Chapter 2
Temple of the Ancestors
A short while later, Atkynd was riding near the back of the procession departing from Ceya-Tar. He was slightly ahead the slaves, who were collectively carrying an assortment of items for their Ayleid masters. Most had a pack strapped to their backs, though a few also carried other objects, such as large vases and sculptures. The most curious object was a large cage set on spoked wheels that was covered with a large cloth, obscuring whatever was inside. Though Atkynd was curious about it, the deep growls that occasionally erupted from the inside of the cage dissuaded him from prying.
Before the Ayleids had departed, Atkynd had found time to return to Emero, his horse. He was pleased to see that the palfrey had been watered, though the slaves hadn't fed him, as they weren't sure when he had last eaten. He noticed that they had also draped a new, dry riding blanket over his back. After thanking the pair of slaves that had tended to the horse – which surprised them, and they seemed unsure of how to respond, eventually nodding timidly – Atkynd had gone through the oiled leather pack strapped to the horse's lower back. Thankfully, his effects had remained dry, despite the torrential downpours they had endured.
He took the opportunity to change out of his wet traveling clothes, and in their place, he had pulled on a light grey linen tunic trimmed with silver thread, as well as a pair of rich black trousers. His cloak was, unfortunately, still wet, so he had tied it to the back of Emero's riding blanket in what he suspected would be an ultimately futile attempt to dry it. He had then untied his silver-blond hair and brushed it out with a wooden comb, then retied it and examined himself in a polished tin plate from his pack. While he normally might have considered changing into this more formal outfit when they arrived in the White-Gold City, he suspected that Arcanalata wouldn't permit a delay. While she had said she would secure him an audience, her tone had insinuated that she wanted to repay her debt as quickly as possible, and if her reaction to her slave's tardiness was any indication, she wasn't going to indulge dalliances.
A sudden gasp behind him snapped him out of his thoughts. Atkynd glanced over his shoulder and noticed that one of the slaves had stumbled through a puddle in the muddy jungle road. Atkynd shot him a sympathetic look before glancing up at the canopy, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he did.
Unlike the narrow path he had been following south through the jungle prior to making his way to Ceya-Tar, the dirt road leading out of the city was wide and well-maintained, with only the occasional vine creeping along the packed earth. However, even though the rain had finally stopped, the road was still muddy, and progress was slow. The clouds had cleared, and sunlight was streaming through the leaves of the canopy, but the air was so humid that a thick, clinging mist still engulfed them. Atkynd could feel his tunic sticking to his chest, and he was growing worried that the linen would wrinkle and dishevel his appearance before he could present himself before the Council of Elders.
Atkynd looked down again as he heard labored breathing beside him. One of the slaves, a tawny-haired boy in his early teens, was hunched over, struggling under the weight of his pack. Sweat was pouring down his face and bare chest, and Atkynd noticed several open wounds on his chest – fresh whip marks, if he had to guess. The other slaves were watching him warily, shooting occasional glances to the Ayleids at the front of the line. Atkynd surmised that they were concerned that his lagging was going to draw the unwanted attention of the slavemasters.
Atkynd glanced back at the boy, then reached down to his saddlebag and grabbed his waterskin. Wordlessly, he held it down to the slave, whose eyes widened in shock. He glanced furtively back and forth between the skin and Atkynd.
"My lord… I can't-!" he protested.
"It's alright," Atkynd assured him, though he was very aware of the other fearful eyes of the slaves on him. "Take a drink if you need it."
"Don't," one of the older slaves growled. "It could be poisoned."
"…What? Why would I poison my own waterskin?" Atkynd pointed out, frowning.
"I've seen it before," the slave retorted. "Our masters love tormenting us, and pretending to offer a kindness before making us suffer is a favorite trick of theirs."
Atkynd raised an eyebrow, then unstoppered the skin and put it to his lips. He took a long drink from it, visibly swallowing, before wiping his mouth and offering the skin to the boy again. The young man hesitated for a moment longer, the snatched the skin and took a quick swig. He then handed it back to Atkynd almost as quickly as he had taken it, his eyes still fixed on the backs of the Ayleids.
"Th-thank you, my lord," the boy murmured. Atkynd smiled warmly and put the skin back in his pack. It wasn't much, but the boy was already walking a little straighter.
"Don't rely on the charity of elves, boy," the older slave muttered. "Even a kind hand can still hold a whip."
Atkynd stared at the man. "You're quite… forthcoming with your opinions," he commented in a curious tone. "I can't imagine the Ayleids appreciate how… candid you are."
The old man snorted, brushing his stringy grey hair away from his face. "I've lived far longer than most slaves. Our masters have beaten me, tortured me… it barely affects me anymore, and they know it. But they also know that I'm only going to grumble. So, I do the tasks they assign me, and they let me mutter. They also know I won't be around much longer anyways."
Atkynd looked a bit closer. Not only was the man's skin laced with scars, but two fingers from his left hand and one from his right had been severed. When the man brushed his hair away, Atkynd had also noticed that he was missing an ear.
Realizing there wasn't anything that he could say, he grew quiet. His sudden silence seemed to pique the ire of the old man, however, as he suddenly swung towards Atkynd and asked, "Anyways, you're an elf. Why do you care?"
Atkynd turned back to him, leaning back on his horse slightly. "I'm not just an elf. My mother is a Nede," he replied quietly.
"Ah! I see. So, you believe that makes us kin?" the man sneered. "We're not. When I look at you, I see an elf. Nothing more."
"That's not what I mean," Atkynd replied quickly. "The Nedes who live in the north don't suffer under the same conditions that you do, but they do make up the lowest class in our kingdom. Those like me who have mixed blood are somewhat higher in the hierarchy, though we are still well below the mer ruling class. As such, we often feel closer to our Nede cousins than the mer, and many of us Manmer try to help ease their burdens when we can. I admit, we don't suffer the way they do-"
"No, you don't," the old man snapped bitterly. "I see now. You think you're like us? You're not. In truth, you pity us, and in doing so, you look down on us." He spat at Atkynd's horse's feet, before turning back up to him with a glare. "Spare me your pity, elf. I have no need of it, and it'll do me no good."
Atkynd bit back a retort that was on the tip of his tongue. The old man sneered when Atkynd didn't reply, and the walk continued in silence for a short while. Then the boy he had given the water to spoke up again in a low, timid voice.
"You… said that you came from the north, my lord?" the boy asked quietly.
"That I did," Atkynd nodded, smiling down at him. "I'm from a region known as Malabal, which is as far north as Skyrim, if you know where that is."
"I've… heard of it," the boy said hesitantly. "And you came over the mountains?"
"That's the path I took, yes," Atkynd confirmed, growing curious as to where the boy was going with his line of questioning. The old man seemed to be a step ahead of him, however, and the lines on his face deepened.
"Boy…." the old man growled to the younger slave.
"Then did you perhaps pass by the city of Sancre Tor?" the boy asked, ignoring the old man's warning.
"I… perhaps?" Atkynd said slowly, unsurely. "I passed within sight of a couple other cities, though I didn't stop in any of them until I arrived in Ceya-Tar."
"That's enough!" the old man snapped.
The boy bit his bottom lip. As he hesitated, Atkynd got the impression that he was gathering his courage. Then, all at once, he blurted out, "Did you perhaps see the Paravant?!"
"Gods, boy, keep your voice down!" the old man snarled, clapping his maimed hand over the boy's mouth. A couple of the Ayleids ahead of Atkynd swung around, narrowing their eyes suspiciously. Atkynd smiled at them quickly, shaking his head. The elves stared at him for a few moments, but eventually turned back around, though he noticed that their backs were straighter, and their pointed ears almost seemed to be perked.
Atkynd waited for a few moments until he was fairly certain that the Ayleids were no longer paying attention, and then he spoke in a softer voice to the boy. "Who is the Paravant?" he asked, leaning in to keep his voice as low as possible.
The old man cut the boy off before he could respond. "She's a story, nothing more. Several weeks back, we began hearing rumors about a slave that started a rebellion near Sancre Tor. The stories say that she freed several dozen slaves and fled into the jungle. She hasn't been seen since, but the more hopeful slaves like to whisper that she's out there, plotting a rebellion against the Ayleids."
Atkynd lowered his head in a brief nod. That would explain why the Ayleids didn't like the slaves talking about it. "You don't sound particularly excited about it," he remarked.
The old man let out a short, huffing sigh. "There's no reason to hope," he said gruffly. "She's called the Paravant because she's the 'first of her kind,' whatever that means. If whomever gave her that name believes her to be the first leader of a slave rebellion, then they're sorely mistaken. This is far from the first uprising. You haven't heard of the Thousand Strong of Sedor, have you, boy?"
Atkynd and the slave boy both shook their heads. "How long ago was this?" Atkynd asked, shifting his grip on his horse's reins.
"Some years, I think, though it's difficult for me to tell anymore," the old man admitted. "Most of the children have likely never heard of the Thousand Strong. The older slaves still remember them, though. And I'm certain it feels as though it was last month to the elves," he added with a bitter laugh. "It was a rumor that swept through the Ayleid cities like wildfire. A tribe of humans in Sedor managed to seize an armory, equip themselves, and wage a brief war against the Ayleids. Together, they defeated three armies that the Ayleids sent after them. The kings were shaken, and hope began to burn in the hearts of the slaves. I remember hearing that a few other cities had uprisings of their own – other slaves tried to break their chains and join the Thousand Strong, to fight against the Ayleids and win their freedom."
Atkynd frowned deeply. "Obviously, they didn't succeed, though," he said softly.
"Of course not!" the old man snapped. "Though they were a thousand strong, they were still only a thousand, and they couldn't stand up to the sorcerer-kings when they finally began using magicka. In the final battle, most of them were captured and brought to Sedor. There, the rumors say, they had their hands cut off, so that they could never bear arms against their masters again. They were then forced to watch as other slaves suffered for their rebellion. Their fellow humans were tortured in unimaginable ways, driven to madness, until they were finally, mercifully killed. Yet the Thousand Strong were left alive. They were forced to live with the knowledge that others died for their disobedience. This deterred the other slaves from any further thoughts of rebellion." The old man shook his head and muttered, "There hasn't been a major uprising since."
Atkynd and the boy were silent for some time, the only sound being their wet footfalls through the thick mud. Then the boy piped up, "It's said that the Paravant has the blessing of the gods, though. That the Divines themselves want to see her succeed."
"Which ones?" the old man snorted in reply. "The elven gods certainly don't, and the daedra happily accept the sacrifices that the Ayleids offer to them. The Nords and their gods might care, perhaps, but I've yet to see the Nords try to help us. No, boy, the gods won't aid her any more than they've aided us." He held up his chained wrist, adding, "This is our life, child. Just complete your tasks and avoid the lash. And don't expect someone to save you."
The boy lowered his head despondently as the old man stopped talking, and Atkynd found that he couldn't say anything else either. They traveled in silence along the jungle path for a little while longer, until presently he became aware of a gap in the trees. Sunlight flooded the area, and he raised his head, squinting and holding his hand over his eyebrows as he paused for a moment.
They were standing at the top of a small hill overlooking a vast valley. He could see a couple of small Ayleid cities below him, bordering the banks of a massive lake, the clear blue of its waters shimmering brightly in the midday sun. Much of the jungle around the lake had been cleared, and a wide road made of smooth white cobblestones lazily ringed the water, which became a broad river stretching to Atkynd's right – to the south. What drew his eye, however, was the enormous, gleaming ivory tower rising proudly from the center of the island in the middle of the lake. A slow grin spread across Atkynd's face as he lowered his hand and let out a sigh of relief as he realized that his goal – the Temple of the Ancestors – was finally in sight.
Over the course of the next couple hours, the procession descended into the valley, making their way off the dirt road and onto the cobblestone highway that surrounded the lake. Atkynd winced as Emero's hooves noisily clopped on the smooth stones, and he became increasingly worried that his steed's feet were going to get damaged, until he finally led his horse off the path and into the grass where it could walk more comfortably.
The highway eventually led them past one of the Ayleid cities that Atkynd had seen from their vantage point on top of the hill. From what he could tell, it was primarily a port city, with large galleys lazily sailing in and out of its marble docks. However, the docks paled in comparison to the brilliantly colorful gardens that bloomed outside its marble walls. Bright pink, orange, and blue flowers bejeweled the vines that crept along the defensive walls of the city, while trees of an exotic orchard near the front gates swayed lazily in the breeze. The sweet floral scent brushed Atkynd's nose as the wind washed the perfume over the procession, and he could hear a couple of the Ayleids riding ahead of him sigh wistfully.
"We're supposed to return to Fanacasecul once His Majesty is finished with his business in the Temple of the Ancestors, right?" one of the soldiers asked his companion.
"That's right," the other replied, unable to keep an expectant smile off his face. "Thank Magnus Fanacasecul is near the White-Gold City. There's no better place to celebrate Sanguinalia."
"Sanguinalia?" Atkynd asked, glancing over at the young slave boy that had been walking beside him since they had left the jungle.
"It's a celebration for the Daedric god Sanguine," the boy explained quietly, eyeing the Ayleids warily to make sure they weren't listening. "There's feasting, dancing, singing…."
"Drinking, carnal pleasures… darker diversions," the older slave interjected gruffly. The boy looked at him curiously, seemingly uncomprehending what the older man meant, but then he shrugged and turned back to Atkynd.
"The celebration is always held in the evening, though," the boy added. "That's why our masters wanted to leave in the morning, so we could reach the Temple of the Ancestors, attend the Council of Elders meeting, and then return to Fanacasecul for the celebration."
Atkynd nodded slowly. If the king was eager to attend the celebration, that explained why the girl he had met in the forest had been reprimanded for her late return to Ceya-Tar. It was also probably why she was spared a harsher punishment, if time was of the essence, he thought wryly. He turned back towards the city and watched several slaves flitting around the walls of the city like bees, pulling weeds and pruning trees, while Ayleids dressed in rich blue chitons and carrying whips stood over them, intently scrutinizing their work. The procession stopped for a few minutes as King Hadhuul approached one of the slavemasters and spoke to them in a low voice. The slavemaster glanced toward the cage that the Ceya-Tar slaves had been pushing, and a smirk crossed her face. She snapped her fingers, and a pair of her slaves hurried forward, relieving the caravan of its burden. The humans from both cities traded uncomfortable looks as the cage rattled again, but neither said anything, leaving Atkynd both puzzled and apprehensive, though he kept his mouth shut as the procession continued on its way.
Further along the road, the highway forked, with the main road continuing north while an eastern path led to a long granite bridge that connected the White-Gold City Isle to mainland Cyrod. The procession from Ceya-Tar slowly made its way across the bridge, giving Atkynd time to admire the graceful marble gatehouses set up along the bridge. He spied armored Ayleid guards watching them from above, cautiously gripping their bows, but otherwise making no move to stop the visitors. The Ceya-Tar Ayleids blithely ignored them as they made their way towards the massive bronze gates of the White-Gold City.
Atkynd let out a low whistle as they approached the enormous walls surrounding the city. He guessed they were at least twice as high as the walls encircling Ceya-Tar, with circular towers spaced apart roughly every three hundred feet or so. A quartet of Ayleid guards flanked the gates of the city, clad in bronze cuirasses embossed with an etching of the Temple of the Ancestors. White cloaks were wrapped around their necks, and their circular bronze shields were likewise emblazoned with the Temple of the Ancestors.
Like their compatriots in the gatehouses, the gate guards appraised the approaching entourage warily, but said nothing. The party stopped for a moment to allow those on horseback to dismount, and Atkynd hoisted his leather pack over his shoulder before leading Emero over to a tanned Nedic boy, who took the reins of his horse without looking Atkynd in the eye. Atkynd smiled to himself when Emero snorted a complaint as he was escorted into the corral, and then he turned back to the city gates, which had been opened for them. He quietly slipped into the crowd of Ayleids and Nedes filing through the entryway, taking his first steps into the White-Gold City.
The first thing Atkynd noticed was that the predominant color in the city was white. The wide roads were inlaid with white bricks, and the multi-storied marble buildings that lined the streets were likewise constructed primarily of white marble. Though the Ayleids roaming the streets did wear chitons of many hues and varieties, most of the slaves were clad in simple white cloth. Atkynd noticed that the slaves seemed to be cleaner than those he had seen in Ceya-Tar, though obviously he didn't mention his observation aloud.
What's more, the White-Gold City seemed to hum with an energy that the more subdued Ceya-Tar had lacked. The streets were bustling, with Ayleid nobles walking hurriedly down the expansive avenues, trailed silently by their chained slaves. To the left of the gates was a market, where Ayleid merchants attempted to entice passerby with goods ranging from mundane foodstuffs like fish and grain, to exotic luxuries from Valenwood, Alinor, and Resdayn… or so he heard the merchants claim. Among the merchants, he thought he even spotted a Bosmer – a Wood Elf from the forests of Valenwood, far to the southwest – though he couldn't be sure. It made him wonder how many others had made journeys at least as long as his just to reach the central city of Cyrod.
To Atkynd's right, a different sort of market was being held. Humans of various races were chained in a row before an elevated wooden platform, where they were brought onto the stage and paraded in front of a group of richly-dressed Ayleids, who scrutinized the humans like farmers appraising livestock. A young, fair-skinned, black-haired boy was the center of attention for the moment. The auctioneer was extolling not only his looks, but his potential as a worker, attempting to draw attention to his considerable size for his age, and noting that he would only grow larger as he grew older. A pair of older Ayleid men were furiously bidding against each other, until Atkynd began to wonder if they were about to come to blows. The boy, meanwhile, simply stared blankly down at the street below him, apparently resigned to his fate, regardless of who eventually purchased him.
Atkynd felt a hand prod his back, and he snapped out of his thoughts to see Arcanalata hovering near his shoulder. She was scowling at him, and it was apparent that she had been trying to catch his attention for a few moments.
"Yes, the White-Gold City can be quite breathtaking," she commented sardonically as she closed her surprisingly strong fingers around his upper arm and began ushering him down the street. "Come. You asked for an audience with the Council of Elders, so let us fulfill that request immediately."
Atkynd staggered for a few steps before he managed to catch his balance enough to keep pace with her, at which point she let go of his arm. She continued to glower at him out of the corner of her eye, though, and she set a brisk pace that he had to hurry to follow. She quickly guided him past a row of palmetto trees that had been planted in patches of grass between the cobblestone streets, and then led him up a set of marble stairs. As they ascended, they stepped into the shadow of the Temple of the Ancestors, which loomed over them ominously. Atkynd craned his neck for a moment to get a better look at it, but a glare from Arcanalata warned him not to stop and stare. He quickly tore his eyes away and hurried after her towards the entrance to the tower.
A pair of Ayleid soldiers stood guard at the base of the temple, snapping to attention as Arcanalata and Atkynd approached. Their ornate armor was painted white and etched with a design of the tower, while rich, red leather skirts protecting their legs. Each held a bronze shield in their left hands, while a lightly curved bronze blade rested at their hips. The guards glanced briefly at Atkynd, but neither glared at him, which he found refreshing, though he suspected that their lack of reaction was more about professionalism than tolerance of his appearance.
"I am Arcanalata, High Priestess of Magnus, from Ceya-Tar," Arcanalata announced as they approached. "This is Atkynd, an emissary from Malabal. By my authority as advisor to King Hadhuul of Ceya-Tar, I hereby request entry into the Temple of the Ancestors."
"Very well," one of the guards replied immediately. "Your authority is recognized, and your charge shall be admitted." He then turned to glare at Atkynd, a familiar look of disgust contorting his face. "You will respect the sanctity of the Temple of the Ancestors. Misbehavior shall be dealt with swiftly and without mercy. Do not stray from Lady Arcanalata unless she permits it. If you are to be admitted to the Council of the Elders, you will be announced – do not attempt to enter the central chambers until then, and do not disturb your betters. Do you understand?"
"I understand," Atkynd replied smoothly, inclining his head.
"By your word, then," the guard warned him, before nodding to his companion. The pair turned towards the heavy bronze doors behind them and slowly pushed them open. They then stepped aside, and Arcanalata swept past the pair with Atkynd following in her wake.
As they stepped into the temple, the air immediately turned noticeably cooler, and Atkynd shivered for a few moments as his body adjusted to the temperature. The interior of the temple was illuminated by hanging chandeliers of glowing white crystal like those he had seen in Ceya-Tar, though this ensured that there were numerous shadowy patches where the soft light didn't reach. The floor of the temple was made of alternating blocks of white and pink marble, while the walls seemed to be carved of heavier grey granite supported by fluted marble pillars. They were standing in the middle of a curved hallway that wrapped around a central room blocked by a heavy wooden door, though Atkynd could hear muffled voices echoing inside. The door was guarded by two more Ayleids clad in white armor, neither of which seemed to be paying anyone in the hall any mind.
A handful of Ayleid nobles were lingering in the hallway. A few were seated on marble benches spaced around the room, while a young male and female standing in a corner spoke in low voices that echoed dully off the stone walls. Arcanalata swept in front of Atkynd, drawing his attention back to her.
"Wait here until you're summoned," she explained in a low voice. "King Hadhuul is already inside, so I must go join him. In the meantime, as you were told, don't draw attention to yourself. The temple guards aren't known for their mercy."
"Yes, Your Eminence," Atkynd replied, inclining his head. "And thank you once again."
"Hm. If nothing else, at least your manners are better than most humans," Arcanalata commented, smirking to herself. "I expect to see you shortly." With that, she swept around and strolled up to the guards, who pushed open the door to the inner chambers for her, leaving Atkynd alone in the foyer.
Atkynd briefly considered taking a seat on one of the benches along the walls, but he realized that most were occupied, and when he approached one that had a sole occupant, the Ayleid woman glanced up at him with a warning glare. He paused mid-stride, flashing her an awkward smile, before turning around and facing the wall of the central chamber with a soft sigh. His gaze began to wander, and presently his eyes fell on a strange object set on a marble podium resting against the wall of the central chamber.
The statue was about half the size of his torso, forged from a strange black metal that Atkynd didn't recognize. Multiple prongs formed a sort of crown around a central cylinder, which supported a shard of shimmering, bright green glass. Atkynd suspected that the statue was magical in nature, but he couldn't discern what its purpose was. He leaned in to inspect it more closely, but a cough caught his attention. Glancing to his right, he noticed one of the Ayleid guards near the door glaring at him out of the corner of his eye. Atkynd took the hint and immediately folded his hands behind his back, which seemed to mollify the guard.
"One of the Ancestors," a dry, rasping voice behind Atkynd announced. Atkynd jumped, startled, and then quickly looked over his shoulder. Standing behind him was a wizened Ayleid man, with shoulder-length silver hair braided with glass beads and feathers, and watery blue eyes. He wore a loose purple robe over his slightly hunched frame, and he clutched a wooden staff capped with a pulsing aqua-colored stone. The Ayleid smirked at Atkynd's reaction, and he strode forward a couple of steps to stand beside him.
"What… do you mean, my lord?" Atkynd asked. He had to stop himself from shying away from the man, though the elder didn't seem to notice Atkynd's discomfort.
"This statue. This is one of the Ten Ancestors," the old Ayleid repeated impatiently, scowling at Atkynd. "You seemed intrigued by it."
"Ah… yes, I've never seen anything like it," Atkynd replied, trying to calm his hammering heart. "Are… these statues what the Temple of the Ancestors is named after?"
"Yes and no," the old man replied, clutching his staff as he turned back to the statues. "Rather, these statues and the temple are both named after the Ten Ancestors. We Ayleids were originally Altmer from Alinor who were… disenchanted with the strict dogma of our kin in our homeland. We didn't wish to be told which gods we could worship, so we struck out for Cyrod, where we founded kingdoms that allowed us to worship whatever we pleased. The Ten Ancestors were the founders of the first Ayleid kingdoms, and to this day, all Ayleids venerate them and the freedoms they bestowed upon us."
Yes, and I'm certain your Nedic slaves are equally grateful for your commitment to personal freedom, Atkynd thought to himself, though of course he didn't vocalize his thoughts. Instead, he asked, "If I may, what did your ancestors wish to worship, if not the Altmeri gods?"
"Whatever we pleased," the old Ayleid replied simply, as though the answer was obvious. "Now, some of us did – and do – still pay our respects to the elven gods. However, many of us also wished to worship beings that could provide us with tangible benefits." He turned his gaze back to the statues, adding, "Among the old pantheon, Auri-El and Magnus are still popular deities – the former because he's the patron of all elves, and the latter because he provided the world with magic. In Magnus' case, however… he's an example of a deity that we Ayleids worship because of what he provides and represents. Namely, tangible benefits that come from worshiping him."
Atkynd's eyebrows rose slightly. "Is that the reason many Ayleids worship of the Daedric Lords?" he asked slowly.
"Indeed," the Ayleid replied, seeming pleased by Atkynd's inference. "Consider the elven gods that the Altmer of Alinor venerate. What proof have we that many of them even exist? The Altmer insist that we prostrate ourselves before deities that do not show themselves in any physical form, nor do they provide their worshipers with benefits aside from scattered rumors of blessings that cannot be verified as truly divine. By contrast, the Daedric Lords communicate directly with their followers, provide the loyal with rewards, and at times even manifest on Nirn itself in the form of avatars. We have proof of their existence, which is why we consider them worthy of worship."
"If I may, though… what of the Daedric Lords that are considered… cruel?" Atkynd asked, carefully avoiding the word "evil."
"Cruelty does not make them any less worthy of worship," the Ayleid replied dismissively. "Even the cruelest of Daedic Princes nevertheless still reward their worshippers and followers, at times even more generously than those that may be considered less violent. What's more, worship of them is at times pragmatic, even necessary. Suppose a city-state is under attack from a powerful foe that cannot be reasoned with, and its king has the option of communing with a Daedric patron for the power to save their city-state. If said patron is cruel but powerful, and can provide the king with the power necessary to defend his people, then would it not be crueler to his own subjects if he did not do everything in his power to protect them? What's more, if this king does not seek the aid of this patron, his enemy might do so instead, thus ensuring he and his people will be slaughtered." The old Ayleid smiled grimly, adding, "Such is the nature of the Ayleid Empire. Seize power, or be crushed, as the Barsaebic Ayleids were."
"The Barsaebic Ayleids… Ayleids that insisted on worshiping the elven divines, yes?" Atkynd asked slowly, trying to recall what he had memorized about Ayleid history before he had left for Cyrod.
"Correct," the old Ayleid nodded. "They continued prostrating themselves before the Aedra, yet received nothing in turn for their trouble. Thus, they were ill-prepared for when the practical Daedraphiles declared war upon them. Those that were not driven from Cyrod into Black Marsh to the east and Elsweyr to the west were simply slaughtered. Like the Altmer of old, they failed to grasp the true, fundamental nature of the world."
"Which is?" Atkynd asked.
"Change," the Ayleid replied with a chuckle, seeming delighted to have such an apt listener. "Our world is quite malleable, you see, if one understands how to manipulate it. Those that master the ability to shape their surroundings hold the most power in this world. The Daedric Princes were the ones who first provided us with the knowledge of how to change the world, or at least the keys we needed to enact the changes we desired. Thanks to them, we developed magicks that allow us to shape the world as we desire." He paused, tilting his head at Atkynd. "Do you practice magic, boy?"
"I… know a couple of spells," Atkynd said slowly, hesitant to divulge too much. "Affecting the world… are you referring to the elemental spells, such as flame and lightning?"
"Bah. Simple manipulation of raw energy, hardly useful for anything but the destruction of otherwise valuable material," the Ayleid snorted dismissively. "Nor do I refer to the manipulation of the senses that other mages use to alter mere perceptions of reality. I'm speaking of changing the very structure of the physical world itself. Observe," he added, reaching into his pocket. He withdrew a small piece of bark and closed his hand around it. He briefly closed his eyes, and he muttered a couple of words under his breath. A flash of fuchsia light erupted in his palm, and when he opened his hand again, the wood had turned to stone.
The old Ayleid held it out for Atkynd to inspect. Atkynd took the bit of stone and turned it over in his hand. "Incredible! I've never seen magic like this," Atkynd admitted.
"That's because it's a school of magic unique to us Ayleids," the old elf replied smugly as he took the stone back from Atkynd and stuffed it into his robes. "The Psijics of Artaeum come close, but they stop at merely manipulating strands of magic, rather than reshaping the physical world itself." He chuckled as he folded his hands on his staff. "That sort of power was once thought unique to the Daedra, until we learned it from them. They gave us the knowledge we needed to shape not only the world, but our own destinies. That, boy, is why we venerate the Daedric Princes – all of them – and that is why we hold the Ten Ancestors in such high regard."
"I… see," Atkynd said, managing to smile slightly and incline his head. "Thank you for the lesson. Though… I'm afraid that I'm unsure who I'm addressing…."
"Ah, yes, I didn't introduce myself, did I?" the Ayleid chuckled. "I am Gordhaur, King of Ninendava." His smile then turned slightly sardonic as he added, "Some call me Gordhaur the Shaper, for my own skill at manipulating the fabric of reality."
Atkynd's eyes widened, and he quickly dropped his head in a bow. "Ah! Then it's an honor to speak with you for another reason, Your Majesty."
"And with whom do I have the pleasure of speaking? You're a foreigner, yes?" Gordhaur asked, leaning on his staff.
Atkynd raised his head and introduced himself quickly, giving both his name and his purpose in Cyrod. Gordhaur listened with a detached sort of interest as Atkynd explained that he had come to establish new trade routes.
"Is that so? I suppose I could always do with more materials for my experiments," Gordhaur said thoughtfully. "However, I don't wish to agree to anything until we can have a proper meeting, you understand."
"I do," Atkynd agreed quickly. "What's more, my king has not given me his seal of approval. This journey is more to assess interest in potential trading partners. Nevertheless, I'm pleased that you are intrigued, Majesty," he added. "Though… if I may ask? If you're one of the kings, why are you not with the Council of Elders now?"
"I have little patience for the politicking and petty squabbling of spoiled children who have little respect for the power they've inherited," Gordhaur replied bluntly. "No, I'm merely waiting for their audience to end so that I might accompany them to Fanacasecul, for the Sanguinalia celebration. While I barely tolerate my fellow kings, I will not forsake a festival dedicated to one of the Daedric Princes, even if said festival requires us to make merry with our peers." He let out a derisive snort, before adding, "Were you going to attend?"
"I… do not have an invitation, I'm afraid," Atkynd admitted.
"Indeed? You do now," Gordhaur replied, his lined face breaking into a dry smile. "If anyone asks, you are my guest. Consider it a reward for passing the time with me, and proving yourself an apt student when an old master speaks. As the Daedra grant rewards to their followers, so do I. And this is quite the boon I'm offering, if you did not realize. You're likely to find that kings besotted with wine are far more amenable to speaking at length about trade than those eager to see a dull council meeting concluded as swiftly as possible," he added with a chuckle.
"I… thank you for your generosity, Your Majesty," Atkynd exclaimed in a low voice, bowing again, hardly able to believe how his luck had turned around since he'd gotten lost in the forest.
"Of course. If-" Gordhaur began, but at that moment, the doors to the inner chambers swung open, and an Ayleid woman in a red chiton stepped out, looking around with a bored expression.
"Atkynd of Malabal? You may address the Council," she announced, lazily looking around the area for him.
"We shall continue this conversation another time. You must see to your duties," Gordhaur said. He paused, then added, "Should you seek to learn more of the magic I spoke of, do visit Ninendava. You seem bright, for a human, and I feel there is… much we could learn from each other." A slight, mysterious smile crossed his face, one which sent a chill up Atkynd's spine.
"I shall certainly consider it, should I find myself in the area, Your Majesty," Atkynd replied diplomatically, bowing once more, before turning on his heel and striding quickly towards the Ayleid usher. He struggled not to rush too much, so as not to seem too eager to be away from Gordhaur. While he was grateful for the king's help, there was something about his demeanor that made Atkynd rather uncomfortable. He hurried past the usher and into the council chambers, whereupon he slowed his stride and quickly composed himself.
The central room of the Temple of the Ancestors was larger than he had expected, though he wondered if the open layout of the chambers made it seem bigger than it was. The room was circular, with a white marble dais in the center of the room. Five ascending rows of marble benches lined the perimeter of the room two-thirds of the way around, with fluted marble pillars holding the roof aloft.
Seated on the benches were a few dozen Ayleid nobles. Some were dressed in brightly-colored robes decorated with feathers, others wore loose chitons with ornate designs and studded with gems, and still others were encased in bronze armor, with swords or axes strapped to their hips. Atkynd noted that most seemed bored or anxious – Gordhaur had been correct in his assertion that they were eager to see the council session end as quickly as possible. He took a moment to glance around the room, and his eyes fell on Arcanalata, who was seated next to King Hadhuul. She tilted her head up haughtily as she caught his eye, as if to silently, smugly comment that she had upheld her part of the bargain and now owed him nothing. Atkynd responded with a barely perceptible nod of his head, and then he turned to address the Ayleids. Before he could speak, however, one of the nobles let out a disgusted noise that echoed through the room.
"Ugh! What is that?" the voice asked indignantly. Atkynd felt his heart begin to sink as a few of the Ayleids muttered to each other.
"I believe it's a human, if your eyes are failing," another Ayleid replied sarcastically, and chuckles echoed through the chamber.
"No…look closer. It has elven ears," the first voice hissed, radiating disgust. Atkynd dared to glance over his left shoulder towards the speaker. The mer speaking appeared middle-aged – possibly around two hundred years old – and was clothed in a rich green chiton with a small silver crown of leaves resting on his head. "By the gods, that's revolting."
"Well… he's foreign, yes?" a higher-pitched voice asked. "That would explain it. Come now, let him speak. I for one am willing to overlook his ancestry. I would rather entertain a half-elf than a full human, at least."
"Would you?" the green-clad elf retorted, sneering. "I would actually prefer a full-blooded human. The mixing of our races is deplorable. I for one am appalled that we even admitted this mongrel." Atkynd felt a flash of anger, but he kept his face carefully passive.
"Oh, come now," another Ayleid piped up. "Surely you've taken at least one human to your bed. Some of them can be quite comely, and they're so pliant…."
"We all have our vices, and I won't begrudge you yours," the green-clad Ayleid said curtly. "But we indulge in our perversions behind closed doors. We don't openly flaunt them. This… this thing is an abomination, a-"
"Indeed?" a powerful voice boomed from the benches in front of Atkynd, drowning out the mer's words and making Atkynd jump. "Do go on, Corilel. Lay bare for all of us how you feel about us half-elves."
Atkynd turned his attention to the speaker, who was seated partway up the middle section of the benches. He was an enormous elf, towering above his contemporaries, even from his seated position – at a glance, Atkynd estimated him to be almost seven feet tall. He wore a full suit of golden-bronze armor etched with feathery designs, complete with flared, wing-shaped pauldrons that gave him an almost angelic appearance. His eyes were the same piercing turquoise that Atkynd had come to recognize as a near-universal hallmark of their race, but there was a vibrancy to them; they seemed to almost to glow with an inner light. The elf wore his long golden hair loose around his shoulders, and over a dozen feathers strung with glass beads were woven into the thin strands. A massive bronze sword almost as big as a man rested on his knees, though the warrior had placed one hand on the hilt while he pinned Corilel with a cold look.
The Ayleid in green noticeably flinched, and the other elves glanced at each other uncomfortably. "Your ancestry and this one's are two vastly different things, Many-Feathers," Corilel responded stubbornly, tilting his chin up. "Being half-divine is a far cry from being tainted with human blood."
"Yet you place so much importance on the purity of elven blood, even though mine is impure as well," Many-Feathers shot back. "So, you believe that half-elves should have no voice in this chamber? Am I to hold my tongue as well?" He slowly rose to his feet, bringing his massive sword up to rest it on his shoulder. "If so, I propose a change to the rules, and if you object, I'd be happy to challenge you for it."
"Umaril…!" one of the ladies exclaimed quietly.
Corilel hesitated, then scowled and muttered, "I have no reason to rise to that challenge."
"Very good! Then also have no issue with permitting our guest to speak," Umaril said cheerfully. He took a seat again and motioned for Atkynd to continue.
Atkynd paused for only a moment before he forged ahead, deciding to act as though nothing had happened. "Your Majesties, thank you for receiving me today. I am Atkynd av Aluciel-Sunnagea, and I come to you as an emissary from the Kingdom of the Bjoulsae, in Malabal. On behalf of King Aluciel, I would like to propose the establishment of new trade routes between the various kingdoms of Cyrod and the Kingdom of the Bjoulsae."
Atkynd paused to unsling his bag from his shoulder, and he unclasped the buckle keeping the top flap closed before pulling out a polished tin plate with ornate edges. When he stood up again, he continued, "This is a sample of tin that our people have extracted from a rich vein we discovered in a mountain that King Aluciel recently conquered from a goblin tribe. If any of you would like to inspect it-" He paused as an Ayleid in a deep red chiton motioned Atkynd forward. He took the plate from Atkynd's hand and slowly turned it over as Atkynd returned to the dais. "We've found that the tin is lighter and more durable than most varieties currently in circulation. Upon combining it with local copper, we've been able to produce high-quality bronze that's unparalleled in the region."
"And your king is offering this as a trade good instead of using it for his own ends?" one of the ladies asked skeptically.
"No, King Aluciel is also smelting bronze with it," Atkynd replied smoothly. "In fact, that's a mark of its quality – it has His Majesty's personal approval. However, we now have a surplus of tin, and thus are eager to trade with foreign markets for more exotic goods."
"Surely this can't be the only thing that you are offering," another woman piped up.
"Not at all," Atkynd replied evenly, looking towards her with a slight bow. "We also have textiles we'd be willing to trade, particularly wool. What's more, tin wasn't the only material that we've extracted from our new mines. We discovered quite the assortment of gemstones as well. Amethyst, topaz… emerald."
Atkynd bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling as he noticed several of the Ayleid lords perk up at the mention of jewels. There was a low mutter amongst some of the lords, until one of them to Atkynd's right asked, "What does your king want in return?"
"There are a number of plants that are grown in Cyrod that are unavailable in the cooler climate of Malabal," Atkynd answered immediately. "Namely, King Aluciel is quite interested in items such as cotton, papyrus, and wine."
"Your king is aware that papyrus is quite difficult to make, and wine can spoil if improperly transported?" an older Ayleid male asked.
"He is, but such luxuries are worth the risk," Atkynd said, keeping his tone almost languid.
"How does your king intend to transport these goods? Who will pay the cost for their transport?" someone else asked.
"Because the White-Gold City is connected to the Niben River, the sea route around the western half of Tamriel would be one potential method," Atkynd said. "A direct land route is also possible, though admittedly somewhat treacherous. It's not impossible to travel through the mountains, however. After all, it's how I arrived, and I found that the paths were wide enough for carts and wagons to travel along, if necessary."
Atkynd paused to assess the mood in room. While some of the Ayleids did seem mildly interested, the majority were already drifting back into their own thoughts. Then, King Gordhaur's recommendation flashed into his mind. He let the silence hang in the air for a couple more seconds, then added, "Of course, there is no need to make a decision this moment, my lords. I understand many of you are eager to attend to the Sanguinalia celebration, and I don't wish to take up any more of your valuable time. If it pleases you all, I would be happy to simply gather a list of those of you who are interested while you attend the festival."
Atkynd again had to keep from smiling to himself as many of the lords openly let out sounds of relief, and he knew that he had endeared himself to a few more potential candidates just with that one gesture.
"I think that would be best," one of the kings wearing a crown of copper leaves announced, standing and stretching. "If there is no more business for the day, may I recommend that this meeting of the Council of Elders be adjourned?"
"Agreed," came a chorus of voices. Almost as one, the lords rose and began heading for the exit of the council chambers, with some visibly hurrying. As they walked out, Atkynd saw the king that Umaril had embarrassed shoot him a livid look. Atkynd forced himself to ignore it as he picked up his pack and slung it over his shoulder. Then he realized that he hadn't gotten his tin plate back. Before he could fret, however, Arcanalata approached him. The plate rested in her palm as she extended it towards him, one eyebrow arched.
"That was… rather banal," she commented as Atkynd took the plate from her with a grateful nod.
"That's good," Atkynd replied easily. "One of my directives was not to make a spectacle of myself. My mission was to deliver my offer, gauge interest, and return home."
"You might have stoked a warmer response if you had been more assertive," Arcanalata remarked.
"Perhaps. Yet the hostility from some in the audience was obvious, so I felt it wise not to overstep my bounds," Atkynd explained.
"Hm. Perhaps. I sometimes forget that not all are in the same lofty position as I," Arcanalata agreed after a moment's thought.
"Also… thank you for securing me this audience," Atkynd added quickly, inclining his head.
"Well, since my debt has been repaid, I have no need to extend an invitation for the Sanguinalia celebration," Arcanalata sniffed. "If you wish to attend, you must find other means to do so."
"No need to concern yourself with that," Atkynd replied, struggling to keep his tone neutral rather than smug. "I've already secured an invitation."
"Indeed?" Arcanalata asked in an absent tone. She turned and walked towards the exit, but not before she glanced over her shoulder and added, "You continue to surprise me, boy. Perhaps you were correct, that you shouldn't draw too much attention to yourself." She then turned and swept out of the room. Atkynd was left staring after her, goosebumps rising on his arms, before he took a deep breath and hurried after her, leaving the empty council chambers behind.