Chapter 38
"Remind me again, who was Curalmil?" Tariq asked Onmund.
"According to Master Nurelion's notes, Curalmil lived in the time between the Merethic and First Eras. He was a healer and had notoriety amongst the Aldmer. He was a contemporary of Arch-mage Gaulder and, apparently, miraculous enough as a healer mage that the Aldmer wrote of him. Nurelion rediscovered his name while researching ancient texts for his masters dissertation.
"Part of the records praised Curalmil's special white phial, a prize possession of the Nord from which poured many high-quality potions. Part of any healer's frustration is ingredient supplies."
Tariq smiled, saying, "Supply and quality, yes. Difficult to maintain even in well-connected cities and impossible when traveling. I can manage in Hammerfell. But in Skyrim? I know nothing of your native plants and am utterly dependent on your apothecaries."
"Exactly, yes," agreed Onmund, nodding. "Curalmil overcame that by creating his special bottle that could replicate and produce any medicinal potion he introduced to it — an entire apothecary of high-grade potions of his crafting in a single bottle. After his death, this was dismissed as fantasy because no one could even conceive the magic and base parameters it would take to produce such a container. But Nurelion somehow believed this miracle existed. So he began searching all the places in Summerset and Cyrodiil where Curalmil was said to have traveled. Eventually, it all led back to Winterhold, where Curalmil was born and died."
"You say Winterhold, but Nurelion's shop is in Windhelm."
"Could you imagine a high elf trying to set up an apothecary under Jarl Korir?" said Onmund, laughing. "In any case, Windhelm's the largest city in that part of the country with enough traffic and customers to sustain both his business and research."
"Ah, of course. But I do not think the old elf will live long enough to uncover the phial's secrets even if we find it."
"I think just being able to hold it will fulfill his life's dream even if it comes too late to save him," said Idgrod. The others listening were Rodina, Onmund, and Onmund's two cousins, Bothi and Inghram. Lydia and Valdimar were absent, doing some night fishing with another inn patron, an Orc who had gotten into a discussion with Valdimar about the best recipes for chaurus pies. "As for the magic secrets of the phial, well, that's been lost to time."
"Won't his assistant carry on his work?" asked Rodina.
"'No,' he said. 'The phial is my master's obsession, not mine.' I've spoken with Quintus about the phial should his master die before or shortly after we retrieve it. Quintus was the top graduate of his class. In his own right, he's academically qualified to declare himself a master apothecary. What he lacks — compared to Nurelion — is magicka. With magicka, Nurelion can compensate for poor quality or missing ingredients to create quality potions. This lack makes Quintus believe that the universities won't take him seriously about a miraculous magical phial or would take the phial and Nurelion's work and claim it as their own."
"Give it to Winterhold," suggested Onmund. "We don't have an alchemy school at this time, but the phial is clearly a creation of enchantments, and our Master of Enchantments is currently the best in Skyrim. He studies Merethic and First Era enchantments — when he has the time — and would treasure the chance to study such a marvel."
"Talk to Quintus," said Idgrod. "Nurelion might have already designated an inheritor for the phial after his death. Quintus is fairly sure he will inherit the shop, and he knows some of Nurelion's personal belongings are to go to family in Summerset. But he doesn't know what his master plans for the phial."
"But we must first retrieve the phial," said Tariq, sighing and standing to stretch. "I'm off to bed."
… … …
"He destroyed his own creation," stated Tariq, staring at the ugly crack down the length of the phial. The damage was not enough to utterly shatter the beauty of the stone phial — white, like newly fallen snow in sunlight, a soft and subtle glittering, fragmented rainbow. The crack was a sin against its perfection. Any liquid put in it would leak out. It was enough to break the intricate enchantments imbued into its crystalline structure.
"What makes you say that?" asked Idgrod.
"Just a feeling. A notion. This phial is Curalmil's shehai, his soul's expression, and manifestation. No one else should use it.
"And I misspoke. He did not intentionally destroy it with his own hand. No. I believe that it cracked the moment he died. We who follow the path of the Ansei, we learn the art of enchantments because to manifest our shehai into this world we must imbue the physical form with our power and soul. Every Ansei's soul manifestation is different, reflecting the truth of what we are. Curalmil created a pretty bottle, but it only became the White Phial when he put his power and soul into it. It is only natural that the bottle would break when his soul left it."
Curalmil's soul. He thought of the deathlord's corpse in the outer room. He couldn't conceive how a dedicated healer and the healers who eventually joined him there ended up as murderous dragon-worshiper corpses.
Or maybe he could. Tariq recalled that the master of the Bards College had said the tomb builders of the time were dragon worshipers, a masonic order that built tombs dedicating all within to their defeated dragon gods, even those heroes that fought dragons and their cultists in life, thus denying them Sovngarde. Such defilement — re-dedicating bodies and souls after death, yanking them forcefully from their soul's path to throw them to the frozen void between life and death. This was happening in tombs of the late Merethic to the Second Era. With the dragons returning, their undead servants became more active, according to that elf in Markarth.
Reprehensible. Blasphemous. No one should interfere with a soul's journey in such a manner. The best they could do, Onmund promised, is that he and his kin and friends would return to burn the bodies to ash before re-sealing the tomb.
Like the work being done in Falkreath to renovate Shriekwind Bastion.
On their way out, Tariq looked again at the word wall. The word KRII was what stuck in his mind. A copy of the translation was in his purse. The word meant "kill." It had an ominous heaviness on his spirit. This shout was not a kind one. As he wondered where the other words were, the dragon ruins near Ivarstead flashed across his mind. And he thought of Autumn leaves, the rich smell of Autumn in The Rift.
Autumnwatch Towers. He didn't get a good look at the word wall there because a dragon's large tail had blocked his view. He would the next time he went to High Hrothgar to bring the horn of Jurgen Windcaller to the monks.
He also realized he hadn't examined the wall the dragon of Arcwind Point was guarding. They had all been too tired from their battles in the Ayleid temple of Rielle to challenge the dragon and had been quick to retreat from the area.
Now that he had seen the word walls in this area, it was back to Windhelm.
The old elf's laugh was bitter when presented with the phial, immediately understanding that Curalmil had destroyed his creation before dying to prevent others from using it.
Idgrod was wrong. It wasn't enough for Nurelion to have the phial finally in his hands. A damaged phial meant that its legend would remain unproven unless repaired, and he had run out of time and energy to research that. The wealth of his life amounted to a leaky stone bottle worth only a few coins on the market because it still looked pretty enough to hold dried flowers.
Share the wealth.
Tariq figured he could buy two apples with the "reward." The elf's flustered assistant offered 500 from his savings to offset the insult. Tariq had accepted because Onmund's cousins deserved something for their risk in exploring a dangerous tomb and for the work they were willing to do to restore and reseal Curalmil's tomb.
He went to another meeting with the palace wizard, Wuunferth.
"So, you've had your chance to practice shielding. Shall I test you?"
Wuunferth took him to the training hall between the guards barracks and the dungeon.
It was a productive half hour of holding up magicka shields while Wuunferth threw basic elemental attacks at him. Lightning and fire were the easiest to diffuse or deflect. Ice bolts were difficult for being solid missiles. Physical attacks were the biggest weakness of magicka shields, requiring a disproportionate amount of power. Tariq knew from experience that the strongest magicka shield he'd faced so far only slowed his sword. It could be akin to slicing through water, but it was not impossible.
He could offset physical damage if he used a physical shield. In this practice, he used a plain iron and wood shield instead of his Dwemer shield, which already had elemental protection enchantments on it. Using this method increased his defenses at the cost of any offensive action because he was holding the shield in one hand and casting with the other. The ice spears Wuunferth cast were deflected, breaking training dummies and knocking over hay bales.
"Up for one last attack, Tariq?" Wuunferth shouted.
"Will you try an ice storm?" Tariq shouted back.
"No. Turn around. Your attack comes from there, Dragonborn."
"Dragonborn." That was a warning. Tariq turned his head faster than his shield, saw Jarl Ulfric, and dropped to a crouch while shouting FEIM as the Jarl's FUS RO DAH came at him — and swept harmlessly through him.
He sprinted forward, ignoring the thrusting spears of the bodyguards and skidding to a halt with shield raised to strike, and just posed there as he materialized. The jarl's eyes blazed with the realization that Tariq could have easily killed him despite all the guards around him.
As helpless as the High King in his throne room.
Tariq let himself be taken down. Ulfric roared, "Release him!" before serious injury was done.
Once Tariq got up, he made an exaggerated sweeping bow, holding his shield away from his body.
"Well met, noble lord. Gods look favorably upon our meeting today," he said with a crooked grin.
"Dragonborn. An honor," replied Ulfric with an equally hard smile. "An excellent counter to my attack."
"I have been collecting a few useful words," admitted Tariq. "An obligation put upon me by the holy men of High Hrothgar. I resented it at first, I admit, but I have come to appreciate the challenge."
"To save the world from the End Times."
"Bah. Nothing can save the world if it is time for Satakal to shed his scales. The challenge I have accepted is to grow my power and skills to cut down the king of your flying lizards. Nothing more."
"That 'flying lizard' is a god. You would do well to respect that."
"Did I not acknowledge him as a king?" Tariq tossed his borrowed shield to the nearest guard. As he faced the Jarl, he kept his demeanor bland and respectful. He recalled his exploration of Arkngthamz and Aicantar's explanation of Ulfric as a Thalmor asset gone rogue. His Blades followers in Markarth had stolen reports from the Thalmor detailing activities of assets throughout Skyrim. Ulfric, son of Jarl Hoag of Windhelm, had not been fully tamable even after the initial breaking of his fighting spirit. They could redirect his anger to other targets to a certain degree, but circumstances had to be just right before letting him loose to rampage.
"The information we obtained from you betrayed your comrades in the Imperial City and was instrumental in our victory there," the Thalmor told him. They led him to believe he had failed his emperor and his homeland, but they allowed him to keep his faith in his god, Talos. Allowed him to believe nothing they could do could shake his faith.
Then he was allowed to go free and witness from the sidelines as the combined might of Skyrim and the remaining Legion took back the Imperial City. He then witnessed Emperor Mede cravenly sue for peace with the Dominion, sacrificing the name and god that had founded the Empire.
The Dominion wanted to erase Talos. Ulfric knew then he had a duty to defy the Dominion. He had a duty to defend Talos.
And his homeland, Skyrim — even Skyrim was complying and turning their backs on Talos.
All except one Jarl. The Jarl of Markarth had lost his city to the local savages. The Jarl of Markarth promised his reclaimed city would be a sanctuary for Talos worshipers. And so Ulfric had gathered his followers to aid the Jarl to retake The Reach.
Shortly after, he was betrayed into Imperial hands and accused of endangering the peace with the Dominion. While imprisoned, his father died. Only by the petitions of the noble families of Windhelm was he released and allowed to take his father's place. Because the armies from Eastmarch had served so well during the War, the Empire overlooked the young prince's savagery in retaking The Reach.
That was the simplified tale.
And important detail was the Dominion Justiciar that had succeeded in breaking Ulfric was Elenwen, the Dominion Ambassador stationed in Solitude. The Dominion plan to foment discord and bloodshed in Skyrim was successful.
Tariq had seen the ancient poem predicting this conflict and the return of the dragons. He wondered if Ulfric was aware of this poem and cognizant of its significance.
"Of course, I know of that prophecy," admitted Ulfric later during dinner. It was a private dinner in the war room adjacent to the grand hall. General Galmar, propped against a room corner, glowered at Tariq. Dinner was spit-roasted goat, winter vegetables, and ale. The palace cooks tried to use other spices beyond salt, but it was still too salty.
"By those words did I know the war in Skyrim was as inevitable as the fall of the Empire with Emperor Uriel Septim's death. Whether this was a Dominion plan or not is of no matter. This war was meant to happen," Ulfric casually stated. "It was prophesied. The return of the dragons, the inevitable division, and the battle for the future. It is a sign of an end to this era. If given the choice, I would rather be ruled by dragons than elves." The soft laugh he gave was chilling. "Let the new dragon emperor be a dragon if Skyrim falls. Let Skyrim's pyre warm the egg of the next kalpa. Alduin is the final dragon emperor the Dominion cannot topple with their schemes. He will burn the world before letting them have it."
Tariq reached for the Cyrodilic brandy. Ulfric got to it first and gestured for Tariq to hold up his cup. As he poured, he said, "I have heard you have no desire to pursue the Imperial crown should you win the battle with Alduin. And I have heard you declare often to those who ask that your religion obliges you to 'step aside' once your task is complete. Is this so?"
Tariq nodded. "That is so. The forefathers of my sire's line have long been priests of HoonDing, the Make-Way god. This is the god that steps forth when our people are in dire need of salvation. He chooses his weapon, battles to clear the path forward, and then lays down his weapon to await a future need. I do not fully understand the agreements between gods, yet it seems I have been chosen to deal with a threat that could darken the skies of my own homeland if not stopped here." Tariq suddenly grinned and shrugged. "Or I could be suffering from an ego filled with foreign nonsense to make me believe I have a grand destiny before me, a chosen pawn in a game my mind is too naive to comprehend."
The jarl's eyes darkened. "The game of gods is no different than the game of mortals — domination."
"That is your understanding of your gods," Tariq replied neutrally. "Mine says, 'I'll help because I feel sympathy for you little grubs. But after that, you're on your own.' He does not pretend to understand our little lives. Only we can understand each other if we choose. We are little fish in a pond. And if, by no fault of our own, our pond is cut off from its source and all the fish will die, he may feel pity and clear the rocks that block the way to give us a chance to survive. A chance, mind you, with no guarantee. And if we fish fight, crowd each other out, or even eat each other, that is no business of his.
"And so, perhaps I can help the world against dragons. However, that does not mean I must sacrifice the rest of my life to an empire of obligations. I refuse that responsibility."
Ulfric smiled slightly. "I see. Yes, taking on a collapsing empire is not an easy choice, or even worthwhile a task. Sometimes, the best choice is to let die what is dying and rebuild anew somewhere else while the scavengers pick over the corpse. But we are talking about a very large corpse, and the scavengers may carry the rot well beyond the site of death. One must drive out the disease carriers."
Tariq sighed and decided something more than ale was needed to wash away the taste of over-salted goat. The best he could find on the table was the dessert of baked apples dribbled with honey. But even that began to taste bitter as Ulfric crooned on, singing a doom with a deep velvet voice.
"But are you saving the world only for the Dominion to take? You may not want to be emperor, but surely you can see the Dominion turning upon Hammerfell when they succeed in toppling the Medes. And should they take Skyrim despite my best efforts…
"How will the HoonDing save Hammerfell then? Your people held off the Dominion with the aid of deserters of the Legion. The Invalids. Imperial strategists and Nord fighters. Without them, Hammerfell would have fallen. But it is no victory, only a reprieve. And are your people also as troubled as we are in Skyrim? From all I have heard — and I do know Eastmarch people among the Invalids — your people are as divided as we are. Crowns versus the Forbears.
"To me, your god sounds like the kind that acts early to tip the scales of destiny to his will while the measuring is in motion. Tell me, will he act if the balance has been lost? Dragonborn, how will you save your homeland and your people then? Perhaps the HoonDing will not interfere with that. Slavery, I suppose, is a form of survival. Feel free to tell me differently as you know your god."
The jarl looked to be actually curious. However, it was the amused detachment from one who knew he would be long dead should the future he envisioned come to pass.
"Killing dragons, learning dragon words, and sword mastery are my concerns right now," answered Tariq. "And I have hunted Dominion agents in the past and likely will do so again. But I assure you, though I am a thane of Markarth, Whiterun, and Hjaalmarch, this by no means implies that I am against your cause. I cannot agree with a civil war, but that is the affair of Skyrim. As you say, Hammerfell has its own civil war. Ours is a class warfare of ancient Yokudan nobility against the self-made nobility of the first colonial wave."
"Does this mean there is a chance to persuade you to our side?" asked the jarl.
"I think not," said Tariq. "In Markarth, I was persuaded by a friend there that owning property would be advantageous. But to own property, I had to be a noble of that city, and thane was the easiest and quickest position to obtain. All I needed to do was find the jarl's lost property, clear out a den of cannibals, and investigate the disappearance of explorers in a Dwemer ruin, and the title and property were mine. In Whiterun, the jarl gave it to me for distracting a dragon. In Hjaalmarch, it was for clearing a den of vampires. This has all been mutual convenience, not political motivation, and no stormcloaks or legionnaires were involved. I will not allow my name to be used for any political battle. Although I am no longer with the Companions, I share their stance of neutrality. Do you understand?"
"You were at Korvanjund," said the jarl.
"Yes, I was there. How does this signify?"
"You gave the Jagged Crown to the Legion," snarled Galmar, speaking at last.
"Oh, yes. That ugly thing of bone and teeth," said Tariq, shrugging. "I gave nothing to them. Legate Rikke picked that thing from the deathlord's corpse while I studied the word wall. Quite a useful shout I gained there," Tariq reminisced with a faint smile. "It was part of a shout to slow time," he told the jarl. "I'm surprised you want that crown. Did not the last jarl who wore it spit in the face of his own heritage — your heritage — by renouncing all the gods of Atmora for the One-God religion of a monkey prophet?
"But, Korvanjund. Your stormcloaks were there when I first visited. I was refused entrance despite telling them I was the Dragonborn and a Companion. When I returned later, your people had lost their battles with the draugr. I was with another Companion then. We were debating if giving aid would be wise. Before we could decide, the Legion showed up. The legionnaires let me come with them even though I told them I refused to fight any stormcloaks that might still survive within. The only battles I took part in were with the draugr, who cared nothing for the politics of any living invader."
The evening discussion didn't improve much beyond that. Eventually, the jarl called it a night. Despite the lateness of the hour, Tariq wasn't offered a room in the palace. He hadn't come with either Lydia or Valdimar. Galmar and Ulfric were aware of that, yet no courtesy escort was provided, not even to the front doors of the palace. The guard that followed him to the toilet and then to the main hall, making sure he didn't stray into other parts of the palace, didn't qualify as an escort.
"Tariq, a moment." Wuunferth briskly caught up to him and pushed a tied-up roll of papers at him. "Information on Forelhost. It was a fortress of the Dragon Cult led by Dragon Priest Rahgot. That faction was defeated in the 140th year of the First Era. A mass suicide by poison. No doubt that place is stuffed with angry spirits and guardians. The maps included were made by Snow-Strider, the commander of the siege forces."
"Ah, very helpful. Thank you, Master Wuunferth."
"Hm, the dragon mask. If you find it, I would like the chance to examine it, if I may. The write-ups Farengar sends to Winterhold of the five masks you've acquired are interesting."
"I have no problem with this. If Rahgot's mask can be found, you may study it."
Wuunferth, at least, walked him to the front doors of the palace. Seeing that Tariq had not thought to bring his own escort, he ordered the officer on duty to assign an escort. Tariq appreciated that. He hadn't come to the palace in full armor, not for magic lessons, much less the impromptu supper with Ulfric. He was tired and had too much to drink, so he wasn't up for late-night fights with robbers.
Shouting from the market area. Tariq and his escort rushed over. A ring of guards watched three women kicking a man on the ground. Tariq caught one just as she was about to jump with both feet on the man's shoulders.
"Rodina, what—?"
"A damn necromancer wanting my liver," snarled Rodina. "You!" she shouted at the man on the ground. "Planning to cut my liver out like you cut the lungs out of the last girl and leave me in the graveyard?"
Tariq pulled her away to stop her from stomping the man's skull in.
He looked at the woman who was leaning on the broomstick planted in the small of the man's back. "Iddy—" he said, using her mother's nickname for her, "—is this one of your visions?"
"Yes," Idgrod answered. "We decided to amuse ourselves this morning and visited this one's museum. Had one hell of a waking nightmare in there. This fool is trying to resurrect his dead sister and has been collecting parts of young women." She pointed overhead. "Mannimarco's moon, The Revenant, will block Arkay's light in this part of the world in a few days."
Tariq bared his teeth in disgust at the mention of the founder of the foul Black Worm Cult, the necromancer who would be god.
Idgrod bent down and snatched the amulet around the man's neck. He choked and cried out as she ruthlessly pulled it off him, not caring that the leather thong ripped the skin of his neck before it snapped. She showed the amulet to Tariq. A jade skull set on an oval silver plate. "Here, you take it. Maybe you can seal it in Labyrinthian."
"Possibly. But we are not returning to Hjaalmarch for some time yet. I'll place this in Wuunferth's care. I believe he can be trusted to safeguard it until then."
The guards pulled the man up and hustled him away. Lydia volunteered to accompany the guards back to the palace to make an official statement. Rodina fled with Idgrod away from the area. No sense in putting the daughter of the Jarl of Hjaalmarch in the clutches of the Jarl of Windhelm. Tariq sighed and returned to the palace, determined to shove this responsibility into Wuunferth's hands.
The old mage wasn't happy to be rousted out of bed, even less to be handed the accursed artifact. But when Tariq passed along Idgrod's certainty of the Necromancer's Moon, Wuunferth's interest was peaked, and he spent some minutes making astronomical calculations to confirm the event. "I doubt an amateur like Calixto could've succeeded in resurrecting his sister even using Mannimarco's amulet on the night of the Necromancer's Moon," he said. "It may animate the pitiful obscenity he'd sewn together for a few hours, but it would take more magic than he has to force a soul to live in. Your companion who sensed his intent—"
"She has some talent," Tariq asserted, trying to steer attention away from her. "A minor witch I picked up in Hjaalmarch. She has some experience with vampires and other undead, and Hjaalmarch, like Falkreath, has been experiencing an increase in foreign necromancers and witchfolk. Even Calcelmo in Markarth has warned me of increased draugr activity. No doubt related to the returning dragons. And I've been coming across an unusual number of vampires, which reminds me. Have you heard of the 'Dawnguard' faction in The Rift?"
"Yes, I've heard of them. 'The growing vampire menace,' they like to say," said Wuunferth. "I can't deny there have been increasing reports of vampires attacking outlying farms and patrols. And we've heard about the vampire pretending to be a Cyrod diplomat and getting into Dragonsreach to meet with Balgruuf."
"Yes, yes, very alarming," said Tariq. "Now about that amulet, will you—"
"Yes, I'll hold onto it until the time of the Necromancer's Moon has passed, then I'll probably bring it to Winterhold and let Urag lock it away. But here's the thing about that artifact — it travels. Like some of the most powerful artifacts, it can't be held in one place or by one owner for long. They disappear and reappear at random."
"I am aware," said Tariq. "But I doubt it will vanish in the immediate future so I trust you will keep it safely hidden away."
"Oh, you can be sure of that. Now, if there's nothing else, I'm going back to bed. Goodnight, my lord. Be sure to come back tomorrow, you or those young ladies, to claim the bounty on that murderer."