Chapter 24 - Markarth
The cart trundled slowly along the path, jolting with every hidden root beneath the frozen earth. The creaking of wheels against hardened ground mingled with the wind's soft whisper through the yellowing oak leaves. A damp chill hung in the air, fresh yet faintly clammy. Aventus Aretino watched the shadows dance between the trees, eyes alert for any suspicious silhouette. To the other side, the surface of Lake Ilinalta stretched in shimmering silver beneath the veiled sun. His breath escaped in pale wisps as his mind replayed Babette's instructions.
"Remember," she had said the night before their departure. "If anyone asks, we're brother and sister, traveling to Markarth to visit our Grandmother. Our father died in the war, and our mother… didn't survive a harsh winter."
Aventus had nodded, whispering the details over and over until the lie became truth in his mind. He knew that even the slightest hesitation might attract attention. Yet, despite his determination, the weight of this new mask settled heavily on his shoulders. His life was now a collection of roles—starting with the mask of a confident assassin rather than a frightened child. But with every new mask, it felt like his true face faded a little more.
The driver—a stout old man with a scraggly beard—kept glancing warily toward the undergrowth. His name was Gunjar, and he knew these roads better than anyone. Aventus had overheard him mumbling several times: "Not alone… better wait…" It hadn't made sense at first, until they reached the crossroads.
There, the forest gave way to a broad clearing where four paths met, forming a crossroads of packed dirt like a star etched into the earth. The trail they'd followed from Falkreath stretched north toward Solitude; to the east, the other road led straight to Whiterun. But their path lay westward, toward the jagged peaks of the Reach—and beyond, Markarth.
Gunjar reined in the horses and climbed down from the driver's seat with a weary grunt.
"We stop here," he announced. "We'll wait for more travelers."
"Why?" Aventus asked, surprised.
"Because that way," the old man said, gesturing toward the distant, barren mountains, "is the Reach. And in the Reach… the Forsworn prowl. When you cross this road, it's safer in numbers."
Babette smirked as she walked away, unimpressed. Aventus, however, did not laugh. He knew what the Forsworn did to their prisoners. The rumors spoke of flayed skin, blood-soaked rituals, and offerings to the hagravens with whom they'd sworn dark pacts.
A makeshift camp was soon assembled near the crossroads. The three other passengers—a portly merchant woman and two miners—huddled around a fire while Babette perched on a rock, engrossed in a parchment she held with both hands. Curious, Aventus crept closer and sat quietly beside her. The quill she wielded moved with practiced ease, leaving elegant strokes in its wake. Peering over her shoulder, he managed to decipher part of the text:
"My young friend,
May this letter find you in good health and in a state of thoughtful reflection. I cannot conceal my growing interest in the grand endeavor you shared with me during our last exchange. I have since taken pleasure in contemplating the implications and promises of your vision.
It occurs to me that such an undertaking must not suffer from mediocrity in its choice of participants. As fate would have it, my path recently crossed that of a young mind whose qualities cannot be ignored. Though tender in age, he demonstrates a sharpness of wit and resilience honed through hardship. Should his youth strike you as an obstacle, I would understand; yet if you were to weigh his merits with the wisdom I know you possess, you might conclude, as I have, that he may serve your cause better than others of more advanced years…"
Aventus furrowed his brow. "My young friend?" He had known Babette for several weeks now and had never seen her write to anyone. He leaned in slightly, trying to catch more of the letter's content, when Babette's hand stilled mid-stroke. Without warning, she turned her head and fixed him with a piercing glare.
"I thought a big boy like you would know that reading someone else's letters is impolite," she said coolly.
Aventus flinched and scrambled back.
"I… I'm sorry."
Babette studied him for a long moment before her smile returned, faint and sharp.
"Curiosity… a natural sign of a healthy mind, I suppose."
She folded the letter neatly, sealed it with a small black wax stamp, and tucked it into an inner pocket of her cloak.
"Is it a secret?" Aventus ventured hesitantly.
"Let's just say it's none of your concern," she replied, rising to her feet.
Aventus watched her walk away, unease curling in his chest. Was she talking about him in that letter? That project, that endeavor—what was it all about? His eyes drifted northward, where the waning sunlight gilded a curious mound a few dozen paces from the crossroads. It wasn't an ordinary hill; its slope was too even, its perimeter ringed by weathered standing stones. Intrigued, Aventus rose and made his way toward it.
Gunjar joined him, pipe dangling from his lips.
"You've got a thoughtful look there, boy," the old man observed.
"That hill… what is it?"
"Ah," Gunjar exhaled a puff of smoke, his gaze fixed on the mound. "Legend says a dragon was slain here during the ancient Dragon War. Its bones are buried beneath that hill."
A shiver ran through Aventus as he imagined the battle—a creature far more monstrous than the one at Riften, unleashing torrents of flame on its foes. He pictured the shouts of the warriors, the deafening roars of the beast, and the ancient Tongues using their Thu'um to bring it down.
"Do you think it's true?" he asked.
Gunjar shrugged. "Could be. Legends tend to stretch the truth, but…" He nodded toward the cracked earth at the mound's base. "On cold mornings, you can see mist seeping from the ground. Like something's still breathing down there."
Aventus swallowed hard. The man was likely trying to spook him with tall tales, but with dragons returning to the skies, the story didn't seem so far-fetched.
"With dragons coming back… maybe it's real," Aventus murmured.
Gunjar let out a grim chuckle. "Yeah. They're back, alright. Helgen got razed by Alduin himself, so they say. And there was talk of another attack on Whiterun… and a third in Riften." He tapped his pipe against his palm. "But we've killed two of 'em so far. There's cause for fear, sure… but if we beat them once, we can do it again. And besides, we've got a Dragonborn now."
Aventus froze.
"A… what?"
"The Dragonborn, lad!" Gunjar's face lit up with the thrill of his own tale. "The Greybeards called to him at the end of summer. He's supposed to be able to kill dragons for good, even devour their very souls. Destined to face Alduin himself, they say. I'd love to see what he looks like."
Aventus's mouth went dry.
"Nobody knows who it is?"
"Not that I've heard. Probably some great, hulking Nord warrior, like the sagas tell."
The boy turned his gaze back to the mound. The thought of some unknown hero destined to defeat the dragons seemed… impossible. But then again, dragons were supposed to be myths too, and here they were—very real, very deadly.
He opened his mouth to ask more when a soft, rhythmic sound interrupted him: footsteps, approaching from the road leading to Whiterun. Aventus turned toward the noise. Silhouetted against the twilight, several figures emerged from the shadows.
His eyes widened.
They were Khajiit.
The leader—a tall, golden-furred feline with dark rosettes dotting his coat—walked with effortless grace. His steps were light, fluid, each movement measured and deliberate. He wore simple clothing, yet exuded an aura of quiet confidence. As he drew closer, he inclined his head politely and spoke in a smooth, melodic voice:
"Greetings, travelers. Ri'saad and his companions seek to share your fire and find safe passage to Markarth. The night grows cold, and these lands are treacherous."
Gunjar's face broke into a wide grin. "Ri'saad, by Shor, you're a sight for sore eyes!"
The Khajiit smiled subtly, revealing sharp canines, then gestured for his companions to join him. Three more emerged from the shadows. One was a female with dark-striped fur, clad in steel armor and carrying a greatsword across her back. She crossed her arms, wary eyes sweeping the camp. Another, with a lighter coat, crouched near the fire and began inspecting her claws with detached indifference. The last was a gray-furred male who strode toward the warmth with brisk steps. His nostrils flared as he sniffed the air.
"This one hopes the fire is as warm as it looks," the gray Khajiit said in a gravelly voice.
Ri'saad raised a paw-like hand in a calming gesture.
"Patience, Ma'randru-Jo. The night is still young, and we have yet to sit."
Aventus watched them with fascination. He'd heard the stories: smugglers, thieves, skooma-peddlers. But these Khajiit looked more weary than wicked. They simply seemed like travelers who'd seen too many roads.
Babette, who had stayed silent thus far, tilted her head as she observed Ri'saad. Intrigued, she moved closer to the fire and asked, her voice childlike and curious:
"Is someone expecting you in the city?"
Ri'saad settled by the flames, stretching his paws toward the warmth with a satisfied sigh.
"Ri'saad and his caravan are always expected… but never welcome."
Gunjar barked a laugh, tapping ash from his pipe.
"They still make you camp outside the walls, eh?"
The Khajiit's eyes gleamed with mild amusement.
"It is no burden. These people love their walls and locked gates. We cherish the open road."
Aventus exhaled softly. The tension melted from his limbs as the fire crackled and the night deepened. The travelers shared a modest meal; Ma'randru-Jo eventually settled beside Babette, watching her with thinly veiled curiosity. The armored Khajiit remained apart, eyes wary, hand resting near her sword. Ri'saad and Gunjar spoke of rumors from across Skyrim—dragons, war, strange cultists in masks.
Aventus sat in silence, eyes flitting between the Khajiits' unfamiliar features. He knew the road ahead was fraught with danger. But in that moment, with warmth on his face and the soft murmur of voices around him, he wasn't just an assassin on a mission. He was a boy, discovering a world far larger than he'd ever imagined.
And as the firelight cast flickering shadows across the weary faces around him, he wondered what it might have been like to live this way: just a traveler, on the road.
oOo
On the evening of their second day of slow but uneventful travel, the walls of Markarth finally emerged from the mist of the mountains. The city appeared as though it had been sculpted directly from the stone, a remnant of a forgotten age spared by the mountain itself. Waterfalls cascaded from sheer cliffs, their thunderous streams weaving between worn flagstones before vanishing into the city's depths.
Aventus straightened in the cart, eyes wide with awe. Everything here seemed unnervingly… rigid. Unlike the wooden beams and sloped roofs of Windhelm or the warm timber of Riften and Whiterun, Markarth's structures were all sharp angles and abrupt lines, as if the stone had been forced into submission by axe and hammer. The architecture held a strange, massive elegance, yet it radiated an oppressive austerity—brutal and unyielding.
"Impressive, isn't it?" murmured Ma'randru-Jo as he helped the boy down from the cart. "These walls do not bend. This city is a fortress… or a prison."
Aventus didn't respond. His eyes followed the bronze-armored guards patrolling atop the walls and the merchants passing beneath the city's massive gates, their figures dwarfed by the mountain's shadow. A shiver ran through him. Even the air here seemed heavier.
Ri'saad appeared beside him, placing a comforting paw on his shoulder.
"Markarth, yes… A city built by the Dwemer, long vanished from this world. Some say the stone here still holds their secrets… and their nightmares."
Babette studied the city with wary eyes. "Let's go," she said at last, and without another word, she slipped into the crowd. Aventus followed her lead, his footsteps echoing faintly against the cold stone.
The narrow streets twisted between stone walls, lined with precarious balconies, endless stairways, and bridges carved directly into the rock. Guards stood watch at nearly every corner, their helmets glinting beneath the pale light. Aventus felt an unsettling pressure around him, as though the stone itself was watching.
"Charming, isn't it?" said Babette with a mocking glint in her eyes. "Markarth—perched atop the bones of dead Dwemer, surrounded by Forsworn briarhearts only slightly less dead, and riddled with scheming little worms far too alive. Still… there's a certain honesty to this place. All this coldness, all this ugliness… it doesn't even pretend not to be rotten to the core."
Aventus said nothing. His gaze lingered on the wary faces of the townsfolk, the beggars crouched in shadowed corners, the sheer, unyielding stone that loomed over everything. This city was as unwelcoming as the mountains that cradled it.
After climbing what felt like an eternity of stairs, they finally stopped in front of a small shop marked by a wooden sign depicting a mortar and pestle: The Hag's Cure.
"Well, here we are," announced Babette cheerfully. "Let's hope this Muiri at least has decent taste in alchemy."
The shop's interior was steeped in the damp, herbal scents of dried plants, earthy powders, and pungent remedies. Shelves sagged under the weight of jars labeled in spidery script, and bundles of herbs dangled from the ceiling beams. Behind the counter, a young woman was grinding leaves in a mortar. She glanced up at the sound of the bell and greeted them with a polite, if reserved, smile.
"Welcome to The Hag's Cure. Bothela stepped out for a bit, but perhaps I can help you. A potion for mountain sickness? A salve for frostbite?"
Her gaze shifted as she studied them: two children, one wrapped in a travel-stained cloak, the other shrouded in a dark mantle. Her eyes narrowed with suspicion.
Babette tilted her head, her voice taking on an innocent, syrupy tone.
"Oh, nothing like that. We've come to… answer your call."
"My call?" Muiri echoed, brow furrowing.
Aventus, lingering behind Babette, felt the air in the room grow taut. He studied the woman more closely. She couldn't have been much older than an adolescent, yet her eyes bore a hardness he recognized. Life had left its mark on her too. The mortar in her hand shifted slightly, as though it might serve as a weapon if needed.
"Wait… are you saying…?" Muiri's breath caught.
Babette smiled—a slow, predatory grin that revealed her unnaturally long canines glinting in the candlelight.
"The Dark Brotherhood sends its regards, Lady Muiri."
For a heartbeat, Muiri froze, eyes widening in disbelief. But panic did not come. Instead, her face darkened with outrage.
"The Dark Brotherhood… and they send children?" she hissed, voice trembling with fury. "This contract is serious! My target is dangerous, well-guarded, and you send me… this? Is it some kind of joke?"
Aventus felt his stomach twist. Heat surged to his cheeks—humiliation mingled with anger—but he kept his silence. He locked his gaze on Muiri, cold and unwavering, knowing from the orphanage that a misplaced word could bear more than unpleasant consequences.
Babette, however, burst into a crystalline laugh, each peal sharp and mocking.
"Don't be fooled by appearances, dear. I may look like a child, but I assure you… I'm far older—and far deadlier—than you could ever imagine."
To emphasize the point, she tapped a finger against her fang with a playful smirk. Muiri did not flinch. Her hands trembled slightly, but she lifted her chin, voice tight with disdain.
"Maybe you are," she said. "Maybe you're some ancient monster playing dress-up. But him?"
Her gaze snapped to Aventus with unsettling intensity.
"Him, you expect me to believe is like you? He can't be more than twelve!"
Aventus held her gaze, rigid as carved stone. Her eyes pierced him like shards of ice—not with fear, but with the same blend of disbelief and disapproval he'd seen in the eyes of Windhelm's matrons. That familiar look of an adult scolding a child for venturing too close to a forge. The recognition unsettled him.
Then Muiri leaned closer, eyes narrowing as though peeling away his mask of stoic indifference.
"Would you dare deny it, Aventus Aretino?" she asked sharply.
His breath faltered.
The floor seemed to tilt beneath his feet.
A freezing chill seeped into his chest, sharper than the mountain air. He fought to maintain his mask of composure, but a tremor betrayed him.
"How…?" he croaked.
Muiri's expression softened, tinged with melancholy.
"You don't remember me, do you?" she said. "I lived in Windhelm… long before all this. I worked for the Shatter-Shields. I used to see you… at the market. With your mother."
Aventus's throat constricted.
"She was so lovely," Muiri continued. "So attentive… and you… you were—" Her voice wavered. "You were a curious, lively little boy."
The words pierced like a dagger through brittle armor. For one excruciating instant, Aventus was no longer the willful apprentice of the Dark Brotherhood nor the lost orphan of Honorhall. He was just that boy again: the one who'd gripped his mother's hand as they wandered the marketplace; the child who'd gazed in wonder at the merchants' colorful wares; the boy who'd laughed without fear.
But that child…
"That boy… is dead," he whispered. "He died… in the orphanage."
He tore his gaze from hers and stared at a jar of dried herbs on the shelf. His fingers brushed the cold ceramic, trembling despite his resolve. A hot tear streaked down his cheek; he wiped it away with a fierce motion.
"That child doesn't exist anymore."
The silence that followed was thick and suffocating.
Babette broke it with a sardonic clap of her hands.
"Well, wasn't that touching? But now that the trip down memory lane is over, perhaps we could discuss business?"
Muiri straightened, expression hardening. She set the mortar aside with deliberate care and reached beneath the counter. A small, glass vial clinked softly as she placed it before them. Inside swirled a viscous, midnight-blue liquid.
"I want Alain Dufont dead," she said. "I want him hunted down and killed like the mongrel he is."
Her fingertips tapped the glass with restrained venom.
"Alain… he ruined me. He charmed me, made me believe I was special to him. He called me his 'lily blossom.' But it was all a lie—just a ruse to get close to the Shatter-Shields and rob them blind. He betrayed me, shattered my life. The Shatter-Shields fired me. Branded me a conspirator. Had me banished from Windhelm."
Her lips trembled, and she gripped the edge of the counter as if bracing against the weight of her past. Aventus felt the raw hatred radiating from her. It resonated within him—a kindred rage, familiar and consuming.
Muiri inhaled deeply, regaining her composure.
"Back then, Alain led a band of brigands in Raldbthar, a Dwemer ruin west of Windhelm. He might still be there. Find him. Chase him. Kill him. I don't care what happens to the others. But him… him, I want dead."
She slid e vial toward them. The glass bore a stylized lotus engraving.
"It's lotus extract," she said. "I spent months perfecting it. One scratch is enough. The death is quick… but excruciating."
Babette whistled appreciatively as she inspected the vial.
"Exquisite! Perfect consistency, with that subtle touch of ingrith root. Impressive work. You'd have made an excellent poisoner."
Muiri's smile was thin and cold.
"I might have been… if I'd had the courage to finish the job myself."
A heavy silence settled between them. Aventus stared at the bottle, the liquid swirling like ink in moonlight. He clenched his fists. His only kill, that one in the abandoned shack, had been in blind panic. His next had been a deception—Narfi's death, faked to protect him. But this? This was cold, deliberate assassination. He imagined Alain Dufont writhing, life draining with each heartbeat. And he didn't flinch.
"Alain Dufont will die," he said evenly.
Muiri gave a curt nod but hesitated, biting her lip.
"There's… one more thing."
Muiri's eyes flicked toward Aventus, as though his youth made her request easier to voice.
"I want you to kill… Nilsine Shatter-Shield."
Aventus blinked, stunned.
"But Nilsine had nothing to do with Alain's betrayal!"
"No," Muiri admitted, voice tight. "But she abandoned me like the rest. I was her friend—practically family—and when it all came crashing down, she cast me aside without a second thought. If she dies… maybe her mother, Tova, will finally understand what it means to lose someone she loves."
The boy's stomach twisted. He pictured Tova Shatter-Shield grieving beside a corpse, sobbing as he had when his mother was taken. That pain… that hollow agony. He knew it too well to spread it without cause.
"The contract is for Alain," he said, jaw rigid.
"I know," Muiri said softly, eyes downcast. "But if you do it… I'll pay extra. Gold or poisons. Whatever you choose."
Babette's smile sharpened. "An intriguing proposition. What do you think, Aventus? One less Shatter-Shield in Windhelm? Hardly a tragedy."
He swallowed the bile rising in his throat. His gaze met Muiri's.
"I'll decide when the time comes," he said flatly.
Muiri exhaled shakily, her expression unreadable. She nudged the vial toward him. Aventus reached for it. The glass felt icy beneath his fingertips—fragile and deadly.
Babette turned toward the door.
"Come along, dear apprentice. That bandit won't poison himself."
Aventus followed but paused on the threshold. He glanced back at Muiri. She stood motionless behind the counter, hands clenched, eyes unfocused—like someone who'd just tossed a stone into a lake and was waiting for the ripples to return.
He knew that expression. It was the face of vengeance realized… and the cold emptiness that followed.
The door creaked shut behind him. Outside, the stone streets of Markarth seemed even colder than before.