Chapter 13
[I'm back. Sorry for taking so long with this. Life got in the way again. I'm going to make an effort to complete this one before the year is out. Thanks for following me. - AN]
"I'm sorry, sweetheart," Tamsyn told her daughter. "I wish I could be of more help, but I've never seen these before, or heard about anything like them."
"It's alright, Mom," Julia assured her, swallowing her disappointment.
The necklace she'd found in Helgen, and the ring she'd found at White River Watch lay on the table between them. Julia could feel the magic radiating off both pieces, but beyond a cursory Detect spell to identify the Schools of Magic on each, nothing more specific could be learned. The amulet was made of gold, set with a strange green stone that looked like jade, but was fractured across its face. In spite of this, the stone was intact, and the magic was still strong. The ring was made of a cabochon amethyst, in a thick setting of elaborately carved electrum.
"You may find someone, someday, who can tell you more," Tamsyn sighed with a curious look in her eye. "And it wouldn't hurt to do some research on your own, to see what you can learn."
Julia scrunched up her nose. "I'm not a big fan of research, Mom," she snorted. "I leave that sort of thing for Tavian. He loves that kind of stuff."
"You're just too used to having things come easily to you," her mother teased. "For now, put them away somewhere safe. You can use one of the lockboxes in the attic, if you want."
"That'll work for now," Julia nodded and headed upstairs to put the jewelry away.
The lockboxes were in a special room that Julia's father and mother had built into Heljarchen several years ago, when she was still just a baby. In their travels across Skyrim and beyond, the Dragonborn and the Arch-Mage had come into possession of many artifacts and curiosities, some of them almost legendary. The most powerful artifacts were kept at the College of Winterhold under lock and key in a secret room adjacent to the Arch-Mage quarters. Julia only knew about it because Tavian and Aethir, the son of Master Wizard Enthir, had found a way to sneak into it. They'd been caught, of course, by Enthir himself, and were summarily removed, but her brother had told her of the wonders he'd seen in that brief trip.
The room at Heljarchen wasn't nearly as grand. It was dimly lit, and crowded under the angled rooftops of the Hall. Her father often had to crouch when he came up here, which wasn't often. Dust lay everywhere, since no one bothered to come up here to clean. But the safes, chests and lockboxes were where the Dragonborn and the Arch-Mage kept items too powerful or too valuable to be passed along or sold off to the general public. Julia had been with her mother once in Solitude, when she'd sold off some things she'd acquired during her years of adventuring.
"I'm sorry, Lady Tamsyn," Sayma told her sadly. "I can pay you well for everything except the robe. It's worth more than I can afford, and you're too good a customer to attempt to cheat you like that. Maybe Endarie, next door, can help you with that?"
Tamsyn had smiled ruefully. "I already checked with Endarie. She told me it was out of her range, as well." The Breton woman sighed and smiled sadly. "Well, it's too outdated and too ugly for me to want to wear it publicly. Perhaps I'll just hold onto it for now. Who knows? Maybe someday it can go into a museum?"
Both women had chuckled, while Julia shook her head, not understanding.
She understood a little better now. Most of the things here were either things her parents weren't able to sell off, or things which should not be allowed to fall into the wrong hands. Her eyes fell upon a bow, hung on the wall nearby. It wasn't hard to miss; ancient Nord in design, it glowed an eerie transparent blue, seemingly there and not there at once. Julia could feel the magic that pulsed from it, seeking to drain her own magicka, and she edged further away. Her father had found the bow in a place called Labyrinthian, early in his travels in Skyrim, and had hung onto to it for its unique appearance, though he'd never used it. Her mother didn't like it on display downstairs for the same reason as Julia.
"I feel like it wants to feed off me," she'd complained, so her father had moved it up here.
Moving across the room now, Julia found an empty lockbox with a broken hasp and tucked the amulet and ring into it, knowing she'd be able to find it again if she needed to. Giving another shuddering glance at the bow, glowing in its dim corner, she hurried back downstairs, breathing a sigh of relief.
As she returned downstairs and threw herself into helping prepare the evening meal – her mother had insisted from the time she was old enough that everyone pitched in at Heljarchen – she wondered once more what might happen to all those artifacts when the inevitable happened and her parents were no longer around.
They'll probably have to go to Winterhold, she thought, and get locked away with the other things Mom and Dad have kept there. It seemed a shame, though, to keep artifacts like those she'd heard about hidden away from the general public who might want to learn about their unique histories. But it wasn't her call, she decided as helped Kirsten chop vegetables for the stew pot. Maybe someday it might be, but not today.
Her father came in with Gregor and Korst, their arms loaded with split logs for the various fireplaces around the Hall. Most of the rooms in the east wing were closed, as they had no guests staying at the moment, but Julia, her mother and father all lived in the west wing, and it was there her father headed, while Gregor took his load to the main Hall and Korst stoked the kitchen fire.
"Gonna snow again," he said shortly as he stacked the logs neatly in the bin near the hearth.
"You always know when the weather's about to change," Kirsten smiled fondly at her brother. A few minutes older than her twin, Kirsten was very protective of him. She once threated a boy twice her size with immediate un-manning for suggesting her brother was 'slow'.
It was true that book learning came hard to Korst, and truer still that he often had trouble expressing himself. He tended to shy away from crowds, hanging out in the stable with the horses when guests came, preferring their simple companionship. But his hunting skills were unquestionable, and he fought with the fury of a god when the farm was threatened by beasts or giants – though the last category was rather uncommon.
Korst shrugged now. "What's true is true," he said. "Snow before nightfall." He stood, dusted his hands off and smiled at Julia, tugging on the front part of his hair as if tipping a hat. "Afternoon, Miss Julia." He leaned over to kiss his mother's cheek as she braised the meat for the stew before heading outside once more. Lydia smiled after her son, but worry creased her brow. Kirsten saw the look.
"Mama, I told you not to worry about him."
"I know, dear," the Steward replied, directing her attention back to the meal she was preparing. "I just can't help it."
"Is something wrong with Korst?" Julia asked, suddenly concerned. "He's not sick, is he?"
"Korst?" Kirsten barked a laugh. "He's as healthy as an ox!" She chuckled fondly. "No, Mama's just worried about what might happen to him when she and Papa aren't around any longer."
"It's a legitimate concern!" Lydia replied defensively.
"And I told you that I will look after him," Kirsten assured her.
"You might someday get married and leave," Lydia reasoned, but her daughter stubbornly shook her head.
"Even if I got married, I'm not leaving Heljarchen," the Nord girl said staunchly. "This is my home. And any man I marry has to accept Korst as part of the deal."
"That's going to cull the herd," Lydia snorted.
"Then I'll know who's not worth it," her daughter retorted smartly, and Lydia chuckled.
"You are your mother's daughter," she smiled fondly, turning back to the meat.
Julia shared a grin with the girl she'd known practically all her life. Like Tavian, she sometimes forgot they were supposed to have very different stations in life. She was the daughter of the landowner, the Dragonborn; Kirsten was the daughter of the Steward, and thus was not supposed to have the social standing Julia enjoyed. When guests came to visit, Kirsten waited on them; if the guests were women, she was called upon to act as a lady's maid. Julia's only responsibility was to be charming company when it was required, and to absent herself when it wasn't.
But Kirsten's words made her wonder: what would happen to Heljarchen Hall – and all the other homes her parents owned – when they were no longer around to need them?
She mulled it around in her mind for the rest of the afternoon, and was so quiet at dinner, thinking about it, that her mother asked if she was alright.
"I'm fine, Mom," she said a little too brightly. "I just had a few things on my mind."
"'Many hands make light work,'" her mother quoted. "Maybe if you tell us what's troubling you, your father and I can help you sort it out."
"It's nothing, Mom, really," she insisted, knowing as she did so that her mother knew she was lying.
But Tamsyn said nothing. She merely nodded and replied softly, "If you're sure…"
"After supper," Julia relented. She didn't want to say anything in front of Lydia, Gregor and the twins.
Her mother nodded again as her father launched into a discussion with Gregor about the possibility of getting a mule to work the turnstile of the mill, freeing the menfolk up for other tasks around the farm. Tending to the mule, and keeping it working the mill, was a task both men felt sure Korst could handle.
After supper, the Dragonborn, the Arch-Mage and their family – if any were home – usually retired to the study to read or talk quietly among themselves. Julia missed the presence of Barbas, the Daedric dog that had been a large part of her childhood. Formerly partner to Clavicus Vile, the Daedric Prince of Wishes, the two had had a falling out before Julia had been born. After doing an errand for the Prince to retrieve a magical axe, he had ordered Marcus to use it to kill Barbas, which the Dragonborn had refused to do. Instead, he had turned the tables on Vile and had kept the axe and the dog, who had attached himself to Julia's sister Lucia.
Lucia was now a full-fledged bard plying her trade down in Cyrodiil, but she occasionally came home to visit, and when she did, Barbas was usually with her. He had promised to stay with the Imperial girl until she passed from Nirn, at which time he intended to return to Vile and hope that the Prince had learned his lesson about welching out on the deals he made with mortals.
"So, dear," her mother began. "Are you ready to talk about what's kept you uncharacteristically quiet all evening?"
Julia hesitated. Where to start?
"Part of me wants to," she said slowly, "but I'm not really sure how to approach the subject."
"What's the subject?" Marcus asked, his quiet support going a long way to ease her nerves.
Julia blew out a breath in a manner so like her father's she didn't even realize she'd done it. "I'm wondering what will happen to Heljarchen when you're both gone," she said in a rush, then squeezed her eyes shut to wait for the indignant exclamations of denial. But there was only silence. She opened one eye to see her parents looking at her with guarded expressions.
"Are you concerned for yourself, sweetheart?" her father asked gently.
"No," Julia admitted. "Not really. But I couldn't help but wonder. You have houses all over Skyrim. We don't even really live in most of them, most of the time. What will happen to the Housecarls who take care of the places when we're not there? What would happen to Lydia and Gregor and the twins here if…if…" She didn't want to finish the sentence.
Both her parents nodded.
"It's a legitimate concern," her mother said, unconsciously echoing Lydia's words from earlier in the day. "And I can understand how that might make you feel anxious about what might happen to you."
"I'm not worried about me," Julia insisted again. "But I am worried for the others. For Kirsten and Korst, for Tavian and Sofie—"
"You don't need to be concerned for them," Marcus assured her. "Your mother and I have provided for all of them in our Wills."
"Wills?" Julia echoed. "What's a Will?"
Tamsyn smiled, though there was tiredness in her eyes that Julia didn't miss. "It's a document that tells the Executor of our Estate how to disperse our money and property after we're gone."
"You and Tavian will get Heljarchen," her father added. "If one of you decides they won't be living here that much, the other can buy them out. Sofie and Erik will get Breezehome, unless they decide they'd rather have Hjerim. Sofie's talked about moving back to Windhelm for years. Lucia will get Proudspire, and Blaise already has Honeyside."
"What about Lakeview Manor?" Julia asked. "I know you don't spend much time there, but—"
"Lakeview will probably get sold off," Tamsyn supplied. "And Rayya will be given a generous stipend to live on for the rest of her life. The same for Argis and Calder, if they choose not to remain as Housecarls at Breezehome and Hjerim."
"You're forgetting Windstad, dear," Marcus reminded her. "It's really just a plot of land right now. We never did build on it, but I still pay taxes on the land. Jarl Idgrod the Elder gave it to me as a reward for services. I even have a Housecarl at Highmoon Hall who receives wages for going up there and patrolling the land from time to time, to make sure bandits don't take over the area. He's Gregor's twin brother Valdimar."
"You're right," Tamsyn remarked absently. "I did forget about poor Valdimar!"
"So, you can see," Marcus continued, smiling, "you don't need to worry about the future, sweetheart. Everyone will be taken care of."
"Does that ease your mind at all?" Tamsyn asked, a little of the old twinkle back in her eyes.
Reassured, Julia relaxed. "Yes, it does, Mom. Thanks, Dad!" And she hugged them both in turn.
The days drifted one into the other, and before long winter had reclaimed the northern reaches of Skyrim. Snow drifted high around Heljarchen, and both Gregor and Korst spent a good deal of time shoveling it away from the paths to the stable and mill house. The entire estate settled into a quiet, lazy rhythm of routine that only served to stir the restlessness in Julia. She wandered from room to room, missing her brother and the fun they used to have.
Tavian was required by the Legion to write home regularly, to keep his family informed of his progress, his activities, and his general well-being. How much or how little he wrote was entirely up to him, but the letters he sent were bright spots in the dull, grey-white of winter that encased Heljarchen.
Marcus was delighted to read of his son's promotion to Auxiliary, and Tamsyn smiled upon learning that Roald had finally settled down and was making a concerted effort to become a good Prefect. Julia just liked reading the letters in general, feeling a bit closer to her brother with the scraps of parchment to which he had put his pen.
But the letters only came every now and then, and there was still the long intervals in between, when Tavian was too busy to write. Desperate for something to occupy her time, Julia turned to her parents' extensive library to attempt to research the ring and amulet she'd found the previous year. Having retrieved them from the attic strongbox, she examined them now in the full light of a sunny winter morning.
She could feel the magic radiating from them. The ring gleamed silvery in the light, standing out starkly against the darker enameling recesses of the carvings. The amethyst in its center was the deepest purple Julia could remember seeing, smoothly polished, and in spite of the color it seemed to emanate a kind of welcoming warmth. It was far too large for her slim fingers, but in a moment of whimsy, she put it on anyway.
The sudden clenching of the ring around her finger made her gasp, as it very obviously shrank itself to fit. It wasn't uncomfortable, and she pulled at it immediately in an effort to remove it. It came off easily and sat in her hand, unchanging.
"That's really odd," she murmured.
"What's odd, honey?" came her father's voice, as Marcus paused by the door, on his way outside.
"This ring I found," Julia said. "It was too big for my hand, but now it fits perfectly."
"May I see it?" he asked. She handed it over as he came into the room, and he turned it this way and that in the light from the window. "I don't recognize the designs," he remarked, his brow furrowing. "Certain civilizations throughout history would have developed distinctive styles, like Akaviri, Dwarven, Elven or Resdayne. This doesn't seem to fit any of those, but there are others styles I'm not as familiar with. This could be one of them." He attempted to slide the ring on his smallest finger, and it went on easily, expanding to fit the width. Marcus blinked in surprise. "Well, now, that's unusual!"
"That's what I thought!" Julie nodded, intrigued. "It was bigger than that when I tried it on."
"So, it adapts to the hand of the wearer," her father mused, tugging at the ring. Again, it came off easily, but remained the same size until Julia put it back on her hand, whereupon it shrank once more.
"What could that mean?" she wondered.
Marcus stroked the beard on his chin. "I'm not as conversant as your mother," he ventured, "but at a guess, I'd say that was built into the enchantment, so it would fit any hand that wore it."
"That still doesn't help me figure out if it has any kind of historical connection," Julia pointed out.
"No," her father agreed, "but I didn't sense any kind of malevolent magic at work, or Daedric influence." Julia knew her father had had past dealings with the Daedra. "Still, if the style appeals to you, why not just wear it? Sometimes, an enchanted item may show its powers in subtle ways, that you'll only figure out by having it in your possession."
His daughter nodded. "Maybe someone will see it, and know what it is, too," she reasoned.
"Maybe," Marcus agreed, equably. "But I wouldn't bet the farm on that. Most people don't have much contact with items of a magical nature. Our family is a bit different from most." He grinned. "And that's not a bad thing!" Chuckling, he gave her a hug and headed out the door.
Julia snorted her mirth and went back to her book. It was a dull, dry history about the founding of Windhelm, and the various ruins in the area.
"The founding of the great city of Windhelm dates back to the Merethic Era," she read. "Some believe it to be the oldest human settlement in Skyrim still standing, though the ruins of Saarthal, in Winterhold, predate Windhelm, going as far back as the first coming of men to Tamriel from Atmora in pre-recorded times. It is the capital city of Eastmarch Hold, and was said to have been founded by Ysgramor himself. The tomb of his son, Yngol, lies along the Yorgrim Estuary, east of the city."
Julia yawned. She was certain the events described in the book had been far more exciting while they were happening, but reading about them centuries later, distilled down to a collection of names, dates and places, made her want to toss the book into the fireplace. She didn't. She knew that mistreatment of books was a crime punishable by hard labor – at least as far as her parents were concerned. The only reason she had picked the book up in the first place was to see if there would be any mention of unique jewelry owned by famous people. So far, the origins of her two finds was still a mystery, and likely to remain so.
"On the 13th of Sun's Dawn, the Nords of Windhelm celebrate the Feast of the Dead. It is in honor of Ysgramor's formation of the Five Hundred Companions and the Atmorans' retaliation against the Snow Elves for the Night of Tears. Each member of the Five Hundred Companions has their name recited during the Feast."
Julia sat up a little straighter and re-read the paragraph. The 13th of Sun's Dawn, she knew, was a particularly venerated holiday in Windhelm, having spent time there as a child. Something lurked in the back of her mind, and she closed her eyes to coax it forward.
The bonfire…effigies of elves on fire…the crowd cheering, but they were all human. The elves – Bosmer, Dunmer and Altmer – especially the Altmer – stayed off the streets for the days leading up to and after the celebration. A man reading the names…a deep, stentorian voice…he was old…tall and thin, with long white hair…exhorting the crowd to remember what the elves had done to them…
Julia's eyes snapped open. It was him! The man she had seen in Simon's mind, the thug who had been extorting Ambarys Rendar in the Cornerclub. Frowning, she struggled to remember the details, but they escaped her. She couldn't be completely certain it was the same person, since neither Simon's memory, nor her own could bring his face more clearly to mind. But something in her gut told her it was the same man.
Julia half-rose from her chair, tempted to go after her father and tell him what she had remembered. But she sank back down again. No. She really had nothing more than supposition at this point. She knew her father would ask for proof, and she didn't have it.
Yet, she vowed to herself. I'll find it, somehow.
Putting her research into her artifacts aside for now, Julia settled herself again with the book, this time poring over every detail of the history of interactions between men and elves in Windhelm. She'd start there and expand to the other Holds when she felt she'd learned all she could. Somewhere along the way, she hoped, she might just stumble across a reference to whomever it was who once led the Sun's Dawn festival in Windhelm, almost twenty years ago.
Winter in Cyrodiil was much milder than it was in Skyrim, Tavian had discovered soon after his arrival in the Province. It tended to rain more than snow, except in the northern parts of Chorral, Cheydinhall and Bruma, and in any part of the Province that achieved significant altitude, such as the Colovian Highlands. The Games would be held regardless of the weather.
It was at roll call, a week after their written tests, that Tavian and his friends learned the nature of the military games in which they were to participate.
"Cadets will participate within their contubernium," Legate Ostorius announced, after ordering them all to stand at ease. "We have ten contubernia in total; half will be assigned to the Red Team, the other half to the Blue Team. The lists will be posted this afternoon to tell you which team you'll be on. There are three games in total, and they will be scored on the abilities you have learned in this past year. Because several recruits couldn't make the grade, we will be recombining the contubernia to bring them up to full force. I would advise you to look upon this as an opportunity to get to know the rest of your fellow soldiers better, rather than view it as any kind of punishment. It is not."
Startled, the cadets looked around at each other. Tavian and Josef raised worried eyebrows together. Their contubernium only contained himself, Josef, Eva, Dorian, and Roald. They were short three people. And he knew other groups had also lost members. On his other side, Roald was clearly not happy. He had made an extreme effort in the past few months to get along better with Tavian and the others, and now there was a risk of being separated? For her part, Eva's face remained impassive, and only the muscle that twitched in her jaw gave any indication of her distress at this announcement.
The Legate paused, and his brown eyes swept the lines of cadets, meeting the eyes of many of them. "The first game will be the Arena, and you will all be given a chance to battle against each other. In order to minimize the possibility of serious injury, battlemages will wear damper-rings, while melee and ranged soldiers will use blunted weapons."
He paused once more to allow the startled mumbles of the new cadets and the excited exclamations of the older ones to die down.
"The second game will be Capture the Flag," the Legate intoned, and the cadets buzzed with approval. This was apparently a favorite among the recruits. "One team will hold their position at a ruined fort that we designate. The other team will attempt to take it from them.
"Your third game will be the Gauntlet," Legate Ostorius continued. This was met with several groans by some of the older cadets. "The Gauntlet," the Legate frowned at them until they subsided, "will test your skills and endurance on the field of battle. You will be taken to a remote location, and must return here within three days. You will have only your skills and abilities to assist you. You will all undergo this test individually, but teamwork will be the key to a successful Gauntlet." He studied the cadets once more.
"This last test may result in possibly serious injuries," he warned them. "Each contubernium will be given a Scroll of Recovery, to be used to return immediately to the Fort if you are injured or otherwise unable to return on your own in the required time. It will transport everyone in your group instantly. However, using it will deduct significant points from your score. Again, teamwork will ensure your safe return. Are there any questions?"
Tavian had a number of questions rolling around in his head, but none of them would sound very soldier-like if he gave voice to them.
"How will we be scored?" he heard one female cadet ask. She was Bosmer, he noted, and wore the lighter version of the Imperial armor.
"Good question!" Legate Ostorius approved. "There are one hundred possible points to earn. Since we have ten contubernia in this Fort, and five groups on each Team, the Team which earns the most points will be the victor."
"What's the prize if we win?" an older, Argonian cadet asked.
"The 'prize' is the honor and prestige of having won," the Legate drawled, eliciting a few chuckles from the Prefects standing nearby. "This isn't a lottery, cadet. You are an Imperial soldier in the Imperial Legion, and if you graduate from this training camp, your duty will be to serve and protect the Empire and the Emperor. And you will do so without expecting compensation."
The Argonian shifted uncomfortably, humiliated by the laughter at his expense.
"That said," Legate Ostorius went on, "the winning team will be given a two-week furlough, while the losing team will be seeing double-duty to make up for the lack of warm bodies around here to do the work."
A few cheers broke out among the excited chatter that followed.
"Now, if there are no further questions," the Legate smiled, "you are all dismissed. Be sure to check the lists this afternoon to see what Team you'll be on. The games will begin the day after tomorrow."
The next few hours dragged on as Tavian and his friends went through their daily routines, waiting for the lists to be posted. At lunch, they clustered together at their usual table, as the other contubernia did, and the only talk going around was how the Teams would be divided.
"I don't think I'd like it, being separated from the rest of you," Josef said morosely. "We finally got to the point where we're all working together."
"I've seen some of the other battlemages," Dorian offered. "For the most part, they're all pretty good, but some of them have attitudes!"
"And you don't?" Eva teased, chuckling at him.
"I wonder if we could request to be assigned together?" Roald mused.
"I doubt it," Tavian replied, shaking his head. "The Legate made it fairly clear that, if we are separated, that that's as much part of the test as any of the rest of it."
"Tavian's right," Eva nodded. "The whole point of these games is twofold: how much have we learned, and can we work together with whomever is in our group?"
"I think I'd work better with people I know and trust," Roald muttered, still not happy.
"Well," Dorian shrugged, "we aren't being given the choice. So if I'm on the other team, just remember that I know you guys, and what you can do."
"Yeah?" Eva shot back. "That works both ways!"
She was right, of course, Tavian knew. As they moved forward in their careers as Legionnaires, they could not be certain of, nor guaranteed, that they would remain together always. They must be prepared to fight together as a unit, and to work together to protect the Empire. He just didn't have to like it.
That afternoon, the lists were posted, and there were simultaneously cries of excited exultation and groans of disappointment among the crowds pressed together to try and get close enough to read the papers nailed to the message boards.
Tavian hung back, not daring to hope for the best – that they would all be in the same team together – but also dreading the worst; that they might be divided into five different contubernia.
Roald stayed with him. "I don't want to know until it's over," he groaned.
By tacit agreement, Josef, Eva, and Dorian also held back, waiting until most of the crowd had dispersed. At length, Eva stepped forward, snorting in contempt at the young men's lack of intestinal fortitude. "One of us has to find out!" she sniffed. They waited while she perused the handful of pages, scanning for their names.
Time seemed to stand still while they waited, scarcely daring to breathe, until Eva nodded and turned back to them, her face unreadable.
"Well?" Josef burst out. "What did it say?"
"Come on, Eva," Dorian whined. "Don't keep us in suspense!"
"If you're that curious, go look for yourself," she snapped. Then in an instant her face cleared and she grinned. "We're all on one team!" she exclaimed, jubilant. "We're on the Blue Team! There are three others that will be joining us."
"Do we know any of them?" Roald asked.
"Well, I know of them," Eva replied. "Though not well."
"I guess that's what these games will assist with," a new voice interjected, and Tavian turned to find an elf, a Nord and a Khajiit standing behind them.
The Nord was a strongly-built young woman with flaxen hair and blue eyes. She had a warhammer slung across her back. "Hilja Stonecliff," she nodded shortly, introducing herself.
"This one is called Za'kir Longtail," the grey-and-black striped cat smiled, showing all his teeth. "My family have long been loyal to the Empire, even during the dark days of Thalmor occupation."
All eyes turned to the elf, who was paler than any they had seen; certainly paler than any Altmer.
"I'm Elleishandra," she said softly. "Elleishandra Vale. I'm pleased to meet all of you, and I look forward to participating in these games with you."
Eva introduced the others, then asked, "What have you three been studying this year?"
Hilja shrugged. "Combat," she said. "What else is there?" Josef grinned admiringly.
"Scouting is this one's area of expertise," Za'kir replied. "Za'kir is working very hard to be unseen, and to study his opponents to learn more about their weaknesses, and how to exploit them."
"That's pretty much what I've been doing," Tavian admitted. "I've just been accepted into the Auxiliary."
"Oh, but that means we will be working together often in the coming year," Za'kir smiled. "This is good! We are a sadly over-worked and under-appreciated branch of the Legion."
"I'm studying to be a battle-mage," Elleishandra said. "My parents didn't really want me to join the Legion, but eventually they agreed that even soldiers need healers. My emphasis is on Restoration."
"Will you be moving into our bunkhouse?" Eva asked.
"Indeed," Za'kir nodded. "This is why we have come over to you, once it was learned we would be joining your contubernium. This one is the only one left of his, as the others have, how do you say it? 'Washed out.'"
"Hilja and I were in one together," Elleishandra informed them, "but as Za'kir said, the others didn't make it this far through basic training."
"Come on, then," Eva invited. "We'll show you where we bunk, and you can get your things moved in. It'll be nice not being the only female in the bunkhouse."
"You don't snore, do you?" Hilja asked as they moved off, and Tavian stifled a laugh behind his hand. Eva did indeed snore, though she would have died rather than admit it.
The new members of the contubernium were quickly settled in, and both sides of the bunkhouse held whispered conversations well into the night after lights-out as they got to know each other. In spite of the fact that the Games would begin in two days, they were much too excited to fall asleep quickly. Tavian had a feeling he'd probably regret that in the morning. He wasn't wrong.
The next day they learned that most of the other Teams had been configured similarly to theirs: four soldiers, two auxiliaries and two battle mages. Eva and Roald, with their sword-and-shield style of fighting balanced Josef and Hilja, who were the two heavy weapon specialists. Dorian and Elleishandra differed in their magical studies, as Dorian preferred combat magic to Elli's healing, though Dorian had certainly spent a great deal of time on all schools, including Restoration. It was now mandatory in the Legion to round out one's arcane repertoire, though it wasn't that long ago that most battle-mages only studied enough healing magic to get by, concentrating on Destruction as their main focus. Za'kir and Tavian, the two auxiliaries, were expected to fill in the gaps wherever needed. Both had received training with a variety of weaponry, but the emphasis had been on ranged and light weapons. After spending some time at the targets with Za'kir, Tavian was forced to reluctantly admit that the Khajiit was much better than he was with a bow.
"This one was born with a bow in his hand," Za'kir shrugged, good-naturedly.
"Wasn't that hard on your mother?" Hilja grinned.
The day before the games began was spent checking over equipment, and making sure everything was in "Legion shape". Surprise inspections were sprung throughout the day, and anyone whose regalia or weapons failed to meet the grade were sent to the smithy to make repairs, if needed, or forced to spend the rest of the afternoon polishing and buffing metal until it gleamed, and oiling and conditioning leather fittings until they were supple.
"I'm a mage," Dorian grumbled as he smeared the compound used for cleaning leather over the front of his tunic. "Why do I even have to bother with armor?"
"Keeps you from dying too soon," Tavian grunted. Somehow his gladius had taken a nasty gouge on the edge, and he was at the grindstone, trying to work it out without losing too much of the blade in the process.
"I've got armor spells!" Dorian protested.
"They don't last as long as real armor," Tavian retorted, sitting up straighter and working a kink out of his shoulders. "It'd be a shame if it quit during an incoming flight of arrows."
Dorian opened his mouth to argue, but shut it again. "I suppose you're right," he mumbled, grabbing the bristle brush to work the compound into the leather. A cascade of giggles made both young men look up to see Eva, Hilja and Elli walk by, heading to the mess hall.
"They didn't have to clean their equipment," Dorian commented sourly.
"Because they always keep them in good repair," Tavian replied, bending back over the grindstone. He was getting a little weary of Dorian's complaining. His irritation made him careless, however, and the blade caught on the nick and slipped out of his hands. He leaped up from the stool as the lethal weapon spun in mid-air towards his midsection. Without thinking, he Shouted.
"FEIM!"
The blade sliced through his incorporeal body and clattered against the stone wall of the smithy. The force with which it hit snapped the blade in two. Tavian felt his body fade back into reality as Dorian leaped to his feet, his armor thudding on the floor.
"Shor's bones, Tavian!" he cried. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine," the Imperial lad said weakly.
"You don't look fine," Dorian worried. "You're as pale as a ghost! Did you get hit?"
"No," Tavian replied, shaking his head. "It never touched me."
"You Shouted, didn't you?" Dorian murmured in wonder. "You Shouted, and then you went all see-through, but just for a moment."
"What's all the commotion in here?" a voice demanded, and the two young men looked up to see the Orc Mastersmith, Kharza gra-Borzog standing in the doorway with her hands on her hips and a scowl on her face.
"Nothing, Master Kharza," Tavian murmured in an unsteady voice. His vision was starting to swim as he realized how close he'd just come to a serious injury that would have prevented him from participating in the games.
For his part, Dorian remained mercifully silent.
Purple eyes narrowed as they took in Tavian, wavering unsteadily on his feet. They widened slightly at the sight of the shattered gladius against the wall.
"You don't look so good, Cadet," Mastersmith Kharza rumbled. "Get over to the infirmary, now. If they say you're good to go, then get to the armory and get a new sword. That one's beyond repair now. This will come out of your pay, understand, soldier?" Tavian nodded dumbly. "And next time, be more careful!"
Scowling again, she turned and left the smithy.
"Want me to go with you, Tavian?" Dorian ventured when the Mastersmith had retreated.
He wanted to say no. He really did. But his legs wouldn't obey him, and he heard himself say, "Thanks, Dorian. I'd appreciate that."
As they made their way across the compound, heads turned in their direction. Tavian didn't notice. It was taking all his concentration to keep one foot moving in front of the other. A million thoughts whirled in his head. He should have paid closer attention to his work, and not be distracted by another. What would have happened if he hadn't Shouted? How would they explain it to his parents? But floating above all that was one thought:
I did it! The first Word of Become Ethereal! I've unlocked it!
That dry, sardonic voice that only occasionally visited him remarked, Yes, well, let's try not to kill ourselves in the quest for knowledge, alright? Before he could formulate a response, the Presence withdrew.
Dorian left him at the infirmary. He had wanted to stay, but the healers shooed him away. "We'll handle it from here, Cadet. You may return to your duties." Giving Tavian an encouraging smile, he headed back to the smithy to continue restoring his armor. He had seen the sidelong looks from the cadets across the compound, but none of them approached him to inquire what happened. For that, Dorian was grateful, as even he wasn't quite sure what had happened. One moment Tavian was there, and the next he wasn't…sort of. And then he was again. Dorian didn't know what "Feim" meant, except that it was probably some kind of Dragonborn Shout. Everyone by now knew who Tavian was, and had even, on very rare occasions, heard him use the thu'um. The significance of this particular occasion was, therefore, lost on him. Giving a mental shrug, he entered the smithy and resumed his task.
Tavian had a difficult time convincing the two healers that he didn't need their assistance, that it was all just a misunderstanding, and that he wasn't feeling light-headed and wobbly-kneed. The older of the two, Master Uldive, was convinced he was suffering from heat prostration, while the younger, Master Quentin, sat back and let the older man take the lead.
In the end, Tavian was forced to lie down for an hour on one of the infirmary cots while Master Uldive fed him a noxious drink that was supposed to "restore lost vigor." He never appreciated his mother's potions more than he did at that moment. Master Quentin remained by his side, placing cold compresses on his head and changing out the cloth frequently.
Finally he was allowed to leave with strict instructions to return the moment he felt light-headed again.
"It'll be a cold day in Oblivion first," Tavian muttered under his breath as he left the infirmary and made his way to the armory.
"What are you here for?" Master Armorer Vaneira demanded.
"I, uh, broke my sword," Tavian admitted.
Master Vaneira rolled her eyes. "You and just about every cadet here," she snorted. "You all seem to think they're made of ebony! There's a limit to the amount of stress a steel sword can take," she lectured. "How did you break it?"
"It slipped from my hands as I was trying to grind a nick out of it," Tavian replied, not looking at her.
"You didn't get hurt, did you?" Vaneira asked, a bit kinder. When Tavian shook his head, she sighed. "Well, go pick one out. Just remember it's coming out of your pay, so choose one you can afford."
Tavian had never been in this room of the armory before, and the number of various weapons hanging on the racks on the walls made him stare in eager wonder. Everything from bows and spears to warhammers and daggers were on display. Most were made of Legion-issue steel. As he moved further back into the room, he could see here and there a selection of weapons made from dwarven metal, elven moonstone, and orcish orichalcum.
His eyes were caught by a longsword of elven make, its curved lines gleaming in tones of gold and opal. The hilt was engraved with vines and leaves, which traced their way up the center of the two-edged blade.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Master Vaneira commented, and Tavian started, as he hadn't heard her come up behind him. "That one dates back to the Third Era, if I'm not mistaken. It was rumored to have belonged to one of the Knights of the Nine, but I have my doubts about that. I don't recall reading that any of them ever used an elven blade."
"Why is it here?" Tavian asked. "Shouldn't it belong in a museum?"
Vaneira chuckled. "Why? Because it's old? Because it might have an interesting history?" She snorted. "A blade is a weapon, cadet, not a piece of art. It's meant to be used. But that one hasn't been used in a long time."
"Why not?" the young Imperial inquired.
"The last owner found a better, stronger weapon to use," Vaneira shrugged. "When he died, it came here."
"Could I…?" Tavian hesitated, but the Master Armorer barked a laugh. She knew what he'd been about to ask.
"I doubt you'd make enough money on a cadet's pay to afford that," she said, not unkindly. "Even if you stayed in the Legion for life to work off that debt. No, it'll likely stay here for the foreseeable future. The upper ranks aren't interested because they have much better weapons."
"I could afford it," Tavian heard himself saying. It was true. He rarely used the pay he earned, but even if that wasn't the case, he had his own personal wealth from home that he'd saved for years.
"Is that so?" Vaneira mused. Her eyes narrowed speculatively. "What's your name, cadet?"
Tavian swallowed. Announcing who he was now would sound like he was bragging. Still, the Master Armorer was waiting, and he couldn't lie to a superior officer.
"Octavian Dovahkiir," he finally said.
To her credit, Master Vaneira said nothing, but merely nodded. After a long moment, she took the elven blade off the wall and held it in her hands, caressing the scabbard with a weathered hand.
"If you buy this," she cautioned, "understand that some here may look upon you with jealousy, believing you're flaunting your wealth. Is that something you're willing to risk?"
Tavian thought about that; it was something he hadn't considered. He wasn't concerned with what most of the other soldiers-in-training here at the Fort would think. But he thought of his friends; of Eva, Josef, Roald and even Dorian. Would they begin to think he was putting on airs? Roald had been to Heljarchen once already. He had seen how the Dragonborn and his family lived: simply, quietly, without calling attention to their station in life. Tavian knew that Josef sent nearly all his money home to his family, to help them with their farm. Could he stand alienating them for the sake of owning a beautiful sword?
He shook his head, as much to deny that possibility as to reply to Master Armorer Vaneira.
"No," he finally said aloud. "It's beautiful, but you're right, Master Vaneira. It's too grand for a common soldier like me. Maybe someday. But not today."
A curious look of approval crept into Vaneira's warm brown eyes. "I think you're making a wise choice, young Dovahkiir." She careful replaced the elven blade in its customary rack and, bustling, turned Tavian back towards the front of the armory. "Come, pick something a bit more sensible from up front here."
A short time later, with a common but sturdy steel longsword strapped to his hip, Tavian returned to the dormitory where his friends gathered before heading to the mess hall for the evening meal. Nothing was mentioned about his use of the thu'um earlier but Tavian thought about it most of the evening, and well into the night after lights-out.
He'd never been able to use that particular rotmulag before, though he knew the translation from dovahzul meant "fade". That was what he'd done: he had faded out of this plane of existence into an in-between world. He'd even seen his father do it on several occasions. And now that he'd done it himself, he knew he'd be able to do it again if he needed to.
This could definitely make the games more interesting, he thought with satisfaction. We're supposed to use every resource at our disposal to win.
Win, yes, that dry voice that was Akatosh said in his mind. But cheat? Is that how you would use the gift I've given you?
Tavian's eyes flew open in the dark. Cheat? Would using the thu'um be considered cheating?
Can anyone else do it? Akatosh inquired with a neutral tone.
No, Tavian had to admit to himself. No one else could Shout. But how would that be considered cheating? he asked.
Because your life would not be in danger, came the reply.
The Prefects warned us the three-day survival challenge might be dangerous, Tavian countered.
Not really, Akatosh said mildly. You will be given a token that will recall you to the Fort if your life is in danger.
Tavian felt the censure in that thought. So I shouldn't use Shouts at all? he ventured.
I would think less of you if you used the power for selfish gain, the God of Time replied before withdrawing.
Tavian scowled into the darkness. It wouldn't be selfish gain, he argued to himself. As a Legion soldier, and especially as an Auxiliary, he was expected to use all the resources at his command to complete his mission. Except this wasn't really a mission, he argued back. It was a game, with no real consequences for failure short of humiliation. And to his knowledge, no one had ever died of that.
He thought back to his father, grateful that the Chief of the Nine had not invoked that person in his argument against Tavian using the thu'um. He had seen his father using Shouts almost from the time he could remember anything. Yet Marcus had only ever used it at need, he recalled. When they fought the Silver Hand recently, his father had only used one Shout, and that was to attempt to save Roald and him from their captors. Even Alesan's death hadn't provoked him into using another thu'um.
Any time his father had called for Odahviing, he had used a Shout to do so, but that had been a long-standing arrangement between dragon and Dragonborn. Time and again, as Tavian lay there, sifting through his memories, the only times his father had ever used the thu'um had been either in defense of himself or another.
"Alright," he whispered to the darkness. "I understand. No Shouts."
There was no reply; his bunkmates were already asleep. But a serene, peaceful feeling – almost one of approval – came over Tavian as he let unconsciousness carry him off to sleep.