fueling me. "Where does it lead?"

"T-the basement, and the servant's quarters."

Storming past him, I go back down and grab the handle. The door shakes, but won't budge. "It's locked."

Velwyn shakes his head. "That door doesn't lock. Or, at least, it's not supposed to. It must be stuck."

Martin might be down there.

My empty palm pops a flame into existance, burning in the air between my fingers.

"You could set the whole house on fire like that!"

"It's made of stone," I retort, hardly caring. "I've been setting ghosts on fire since we got here and I haven't heard you complaining."

"Could you just wait a minute?"

"Why? Do you have any ideas?"

I can tell by the worried look on his face he doesn't. But a second glance at the flickering light in my hand has me questioning it myself. Sure, blasting the door down would probably be quick and easy. But fire has failed me at every turn so far, hasn't it? I couldn't save the Emperor with my flames; I can't expect to rely on it to save his son.

The Prince of Destruction is born anew in blood and fire.

I close my hand, and the flame extinguishes with a floosh.

Backing up, I raise my clenched fist, wrapped in more purple smoke, and open it. The stormy black portal opens up, and my zombie pops through with a sick plop and a moan in front of the door.

I command him, "break it down."

With a deathly wail, he rams it. Again. And again. And again. Each time, the impact is wetter, the bones in his body cracking, the wood beginning to splinter, the door shuddering in it's frame. I wince, watching the sad creature do it's work. Bits of its rotting skin and muscle stick to the door, coming off in clumps.

"Stop." The undead man waddles to a halt, turning to look at me in confusion. The room wreaks of his stench. "Just stop."

Stepping forward, I press a hand to his dead, mutilated skin, and pump the warm glow of a healing spell into him. The flesh knits back together. It isn't much of an improvement, as a zombie, he's already in pretty bad condition, but I feel better for it. His head totters to the side, blinking at me blankly, mouth hanging open. With a wave, I dismiss the spell.

"That was disgusting."

I shoot Velwyn a glare that's probably lost on him under my hood in this dark lighting, but he gets the idea anyway, it seems, and backs up. I lean against the wall and slide down, plopping onto the floor.

"What are you doing?"

"Waiting for my magicka to restore," I snap. "It'll be a bit."

With a groan, he glances around the room, as though worried the ghosts might be back. Then he takes a seat on the bottom step.

I flex my fingers while we wait, preparing for the moment my spells will work again. When I feel the tingle, I opt for a skeleton, and watch it appear in much the same way the zombie usually does. Having not warned Velwyn, I get a bit of amusement watching him cry out and crawl halfway up the stairs before he realizes the dead warrior is mine.

"Break down the door," I repeat. The skeleton, slightly smarter than my other undead servant, weilds an axe and hacks away much more efficiently. Within minutes, there's a hole big enough for us to step through. Dispelling the skeleton, I put a leg in and duck through, finding myself at the top of a lesser quality staircase. The basement obviously wasn't built to match the standards of the manor above, which isn't too surprising, I suppose.

Down two short flights, with Velwyn stumbling in behind me, we find another room filled with broken furniture and ghost goo. Around the corner, we go down yet again. This time, our discoveries are much more fruitful

"Martin!"

Settled in the floor between an overturned barrel, streaks of dried blood, and a glowing sigil on the wall, the heir to an empire is bent over a parchment and what looks like a whithered hand. He looks up at his name and smiles.

"Erin! You were released from prison! That's wonderful!"

Behind me, Velwyn chokes. "You were in prison? Why doesn't that surprise me."

"You've been trapped in the basement of a haunted manor for an entire day, and your first words to me are about getting out of prison?"

"I was worried about how I was going to get out of here," Martin admits, rising. "But I supposed that solving the mystery would fix the problem, so I've been rather occupied with that."

Well, at least he's safe.

"Have you figured out how to break the curse?" Velwyn asks.

"I think so, actually." Martin holds up the paper he'd been reading, offering it to Velwyn. "It's good you're here. I believe there is a passage here behind these markings, but only someone of Benirus blood can open it. I need you to have a look."

Velwyn reads the paper quickly, then all but gags at the growing symbols on the wall. Some of them might have been made with blood, like what's on the floor. He carefully steps around that, and gingerly runs his hands along the markings.

The wall cracks down the middle of the symbols, startling him. The wall breaks open, two halves pulling back like double doors, ushering him in. Instead, Velwyn bolts. I make to grab him, but Martin stops me.

"It's alright, we don't need him. He's afraid, and he's done enough. Come."

It's his house, and certainly not either of our responsibilities, but Velwyn disappears up the stairs and I turn back to Martin to find him already heading through the passage way. I dart after him, keeping close.

Assassins trying to kill him, and the man is likely to get done in by ghosts trying to do a good dead for a stranger he met at an in that tried to trick him. Next in line for the throne, everyone. I have my work cut out for me.

More glowing symbols are on the walls as we walk. Martin stops at a desk, picking up an open book. The pages are splattered with blood, more of that writing underneath. He sets the book back down, cringing, but I stow it away after he moves past. I don't know what went on down here, but I'm curious to find out—as soon as Martin is out of here and safe, that is.

The passage leads to an open room seemingly carved from the underground itself, a large stone alter in the center, surrounded by pillars and draped in tapestries. There's a skeleton laid across it in tattered robes, encircled with candles.

There are more skeletons in piles scattered around the room. On the other side of the alter between the two pillars is a raised platform with steps up to it, flanked by basins burning purple fire.

"If that door has been sealed, how are these still lit?" Martin asks, going to investigate.

"Purple fire is magical, isn't it?" The fire outside the Arcane University were purple, I remember. Bored, I peer at the skeleton on the alter. It looks important. It's also missing a hand.

"Your Majesty, didn't you have a severed hand earlier?"

"Your Majesty?" Martin looks baffled, then frowns. "Oh, right. I . . . suppose I should get used to that?"

I shrug. "Not if you do not wish. You're the Emperor's son. You could probably tell people to call you whatever you want. Would you prefer something else?"

"I . . . just Martin is fine, please." He quickly walks over the platform to join me by the alter. "And yes, I have a severed hand. I found it earlier while I was upstairs. It was with that note."

I simply point to where the hand is missing from the skeleton, and Martin reaches forward, picking up the arm's stump.

A deep voice suddenly rings out in the chamber, echoing from nowhere.

"I am Lorgren Benirus. In my life, I was a necromancer, and did unspeakable things in the name of achieving immortality for myself. Carahil saw my evil, and slayed me for my crimes. And now, in death, I see the righteousness in her actions. She was justified; I had to be stopped. I have accepted that, and my fate. All I wish now is to atone for my sins, and make my final peace with the Nine. Please, return my hand to my body, that I may be complete, and end this eternal nightmare."

The voice is anguished, full of sorrow, and Martin and I look to each other before nodding.

"We will grant you your peace, Lorgren Benirus. May the Nine grant you mercy in the afterlife." He reaches into the pocket of his robe, pulls out the skeletal hand, and places it in its proper spot on the alter.

The voice sighs.

"It never fails to amuse me how easy mortal man is to manipulate."

Martin starts, and I bristle, raking my eyes over the room again for a threat as the voice continues to speak.

"You fools have done the very thing that Carahil and her band sought to prevent by killing me; my ascension—to immortality! Death did not stop my spirit, and now I have regained my body. I will not underestimate you, as I did Carahil. You shall die, and I shall live once again! Ahahaha!"

The laughter is dark and powerful.

Regained his body, so the skeleton—vanishes in a swirl of smoke, only to reappear, glowing and armored to the teeth, wielding a magic staff. A lich.

"Gods' blood!" I rear back, pushing Martin away, and open my fist to summon up my zombie.

Lorgren's lich does the same, a skeletal warrior shielding him and locking arms with my monster.

Martin grabs my shoulder. "Let me through, Erin. I can fight, too."

"No," I shoot back. "You must be protected."

"Erin, please. I've held my own without you all day—I survived on my own, even protected others, when the daedra overran Kvatch. I can help without getting myself killed, I swear it. I don't intend to die; I just can't stand back and do nothing when I know I can be of use. You said it yourself—it is not in us."

Lorgren is shooting sparks out way, over the heads of the battling undead. I keep pushing Martin back, using myself as a shield, a protection spell defending me. Growling, I put my own hand on his shoulder, and the purple smoke hardens around his body in a magical defense for him.

"Stay back and attack from a distance. I can't fight if I'm worrying about you."

"Understood. You take him from the front, I'll circle around."

We split just as my zombie falls, vanishing. I resummon him and pull out my physical dagger, jumping on top of the alter and lunging for Lorgren. The lich is solid, and the dagger stabs in him, sticking. I send heat through the iron, burning him before I pull it free.

Behind him, a flurry of ice hits him, crackling as it spreads over his shoulders and he struggles against its grip. Martin grins and falls back farther, using the pillar as a shield when Lorgren turns to retaliate. I take the opportunity to attack again.

I slash and slash, circling Lorgren as he tries to keep up with me. He hits me with an eletric charge, sending me into painful convulsing. Martin is there, ice flying, a cold chill in the air. I can see my breath fog in my face as the shaking in my muscles stops.

Farther back, the skeleton and my zombie have both vanished. I summon mine back and get the jump on Lorgren, who's moved towards Martin and hasn't noticed his monster is gone. At the same time, the three of us all attack. The zombie and I land physical blows while Martin hits him with a storm of ice. I can feel the cold through my blade, biting up into my hands. It's the opposite of my usual fire, numbing.

Lorgren's glow flickers as he screams, sending more shocks through me, but I hang on, twisting my knife, tugging it down, cutting. With an ear piercing wail, the glow implodes, and both Logren and I fall. I land on his body, once more little more than a skeleton, with dried skin plastered to the bone and a blank face frozen in terror. Dead again.

I push myself up, gasping, and pull my blade free. My zombie hobbles over to stand beside me, and I find it oddly comforting. Matin leans down to inspect me.

"Are you alright? Did my spell hit you?"

"A little." I grin, still feeling the chill in my shoulders. It's wonderful. "But I'm fine. You did well."

"I told you I could fight. I don't enjoy it, but I do what I must."

My heart is pounding in my chest, and I can still feel the adrenaline rushing through me. It's not uncomfortable, but I find myself questioning if I like it—like to do battle. I certainly feel alive. It comes so easily, so naturally, the fear and the fire and the scramble for life. It's terrifying, and exhilerating.

I find I don't like the idea of liking it, so I stop trying to decide.

I stand, and Martin follows. "Let's get out of this acursed place."

"Actually, I do believe we've suceeded in breaking the curse."

"I'm sure Velwyn will be overjoyed to hear the news. I, on the other hand, have the heir to an empire to escort across the country. Now that he's done doing strangers deadly favors, of course."

Behind me, Martin laughs. The hole in the wall at the end of the passageway is sealed back up, but a mechanism beside the door opens it right back up. We step into a basement that is totally different from what was there before we'd entered.

"Hm. This must be what it was like before the curse took affect."

I agree. The room is tidy, well lit, and occupied by well made cuboards and storage containers, everything stacked and stored neatly, full to the brim with food and clothing and wine.

"I bet the upstairs looks even better." Martin is smiling, obviously pleased with the work we've done.

I start bagging the wine. "That prat tricked you into coming here and almost got the both of us killed. We've earned a little payment. These are good vintages; they'll sell well."

Martin cringes. "Erin, that's stealing."

"He owes you."

Martin sighs, but doesn't argue. I make him carry as much as he can, just like I do. And we head upstairs.

The house is in great condition now, and there's much to be admired. Everything is spotless, well decorated, and fully furnished—without a ghost in sight.

Outside, the sky is greying with purple hues, preparing for night. We've spent yet another day, me locked in prison, Martin trapped in a cursed manor. He frowns at the waning daylight, much like I do.

"We'll pawn the wine at the inn, inform Velwyn his pretty home is in the clear, bed down for the night, and head out in the morning."

"Shouldn't we hurry off?"

"Have a look at yourself in the pond and tell me if you think you'll last the trip. I bet you didn't sleep at all in that ghoulish place."

Blinking, Martin nods. "You have a point, I suppose."

Softly, I only repeat, "we leave in the morning."

We walk in relative silence, both of us beginning to feel the drain on our magic, most likely. I know I am. I feel stretched, strained. Shooting Velwyn a glare when we enter the inn, I ignore him to sell my wares to the innkeeper. He seems rather excited to get ahold of my pricey drinks, and pulls out his savings to take them off mine and Martin's hands. Velwyn looks pale when Martin joins me, but he doesn't say anything.

We've made a good five-hundred gold by the time we're done. And I'm not wasting fifty of it to get us a couple of rooms for the night.

"Come on, Martin."

He looks between the innkeeper and me in confusion as I walk away, then trots after me. "Are we not staying here tonight?"

"No. We can get free beds at the Mages Guild. I'm an Associate."

This information doesn't seem to surprise him. "I'm not, though. Will I be allowed?"

"If not, I'll set the place on fire."

"Erin, that's dangerous!"

"Hm."

Only a testy Bosmer playing with his pet daedra is up when we enter, but he goes upstairs to fetch the local guild head when I glare at him. I might be developing a talent.

An Altmer woman comes down the stairs a few minutes later, looking for all the world like she hadn't even gone to bed. She's dressed elegantly, and holds herself with poise, golden hair done up in a stylish bun.

"Hello, Associates. I am Carahil, head of Anvil Mages Guild. How can I help you two?"

"Carahil?" Martin turns to me, folding his arms over his chest. "Isn't that the mage Lorgren mentioned, who fought and killed him when he was alive?"

Carahil's brows shoot up and she answers before I do. "You know Lorgren? Has he risen again, like he claimed he would?"

Martin and I meet eyes, and we both nod.

"He tricked us into restoring his body," Martin explains. When Carahil gasps, he hurries on, holding his hands up to calm her. "No, it's already. He came back as a lich, but unless he had yet another backup plan for restoring himself after death, he's gone for good now. The curse he'd placed on his manor has certainly been lifted, if that's proof enough for you."

"Oh, my." Carahil places a hand over her breast, looking thoroughly impressed with us. "That's wonderful news. I thank you both for finishing the work I started so many years ago. I will take a few mages with me tomorrow and check the manor myself, just for my own peace of mind. But I am very grateful to you for what you've done."

"Oh, no, it's fine." Martin stutters a bit, smiling awkwardly.

"We just wish for a place to sleep for the night," I finally say. "We mean to leave town in the morning."

"Certainly. Though," Carahil trails off thoughtfully for a moment, staring at us, then smiles a swindler's smile. "Two accomplished mages such as yourself wouldn't have any trouble doing me a favor, would you? I would be more than willing to send recommendations to the Arcane University for your help. And if you're leaving town, anyway, it would be on your way."

"Um, I'm not—"

I cut Martin off, excitement returning at being reminded of the University. "What do you need?"