Chapter Text
“This isn’t a respectable book, and I’m very proud of that.
Odds are, if you’re reading this, you’re considering taking a trip to Morrowind. Now, I’m the last one to judge, so I won’t presume it’s entirely voluntary on your part. If, for example, you’re on the run in eastern Cyrodiil, trying to get over the border can look a lot better than rotting in the local Legion hellhole.
However, I must stress that Morrowind is not for everyone. If you’re Argonian or Khajiit, stay out! Cat-folk have it better than the lizards, but neither one’s going to get much love there. Everyone else, just remember that you’re an “outlander” and don’t try to fit in. You do this, you probably won’t get stabbed. I’ll go more into being an outlander later but don’t try to convince them you aren’t one, unless you’re the best liar this side of the Gray Fox.
Now, for some good news. The Empire might pretend Morrowind is still theirs, but nobody seems to have let the Dunmer know. Imperial laws end at the Border Forts, and the Dunmer really don’t care what you did in the Empire. Not their land, not their problem.
Of course, the Dark Elves also don’t want you in their precious homeland, so it might be a good idea to figure out a nice set of lies as to why it’s such a smart move for them to let you in. (Chapter Two is all about how to get over the border, so don’t start worrying yet!)
I’m not saying live the rest of your life there, because that would be terrible. But maybe a year or two out of the reach of whatever mischief you got up to back home is just what you need? Again, I’m not here to judge, just to help.”
Fandor Vallis, The Vagabond’s Guide to Morrowind.
As the ash and fog lifted, Lydia saw their destination, and for a heartbeat she thought her eyes must have been playing a trick on her. A moment later, she realized the truth of what she was seeing.
Before them stretched a cliff rising from the sea, a sheer wall of rough dark stone whose height she couldn’t even begin to guess. The Amar’balak was not, as she’d thought, on a course to ram straight into the rock. Instead, it was headed for a passage, a channel in the great cliff wall that, despite its considerable width, appeared tiny when scaled against its surroundings. Flanking this cleft were two towers, lone spires that towered above even the heights of the clifftops.
“Indaryn’val. The Indaryn Gate.” Captain Andaram had come to stand beside her; the Dark Elf had her hands clasped behind her back and an unmistakable note of pride in her voice. “This is the sole entrance to Baan Malur by sea, and a most welcome sight to every mer aboard this ship.” The wind whipped at the strands of multicolored beads sewn to her shawl, and their clicking put Lydia in mind of hailstones on a roof.
“Those towers, though. How do they stand?” They must have been raised by sorcery, for surely they would have come tumbling down in the first storm.
“Na Parat’ken. The Sentinels. Ayrne’ken and Kalira’ken— Defiance and Warning in your tongue— guard the port of Baan Malur, as they have since the Reconciliation. They stand by the faith of our people, which holds them aloft.” At Lydia’s disbelieving look, the captain’s eyes brightened slightly. “There are also spells of levitation and feathering woven into the stones.”
With a flush, Lydia realized she’d been played for a fool. The captain did not smile—many of the sailors aboard made Velandryn seem garrulous and open by comparison—but Lydia could tell the Dark Elf was amused.
Trying to regain her composure, she studied the approaching vista. The cliffs seemed to have a regularity to them, something she couldn’t discern. An insane thought occurred to her, and she had to give it voice. “Are those cliffs…did the Dark Elves make them?”
The captain laughed. “You see the pattern then? Many thought as you did, but the scholars say it’s what happens when molten stone cools in an instant. No, no hand save that of Mehrunes Dagon carved the cliffs of Baan Malur. Before this place was a city, it was a great cauldron of living fire, a volcano akin to Ash Mountain and Dagoth Ur to the east. You can see the shape of it from within.”
Within. She couldn’t see anything save the cliffs and towers, but presumably they would be going either behind or under the cliffs, and into an ancient volcano. What sort of place is Baan Malur, this Blacklight?
Amar’balak swept forward, and the cliffs in front of her grew ever more imposing. In the reddish light filtering through the smoky haze above, the cliffs appeared fully black, and glistened with what almost looked to be moisture. The towers were made of some dark material that looked oddly unlike stone, and their strange design—flowing, with sharp angles wherever two curves met— put her uneasily in mind of something not unlike a great insect or crab. Is this Dunmer architecture?
Captain Andaram, for her part, seemed completely at ease. She shouted something to her crew in Dunmeris, then turned to Lydia. “You may wish to cover your ears.”
“What do—“ An explosive blast of sound jerked her rigid in shock, and a second sent her stumbling. As tried to regain her balance, the sound echoed around her. We’re under attack!
Lydia spun as a third, longer blast echoed overhead, reaching for the sword that she belatedly remembered was with her armor belowdecks. Then, she saw the captain. Milara Andaram was standing there unconcerned, looking not at all surprised at having a sudden noise erupt around her. Whatever that sound was, clearly the captain had known it was coming, and had decided to have a bit of fun at the Nord’s expense.
The captain inclined her head slightly, her narrowed eyes managing to convey amusem*nt. “They don’t call it the Tower of Warning for nothing. All ships are sighted and reported.” She gave a small shrug. “Two short blasts and one long signifies a Dunmer vessel returning. Our meeting-ship should be here shortly.” She turned to look forward. “Rest assured that were we hostile, you would see from where the Tower of Defiance draws its name.”
So far as Lydia knew, the Dunmer hadn’t been at war on the sea in a very long time. “Does that happen often?”
The captain’s eyes were generally a shade or two lighter than Velandryn’s but here they darkened to match his. “When we were…in bad times, we transported much by ship since the roads were often too dangerous or unreliable. Pirates took advantage of this, and caused us much grief and loss of life in their predations. When the Great Council established the Rootspire in Baan Malur, they ordered the towers raised, to show that the seas of Morrowind belong only to the Dunmer.” She clasped her hands behind her back, an affectation that had come to remind Lydia of her thane. “A week after the towers were completed, pirates, made bold by years of Dunmer weakness, thought to raid a grain transport bound for our new capital, within sight of our new towers.”
“What happened?”
“These were raiders from Skyrim, taking what they could in lightning strikes. A dozen small ships or more, striking and looting Dunmer supply barges and mercy-skimmers. So, they thought they could give chase to this one, then turn tail and run if anything from Baan Malur came out to stop them. Instead, Defiance unleashed lances of fire from atop its crown. It is said that the time from the moment it first ignited to the destruction of the last ship was less than a minute. Of those raiders who survived to be pulled out of the water, most had not even known they were under attack until their ships were beyond salvation.”
“I see.” She couldn’t even imagine something like that. Then, she heard what the captain had said. “You saved the pirates?” That didn’t seem very like the Dark Elves. Perhaps she’d misjudged them.
She hadn’t. “They needed to be questioned, after all. We found their ports, their hiding places, the secluded coves where they put to shore in foul weather. Once they had run out of answers, we gave them to the war-wasps and sent a fleet to eradicate their pestilence once and for all.”
Lydia didn’t even want to know what a war-wasp was. “That’s an…incredible story.” She had a bit of trouble believing it, but then again, she really didn’t know what the Dark Elves were capable of. Perhaps they truly can burn ships from miles away. The brutality, though, that was perfectly in line with the stories she’d heard as a girl. Shuddering slightly, Lydia turned back to watch the approaching shore.
Just then, Captain Andaram gestured to get her attention. “You see? We’re being met.” From the passage between the cliffs, a single ship was coming towards them, still too far away to make out any details. “The Redoran Sea Guard. They’ll make sure we are who we appear to be.”
As the ship approached, Lydia got a strange feeling. The ship was wrong somehow. As it drew closer, she realized what was unnerving her. What in Oblivion is it made of?
Whatever material had been used for the ship’s hull, it wasn’t wood. Wood didn’t flow like that and form those strange angles. Glancing up, she confirmed that it looked the same as the towers above them. Puzzled, she looked over at Captain Andaram and voiced her thoughts.
The Dunmer nodded. “Good eye, but not quite. The ships are katta’skar, the towers kattar’mokh. We use chitin from mudcrabs for ships. Stronger than any wood, and lighter besides. The towers are in the ancient Redoran style, designed to withstand the winds of…well, ash storms, you would call them.” She shook her head and sighed. “Your Imperial tongue needs more precise words if you want to use it here.”
Lydia wasn’t so sure. “We call Dunmer armor bonemold at least, isn’t that the same?”
“No. Tebbekh—bonemold—is from bones of land-creatures; nobody would build with it. Ask an artisan what they use, I’ve never been able to keep all the materials and mixtures straight. For ships, well, you can’t do much better than a crab. Dreugh, maybe, but nobody wants to start another war.”
She’d heard of the near-mythical creatures called Dreugh before. “Are they that dangerous?”
Milara shrugged. “They don’t bother us anymore, and we don’t bother them. They’re an ancient race, wise in the old ways, and they’ve the favor of Molag Bal. Bad fortune to go courting the wrath of the House of Troubles.”
Lydia was growing more and more confused. The Dreugh were wise? “I thought your people hated Molag Bal? Shouldn’t that mean you want to kill the Dreugh, like you do vampires?”
When Captain Andaram spoke, she sounded slightly exasperated. “It’s not like that, human. The Four are the House of Troubles, but you can’t just…petin ketoss ilah—ah, forget it! Ask a priest when you get to the Temple. They can probably explain it.” Her face didn’t change—she was Dunmer, after all—but she was clearly annoyed.
Lydia for her part, hadn’t meant to cause annoyance. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to distress you.”
The captain waved her hand in Lydia’s direction. “Not your fault. I know what I want to say, but I’m not sure how to go about explaining it in this language, especially to somebody who doesn’t follow the faith.” She shrugged. “We hunt down vampires because they’re a thrice-damned plague, and the fact they serve Molag Bal just makes it holy. We don’t go killing Orcs just because they worship Malacath, or execute madmen for hearing Sheogorath in their heads. It’s a balancing act, you know? The Dreugh serve Old Burning-Stone, but they also know what is and isn’t their territory. Every Dunmer sailor knows where the Dreugh caves are, but it’s been two thousand years since the last time Ruddy Man came walking, so we hunt the few who come to our world, and don’t go looking for the rest. The treaty holds, though those who made it are long since gone.” She nodded once, and returned to watching the approaching ship.
Lydia still had questions, like just what the Dreugh were to the Dunmer, and how this apparent treaty with them worked, but the ship—made from mudcrabs, of all things!—was approaching, and no far-off question could draw her away from this strange sight.
The ship was of a size with the Amar’balak, but that was where the similarities ended. For one, the shape was unlike anything Lydia had ever seen. Instead of sweeping forward, the front—prow, Lydia half-remembered it might be called—pulled back after leaving the water, which, coupled with the bulging and oddly ridged hull, made the ship look as though someone had attached sails to a great beast of the sea, which now swam, half-submerged, towards their ship.
The crew as well looked like some sort of insects or crab-men, walking about with spiked heads and tan shells, but it only took her a moment to realize that was armor. As the ship pulled even with Amar’balak, one of the soldiers moved to the edge of the ship. This one was wearing a more ornate helm than the others, with what looked to be feathered plumes streaming back in a design possibly meant to resemble hair. When he removed the outlandish headpiece, it was to reveal a Dunmer with a shaven head and some sort of butterfly-looking design drawn in white across the entirety of his face. He uttered a long stream of Dunmeris, and Captain Andaram responded in kind.
The two spoke back and forth, and Lydia couldn’t for the life of her tell if something was wrong. Neither appeared agitated, but it sounded as though each was trying to shout over the other. The Dark Elf tongue was a harsh language, however, and their utter lack of facial expressions made them difficult to read. Once, the armored one gestured at her, but Captain Andaram replied with what seemed like calm, and whatever answer she’d given seemed to mollify the…what is this one? A guard, a customs official? She doubted that last one, if only because no customs-man she’d ever met would actually venture any distance away from their nice warm guardposts to do their jobs. That lot’ll be waiting on the docks, no doubt.
Apparently, all was in order, and the strange looking boat came around to head back where it had come. Amar’balak ran up her sails again at the captain’s shout, and the two proceeded towards the passage ahead.
Captain Andaram turned and started walking back towards the rest of the ship, and Lydia followed. Before they got more than a few steps her curiosity got the better of her. “No problems, I trust?” My thane must be a bad influence on me.
The captain shook her head. “I am well-known to the Sea Guard of Baan Malur. As we come from Skyrim, however, we must dock in the Outland Port, where we can be inspected and assessed more thoroughly.” She bowed her head slightly. “It would not do for…corruption…to enter our lands through a lack of vigilance.” She nodded to something behind Lydia. “This is your first time to Baan Malur, is it not, Lydia ko’thil Velandryn Savani? If you have never seen the approach, it may be worth watching.”
Intrigued despite herself, Lydia turned again and watched the dark cliffs draw closer. As they drew into the shadow of the walls to either side, she could see the pits and crags in their faces, and the imperfections suddenly drove home just how monumental these walls were. They had nothing on the mountains of Skyrim, of course, but rising as they did, all at once from the sea, made their hundred-foot height look more dramatic than mountains around the Whiterun Plains, many which were easily ten or twenty times that size.
From this close, she could see the truth of the pattern. Long vertical lines ran down the cliffs, and in places parts seemed to have peeled off or jutted out. Here and there dark rocks stuck out of the water, and when she glanced over the edge Lydia could see shadowy shapes in the water below. These submerged rocks, however, did not come close to breaking the surface, and so their path was safe.
Above, the alien towers of Watch and Warning loomed ominously, and Lydia couldn’t help feeling that these two guard-posts should, by all rights, be on the verge of collapse. Balconies and small turrets protruded out on all sides and seemingly at random, and one tower even had a great bulbous growth almost at the top, resembling nothing so much as a wasps’ nest in the bark of a tree. These two creations looked as though they had grown there, part organic and part artificial, and the union of the two struck her as essentially wrong.
Something else, a patch near the top of the eastern tower, caught her eye, and Lydia had to look away when she felt her skin begin to crawl. She told herself that it had just been her imagination. There couldn’t have been insects crawling around up there. They would have to be as big as horses, to see them from down here. Then she remembered Captain Andaram’s talk of war-wasps, and scratched a spot on her arm that had started to itch, shivering.
Thankfully, they were soon at an angle where Lydia couldn’t make out any more of the towers, only the cliffs that held them. And, coming into view, the ship that had met them, now sitting at dock. It was moored, along with three others just like it, at a wharf that looked to be…
She rubbed her eyes and looked again, and then decided that she should really stop being shocked by what she saw in Morrowind. The docks were made from the roots attached to an enormous barrel-shaped plant, which had been hollowed out and anchored to the cliff wall. She could see smoke rising from a chimney-like protrusion in the domed roof, and numerous lights blazed in window-holes around the periphery. The pattern of its walls put her in mind of some kind of mushroom, and she remembered tales of Dark Elf wizards who grew entire cities to serve their whims. Maybe not so outlandish after all.
As they passed the dock, one of the sentries standing watch aboard a ship turned to regard her. They were very close to each other, and Lydia could see the tassels hanging from the sentry’s helmet swing in the breeze. The Dark Elf—she assumed it was a Dunmer, at least, since she couldn’t see any skin to confirm it— raised a hand, though whether it was warning or greeting, Lydia could not say. Amar’balak was soon past the docks, and the sentry was lost to view.
Lydia turned to look ahead again, and to her shock found herself in what looked like nothing so much as a tunnel. There was a sliver of angry red and grey sky above, but the walls that flanked the ship made it seem a thin and far-off thing. Fortunately, the channel looked to widen ahead, and so Lydia focused on that.
Gradually, the sight beyond the passage became clear, and Lydia saw, for the first time in her life, a city that wasn’t founded on the hallowed principles of the Nords. She had thought she was ready for it, that the strangeness she’d seen already had given her an idea of what to expect from Blacklight, the city the Dark Elves called Baan Malur.
She hadn’t been.
“If you’re smart, you won’t get involved with Dark Elf politics, but you should at least know who’s in charge of wherever you are.
House Redoran are the ones on top of everything, but they’re not all bad. Most of them are arseholes, but their guards won’t run you through for looking at them funny. (Again, this doesn’t count if you’re Argonian. They will kill you for looking at them funny. Or not funny, or not looking at them. Basically, being Argonian in Morrowind is punishable by death these days.)
One thing to note, Redoran take their laws seriously, so have your fun when nobody’s looking. You might think you’ve seen some snitches in the Empire, but nothing compares to how Redoran’ll screech if they see you breaking one of their precious rules. I’m talking alert the whole town, get the garrison turned out, mages, nix-hounds, the works. And Redoran don’t bother throwing outlanders in prison. You’ll get hard labor, exile (if you’re very lucky) or death.
Their capital is Blacklight—they call it Baan Malur, but don’t bother using their tongue unless you’ve a gift for languages; they don’t like outlanders pretending to be locals— and I’ll say this, it’s a damn fine city if you’re Dunmer. If you’re not, well, you might be better off in Kragenmoor or another of the smaller cities. Blacklight can be confusing, and with a lot of important people around, everyone’s watching the outlanders a little more closely.
Somebody might suggest Solstheim, but trust me when I say that’s a fool’s game. You want to make Morrowind worse? Take away the civilization, make it cold even when it’s raining ash, and you have Solstheim.
Other than House Redoran, you got Sadras, the Temple, Dres, and Telvanni. If you’re in Dres or Telvanni territory, all I’m going to say is GET OUT NOW. Dres will slap chains on you and throw you on a plantation until you’re too weak to work and they let their wasps lay eggs in you, and the Telvanni are worse.
Sadras are a gamble, no two ways about it. Most of them were Ashlanders, and the ones that weren’t are descended from them. All you need to know about Ashlanders is that those guys make the House Dunmer look like High Rock dilettantes. They will kill you for saying the wrong thing to them, and when dealing with House Sadras you’re better off keeping your mouth shut and your eyes down.
Now, the Temple’s not half bad, long as you stay on their good side. They’ll feed you and heal you even if you are an outland heathen, but you’d best believe they’re taking notes while they do. You can run to a new town, but the first thing the Temple will ask is where you came from, and then they’ll see what their friends from that town have on you. You can run from your troubles, but running from the Temple’s harder.
If you’re going to steal from the Temple, my only advice is write up a good will first. They have some nice stuff in their halls and reliquaries, but the Ordinators make other guards look like puppy dogs. You cross an Ordinator, you die. If you’re near Mournhold and you cross one of the bastards in black armor— Ordinators-Defiant is what they call themselves— you die slow.
So, if you still want to go to Morrowind, read on!”
Fandor Vallis, The Vagabond’s Guide to Morrowind.
Blacklight was circular. That was the first thing that came to Lydia’s mind. The entire city sat in an enormous bowl; towers and great buildings lined the rim, and the sprawl stretched from skyline to water’s edge. That upper rim had to be miles away and a hundred feet or more up; the line of rooftops looked more akin to mountains than buildings from down here. One spire in particular towered above the others; it had to be a mile up or more. Blacklight was larger than Whiterun, without question, and likely could rival even Solitude. I thought the Dunmer were a broken people!
The sea itself occupied the lowest part of the city, though numerous islands and dockworks broke up the water’s expanse. Some were pillars of stone rising steeply from the sea, others gently sloping expanses of sand and rock. Bridges were everywhere, of rope and wood and some that looked as though they were made of glass or bone or other, still stranger things. Less numerous but still notable were the docks, lining the shores and jutting out into the water seemingly at random.
Ships were much in evidence, most of them tiny and—Lydia assumed—used for fishing or personal transport. There were a few in the strange style of the one that had met them, but they seemed to be clustered in one region of the bowl, an area that Lydia couldn’t make out too well from here but assumed was some sort of naval dockyard. One in particular looked to be designed for war and nothing else; its deck—which sported a dozen or more ballistae that Lydia could see— was three or four times as high as Amar’balak, and its prow was adorned with what was unmistakably a massive ram, carved to resemble a great stinger. Or was it harvested? She quickly dismissed that thought, though. No insect could possibly get that large.
Even the buildings were alien, and Lydia began to despair of seeing anything familiar. What wood there was vanished quickly the farther the buildings got from the water, and instead of stone or brick, the Dunmer favored an odd tan material that looked to be like sand but was molded into fantastical architecture that made each building feel like a slumbering insect or crab. Those buildings that did have a more regular shape seemed to favor pyramids, though these had rounded edges and broad flat tops. Many of these rose directly from the water, and had small docks of their own. To be fair, there were other, more mundanely-shaped buildings, but they were few and far between, and got lost amidst the wild designs that pulled her eyes every which way.
And that was to say nothing of the Rootspire. Velandryn had spoken of it several times, and there was no mistaking the single massive tower rising from the center of the bay. It sat on the largest island, and the bridge that connected it to the mainland was a broad span of that stone-like substance, shaped so that it seemed to be held aloft by roots rising from the water. The Rootspire itself was hugely broad at the base, but tapered up amidst balconies and galleries and columns that looked like the roots for which the building was named, until it reached a great flame surrounded by arches.
Fire, it was clear, was something of a theme here. Any building of more than three stories had a brazier or torch burning atop it, and so Blacklight was awash in flame.
The ash and haze wasn’t as bad down here, and when Lydia pulled the cloth from her face she found the air quite easy to breathe, with only a hint of that ashy taste. Whether it was magic or some trick of the basin they were now in she didn’t know, but Blacklight seemed to offer some shelter from the storm.
They were among the islands now, and as they passed, Lydia noticed Dark Elves going about their business. She leaned out to try and get a better view at all that was going on ashore, not caring how it must look.
Two figures who must have been guards patrolled one of the docks, though they were more heavily armored than any guards Lydia had ever seen. Each was encased head-to-toe in heavy armor, both suits made of that same tan material that so resembled the shell of some great crab. Their helmets especially completed the illusion, and she found herself feeling sorry for any lawbreaker who had to explain herself to those two.
A shadow fell over Lydia, and she realized they’d passed beneath one of the bridges that linked the islands. This one was a single arcing span, made of something that looked almost like pottery and stretched from the edge of one island to the top of one of the rounded pyramids that rose from the water. It was high enough that even Amar’balak’s main mast didn’t come close to hitting its underside, and once they were far enough away for her to look back, the Dunmer atop it were little more than tiny specks. Once more, she was struck by the scale of this city. The Dunmer build large, if nothing else.
Ahead, she could see what had to be their dock, and she found herself a little disappointed that her bizarre tour would be coming to an end. She’d caught a glimpse of an island that had looked to hold a hundred fountains of water in as many shades, and they’d swept by a figure who’d been walking a lizard the size of a hunting dog on a leash. She had no doubt a hundred things as wild and strange were just waiting around every corner. However, now she had a task that only she could do.
With shouts and the creak of wood, Amar’balak was made fast to the dock, and a single broad plank walkway was lowered to the shore. Workers had gathered along the docks, but the first aboard were two of the guards in their strange tan armor, with every humanizing feature hidden well behind faceless helms. Each had a shield on their back and a weapon at their waist, and while the shields were and of a kind with the armor, the weapons were not. One guard had a flanged mace made of some deep red metal—or, it’s made from bugs! Who knows anymore? The other bore a gleaming-hilted sword in a scabbard that looked to have been woven from some fiber or cloth that shimmered though no light shone on it.
The captain had met them at the top of the walkway, and soon waved Lydia over. She arrived in time to hear one of them finish some statement in the Dark Elf tongue and then turn to look at her. “Your business in Baan Malur, outlander.” It was heavily accented Imperial, slightly halting but very clear. The voice left no doubt that this was a Dunmer like her thane, and the tone made it equally clear that this one lacked even Velandryn’s slight appreciation for the Nords.
“I have business at Great Fane, on behalf of Velandryn Savani, Anointed of the Temple.” She had practiced the best way to state this, and discussed how best to use Velandryn’s title with the captain. She held out the sheaf of letters that had not left her side since they’d been given to her. Each had been marked with a single unreadable line—in Daedric letters, she was fairly certain— of Velandryn’s precise script, presumably the intended recipient. “You see, here are the messages.” She didn’t hand them over, for fear they would simply take them. She’d been instructed to bring them to the Temple herself, after all.
The guards, however, seemed interested in only one of them. “Do you read Dunmeris, outlander?” That was the guard with the mace.
“Ah, no, no I don’t.” She wondered if something on one of the letters was amusing or offensive, and hoped her thane’s dark sense of humor hadn’t come into play while he was drafting these.
“This one is for us.” The guard pointed at a thin sheet of parchment, and took it before she could protest. He scanned it and handed it to the other guard, who had yet to move.
This guard with the sword looked at it briefly and then turned to regard Lydia. She—the voice was unmistakably female—uttered a short phrase in the Dark Elf tongue, and the first guard placed a clenched fist to his chest and gave a short reply.
He turned to face Lydia, and when he spoke his tone was slightly more respectful. “You speak true. I will show you how to find High Fane, and the ones you seek.” He pivoted, and make for the ramp. “Gather your things and follow.”
Lydia turned to Captain Andaram, but the other woman was already waving at one of her crew, who darted below. The Dunmer extended a hand. “Fare you well, Lydia ko’thil Velandryn Savani.”
Lydia clasped it in the Nord style. She had no idea if that was what she was supposed to do, but she wasn’t about to let herself forget who she was just because she was in some foreign land. If Velandryn can do it, so can I! “To you as well, Captain. May the winds be at your back.” She’d heard sailors say that before, and Kyne’s blessing was good for any to have.
The sailor who had vanished below now emerged, her armor, weapons, and pack in his arms. Captain Andaram looked back at it, then at her. “I can have it all sent to the Temple, if you’d like.”
By rights, Lydia should probably have been fully armored already, but she’d neglected to don it during their approach—a choice she didn’t regret, considering the fantastical things staying above had allowed her to see—and now it seemed a bad time to do so. Still…
She shook her head. “No, I’ll carry it with me.” It wouldn’t do to have another carry her burdens, after all, and making the guards wait for a few minutes wouldn’t be the end of the world. Besides, she didn’t want to be unarmed in this city.
As she descended from the ship, Captain Andaram’s farewell sounding from behind, she noticed for the first time the nature of the place they’d docked. It was part of a larger complex, one that seemed segregated from the rest of Blacklight. The bay surrounded it on two sides, and a cliff topped by more of the city blocked access to one more side. The final end was marked off with a smooth wall made of that strange tan substance that looked to be neither stone nor earth, with a single opening watched by four of the guards. Is this where the foreigners are kept? Captain Andaram had said something about that, after all.
There were three ships docked at this strange enclosure, and Lydia couldn’t help but notice that all of them looked to be from outside Morrowind. One had Imperial dragons on the sides, one looked to her like something Breton or Redguard merchants would use, and the third was unmistakably a Nord longship, of the kind that raiders in the stories used to prey on honest merchants. Why would that be here?
As she reached the dock, a guard stepped in front of her and gestured. “This way, outlander.” She assumed it was the same one from the ship, though to be honest most Dunmer males other than Velandryn had very similar-sounding voices. Either way, she wasn’t going to go wandering down any dark alleys with this one, but she couldn’t see the harm in following him here.
Lydia silently followed the guard down the docks to what looked to be a watchtower of some sort, and her guide rapped on the door. It was opened by another in the same armor, and the two shared a brief exchange in Dunmeris. Every time she heard that damnable tongue, Lydia couldn’t help but feel the space between her shoulder blades itch, as though it were waiting for somebody to plant a dagger there. She knew it was very unlikely that they were going to kill her, but there was something deep in her Nord’s soul that hated not knowing what Elves were saying.
Finally, the guard turned back to her. “You will be provided with,” there was a pause, as if for thought, “documents of identity, providing your status as ko’thil to a member of the Temple. This is an unusual situation for an outlander, and you may present these documents as needed.”
“What exactly will these documents show?” Lydia wasn’t entirely sure what her status was, but this entire thing seemed very odd. “What if I lost them?”
“That would be unfortunate.” This guard’s use of Imperial Common wasn’t nearly as quick or clever as Velandryn’s, but he spoke clearly enough. “You should not do that. The papers show that you are not an outlander, even though you clearly are.” He did not sound pleased about this.
“So wait, everyone who isn’t Dunmer needs to carry these papers?”
“No. Only those like you, who are both outlanders and not. You do not fit, so you must be described.” The door opened, and the guard from within handed her a tightly bound scroll. She took it, and the guard she’d been talking to turned. “Follow. You should ask at the Temple, if you have more questions.”
With that, the guard was off again, and she had no choice but to follow. She hated it, tagging along behind this figure that barely came up to her nose even in full plate, but her only other choice was to be left behind, and she wasn’t sure how to find the temple herself. So, she followed.
The guard stopped and pointed in the direction of the wall. “You go through the gate of the Outland Port. Follow the main road along the curve of Cauldron Hold. Keep the water to your right. You will come to a statue of three figures. Turn left until you face away from the sea, and take the broad road before you. Head uphill and you will see a hall with three flames. Turn right, and travel along the Storm Walk until you see the Temple. Is that clear?” He had spoken quite fast, and was clearly expecting her response to be confusion. Any chance to mock the Nord, hmm?
Lydia’s head was spinning from the speed of the description, but she thought she had the general impression. “Aye, I have it. Thank you for your help.” She had a good head for directions, and she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of having to repeat it for the dumb Nord. She knew how her people were perceived, and she was going to prove them wrong!
She hitched her pack onto her shoulder, smiled at the guard’s faceless helm, and was off before the Dark Elf could answer. It might be petty, but she was going to find this place, and without any more help from Dunmer who clearly didn’t want her here. What was my thane thinking, sending me here?
Numerous times since my interviews began, the Prelate has drawn a distinction between the “old” Dunmer under the Tribunal and the current state of affairs. I asked him to clarify this distinction. He responded with characteristic candor.
“At the end of the Third Era, we experienced an upheaval unlike anything our people had known since the Tribunal gained divinity. In the span of fifteen years we saw the return of our greatest hero, the fall of the Tribunal, the devastation of our homeland in a chain of calamities, and the wholesale abandonment of our people by the Empire. We are not now the same people we were.
The greatest sin of the Tribunal was complacency. Not only did they grow overconfident and decadent, but they instilled such traits in our people. They told us that they would shield us from the evils of the world, and then we were left to fear and wonder when evil came. It is the great shame of our people, that we needed the Incarnate to usher in the Reclamation, when we should have done so ourselves!”
There was much to unpack here. I focused first on this idea of complacency, and asked him to elaborate.
“Our faith should not be one of avoiding responsibility, yet that is what the Tribunal taught us. They thought us children, and sought to shoulder our burdens themselves. Whether they acted from compassion or malice is not for me to say, but it weakened our people.
Azura’s gift to us was the Nerevarine (see Appendix III), who showed us that we were more than simply the sheltered children of false gods. The Hortator (an ancient Dunmer term for war-leader, and one of the titles associated with the Nerevarine) demanded that we see ourselves for what we were, and demonstrated the strength that we could wield as a single people. We didn’t know it at the time, of course, but now we can see, and give thanks. Those of us who survived our penance, at least.”
Pallodius Mavax, Words of the Dunmer: A Firsthand Experience, Compiled 4E 137-142
Lydia had made it almost a full dozen steps before she heard someone calling to her. “Not so wise to be leaving the port, my lady!”
She turned to see a Nord leaning against some crates, waving at her with his free hand while the other held a bottle of what looked to be mead. She almost turned away, but then thought better of it. Somebody who knew the lay of the land and wasn’t full of elven superiority might be good to talk to. “Oh, why’s that?” She had a fairly good idea of what he would say, but was curious how he viewed this odd city.
“Well,” he drew the word out, and she couldn’t help but notice the tones of eastern Skyrim in his speech, “Dark Elves aren’t so fond of outsiders, and I’d hate to see such a pretty face get ruined by some thug with a grudge.”
Oh, one of these. However, there was no call for her to be rude. Instead, she simply nodded thoughtfully. “I thank you for your concern, but I do have business with the Temple, so I must be off.”
The man blinked in surprise. “And here I thought you were just a beautiful merchant guard coming ashore for a good time. What would you want with those stuffy priests, anyway?”
She ignored his pathetic attempt at flirting and turned away. “Shor keep you, friend.” By the look of things, there were a more than a few like him, bored sailors who were loitering around until their ship left. There was an open-air tavern nestled in the shadow of the cliff, but little else for sailors to do. If this one was trying to woo a woman in full plate, he must be terribly bored. She suspected that this little enclosure was all the ordinary outland seafarer saw of Blacklight, and allowed herself a moment of smug satisfaction at her special status.
He shouted something else, but she had already put him from her mind. Ahead was the gate to the rest of this strange city, and she hoped the guards wouldn’t be too difficult.
When she reached the open archway that marked the edge of the area the guard had called the Outland Port, one of the guards raised a hand. “Where are you going, outlander?” It seemed they at least made sure the guards who dealt with foreigners spoke Imperial.
This time, she had a good answer. She held out her papers, and the note from Velandryn. “I’m going to Great Fane, on Temple business.”
The guard glanced down. “Ko’thil?” He looked back at her. “Pey’ik danav tel? Lydia, karaz?” That line, unintelligible as it was, seemed by its tone to be the friendliest Dunmeris she’d heard since arriving. The fact that she’d heard her name as well certainly didn’t hurt.
She shook her head. “I’m sorry, I don’t speak your language, but yes, I’m Lydia.”
The guard made a strange sound, one that, if it had come from a human, Lydia would have thought was a laugh. From these dour guards, though, she couldn’t see it. “Only thing stranger than a human as ko’thil would be an outlander actually mastering our tongue.” A shrug. “You’re free to go. Watch yourself out there. It can be confusing if you aren’t used to the city. Sight yourself by the Rootspire and the towers of Great Fane, and you should be fine.” The guard stepped back. “Glory to the Three, and let your way be true.”
“Yours as well, and my thanks.” The Dunmer liked their ritual, it seemed, and if she had to respond to each greeting and parting, she might as well get used to it.
To any and all who name themselves Dunmer, or friends of the same:
Should the woman bearing this letter be a Nord by the name of Lydia of Whiterun, dark of hair and eye, and standing somewhat over six feet in height, know that she is ko’thil to Velandryn Savani, Anointed of the Temple of the Blessed Triune, and serves the business of the Temple. I hereby charge whosoever reads this letter with aiding in whatever way is within your power her conveyance to Great Fane in Baan Malur.
Should any other than the woman described be bearing this letter, they have come into the possession of this note against my wishes and should be viewed with suspicion and mistrust. Should it be revealed that they came into this letter by violence, any involved should be considered as having committed crimes against the Temple and the nation of Morrowind.
By the Grace of the Three,
Serjo Indoril Velandryn Savani, Anointed of the New Temple of the Reclamations of the Blessed Triune
(sigil-signature and blood-mark affixed below)
The city beyond the wall was nothing like the Outland Port. Instead of an open space dotted with lazy workmen and shipping crates, Lydia faced a street filled with Dark Elves, far more than she had ever seen in her life. They wore a hundred different costumes, and were going about what looked to be their daily lives, unconcerned with the wondering Nord walking past them.
No, that’s not quite true. Some gave her sidelong glances, but none looked at her for more than the briefest second. Almost without thought, she scanned the street, looking for threats as her guard’s instincts kicked in.
Almost at once, she noticed someone’s gaze. They were leaning against the curved wall of one of those strange buildings that resembled animal shells, eyes fixed on her. Or, she corrected herself, eyes probably fixed on her. Every inch of the watcher that wasn’t covered by milky-white armor – undoubtedly the famous chitin of the Dunmer—was wrapped in grey and black cloth, save for the eyes. Those were huge black orbs, doubtless some material that could be seen out of but not into. The figure’s entire face was wrapped, but the shape of the whole suggested armor under the cloth. The watcher held her gaze for a moment more, then turned and entered the building it had been leaning against. Shivering slightly, she moved on.
It quickly became obvious that the Dark Elves’ famous dislike of outsiders was not mere myth. While it was possible that outlanders all went about completely concealed, she found it more likely that the few humans and non-Dunmer elves were representative of Blacklight as a whole. She did, however, see more types of Dark Elves than she had ever considered.
Open stalls held merchants, shouting in their harsh tongue at passersby. Some sat cross-legged on rugs, while others reclined in chairs made of wood or stone or bone, each with their wares on display. There were shops as well, judging by the signs, but this part of Blacklight seemed to favor the smaller stalls. Clearly this was a trade center, not surprising given the proximity to the foreign dock. In fact, there was even a sections of stalls—staffed by Nords, though they were shouting in what sounded like fluent Dunmeris—with pottery, furs, and textiles on display that could only have come from Skyrim.
A pair of workmen—workmer?—were hunched over some sort of hole in the street; Lydia could hear the rush of water from below, and wondered if the Dunmer, like the Empire, had one of those famous sewer systems. If so, that might be nice. Whiterun was a good place to live and she would defend it to the death, but the poorer parts of the city could get rather…unpleasant in warm weather.
As the flow of the crowd parted around her, Lydia caught a glimpse of some odd lurching contraption far off down the street. She hurried forward, wondering if this was one of the famous Dwemer machines, but as it reared above her she realized her mistake. It wasn’t a machine, but a mount.
The long-legged bug stood at least fifteen feet tall, stepping over the crowd with ease. Lydia gaped upwards as it strode over her, and tried to see who or what was riding on its back. However, all she could make out was a canopy. She’d heard of silt striders, of course—giants insects used for travel were too good a story not to share—but she’d heard they went extinct long ago. Or, I could stop assuming that I know anything at all about Morrowind. Frankly, that seemed the safer option.
Shaking her head in wonderment, she continued on. Awe quickly gave way to an odd sensation of overload, and she found herself looking straight ahead, trying to spy the statue before she completely lost herself in this foreign sprawl.
Finally, she saw it. The street became a plaza of sorts ahead, and in its center was a circular statue with three figures reaching upwards and outward. She couldn’t have said who they were, but she knew what they meant. Turn inland, and head uphill on the broadest street.
As she turned away from the sea and began to climb, she was once more struck by the scale of the city. It was nowhere near as crowded as the Whiterun markets or the Solitude docks, but every building seemed to have been crafted with an intent to make it as unique as possible. It was impossible not to be impressed by the alien lines and intricate detail on the structures she passed, and when she turned back to look out at the city and the shore below her, she found herself confronted with a sight that looked almost like something from a fantastical realm of Oblivion. If this was the capital, she could scarcely imagine the wonders that must lurk in the far-off corners of Morrowind.
However, she had a task before her, and while she couldn’t see the sun through the ashen clouds overhead, the day had to be well into its afternoon already. So, she hurried on, and hoped the sights she was ignoring weren’t too fantastical.
Soon enough, she found herself before the hall the guard had mentioned, and turned right, towards where the Temple of Great Fane was supposed to be. As she walked towards a distant but massive palace that must have belonged to the chief Councilor, or whatever their equivalent to a jarl was, she wondered how the temple would look. Doubtless it would be grander than the Temple of Kynareth, which was the largest religious building in Whiterun. Nords respected the gods, but their pantheon did not require halls for worship, and the Imperial Divines, for all that they were respected and invoked when proper, did not—with the notable exception of Talos—have such massive followings that great centers of worship were required. Lydia herself attended the feast-day sermons, of course, but that was more for the sake of togetherness and tradition than any deep devotion. She’d always preferred Kyne to Kynareth, after all.
The palace loomed large to her left. It was farther away than she’d thought, but even more massive than she’d first believed. Whoever it belong to must be powerful indeed. It was odd, though. She couldn’t recall Velandryn—or any other Dunmer, for the matter— mentioning anyone who had such power. This Great Council met in the Rootspire, and she’d seen many huge mansions and the like below. Earlier, she’d passed through a district of them, where the guards watched her closely for any mischief. So who in Oblivion could live there? She recalled the Dunmer Queen Barenziah, of course, but she had been a ruler in High Rock, if Lydia remembered correctly. No, there was definitely a king of Morrowind in the Third Era. His name sounded like Helmet, or something. Do they have a king now, I wonder? There was only one way to find out, and so she continued on.
Soon enough, she was walking with a wall to her left, a mighty length some ten feet high or so that hid all but the highest tips of the palace’s three great spires. It was inscribed with what she recognized to be Daedric runes, so many and so small that she would have had trouble with them even if she could read that alphabet or language. They did not travel in straight lines, but curved and spiraled about each other. Intrigued by something odd about their appearance, she reached out and felt the wall; where some of the letters were carved, others were actually raised from the stone. It was stone, she could recognize the feel of it, even if it looked like no stone she’d ever seen. For one, it was of a single piece, as though this entire wall had been carved from the rock itself. But that’s impossible. Could it be magic, then? She could see no other explanation.
However this wall came to be, it is impressive. From a distance, the writing seemed to make a picture, as the swirls lent themselves to larger shapes. She couldn’t make out what it was, but the effect of the whole was pleasing. Sometimes the lines ended abruptly, giving a sense of finality or jagged disconnect, and she wondered what artist had dreamed this up.
She wondered what the wall was for, since she doubted it was merely to keep people out. The intricacy of its design meant that it clearly had some other purpose, but she couldn’t figure out what that might be. It was excessively long, to be sure. Could the palace warrant such finery? But what manner of—
Oh. She felt a fool. What manner of person, in this land governed by a Council and a Temple, could command such a magnificent home? The answer was obvious. None of them.
She stepped back, nearly running into a guard who was passing by. She had the papers out and presented before the Dunmer could do anything more than grunt in surprise, and after a perusal of the papers, the guard gave her a faceless stare that Lydia assumed was meant to be intimidating and went on his—or her—way. Once more, it was only her and building before her.
Now, standing well back, she could see the whole, and understood. What she had thought was a palace, a building that dwarfed even Dragonsreach, and was topped by three spires each crowned with a flame of a different color. The Blessed Triune. Red and black and white fires winked down at her, and her gaze fell to the wall she’d failed to see in its entirety.
How often had Velandryn quoted prayers, snippets of Dunmeris that held significance or had been laid down by great scholars and priests? How many of those were etched on this wall, lessons for those who could read them? What better way to guard Great Fane, center of the Dunmer religion, than with all of their wisdom and parables etched into the very stone of the walls that surrounded it? Lydia had never been particularly religious, but the very idea of such a monumental feat of construction and craftsmanship, and the fervor required to complete it, sent chills up her spine.
No time for marveling, I’ve got a job to do. Off to her right, she saw an opening in the wall, and headed over to see if that was where she could gain entrance. Thankfully, nobody seemed to have been paying her too much attention, even when she’d been gaping at Great Fane, so she was able to stand and observe the gate without attracting too much attention.
Like the entrance to the Outland Port, this gate had no door. Rather, it was another archway, though this one, like the wall from which it rose, was covered in more Daedric writing. The guards before it were different as well. Rather than the inhuman armor of the guards below, these wore a kit that was exotic in an entirely different fashion.
There were two guards at the gate, and while each wore a suit of armor that was different from the other, they were obviously part of the same design.
One was a set of scaled plates that looked almost Orcish or Akaviri in design, though it was more ornate than any of those sets that she had seen, with massive spreading pauldrons and form-fitting greaves below dark blue pants and a dangling loincloth. The chestpiece had been sculpted to resemble a bared male breast, though Lydia did note that it had a good center-line that would deflect any glancing blow. There was a blue-black cape flowing down the armor’s back, though it only fell to the thighs; it was short enough that it wouldn’t tangle with the legs in a fight. This was armor designed to be at once extravagantly ornamental and mortally dangerous. This guard carried a long halberd in one hand while the other held a shield that, when raised, would cover the Dunmer from neck to knees.
The other set was equally intricate while being almost entirely dissimilar. The shoulders still sported large pauldrons, though these sloped down and looked almost of a piece with the thick golden collar-plate that sat below the neck. A blue robe covered everything from the chest down, though it was patterned with so many shades of white and gold and black that Lydia wondered if some of them were holes or slits; she could have sworn she spotted the glint of gilded scales beneath. This one had a wicked black mace on one hip, and a long-hilted sword on its back.
The most striking things about them, however, were the similarities. For one, the masks. Both were identical representations of a very particular face, wrought in whatever metal had gone into the armors and crested with tall manes of stiff bristles, with gold for the spear-wielder and black for the robed one. The gauntlets of both guards were carefully shaped to shield the back of the hands, but looked to leave the fingers free; Lydia would bet every coin in her purse that either of these was as adept with magic as they were with their weaponry. Velandryn had spoken of the Ordinators with a respect that he usually reserved for his gods alone; looking at the two before her, Lydia could see why. That these could be anything other than the legendary holy warriors of the Dunmer was absurd; a small childish part of her that had loved the old stories was cheering right now for seeing them so perfectly realized.
The guards in the city below had been unnerving in their strangeness but ultimately, they acted like any other guards she’d served with—maybe a bit less fond of dealing with foreigners than even the worst of the Whiterun town watch, but simply doing a job, and willing to send an unexpected outlander quickly on her way so they didn’t have to interrupt their routine. While travelling through the city, she’d seen them relaxing and interacting with the populace, one even with her helm removed while she knelt to stroke a scaly creature that looked more like a lizard than any sort of pet. She knew the signs of good guards and watchmen, and while the Redoran Guard was well-trained, it was ultimately made up of Dunmer who put on the suit and went out to do their job like anybody else.
The Ordinators were different. Both stood ramrod-straight, scanning the street before them with a focus that was frightening in its intensity. There was a tiny pause every time their masks turned towards her; they were letting her know, with arrogant subtlety, that they were watching. She had no doubt that if she made a threatening motion, they would strike without mercy.
Slowly, she produced the papers from her pack and walked forward. Neither of the Ordinators acknowledged her presence, though a shift from the one with the spear might have been intended to bring the shield into a better position. She stretched out a hand and offered the papers, a gesture to which neither responded.
Finally, one of them spoke. “What is your purpose here, outlander?” She thought it was the one in the robe, but honestly, she wasn’t certain. Whichever it was, her speech was rapid and flawless despite an accent almost identical to Velandryn’s but a fair bit stronger.
She kept the hand with papers outstretched. “I have business at the Temple. It’s all written here.” She couldn’t read Dunmeris, of course, but it had been enough for all of the other guards…
The Ordinator in the robe stretched out one hand and took the papers. Like all the others, the Dunmer looked over them. This time, however, the guard looked up sharply, and Lydia could see the gleam of red eyes within the mask.
“Your name, outlander.” This voice was male.
She was taken aback. “L-Lydia, of Whiterun. Ko’thil to Velandryn Savani, of the Temple.”
The robed guard nodded. “Describe him.”
“What?” None of the others had done anything even remotely—
“Describe Velandryn Savani. If you are indeed his ko’thil,” his voice held a tone of deep doubt, “this should pose you no difficulty.”
Lydia was at a loss. How was she supposed to summarize her thane to this Ordinator’s satisfaction? She didn’t want to insult them by listing his less…complimentary qualities, and right now those were all her treacherous brain could conjure. “He has red hair, a long face, ah…he is clever and skilled with magic—“
“You have just described one in every ten Dunmer in Morrowind, myself included! You—“
“For one he knows how to listen!” Her retort seemed to shock the elf into silence, and she found her voice rising in volume as her irritation with her constant belittlement at the hands of these people finally overwhelmed her better sense. “You want a description? He’s smart, but thinks he’s better than everyone else, which would be even worse if he didn’t make a habit of being right so damned much! He asks questions because he can’t stand not knowing something, and the idea that something might be a bad idea is generally taken as an indication that he needs to do it even more!” That wasn’t, strictly speaking, a terribly accurate description, but she still wasn’t particularly happy with her thane for sending her to this place.
Neither guard said anything, and she instantly felt shame flood her. Oh gods, what did I say? She’d been so caught up in her own anger that she’d—Sweet Mara’s mercy, I insulted my thane!
Quickly, she tried to correct herself. “He’s insightful. He sees things, and thinks about them. When he acts, it’s for a goal, not because he’s afraid of doing nothing. He…he saved my life, and never once used that fact to coerce me.” How did she describe being Dragonborn, what that meant? “He…he is my thane, and I serve him gladly, because the path before him is difficult, but he is resolved to walk it.” She fell silent again, but this time she was content with what she’d said.
The guard in the robe nodded. “Enter.”
Again, she was taken aback. “Just like that?”
The masked head tilted slightly. “This displeases you?”
“No, but, it’s just…” She trailed off, not certain how to describe their bizarre test without offending.
The guard in the robe shifted slightly. “I have known Velandryn Savani for the better part of twenty years. Your letter and your words claimed his name and title to pass the way we guard. I would not see his name used as part of some deception, so I discovered the truth of the matter. You know him well enough, though it is through an outlander’s eyes. You say you have business within, and so I bid you enter.”
The other guard’s mask turned to regard her now. “Be welcome at Great Fane, Lydia of Whiterun ko’thil’ten Indoril Velandryn Savani. Enter without fear, and leave without regret.” The words had the weight of ritual behind them, and Lydia bowed her head in thanks.
Taking back her papers, she walked under the arch, and onto the grounds of Great Fane. She stood on at the end of a long walkway that stretched towards the central palace building—except that it wasn’t a building at all.
Great Fane was an island, though it was an island unlike any that she had ever seen. The wall she had seen from outside formed the rim of a basin that contained—of all things—a lake. It was perfectly still, and Lydia had no doubt it had somehow been constructed here, another gesture to show the power of the Temple.
Five structures rose from the water. Lydia would have called them islands, but she was fairly certain that islands weren’t built. Each was a flat-topped and multi-leveled pyramid with rounded edges, and four of them seemed fairly similar in design. These were spaced evenly towards the outside of the lake, and each had two levels. Just above the water, there was a walkway of sorts, and numerous doors and windows leading into the building. Then, on the flat top that she was thinking of as the second level, there were more structures, many of them in styles she recognized from the city below.
In the center of the lake was the final island, and Lydia had no doubt that it was the main complex of this temple and likely the Dunmer faith. The idea that there could be another structure superior to this one was beyond her capacity for belief. Where the outer islands had single walkways around their edges and broad flat tops, this one rose in a confusing jumble of platforms, walkways, and galleries that seemed to sprout at random from the sides of the pyramid and arced around to connect with other level or islands through some logic she couldn’t imagine. Atop this madness was the palace—she had decided that she was going to keep calling it that, as she knew no other word grand enough to encapsulate it.
The palace looked as she’d seen it, a great three-spired hall pointing into the stormy and ashen sky. It shared the top of the central structure with what looked from a distance to be fountains or ornamentation of some sort, but there were no other buildings to rival its dominance of the scene.
She started walking along a bridge that stretched out from the gate to the central structure—should I call it an island? An Ordinator was walking towards her at a measured pace, in armor similar to the ones outside, but still different enough to be unique. Wearily, Lydia made ready to show her papers, but this one did not stop her. Indeed, they passed each other silently, and if the Dunmer under the mask was confused by her presence in Great Fane, he or she hid it well.
Thinking as she walked, Lydia decided that the Ordinators within the temple must have enough faith in the ones guarding the outside that they wouldn’t randomly harass those who’d made it through the walls. She still wasn’t comfortable around them, but it made good sense. Or, they communicated by magic and let that one know I was coming. She didn’t think they could do that, but she’d decided to assume the worst when it came to Morrowind.
Ahead, the central structure of the temple loomed above her, and it was with a bit of apprehension that she kept walking towards it. She’d never been any place quite like this, and this place made her feel small in a way that all of the mountains and tundra of Skyrim could not. She passed a pair of statues, matched Dunmer, male and female, gazing down from their pedestals rising out of the water. She felt as though they were judging her, and stood a little straighter as she marched on.
The bridge she was on led straight to the central structure, and she noticed for the first time the other walkways linking the islands. Some were huge and flat, hanging just above the water, while others were high arched spans that rose and fell seemingly at random. Somebody unfamiliar with the area would certainly get lost, but doubtless someone who had known the place for years could use those bridges to—
Ahead, a pair of blue-robed Dunmer who seemed deep in conversation stepped off one of the bridges, and she started to shout out a cry of warning. Before she could, however, they were over nothing but open air. She started to run, hoping to at least catch one of them. However, they did not fall. Still talking casually, they walked on the air until they arrived at an outer wall of one of the islands, where one of them opened a door and they vanished. Lydia drew herself up, hoping against hope that nobody had seen her panic.
“You look a little lost, outlander. Your first time here?” The voice was female, and evidently amused.
Sighing, she turned. She hadn’t even heard the other approach. “What exactly do you mean by here?”
The Dark Elf facing her was shorter than Velandryn, clothed in a green robe inlaid with a pattern of golden shapes that seemed to spin if she focused on them. She looked young, but Lydia was the first to admit that she couldn’t tell elf ages well at all.
The Dunmer’s eyes shone. “Civilization, of course. Outlanders are rare, but you all have the same look.” She tilted her head. “What brings you to Great Fane?”
Lydia decided to ignore the civilization remark. “I have business here. Look.” She produced the second letter, the one Velandryn had said was for once she had arrived at the temple. This one was broad and thick, more a sheaf of papers, in truth.
The elf glanced down at the writing on the document. Her eyes shone, though with what Lydia couldn’t say. “Oh. Well, you should go straight ahead, and ask once you’re in the Hall.”
“The Hall?” By the way the elf had said it, it was less a description than a name.
The elf blinked again. “The Hall of the Three. Three towers, see? Wisdom, Faith, Justice.” She paused. “The big building ahead. Go there. Talk. To. Somebody.” She spoke slowly now, as though to a child.
Lydia was seized with a sudden urge to smack this impudent little elf in the head. “Thank you. Kyne be with you.” It wasn’t a proper farewell in Morrowind, she supposed, but neither was “f*ck you too, little elf,” which was the only other thing coming to mind.
“Wrong gods, outlander!” That last was said in a mocking tone, and Lydia had to bite her tongue. Be better than her. She’d help nobody by assaulting a Dark Elf in their holy place.
“Acolyte, if you have time to be harassing outlanders, then you are clearly being underutilized.” The voice came from over Lydia’s shoulder, clearly belonging to another Dunmer woman, though it carried calm authority that the little elf before her lacked.
The Dunmer who’d been belittling her flinched as though she’d been struck, and quickly bowed her head. “No…I was only—“
“And you have the time to argue back as well! Shall I learn your name, or would you prefer to leave before you compound your error?” The voice was from behind Lydia, but she wasn’t about to miss this little elf’s cringing to see who was talking. A part of her knew she shouldn’t be enjoying it this much, but she didn’t really care.
The Dark Elf bowed deeply and scurried off, and Lydia let herself turn to see who was behind her. It was another Dunmer woman, taller than most, with a face that managed to convey age while still remaining smooth. She had a tattoo that resembled nothing so much as a dotted line that wound its way around and across her features, and her clothing, a robe of mottled gold and blue, was marked with similar patterning.
“Though I will not antagonize you, I am curious as to your purpose here.” Lydia had never heard a Dark Elf voice that she could call calming before, but this one managed it.
“I’ve come to deliver this.” Once more, she proffered the thick sheaf of papers—though this time, she made sure to include Velandryn’s note as well, and the tall elf took them with a long-fingered hand.
Her eyes narrowed as she studied the note Lydia had been showing guards all day, and she blinked a single time upon seeing the single line of text that was, Lydia assumed, the name of whoever the thick letter was for. “How…interesting.” She turned, tucking the papers under an arm. “Follow. The one you seek is in the central canton, and no outlander could hope to navigate it unaided. Acolytes should have better things to do than play guide to lost humans, so you shall follow me.” She moved away, not bothering to check if Lydia was following.
For once, Lydia found herself not having to shorten her strides while walking alongside a Dark Elf. This one was still a few inches shorter than Lydia, but she moved with quick purpose, and though Lydia couldn’t tell for certain because of the robe, the length of each stride made her suspect that the other woman’s legs were quite long for her body. So, they matched each other, something that made conversation easier.
Or, it would have, if Lydia had had anything to say, or if the Dunmer had shown any inclination for conversation. Finally, she decided to break the silence. She had too many questions, after all. Clearly Velandryn had been a bad influence on her.
“Thank you for helping me, though I never learned your name.” It wasn’t the most elegant inquiry she’d ever had, but she wasn’t at her best right now.
The Dunmer might have been amused; her voice suggested the hint of it, at least. “You failed to learn it because I did not give it.” They walked on for a moment more. “I am Nas-anu Assashami.”
What? Lydia knew what Dunmer names sounded like, and whatever this woman had said wasn’t that. “Well, thank you.”
“Just like that? Are you more familiar with the Dunmer than you appear, to let my name go unremarked?” Damn it all. The woman was definitely amused now. She could appreciate Dark Elf humor, but only when it happened to someone else.
“I didn’t want to be rude, but you’re right. I’ve never heard its like.”
The other woman’s eyes were bright. “You are an outlander, as incapable of courtesy as you are of impropriety. I would not punish a child for speaking of matters beyond its knowledge, and I will not criticize you for displaying your ignorance. I do wonder, though, if it was this consideration that inspired the Repentant to allow you past the gate armed and armored. Perhaps the title of ko’thil, archaic though it is, holds weight for them.” She paused. “Or, they decided that a single outlander, no matter how she was attired, could do little to harm us. If so that is a lapse in their judgement, and must be remedied.”
Lydia was confused, as much by what the elf—Nassa-something, was that her name?—had called the guards as by anything else. “I thought the guards at the outer wall were called Ordinators. What are Repentant?”
“Their proper title is the Order of the Repentant Temple Militant, though it is rarely used. Some prefer to shorten it to Ordinators, a reminder of the lineage from which they claim descent, though I find that distasteful. The Ordinators of the Tribunal persecuted my people for generations. So, to me and mine they are the Repentant, that they do not forget the sins of the past.”
They walked on in silence for a moment, Lydia trying to process all of this. The Dunmer are confusing enough as it is, and now they go and disagree with each other? She was getting lost, and fast. What was it this woman had said? Her people had been persecuted by the Ordinators, and now the Ordinators were…repentant? What exactly did that mean?
First things first. “You said your people? Who are those?”
The elf clicked her tongue. “Your master, this Velandryn Savani. How long have you served him?”
She didn’t even pretend to answer my question! Still, she was a stranger here. “Since the end of Last Seed, so…about a month, a bit more, actually.” However, this Nassa—ambu, was it?— had said outlanders couldn’t be rude, so… “You never answered my question.”
The woman stopped abruptly, and Lydia nearly tripped over her own feet as she tried to stop and turn at once. “How old are you, human?”
“What?” Apparently this elf didn’t understand how a conversation worked.
“You are young, this much is obvious. I have often wondered if it is due to the short lifespan of your kind that humans are so intolerably impatient. Your question will be answered, but I am not in the habit of arresting or paring down my thoughts and words for the convenience of one who cannot be bothered to listen.”
Or you just like the sound of your own voice. That wasn’t a worthy thought, however, so it would remain unsaid. Not to mention I’m a nobody here. She didn’t want to even think about what happened to outlanders who deliberately insulted high-ranking natives. That this woman held some rank was beyond question. Nobody without authority carried themselves like that.
They walked in silence for a few moments more. Ahead, the central canton loomed and the temple atop it reared into the sky like a dragon, complete with fire billowing from high above. Lydia could make out tiny figures standing at balconies and walking along pathways high above, and tried to imagine what the view must be like from up there. Higher than Dragonsreach, for sure.
“Impressive, no?” Nassa—close enough to whatever her real name is—was looking up as well. “What do you think of it, outlander?”
Lydia said nothing. She can answer my questions if she wants answers of her own.
The Dark Elf sighed, and clicked her tongue. “Petulance does not become you. If you insist on acting a child, I shall treat you as one, and I do not think you would enjoy the discipline I administer.” A hand snaked out and gripped Lydia’s jaw. “I know the difference between thoughtful silence and its sullen cousin, and I do not tolerate the latter.”
Lydia yanked herself away, easily breaking the other woman’s grip, though the elf’s thin hand had gripped her with surprising strength. “Hands off, elf!” She almost drew her sword, but the sight of the gold-clad Ordinator not twenty feet away turning to see what this commotion was all about made her think better of it. She took a deep breath. “I’m done playing your games. Take me where I need to go.”
The elf turned and resumed her measure pace towards the central temple. “As you wish.” Lydia hurried to catch up with her. “To answer your question, outlander, I am of Clan Harisali. I am Velothi, though the House Dunmer and your kind would call us Ashlanders. It is for this reason that a bear a name pregnant with the syllables of my ancestors, and do not trust those who wear the armor of Indoril, no matter what they call themselves in this latter age.”
Ashlander. She’d heard of them, of course; nomadic Dunmer who had some sort of quarrel with the city-dwellers. They’d refused to join the Temple or something, and now they lived in the remote places of Morrowind. They were like the Old Clans, in a way, and every story agreed they were both dangerous and untrustworthy. Frankly, she’d never actually thought she’d meet one.
“I see. I...um, what are you doing here? I thought your kind—erm, the Ashlanders didn’t worship the Three.”
Nassa laughed. “Your ignorance shrouds the truth in your intent. We never worshipped the False Tribunal, but with the fall of the Three Thieves and the Restoration of the Temple, some of us see our place as among the House-born. I would not want to live my entire life among these walls, but for ten years I have shepherded the acolytes and taught them the proper ways of the Velothi. We alone among the Dunmer never forgot who we truly were, and this knowledge must be imparted to each generation of the Anointed.” She looked up at the massive temple above them. “No matter how lofty its peak, a mountain will crumble if its base is lacking. So it is with this new world the Temple is building.”
Lydia was, if anything, left with even more questions that before. “So, the Ashlanders are part of..I mean—“
The elf made a cutting motion with her hand, and Lydia stopped short. “Do not try to say we are part of their Council, or swear oaths to this House or that. We are honored for keeping to the true faith, but we are not them. The Redoran made the offer to the Tribes, and some chose to join their House Sadras, to serve and live among them. I did not. I am here as Velothi, not as one of them. I would not expect an outlander to understand.”
Lydia thought about Velandryn, about his comments during their adventures, and her experience travelling through this city. “You might be surprised.”
The elf studied her. “I might be.” She took one more step, then turned back. “Your master, he has never spoken of this, of his heritage?”
He speaks of little else. “He has told me stories of Morrowind, and his time with the Temple.” She was picking her words carefully. This elf was keeping secrets, and Lydia didn’t want to give more than she got. I wish I was better at this. Velandryn or the vampire would have enjoyed it, but these games were not something she enjoyed.
The elf shook her head. “You misunderstand. I refer to his Ashlander heritage.”
“What?” Velandryn had never spoken of that. He didn’t seem much like this one, and his name was nothing like hers. Wait, didn’t she say she didn’t know his name “I thought you didn’t know him.”
“I don’t, but a name like Velandryn was not chosen at random, and it was certainly not given by a House Dunmer, no matter how pious. No, that name was chosen by an Ashlander to be at once acceptable to the House Dunmer while still proclaiming his heritage.” She studied Lydia. “Perhaps he is half-blooded; they are becoming increasingly common in this latter age.” She shrugged. “It is not the worst of things, the mixing of the ways. Better than the old patterns, of hunting and hatred and heresy, I think.”
Something about the way the woman had spoken struck Lydia as odd… “How old are you, exactly?” It had almost sounded as if—
“I have two hundred and ninety-eight years. The first century of my life was spent as an outcast, and these last two as honored outsider. I have known the Temple as both adversary and ally, and thus, when I speak of them and my mistrust, it is with the weight of experience. Does that answer the questions you have yet to ask?”
Lydia bowed her head. “Yes, and thank you.”
“Is that contrition? It suits you no more than did your earlier sullenness.”
She hadn’t intended it to be seen as an apology or anything; bowing one’s head was simply a gesture of respect in Skyrim. However, she was sick and tired of being tugged around by this elf as though they were on either end of a rope.
She sighed. “Just take me wherever I need to go, and I’ll be out of your hair.”
The elf didn’t smile, of course, but her eyes were bright. “That suits you much better. Come along, outlander.”
Bringing down the Hlaalu was easy. The merchant lords had grown fat and soft, using mercenaries to guard their plantations and funding Legion presences in their towns. Once the Red Dragon fled back to Cyrodiil and abandoned us, their time was done, even if they could not see it.
With the Ashlanders bolstering the forces I had brought from Vvardenfell and the Temple in disarray, it was easy to neutralize those councilors and nobles who had not died or fled. Most were holed up in what remained of their lands or manor houses, desperately trying to gather some semblance of power about themselves. I will make no apologies for what happened to them. It was unsavory, perhaps, but ultimately necessary.
No matter what the rumormongers will claim, I did not order the culling of the Hlaalu nobility. I led our army to Mournhold, true, and shattered the gates of the royal place with Veloth’s Judgement, but my only goal was to ensure that King—a meaningless title bestowed by the Empire— Helseth could do no further harm with his machinations. That the people of Morrowind killed nine of every ten Hlaalu nobles should be seen as an indictment of them, rather than some master-stroke on my part.
I will never deny the orders I have given, and it is with pride that I say I slew the last king of Morrowind in single combat, but I will not be held accountable for the actions of others. Nonetheless, I do not weep that Hlaalu was so weakened, and I firmly believe that Morrowind is the stronger for their removal from the Council. Had they remained, they would have only spread their outland poison and undermined the resolve of our people.
Indoril, however, could not be destroyed, no matter how much they deserved it. Casting out one Great House was all but unheard of, and had I tried for a second, I might well have started another war. It is one thing to curse the merchants who sold your homes to foreign rulers, and quite another to tear down the House that had, for four thousand years, served as the face and name of the Tribunal Temple. They could hardly be left alone, however. Every noble of House Indoril had family in the Temple, and I was forced to sit through a dozen motions calling for the cessation of the Temple Reconciliation in the first year of the New Council alone.
It was Mehra Milo who suggested the plan, and I shall forever be in her debt. By merging House Indoril into the Temple, we ensured the survival of both while bringing them to heel. The resources of House Indoril went a long way towards allowing the Temple to begin rebuilding its infrastructure, and the former Dissident Priests under Archcanon Barelo made sure that the Indoril nobility did exactly as they were told. Within fifty years, “joining Indoril” was a term for becoming a priest—I personally suspect Mehra’s indescribably wicked tongue of spearheading that little barb, though she has never confirmed it.
With Indoril pacified and our Ashlander allies in House Sadras seated firmly on the Great Council, the internal safety of Morrowind has been assured. I neither know nor care how history will remember me, for my every action has been to strengthen Morrowind and the Dunmer. I pen this only so that the future leaders of our people may look back on my victories and mistakes, and become stronger for it. We alone are the chosen of the gods, and we alone control our destiny.
Memoirs of Banden Indarys, Grandmaster of House Redoran and First Councilor of Blacklight, written 4E 129.
Publisher’s Note: These memoirs have never been released publicly, as it is felt that some of the sensitive information contained within would prove detrimental to the unity and harmony of the nation of Resdayn-Morrowind. However, they are very useful for members of House Redoran who wish to familiarize themselves with Grandmaster Indarys’ exploits.
The hallways of the central building—the “canton,” Nassa called it—were lit by a warm golden light that seemed to come from everywhere at once. Lydia chalked it up to magic, and focused instead on studying the people and sights they passed. Dunmer in robes of a dozen different cuts and colors scurried by, more than a few staring at her as they passed. Nassa, for her part, might as well have been alone in the hall, so swift and assured was she in her stride. Lydia kept moving as well, and tried not to miss anything.
One door that they passed stood slightly ajar, and Lydia spotted what looked to be some sort of ritual. She heard chanting, for cure, and the light within was far dimmer and redder than it was outside. When she asked Nassa, however, the Ashlander barely spared the doorway a glance.
“Prayer is a private matter. It is not for outlanders to question.” The Dunmer wasn’t unfriendly, but Lydia got the feeling that the other woman regarded her as some sort of creature that, for all that it might walk and talk, wasn’t fully human. Or fully Dunmer. My being human is the problem.
The hallway they were traveling down suddenly opened before them, and for a moment Lydia thought they were outside again. However, a moment later she realized her mistake.
They were in a massive domed hall, the roof easily thirty or forty feet above them. They stood on one of many walkways that ran along the walls, perhaps a third of the way up the side. The floor below was covered in life, and though the only things growing there were mushrooms and other strange plants, some were so tall that she had to crane her neck upwards to see their tops.
Studying the floor below, she realize that it was some sort of garden. She could see paved paths marked among the plants, and glowing crystals lit bridges and walkways that wound over and about the room. As she looked, she made out a few fountains and streams as well, and even a fire pit that doubtless had some religious significance. Dunmer walked, read, spoke in quiet voices, and practiced magic everywhere she looked.
She noticed a human suddenly, some sort of Breton or Imperial in a simple green robe, one of four in similar clothing gathered around a fountain. She barely had time to register this, however, before Nassa was pivoting and leading her towards a ramp that arced over the room and met a doorway in the upper reaches of the celling.
“Come. The Mycologeum is a magnificent room, but the hour grows late, and I would see you to Nerim before the evening prayers.”
“Nerim?” The name was unfamiliar to her.
“You do not know to whom you were sent? I must meet this Velandryn Savani someday, and complement him on how well he educates his retainers.” Lydia briefly tried to figure out which of the possible meanings Nassa had intended, before giving it up as a fool’s task. Knowing Dark Elves, it might well be all of them.
The hallways above the chamber—Mycolo-something, she called it—were much the same as the ones below it, though finer in almost every regard. The halls themselves were slightly wider, the doors they passed were both more ornate and spaced farther apart, and the alcoves and stairwells boasted paintings and sculptures that made the place feel as much museum as temple. When they passed a balcony that looked out over the massive temple complex below, Lydia realized just how high up they were. Higher than Dragonsreach, for certain. If she took into account the sea as the lowest level, she was certainly even higher than Dragonsreach was above the tundra outside Whiterun. It was an odd thought.
The Dunmer they met here were fewer, but clearly of higher rank. Rather than the greens and browns of the ones below, most she saw wore gold robes or red, many of them intricate with scrollwork and embroidery. She considered trying to figure out what the robes meant, but quickly realized it would be impossible without asking Nassa, and she’d decided not to ask the Ashlander anything else. Doesn’t like me angry, doesn’t like apologies, doesn’t seem she likes much of anything at all!
Nassa stopped abruptly before a door much like the others they had passed, with a small plaque at just below eye-height with some Daedric writing that, while likely useful for them, told Lydia nothing at all. Lydia looked at her curiously, but the Dark Elf simply stood there for a moment, apparently thinking. Then, nodding, she reached out and rapped twice.
A moment later, the door opened and an Ordinator faced them. This one’s armor was black but accented with silver, and shone as though it was enchanted in some way. The mask turned to regard Lydia, and then spoke a few short words of Dunmeris.
Nassa answered in the same tongue. Lydia heard the words “Lydia,” “Whiterun,” “ko’thil,” and “Velandryn Savani.” In the middle of her speech, Nassa handed over the papers she’d taken from Lydia, and the Ordinator took them in one glove. Lydia noted with interest that, unlike the others she’d seen outside, this one’s armor looked almost sparse, and she realized it was the same for almost all of the ones she’d encountered since entering the canton. She wondered if that was normal for those who had to operate indoors. Some of the shoulders she had seen, the ones with tassels and ornamentation hanging off of absurdly broad lengths, might not even have fit through some of the doors below.
The Ordinator glanced down at the documents in his hand, nodded once at the two of them, and closed the door. They stood out there for a minute, Lydia feeling increasingly awkward but determined not to show it, while Nassa was apparently perfectly at ease. Finally, the door swung open again. The Ordinator, papers no longer in hand, looked up at her. “You may enter, Lydia of Whiterun.” He turned to Nassa and spoke more words she couldn’t understand before vanishing back behind the door
Nassa placed a hand on Lydia’s shoulder. “This is where we part. You are young, Lydia ko’thil Velandryn Savani, but you have potential. Serve your master well, and heed the teachings of the Three, and when next we meet you will have become the woman you must be.” With that, she was off, striding down the hall before Lydia could even think to respond.
The Ordinator had left the door ajar, and Lydia stepped inside. Within she found a small chamber, furnished with plants she did not recognize and art in styles she could not name. The Ordinator sat at a desk on one side of the room, glancing up from a stack of papers as Lydia shut the door behind her. Her mask was resting on the desk, and the woman beneath was as old as any Dunmer Lydia had yet seen.
In Whiterun, guards who survived to get too old to serve generally retired, getting happily drunk on their pensions from the jarl. Some hung around the barracks and harassed newcomers with stories of how things were done in their day, and Lydia had sometimes considered what kind of life she would lead should she reach that age. She hadn’t looked forward to her body, which she had always trained and taken pride in, failing her to the point where she could no longer fight.
This Dark Elf, however, didn’t seem to share her concerns. Her white hair and lined face screamed her age, but she moved with agility and grace, and Lydia doubted that the Ordinators would let any wear their armor who couldn’t at least put up some fight. She had heard the stories, after all, and she couldn’t see the heroes of Arik Pass letting their armor become a vanity for some old soldier. She might not feel comfortable here, but she couldn’t doubt the devotion of the Dunmer when it came to their gods and those who served them.
The Ordinator gestured across the room, to where a low bench was pushed against one wall. “Sit there. Prelate Llervos will see you shortly.” Lydia sat beside a sculpture made of what looked to be shimmering black glass, trying not to do anything stupid. The Ordinator wasn’t watching her overtly, but she got the feeling that the other woman was studying her out of the corner of her eye. It’s what I would have done, after all.
Long minutes passed, and Lydia gradually became aware that this bench had not been intended for somebody of her stature. Her knees came up slightly too high and the overall feeling was one of vague discomfort. Too much longer and she’d wind up sore, but she could hardly go pacing in this sort of environment. I won’t shame my people!
Finally, the Ordinator looked up. “He is ready for you.”
The words came before she could stop them. “Wait…how do you know?”
The Dunmer raised a hand and pointed to a small potted mushroom on her desk, one that Lydia had assumed was purely decorative. Looking closer, however, she suddenly saw the light shining from it, and understood.
“He told you through the mushroom?” Considering all that she had seen today, it seemed wrong for the most bizarre thing to be a communication mushroom, but there it was.
Dunmer didn’t smile or frown, but they could convey volumes of information with their eyes and tone, and Lydia was becoming very good at figuring out those clues. She almost wished she was still oblivious, as she was getting sick of Dark Elves laughing at her. “In a sense. Now, go. I do not expect an outlander to understand propriety, but I would hope that using this barbaric tongue would at least ensure understanding. Was I wrong?”
Lydia bit back a dozen retorts. “Not in the least. My thanks for—“ She couldn’t say deigning— “for answering my questions.” She rose, bowed slightly to the Ordinator, and passed through the second door.
The room she entered seemed almost bare after the rich furnishing of the chamber behind her. A few tapestries hung from the walls, and a shrine at the far end held a trio of small statues, but overall the small room gave off an air of quiet in a way she could not place. Something burned at the shrine, and the scent of the smoke put her in mind of fire and earth, and made the hairs on her neck stand slightly on edge.
There was only one other person in here with her, a Dark Elf standing behind a desk laden with papers and books, and she knew immediately that this was who she had been sent to find. He had a long oiled beard where Velandryn’s jaw was smooth, and his hair was silver-white instead of red, but their eyes were the same. While his face had a roundness that was sharply at odds with her thane’s, and his golden robe was so layered with embroidery and ornamentation that it was a minor miracle he had stood to greet her, there was no mistaking the eyes. Eyes that burned and pierced, and held humor if you knew how to look. Not cruel, but sharp. They were two of a kind, this aged elf and her thane.
The Dunmer tapped the sheaf of papers before him, and then gave her a perfect smile. “Lydia of Whiterun, I believe?” He gestured to her. “If you would be so kind as to give your crossbow to Ferana? Velandryn mentioned that our smiths might like to have a look at it.”
With a start, she realized that the Ordinator was still standing behind her. How did I miss a person in armor that ridiculous? Wordlessly, she handed over the crossbow, as well as the little pouch of bolts. The guard accepted them, and retreated, closing the door behind her. I’d better get that back. If Morthal and the vampire hunt there had shown her anything, it was that the unconventional weapon was well worth lugging around, despite its not-insignificant weight.
The old Dunmer smiled again. “Why don’t you sit down? I have a great many questions for you, and I would be shocked if you didn’t have at least a few for me.”
Lydia sat. Her host smiled once more. It was odd to see from one of the Dark Elves, but it did help put her at ease. “My name is Nerim Llervos, and you have come quite a long way to find me, it seems. Velandryn has written to give me his telling of events in Skyrim, but I would like yours.” He leaned forward, and the intensity of his gaze was almost a perfect match for her thane’s. “I want to know everything.”
The Councilor was imperious, but not at all unfriendly. In this city, which had once been called Old Ebonheart and now went by Alum Bal, I had noticed a high number of non-Dunmer, all of whom seemed perfectly at ease not only living alongside the natives, but even in using their tongue and worshipping their gods. I had not expected this from the Redoran, who were historically unfriendly to the Empire. I inquired as to what had brought this about.
“Outlander” is a very faithful translation of a complex word, but, as is typical, outlanders have misunderstood it. The word means exactly what it says: one who is not of Morrowind, not of our way. The ones you say you saw are not outlanders, but garan’sul (Note: while an exact definition of this word is difficult, it is derived from terms for “adoption” and “foreigner.”) who have lived among us for all of their lives.
I had never before heard of this term. I asked if this was related to the infamous Sixteenth Legion.
In a way. When much of the Sixteenth refused to return to Cyrodiil during what you call the Oblivion Crisis, they earned the love of our people. Many died in Dagon’s invasion, but those who survived worked alongside us to rebuild, and in doing so earned a place in our land. When the Argonians invaded and the Empire refused to send aid, Legate Darius and the Sixteenth Legion were instrumental in keeping the invaders bottled in Mournhold until Warleader Indarys could bring the Redoran host to bear.
When the Council was reorganized and the Hlaalu tried to raise their army, King Helseth famously offered Legate Darius his weight in gold to march against Redoran. In response, Darius and his officers dyed their banners and plumage red, and declared that they served Morrowind, not Hlaalu. Considering that the Sixteenth Legion had been in Morrowind without the blessing of the Elder Council for almost ten years and there was no Emperor, Darius must have seen the wisdom of making sure he and his had a place in the new world, and thrown his lot in with the Redoran. After The Great Council convened for the first time, the Sixteenth was given lands to hold and a charter to train recruits in service of the laws and people of Morrowind. General Darius declared that they were the Sixteenth Legion no longer, but rather the only Red Legion in Morrowind. Since that event, the Red Legion has become a fixture in our lives, and we know that should we ever go to war, they will march beside us.
At this, I gently pointed out that she had never actually explained garan’sul.
(Laughs) I didn’t, did I? I’ve always loved the story of the Red Legion, but if you want to know about garan’sul, you are halfway there. Garan’sul are not of Dunmer blood but neither are they outlanders. Many were born here, descended from slaves or foreigners, while some few come here and submit themselves before the Temple and the Law, asking to learn our ways. The Red Legion are garan’sul, and most of non-Dunmer blood who choose to serve in a militant capacity do so within the Legion.
I asked about the famous dislike of foreigners, and how the garan’sul played into that.
Some older ones will tell you it’s about blood, but I disagree. If an outlander wants to be part of our world, let them display their worth, and I shall accept them gladly. Send them to the Temple, have them walk like us, and I will embrace each and every one and offer them shelter and service in my lands.
It’s the others, the ones who think us demons or whatever other words they’ve made up to justify their hate, who I find worthy of contempt. Pas kyr s’wit! (A Dunmer oath insulting outlanders of low moral character)
Pallodius Mavax, Words of the Dunmer: A Firsthand Experience, Compiled 4E 137-139
As Lydia fell silent, the eyes of the Dunmer were bright. He had his fingers steepled before him, and he gave her another of those natural-looking smiles. “Well now, that’s not the sort of story you hear every day.”
Lydia had been honest, but tried to keep her opinions to a minimum. She didn’t think this elf needed to know how many times she’d been tempted to smack Velandryn in the head at the beginning of their relationship, after all.
The Dunmer leaned back. Nerim Llervos, he’d said his name was. He was clearly of some authority in the Temple, since she doubted every priest had chambers with an Ordinator outside. Prelate, the old Ordinator had called him. Somehow, she doubted that was the Dunmer word. “I admit, the legends of the Dragonborn are not an area in which I have invested much study, but I understand why Velandryn sent you to me.”
“I’ve not been entirely clear on that, actually. Did my thane happen to mention what it was I was supposed to be giving you?” Lydia had some ideas, but she’d gladly play the ignorant Nord if it meant getting more information. She was sick of drowning in questions.
The Dunmer tapped the papers again. “This. An account of the events that have transpired in Skyrim, and a list of topics on which to get your perspective.” Another smile. “He has also asked me to provide him with any dragonlore we possess, as well as anything relating to the Dragonborn or the Thu’um.” The smile was gone now. “That last, we have much of, but little that would help you much, I think. Do you know why, Lydia of Whiterun?”
“I’m guessing it’s all about killing Tongues.” To be fair, the Tongues had killed a great many Dark Elves as well, but there was no love lost between the ancient Nord warrior-heroes and their favorite enemy.
“You guess well. I do not think I can provide your master with much aid, but I will send some Attendants and Acolytes through the Archives tonight to see what can be found.” He tapped a finger to his lips, seemingly deep in thought. “I’ll also send notes to those nobles and scholars in the city who would be amenable to rooting through their libraries at my request. Their collections, while doubtless somewhat lacking in metaphysical essays and tomes on the arcane arts, likely have a greater breadth of political and foreign material. Several make a habit of keeping abreast of events in Skyrim, and there are two I can think of who might actually have something worth knowing about Shouting or the Tongues.”
Despite the Dunmer’s dour tone, that actually sounded encouraging. Nonetheless, it was odd that Velandryn was sending her as far as Morrowind for information on these topics. “Forgive my rudeness, but does Velandryn mention why he’s asking for this from the Dunmer Temple? Surely my people know more about these topics.”
Nerim Llervos nodded. “I have no doubt that they do. However, the Nordic tradition is one of ballads and oral histories. It is a common saying at the Temple that the only time Nord knowledge gets written down is when an Imperial holds the quill.” He raised his eyes to regard her. “I mean this with no offense, but much of your history is lost, or held only through songs and stories.”
Honestly, Lydia had never considered the bardic tradition to be a flaw. “We remember. If you need our history, you are free to learn it.” She shrugged. “We write down what must be preserved exactly, so I’d wager the College of Winterhold or the Grand Library of Markarth has more of what my thane requires.”
The Prelate raised a hand. “I don’t doubt that they do, but even I have heard whispers of the Dragonborn. If the news has reached Morrowind, do you think any corner of Skyrim could remain ignorant? I know little of WInterhold and less of Markarth, but I suspect that Velandryn has no wish to make his identity known in either place.”
That was a good point. “Did he say that in his letter?”
“Not in so many words, but I was his mentor for three decades. He wants to gather as much knowledge and power as he can before he is exposed to the world.”
Lydia nodded. “We discussed that a few times. He’s worried that both the Empire and the Stormcloaks will try to use him, or simply have him killed if he joins with the other. A Dragonborn is a powerful figure in the eyes of my people, and neither side would want him joining their enemy.”
Nerim smiled. “And so, he sends you to contact the Temple.”
Lydia had seen him smile too many times now not to wonder. “A question. How is it you smile like a human? Velandryn doesn’t, and I’ve seen no other Dunmer here that do.”
“It is an affectation, nothing more.” Nerim admitted it easily, and his lips curled up again. “As a youth I spent time in the Empire, and learned from humans the mechanisms of their expressions. Have you ever seen a skill come effortlessly to another, and desired it for yourself? I learned, I practiced, and now, I have a trick I can break out to unnerve outlanders.” He laughed in his gravelly voice. “The look on your face when you first saw me smile is exactly the one that makes it all worthwhile.”
Too much like my thane by half. That thought reminded her of something, and she decided that she should be fine asking some questions. “The woman who brought me here, she said Velandryn is half Ashlander. He’s never mentioned it, so should I avoid the topic with him?” These insights could be invaluable for working with her thane.
When he wasn’t focused on being expressive, the Prelate’s face was as impassive as any Dunmer. “I don’t think that would be necessary. Velandryn has no qualms with his heritage, so far as I know. I would guess that his lack of mention was simply because he didn’t feel it was relevant. To the younger generations, having Ashlander blood is not nearly as remarkable as it would have been prior to the Reconciliation.” A shrug. “Or, perhaps in between becoming a Nord hero and pulling vampires out of ancient tombs, he decided it wasn’t worth the effort to explain.” His eyes narrowed. “It was Nas-anu who brought you here, no? Did she mention anything about Velandryn specifically?”
“I mean, she said she didn’t know who he was.” Lydia wasn’t sure what the Prelate was asking.
“Hmm.” He shrugged. “Ah, well, onto the other requests Velandryn made. One I am certain is a jest, and one is going to require some…delicacy.”
“And these are?”
“The first is a request for a battalion of Ordinators in full battle-kit and three platoons of Armigers. He mentions that they should be put under his direct command, and encourages me to mark them with the Red Hand Ghartok, so that they can be identified as his.” He raised his eyes to stare into hers. “This will not be possible. Even if I were interested in overstepping my authority such as no Prelate has done since the fall of the Tribunal, putting six hundred Ordinators under the command of an Anointed who has never served in any military is patently preposterous. This shall not be happening.”
Frankly, Lydia was astonished her thane had even asked for it. “I think he was joking, sir.” She didn’t find it funny, but there was no way he’d seriously asked for that.
“Sir? My title is Deyhn, and my name is Nerim. The Empire translated my position to Prelate, which I find sufficient. Sir, however, is a human affectation. It is, I am afraid, wholly inaccurate here.”
He smiled. “And of course he was joking. He also requested the Spear of Bitter Mercy; inform him that even if I were able to remove the Spear from Mournhold, his newfound status as a Nord culture-hero in no way qualifies him to handle Daedric artifacts.” Another smile. “The fact that I held the rank of…you would say vice-Prelate, I suppose, within the Temple when he left only further solidifies the idea that this was his idea of a hilarious jape. You may tell him that I have risen in rank, and am now able to reject these requests with even more authority than I possessed before. In fact, I shall include it in my reply to him. May he find it as amusing as I did.” Apparently, Dunmer humor made sense to them.
“Or course, s—Deyhn Nerim. What was the second request?”
“A…troubling one, actually, and one that involves you.” He shuffled the papers before him, and placed his finger midway down a page. “Velandryn Savani has demanded, by right of his status as a Kinsmer of House Indoril, that his annual dispensation be given to his ko’thil. This means that you, Lydia of Whiterun ko’thil’ten Velandryn Savani, would be granted a weapon and piece of armor from the armory of the Temple, not to exceed bonemold nor silver for quality.” He paused. “However, while Velandryn’s legal right to claim this is ironclad—he was kind enough to cite antecedents in House and Temple Law—it flies in the face of propriety, and I am inclined to disallow it.”
Lydia felt her stomach drop. This can’t be good. “May I ask why not?” She didn’t especially care about the weapon or armor for herself, but a housecarl was to enforce the will of their thane. If Velandryn felt that these things were needed, then she would get them.
The Prelate spread his hands. “I won’t bore you with the history behind it, but all Anointed of the Temple are, by virtue of their station, Kinsmer of House Indoril. Traditionally, Kinsmer are considered blooded members of a House and granted full protection. Were he here, asking for himself, I would have no problem with it. Indeed, many Anointed who are venturing forth to minister or study in remote areas carry with them the weapons to which they are entitled.”
Lydia suddenly understood. “The problem is me.”
Nerim nodded. “In a way. Velandryn claims that as you are ko’thil to a Kinsmer of House Indoril, you hold rank as a Retainer of his bloodline. Retainers are permitted to act in the name of their masters for certain matters, and what he has requested certainly permits this.” The Prelate sat back and studied one of the tapestries—this one showed a woman who looked to be Dunmer stretching out her hand above a trio of cowering elves with golden skin—before continuing.
“However, you are an outlander, and whatever the traditions of Skyrim may be, foreign oaths are not sufficient to bind you to the Great House Indoril. Therefore, you exist in a puzzling state of half-legality, where you could be considered a Retainer in some lights, but not for any of the true privileges accorded that rank.” He sighed. “I would reject you outright, but Velandryn was kind enough to cite precedent that might well give you the legal edge.”
Lydia felt more than a little lost, but she was going to stand up on behalf of her thane, even if it meant fighting for weapons she didn’t think he needed too much. It isn’t as if a sword will make much difference against a dragon. “So, outlanders have been accepted as Retainers before? What makes my case different?”
“Velandryn cites three cases where outlanders were adopted as Retainers of Great Houses without being required to swear oaths. One is from the time of the Ebonheart Pact, another is from the Third Era, and the last is less than a century old. The first can be dismissed as an extraordinary circ*mstance, given the madness of that time and the unique nature of the Pact.”
Lydia knew only a little about the Ebonheart Pact. The Nords, Dark Elves, and Argonians had banded together after the fall of the Second Empire, but it wasn’t a time period that came up much in her daily life. She’d heard some good songs about battles from the War of Three Banners, but that was the extent of her knowledge. “The other two seem more relevant, don’t they?”
“Perhaps. I lack Velandryn’s somewhat impressive memory, so I will need to consult the books from which he is citing his cases. However, anything from the Third Era is suspect due to the influence of Imperial practices on our laws, and the instance from the Fourth Era concerns an outlander who risked his own life to defend a House Cousin of Sadras. An act of heroism could be argued to be sufficient extenuating circ*mstance.”
“Are there really only three times in the history of Morrowind that this has happened?” If that was the case, Velandryn’s request here might well be as absurd as his one for an army had been.
“No, not at all. Your master, however, has something of a talent for recalling things he read years or decades before. Doubtless these are the three he could remember, and so he included them.”
Lydia felt momentarily foolish—of course her thane couldn’t be expected to know every case from the entirety of his people’s history—but she would only have been a bit shocked if he had. Velandryn had shown her that he had all sorts of odd knowledge locked up in his head, after all. Just then, something occurred to her. “So there could be more.”
The priest looked at her cooly. “Yes. The possibility exists. However, the real issue is that the Temple cannot condone gifting weapons and armor to outlanders. We have thrived these past two hundred years by focusing inward, and can ill afford to get caught up in the world’s affairs. You will have food, shelter, and transport to the Arik Pass, but you are not Dunmer, no matter what your oaths might claim. I understand that this is disappointing, but I will have copies made of relevant books, and will write out a letter for Velandryn before you depart.” He reached out and stroked a potted mushroom identical to the one on the Ordinator’s desk outside. “Your rooms will be made ready, as will baths and food should you desire it.”
Lydia felt a familiar heat in her belly, and let righteous anger fill her. “You understand nothing! I’ve fought a dragon, nearly burned alive in its flame, and the only reason I’m alive right now is because of the mer you are insulting!”
The Prelate rose, eyes darkening. “Watch your tone, outlander. You have been accorded rights beyond your station, but—“
“But nothing! I swore to defend Velandryn and make his battles my own, and he sent me here to deliver that letter. He sent me halfway across Tamriel to make sure that this was delivered to you. Now, I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure he gets what he needs! If that means weapons, then I will go down to your Archives and find every instance of an outlander doing what I did, and then I’ll come and dump them in your lap!”
Nerim raised his eyebrows, but his eyes were still dark. “Do you read Dunmeris? Perhaps you are fluent in Daedric, or Aldmeris?”
“I’ll find someone to translate them, then.” The anger was fading somewhat, but she couldn’t let herself back down. “My oath might not mean anything to your precious laws, but I am Housecarl and ko’thil to Velandryn Savani, and I take that duty seriously enough for the both of us! So, if you want me gone, call the Ordinators and have me dragged away. Otherwise, you’re stuck with me until you fulfill my thane’s request.”
“Actually, I think if young Velandryn had intended this to be a mere request, he would not have sent you.” The Prelate sat back in his chair, and steepled his fingers before him. “Suppose I concede to your…determination, and humor this…let us call it what it clearly is, this demand. It would be an act wherein the state religion of Morrowind—make no mistake, House Indoril is the Temple, and the Temple speaks with one voice so far as outlanders are concerned—sends weapons to one of its members abroad. Do you imagine the Empire would be pleased by this? I do not think the Stormcloaks will be overjoyed to see us sponsoring the Dragonborn.”
“Let them whine.” A month ago, Lydia would never had said that, but she wasn’t the same person she had been. “Velandryn is a member of the Temple, fighting for all who value their lives and freedom. The dragons have returned, and he’s fighting for all of us! If the Stormcloaks are upset you gave us tools to kill the dragons, I’ll drag them over to look at the bones outside Whiterun!” She was sick of politics, of worrying if she was going to reflect poorly on her people or her thane. She understood why Velandryn had sent her hear now. Lydia, I need you to speak with my voice. She only had hers, though, and she hoped it would be enough.
The Prelate raised one hand to stop her. “Your passion, while admirable, is misplaced. My concern over the Stormcloaks was merely an illustration of my larger point. Any aid seen to be sent to Velandryn—and if so much as an arrow is taken from a Temple armory, rest assured it is logged—is, in essence, a direct intervention in foreign affairs. What should I tell the Council, when they come to ask why a Kinsmer of House Indoril has decided to start rampaging across Skyrim claiming to be a Nord prophet?”
“Tell them the truth!” Why couldn’t he see the danger? “The dragons won’t stop with Whiterun, or even with Skyrim! Wherever they come from, whatever their plans, it affects you too! Do you think your border forts will stop flying foes? Isn’t it better to keep the dragons occupied in Skyrim than do nothing and wait until they attack Blacklight?”
The smile the Prelate gave her felt very genuine. “And there we go. Frame your argument to appeal to your audience. By battling the dragons in Skyrim, we are taking a proactive stand in defense of Morrowind. I have heard worse arguments, even if it isn’t precisely the one I would have chosen.”
“What would you have chosen?” Had this been a test?
“Your claim that we will prevent a dragon attack on our own soil presupposes our inability to easily defeat a dragon, which could well anger some of the more traditional Redoran Councilors. Rather, avoid that issue altogether and consider the Dragonborn’s unique potential to influence events in Skyrim. Velandryn’s letter indicates he is already aware of the implications raised by having a Dunmer fulfilling the role of a Nord culture hero. Such a figure mandates interest, and a pattern of support from Morrowind could prove advantageous in negotiations to come.” A pattern of lights flashed up the mushroom’s stalk, and Nerim glanced down. “I have much to do, and your room has been prepared. You should rest and refresh yourself. If you wish to bathe, I would recommend specifying that you wish to use water.”
“As opposed to what? Wait, just like that? You’re giving us the weapons?”
“You argued well, and I find myself quite convinced.” More like, you had already decided and wanted to have some fun with the outlander. Lydia knew what a test looked like, and now she could see the signs. “You will be brought to the armory in the morning, to choose a weapon and piece of armor as you see fit.” His eyes flicked over her. “There is much that will not fit you, but I believe the armorers will be able to make do.” He rose. “We shall speak on the morrow, Lydia’ten Whiterun, ko’thil Velandryn Savani. And, to answer your question, I suggested you bathe in water as opposed to flame. While many of our people enjoy a cleansing bath in a pit of living fire, I fear it would…disagree with you.
“Yes, yes it would.” She rose as well. “Thank you, Deyhn Nerim.” With a bow, she turned, but then remembered something. “You said you would answer my questions.” They were still bumping around in her head, risen again now that she knew she wasn’t going to be kicked out of the Temple or sent away empty-handed.
He laughed. “I did! Velandryn clearly intended direct and swift action by sending you in his stead; I can see that now. We have a saying that any deed requires an intent well-formed and a passionate advocate. Your master provided the first, and you the second. Very well, I can spare a few moments; your room needs to be made ready and a guide prepared for you, in any case.”
Once more the Prelate stood, but this time he turned to face a tapestry covered in geometric patterns and writing that looked like Daedric, but written vertically. He gestured, and the tapestry lifted itself away from the wall. The Dunmer turned back to Lydia, and indicated that she should rise. “This is a minor extravagance, but one that gives me great pleasure. Would you like to see?”
Curious despite herself, Lydia moved over to him. The old Dunmer gestured at the door. “Go ahead. I have had the pleasure many times, but this may be your only chance.”
What in Oblivion is behind this door? She put one hand on the smooth wood and pushed—and felt a rush of cold air.
She hadn’t felt air like that since—the mountains? Impossible! As she stepped through, though, she understood.
They were on a balcony more than halfway up the side of the huge temple. Before and below them stretched Blacklight, with jagged mountains around the city, and far in the distance, the grey and sullen sea. The storm seemed to have abated somewhat, and when Lydia looked out to the east and west she could see for miles and miles. Dark fields and mountaintops stretched away to the horizon, and far to the east the ever-present plume of smoke that could only come from Red Mountain.
Dusk was falling, and the city below was awash in flame. The braziers and pyres she had noted before gave Blacklight a network of constellations, and the torches carried by the guard were fireflies among them. Listen to me. I’ll be writing poetry next. It was beautiful, though.
“Not power, not prestige, not an office and Hand of my own. The greatest reward of the rank of Deyhn is this balcony. Do you understand why?”
“I…yes.” Words failed her. The Rootspire rose proudly from the distant waters, but even it couldn’t come close to their current height. “How tall…”
“Nine hundred saet from the cornerstone in the foundations, and three thousand, three hundred, and thirty-three from the level of the sea below.” His eyes were bright with amusem*nt. “There is little in this Temple not designed to be in some way sacred or portentous. In Imperial feet, two thousand or so from the sea, and about six hundred from the base, if I recall the numbers correctly. A tower from which to see our nation, that we may remember our duty and our pride.”
“I don’t think Dunmer have too much trouble coming up with pride, you know.” Lydia spoke without thinking as she tried to find the dockyard where Amar’balak was docked. It wasn’t until she’d finished that she realized she’d said it out loud.
Fortunately, it seemed to amuse the old elf rather than offend him. “You aren’t wrong, but the Temple cannot be content with the pride of the mundane. A merchant or a guard may walk tall knowing that he is of the chosen people, but in the day-to-day that is life, they may forget the truth of their greater purpose. We of the Temple have no such luxury, and sometimes we need distance to see clearly.”
“Well, you certainly have enough distance up here. Is the truth something I can understand, or are you just going to give me the speech about being an outlander?”
“I will not, though I have no intent of trying to teach you the Psijic Endeavor in an afternoon. My goal, by showing you this, is to help you understand Velandryn, and in doing so help him understand you.”
She hadn’t expected that. “Why?”
The priest was not looking at her anymore, but studying the vista below them. “Do you know who the greatest enemy of the Dunmer is, the one foe that brings us to ruination without fail?”
“Well, I’m hoping you won’t say the Nords.” The sarcasm slipped out before she could stop it, but Nerim hardly noticed.
“Our greatest enemy is ourselves. The Nords conquered us by exploiting the infighting among the tribes and houses, and we only freed ourselves once Nerevar united Ashlander and House-born. The Empire seduced House Hlaalu, and used their dominion over the Council to keep the other houses in check. Time and again we quarrel and destroy ourselves.” He fell silent for a moment, then continued. “The great mission of this Temple, known by many but rarely spoken aloud, is to transcend the hatreds and ambitions that drive our people, to forge a nation through common purpose. It is a delicate thing we do, but necessary. Even the Telvanni step lightly on sacred soil.”
“And you are telling me this because—“
“I did not lie before. The Temple can do little to help you or your master. My hands are tied by the strictures of my station and order, which enforce the impartiality of the Temple and ensure that our good work may continue. I may give Velandryn aid and counsel, but to offer any true material aid—other than that to which he is strictly entitled by law— would be catastrophic.”
“But why? He’s not even in Morrowind, and surely nobody would object to fighting dragons.” Couldn’t they see what her thane was up against?
“If that is what you think, then you’ve clearly never played politics with the Dunmer. The Dres would howl like branded Khajiit if the Temple even hinted at helping outlanders, and the only reason House Redoran is able to rule without fracturing into a half-dozen factions is because nobody’s brought up the idea of foreign intervention in almost two hundred years. The Telvanni have a habit of leaving the Council entirely when Morrowind gets involved in outside affairs, and half the priests here would start sharpening their knives if they thought the Ordinators would march to defend outland heretics. Believe me, if you wanted to watch the buildings of Baan Malur turn to dust before your eyes, go before the Council and petition on behalf of your thane! Velandryn did not send you to me by accident, you know.”
“You think he knows all of this?” Lydia had a hard time imagining her thane sending her here on a doomed errand.
“I am certain of it. In his letter, he mentions the political situation in Skyrim, and stresses the importance of, as he put it, ‘remaining just neutral enough’ that every side would rather work with him than against him. He doesn’t want to go making enemies, and it would be crass of me to make them here on his behalf.”
A part of Lydia was bothered that her thane had given this priest so much more information than he’d given her, but she reminded herself that these two had known each other for decades. “So, you’re trying to make me the best housecarl you can.”
“You call yourself housecarl, but to me, you are Velandryn’s ko’thil.” The priest’s eyes were kind as he gripped her shoulder in an affectionate gesture. “I wish him victory in the battles before him, and so I am going to make sure that the one who serves him is prepared for whatever may come. That you have strength of arms was evident from your armor and bearing. I had to test for myself that you had the wit needed to fight subtler foes.”
Oddly, this elf’s praise meant something to her. Might just be because it’s the first kind word I’ve heard in days. “So, where do we go from here?”
“As I said, I’m going to send somebody find out what there is on dragons in the Archives, and look into getting you access to the armory. As for you, there’s food and a warm bed if you want it, or can Nords live on ale alone? I’m certain there is a barrel or two of mead somewhere in the cellars; many of the Acolytes enjoy using it for pranks.”
Lydia was certain—well, almost certain—that he was joking. “Well, so long as there’s no poison in the food, I should be fine.” She wasn’t sure if her response was a joke or not, given some of the things her thane had mentioned eating. Why would you bake wasps into a pie, though?
The Prelate chuckled. “Well, you won’t be dining with Young King Helseth or Carvan Vel, so you should be fine. Step outside, and someone should be there to take you downstairs.”
“Wait, before I go…” she honestly didn’t know where to start with her questions. “In Skyrim, they talk about the Dark—the Dunmer like you’re done for. There are refugees in Eastmarch and Riften; everyone knows that! How is this possible?” her wave was over the balcony, but she meant it to encompass everything she’d seen today.
“Glorious, is it not? When the gods knock you down, what are you to do but stand back up?” Nerim sighed. “And yet, this is the greatest of our cities by a wide margin. There are fertile fields and peaceful towns across Morrowind, but many places are still barren, and our numbers, while rising once more, are still meager compared to the might we once commanded.”
Regardless of the priest’s observations, Lydia still couldn’t help but feel that the Dunmer were doing far better than she’d heard. “Why don’t people know about this? Why are there so many refugees, if you need people?”
Nerim smiled. “A very...human…consideration. You think in years, but I would rather wait a century to see these halls filled, so long as I knew that every soul in them held worth equal to its station. Even now, children are raised knowing the truth and glory of our people, and I would not trade the scholars and warriors they will someday become for untested outland aid.
“We took our blows, perhaps the greatest in our history, and we did so in full view of Tamriel.” Nerim was looking out over the balcony again, and Lydia left the doorway to stand beside him again. The sun was vanishing behind the mountains far to the west, and the twinkling stars above were matched by the burning ones below. Somewhere a drum was beating, and Lydia fancied she could hear far-off chanting. “Nobody offered to help us in our humiliation, and we wouldn’t have accepted if they had. The Empire was glad to be rid of their strange eastern subjects, I am sure, and I would imagine that the Nords had many a laugh at our expense.” His voice had grown rough and angry, and his eyes were as dark as the space between the stars. “The city below you was founded on the ashes of our fallen, and every one of us here has suffered to make this possible. Why should we share our toil with outlanders?”
“But the refugees—“
“They fled! They chose safety under outland rule, and that was their choice. They are welcome to return to us, and seek admittance as would any outlander. Some do, though most seem content to remain in Skyrim and Cyrodiil.” He shrugged. “I bear them no hatred, but some child who was born and raised in your Eastmarch is every bit as much an outlander as you are, whatever color his eyes may be. You have more questions?” Clearly, he was done with this subject.
Lydia was tired, she realized, and hungry besides. “They can wait until tomorrow.” Then, she had one final wicked thought. “But first, I have to know. What was Velandryn like, as a child?”
Nerim laughed. “There we go! A chance to gain secrets on your master? I’m shocked it took you this long to ask.”
Lydia was now even more curious. “You said you’ve known him forever. Did you teach him?”
“I didn’t know him as a child, actually; the instruction of juveniles is of no interest to me. He sought me out as an Acolyte, as I was and remain a prominent critic of the Cult of Nerevar. He had joined that group, and in his fervor sought to out-argue a Temple Brother who had been playing this game for three times as long as he’d been alive. I’d heard all of his arguments before, of course, and tied him in knots, but he did have some clever lines of thought, the kind of ideas that spoke of cunning and a certain twisted wisdom. The next time he had a particularly thorny problem to tackle, he came to argue it out with me.”
“The Cult of Nerevar?”
“A hero-cult, popular among those who have come of age since the Nerevarine. Unsurprising, if ultimately incorrect. Nerevar was a mer, no more, and his return as Nerevarine was a lesson by the Blessed Triune.” Nerim stopped talking suddenly, and gave her a sideways glance. “But I doubt you want to have me lecture at you. As I said, Velandryn was clever, and, worse, he knew it.
“That typified our relationship, I suppose. I found him infuriatingly unorthodox, and he thought I was so calcified in my beliefs that I may as well have turned to stone. In time the passion of argument gave way to mutual respect and even a degree of understanding, and I would hear of no other standing as Advocate of Wisdom for his Anointing. He’s smarter than he has any right to be, and I’m very curious to see just how he’s going to play the role of Dragonborn in the days to come. Is he much different in Skyrim?”
Lydia smiled at the memories now parading through her mind. “He’s generally quieter than you’ve described, at least until he feels comfortable enough to try and take charge. I think he’s secretly convinced that he’s the only one in Skyrim who knows how to do anything properly.”
“Secretly?” Nerim sounded moments away from laughter. “He is mellowing with age. Not even fifty, and already he’s learned to hold his tongue!” Chuckling, the Prelate waved at the door. “Come. I have much to do, and I’d bet you’re half-dead on your feet.”
She was tired, now that she thought about it, though the climb had been nothing terrible to someone who’d grown up in Whiterun. Every guard knew two things at the bare minimum: how to keep yourself awake while standing watch—the secret was to imagine, in graphic detail, the things that would happen if Irileth found you napping—and how to get from the Outer markets to Dragonsreach without losing all your wind. So, she might be tired, but she was far from useless. “A meal first, I think.”
“Well, doubtless there’s an Acolyte standing out there waiting on your whim.” He grinned. “Once you become a Deyhn, you find that there are an endless supply of them. So young, so, eager to do whatever menial chore is required so that you might take a little notice of them.” A chuckle. “A mere one in ten becomes Anointed, though it’s not for lack of trying.”
Lydia felt a bit sorry for these Acolytes. “What happens to the others?”
Nerim shrugged. “Some choose to be Attendants, a few might go to the Ordinators if they’ve shown uncommon skill. Some keep on—an education is a fine thing, and addictive once begun—and rather more take what they have learned and depart once they realize they won’t make it as a full priest. House Redoran recruits scribes from the librarians who wash out of our Archives, and the Six Towers are full of mages who started their studies in the Canton of Mystery. Do not pity the Acolytes. There are many paths for them.”
“Hmm.” Lydia wasn’t quite sure how she felt about that. It still seemed cruel, to deny them their dream. But we don’t just let any watchman serve on the Dragonsreach Guard, do we? She supposed it was no different for this, especially how seriously these Dunmer took their gods. So, she merely nodded. With one last look out onto the fiery city below, she followed the old priest back indoors.
In answer to your inquiry, milady, I only wish that I had more to give. The Telvanni, as ever, remain an enigma. Even House Dres, for all that its leadership disagrees with the Council’s decisions more often than not, at least participates in the process and attempts to sway policy in a direction more to its liking. The Mage-Lords, in contrast, seem to have decided that the Council simply isn’t worth their time.
I’m not sure how much you know about the actual structure of the Great Council, but voting seats are apportioned based on an ingenious system that appears proportional but ensures that Redoran and their Sadras lackeys can overrule any opposition when they vote as a unit. Indoril could probably petition for more seats, given that the Temple employs Divines-only-know how many Dunmer and controls an army that, but the priests are terrified of looking like they’re amassing power. Anyways, everyone gets a number of Root Councilors, and they sit in the Rootspire and argue until they turn blue. Well, bluer. Everyone except the Telvanni.
The Telvanni have one representative on the Council, who calls himself the Mouth. The Mouth rarely votes or proposes anything, but when he does, it’s done with the full weight of all Telvanni votes. Nobody likes this arrangement, but nobody wants any more Telvanni than necessary anywhere near them or their families, so the Council just lets it be.
As a warning, everything past this point is speculative.
The Mouth doesn’t seem to have much of a philosophy, considering how random the things he chooses to voice an opinion on are. I’ve kept my ear to the ground, and gotten wind of some truly bizarre decisions. One time, he proposed an increased tax on Dres textiles, then refused to support it in an open vote. It failed, but if he’d backed it, it would have succeeded! There’s other ones, too, that make me wonder what’s going on in that head of his.
My theory is that the clue’s in the name. He’s the Mouth of the Telvanni, and more literally than they let on. The Mage-Lords hate leaving their own territory so much that they even send representatives to their own gatherings, so why wouldn’t they do the same for this? Thing is, if every Lord had a Mouth, or as many Lords as were allowed, then divisions would become obvious. Everyone knows that Redoran Benthys wants to see slavery fully legalized again, but he hates the Dres too much to back any of their proposals. The Sadras are second only in number to the Redoran, but they can’t agree on anything long enough to form a voting bloc. These are weaknesses, and obvious ones at that.
The Telvanni wouldn’t want outsiders seeing their differences, so they all speak with one Mouth. This single speaker provides whatever the Telvanni tell him to, and the gods only know how they put the messages in that poor bastard’s head. He doesn’t receive any mail, that’s for sure!
So, the only answer I can give is this very long written shrug. The Telvanni almost certainly exist; their lands are populated and I’ve seen a few of their towers myself. I know that the Empire says they were destroyed, but I’d wager that when the Argonians reached Sadrith Mora and Port Telvannis, the Telvanni Magisters simply retreated to their towers and some human who learned everything he knows about Dunmer from half-septim romances got his facts wrong. I’ve no doubt that a lot of Dunmer in Telvanni lands died, but the power of the house was always in the Mage-Lords, and those bastards are going to live forever.
Unidentified Imperial Agent, Letter to Unknown Imperial Recipient, intercepted 19th Frost Fall, 4E 167.
Notes: Letter intercepted by Bal Molagmer agent, discovered in caravan leaving Morrowind. Exact origin of letter impossible to determine, believed to come from vicinity of Baan Malur. Further investigation deemed infeasible, despite troubling detail and accuracy of report on status of House Telvanni. Should more information become available, capture or elimination of agent strongly recommended.
Addendum 4th Heart’s Fire 4E 175: This case has been closed as part of ongoing investigations under authority of Bal Molagmer leadership and select Councilors. Not subject to review.
Marks of Office affixed below.
“Cor da pa, but you’re a big one!” The high-pitched voice came from somewhere below her. Lydia blinked, and looked down. There before her stood a Wood Elf, a tiny little thing who barely came up to the Nord’s breasts. She was dressed in a plain blue robe, and her green eyes were wide. “You the outlander I’m to meet?”
“Only if you’re the Acolyte who’s supposed to show me where I can get something to eat and a place to sleep.”
The little elf grinned. “That I am, Pellani. Faedri, at your service!”
Lydia bowed slightly. “Lydia of Whiterun, at yours.”
The elf laughed, though at what Lydia couldn’t tell. “Come on! We got to go all the way down!”
As they walked down the hall, Lydia taking exceptionally short strides so as not to outpace her tiny companion, she couldn’t help but wonder why a Wood Elf, of all people, was her guide. She was considering how best to phrase the question so as not to be rude when the little elf interrupted her thoughts.
“So why you here, anyway?” If her guide felt awkward about asking probing questions, she hid it well. “Deyhn Llervos is too important to deal with outlanders.”
“Obviously not, since I spoke with him.” The girl clearly wasn’t perfect with Imperial Common but she spoke it quite well, which gave Lydia the inspiration to ask her next question. “Why is it that everyone at the Temple speaks Imperial Tamrielic?”
“Helmin dua! You have to, you know? Everyone learns Imperial and another language. Good for the mind, they say.”
“Another language? How many do you speak?” Was everyone she’d met at the Temple trilingual? If so, that was more than a little impressive.
“I speak Boiche, eh, I mean Bosmeris, and Dunmeris and Cyrodilis. I learn Daedric, too, someday.”
“I see.” Suddenly, her half-understood Nord dialects felt a lot less impressive. I can speak Nordic fluently, at least. “So, how are you one of the…er…” she didn’t want to come out and ask why the Dunmer would let a Wood Elf join their holy temple, but…
“I’m garan’sul, so it’s okay!” Lydia didn’t know the word, but Faedri certainly didn’t seem to be insulting herself.
“And that is?”
“Means I’m good in their eyes. All my people are!”
“All of your people?” Lydia had never heard of any link between Dark and Wood Elves.
“Daranbow Clan! Live over at Baryn’s Gift, north of Kragenmoor.”
“I see.” This was all new to Lydia. “How did the Daranbow Clan come to live in Morrowind?”
The Wood Elf seemed overjoyed to share her story. “Well, we worship Mephala in Valenwood since forever. Keep to ourselves, trained our spiders, and the other Boiche—eh, Bosmer, they don’t bother us. Some clans do not like us, but they still buy our silk and venom, and when we war, it’s just for pride and prisoners.” Clearly, she still had some ways to go before she mastered the past tense, but she was understandable enough. “When Dominion comes, they say, ‘worship the right gods or we’ll kill you.’ The Elders talk about it, but too many shed blood for The Webspinner to abandon her. So, we take all of our people and our good and our spiders, and we steal some ships from Southpoint. By Right of Theft, they’re ours, since Dominion didn’t see us until we’re gone.”
Faedri took a deep breath before continuing, still chattering along at a respectable pace. “We can’t go to anywhere where Dominion is, so we sail until we reach Empire. They tell us ‘how do we know you aren’t Dominion spies, come to invade?’ We tell them we worship Daedra, not the Altmer gods, but then they say, ‘we’ll take you in, but you have to renounce Mephala.’ Elders say, ‘if we wanted to do that, we would have stayed home!’ So, we sail on. We don’t stay in Argonia Marsh, though, since the woods feel wrong and the waters are black.” She shook her head. “Bad water, bad land.” She raised a hand and tapped her chest. “I’m not born yet, but the Elders say you could taste the wrong in the soil. So, we keep going until we reach Morrowind.”
She smiled then, and this time the joy threatened to overwhelm her narrow little face. “We pass a white city, and then we come to a temple rising from the sea. A boat comes out to meet us, and they say they saw us coming through visions. Said they were from the Temple of Reclamations, and we were welcome there! They worship Mephala, like we do, and they say that we can be as they are, even though we are outlanders! So, we go where they tell us, and soon enough we’re settled! The Elders say they miss the trees, but I like the graht-shrooms, and I am no outlander; I am garan’sul!” She beamed at Lydia.
It was somewhat unnerving, dealing with such a joyous little thing. Lydia was no depressive soul, but this one seemed to think everything was wonderful, and that was a bit tiring.
She found herself nodding, however, and spoke the first thing that came to her mind. “I’m glad for you. Do you like it here?” What a dumb question.
“Oh, yes! Back home, I’m not so good at hunting, and my craft-work is sloppy. The spiders like me, but I’m clumsy, and so sometimes I lose silk or venom. Here, though, we can do good work, and I can worship Mephala without having to milk a venom-sac.” Faedri grinned. “A drop or two makes trama-root paste delicious, but it burns something fierce when you breathe it in. Dunmer claim not to mind, but I say they just lie to look tough.” She laughed, and Lydia found herself smiling as well. She could see Velandryn—or any of the prideful lot she’d encountered today—doing just that.
They passed a window, and Faedri stopped. “Wait!” the sun had vanished from the sky, and the Wood Elf bowed her head and murmured a phrase in some language.
Lydia didn’t think it was Dunmeris, but she couldn’t be sure. “What was that?”
“A prayer of evening. It is night, and so I ask for the Lord of Craft to give me his cunning.” She smiled. “Always good to ask, no?”
“The Lord of Craft?” Lydia figured it had to be a Daedra. Or are there some other Bosmer gods Faedri worships?
“Mephala. She has many names. Come on, I’m getting hungry, and I know they’re serving mopate in Delyn’s Hall tonight!”
Lydia was confused. “You said him, though.” Or is gender another area where her language needs some work?
Faedri shrugged. “Mephala is a Daedric prince. She is both. Or neither. Does it matter?”
This one, however, Lydia wasn’t letting go so easily. “But others have gender. Azura is female. I’ve never heard anyone say Molag Bal or Mehrunes Dagon are anything other than male. Why is Mephala different?”
Faedri clapped. “I know this! Now I get to explain!” She visibly tried to contain her excited grin, and spoke quickly as they descended a series of narrow sloped hallways. “Daedra have form as a function of power. Too weak, and they can’t be anything. Most are strong enough to take one form, but only one. Strong enough, like a Prince, and they can be whatever they want. Some care about that matter. Some don’t. Mephala favors pure duality, so we offer her the form he prefers.” She bowed her head. “Me-Pha-La tiron, dua ta!”
“I see.” She wasn’t even lying this time. “So, are you going to be a priestess of Mephala, or of all three?”
“If I’m Sanctified and Anointed, it will be because I have mastered the basic rituals and mysteries of the Temple, which is all of the Triunes and the Corners and well.” Another of those sharp little smiles. “But it’s always Mephala first for me.” She sketched a circle in the air before her.
Faedri pushed open a nondescript door on their right, and Lydia was faced with a bare room, containing little more than a bed and a desk. A shelf on one wall held a line of books, but other than that it was empty. “Put your armor and things here and we can get food.”
Lydia paused. “Just leave them here?” If there was any chance something could happen to them…I won’t risk losing my things in this land, that much is certain!
“No weapons or armor while eating. Temple rules.” Faedri shrugged. “They’re perfectly safe. Nobody’s foolish enough to steal from anyplace guarded by Ordinators, and there’s more of them at Great Fane than anywhere else in the world.”
“Alright.” Lydia left most everything in the room, though she kept the small dagger that sat snug beneath her padded undercoat. She wasn’t going anywhere unarmed.
As they headed out, Faedri closed the door and locked it, handing the key to Lydia. “For you.”
Lydia bowed her head in thanks. “Good to know it isn’t just the Ordinators to keep my things safe.”
The Wood Elf shrugged. “Never heard of a Tong sneaker in the Temple, but it’s better safe than regretful, ne ke pa?”
“Tong?” She’d never heard of that. A local term for thieves?
Faedri blinked. “You’ve not heard of the Camonna Tong? Thieves and murderers, all wretched. They’ll have no blessings of the Three, that’s for a certainty.” A smile. “No need to worry about them, though. They’re cowards, so they never stick their fingers where the Ordinators are.”
Somehow, Lydia doubted that was true. In her experience, the most enterprising criminals responded to heavy guard presence as a challenge. And with so many people in Great Fane, the opportunities for crime are too many to count. Still, though, her things were probably safe.
They had reached a large door, and Faedri gestured for her to enter. “Hungry?”
The room beyond was a hall of decent size, filled with long tables. Dunmer were scattered here and there, most eating bowls of some food that Lydia assumed was mopate. It smelled odd, but not unpleasant.
Faedri pointed to an opening in a wall on one side. “I’ll get you some! Grab a seat and I’ll be back.” She was off before Lydia had a chance to respond.
And where does a Nord sit in a room like this? The hall wasn’t exactly packed full, but none of the people looking at her seemed to wish for her company. The figures in blue robes mostly sat together at one long table, and the greens were clustered here and there. Here and there, the red robes sat in ones and two, or with a blue or brown-robed companion. Nine or so of every ten were Dunmer, and of the ones who weren’t, almost all were in green. There’s no place for me.
Slowly, she sat at the end of one table, far from anyone else. A green-robed Dunmer gave her a look as he passed, but nobody bothered her. She saw Faedri coming her way, holding two bowls and grinning broadly.
“Ever had mopate, outlander?” She looked as though she was going to say something else, but paused, and her brow wrinkled in thought. “Wait, what’s your name?”
At that, Lydia couldn’t hold back. She laughed aloud, and had the pleasure of turning heads all across the hall.
All of the tension, all of the mistrust, all of the uncertainty and carefully controlled unease vanished in the face of one little question. For some insane reason, the idea of this little Wood Elf not having bothered to learn her name perfectly encapsulated her experience thus far in Morrowind, and there was something terribly funny about that.
For a long moment Lydia didn’t speak, just letting the laughter take her. Finally, she wiped at her eyes and smiled up at Faedri. “I’m Lydia. Bring that here; I’m eager to try it.” Chuckling, she accepted the bowl from the bemused Wood Elf and set it down.
Faedri gave her a puzzled look. “So, uh, you’re okay?”
Lydia knew she still had a stupid smile on her face. “I’ve had a very long day.”
Faedri looked as though she was going to ask further questions, but a Dunmer is a blue robe slid in beside her and fixed Lydia with a stern gaze.
“So, you are who you claimed to be.” The Dunmer sounded thoroughly unamused, but the danger he gave off was somewhat lessened by the half-eaten bowl of food in one hand. His hair was as red as his eyes, and a long thin scar traced its way along the left side of his face from jaw to crown.
Lydia had no memory of his face. “Have we met?” She considered rephrasing that to be more polite, but if he wasn’t going to bother with it, neither would she.
The Dunmer nodded. “You made a claim to know Velandryn Savani, and to serve him. I questioned you, and you satisfied my skepticism. Therefore, I permitted you to pass. Do you have memory of this?”
She did. “You’re the Ordinator from the gate!”
Another nod. “I am pleased that you did not lie. Had you been bearing forged documents, it would have necessitated your execution, and that would have reflected poorly on me.” He appeared to think for a moment. “Did you find what you were seeking?”
“I think so.” Lydia dug her fork into the bowl, pushing aside strips of meats and sliced vegetables to see the thick paste beneath. “What is this mopate exactly?”
Faedri leaned in. “It’s good! Made from—“
“Have the Acolytes become Anointed, to speak without invitation?” The Ordinator’s eyes were dark. “Passion is admirable, but so also is respect. Learn to listen, and then to speak.”
Faedri bowed her head. “Karra nol, Tara-thil.”
The Ordinator too bowed his head. “All van mol’ad.” He waved at Faedri. “Would you care to explain to our guest what exactly she will be eating?”
Lydia realized she hadn’t taken a bite yet, and put one of the strips of meat in her mouth. A mix of bitterness and deep meat flavor exploded across her tongue. It was sharp and initially harsh, but as she chewed and swallowed she found herself anticipating the next bite.
Faedri grinned at her. “Good , isn’t it! You have to have saltrice and kwama eggs, and a meat too. Cook the egg and mix with the rice, then layer the meat on top. You can do any vegetables, too, if you have them.” Her smile widened. “If I am Green Pact, I would not be able to eat this at all.”
“If you were a follower of the Green Pact, Acolyte, you would be in Valenwood, ignorant of the folly of your ways.” That was a new speaker, from somewhere over Lydia’s shoulder. “You have also forgotten the most important ingredient.” A Dunmer woman of indeterminate age sat beside Lydia, a bowl of her own in one hand. “This Acolyte has neglected to mention the mopa root, from which the characteristic flavor of the dish is derived.” She looked across the table at Faedri. “A staggering omission, no?”
Faedri bowed her head. “Forgive me, Anointed.”
The woman—red-robed and clearly possessing some authority—raised a hand. “You have done well bringing the outlander here. However, I noticed that the planters at St. Vivec’s shrine to Mephala in the Hall of Solitude are overgrown. This should be remedied.”
Almost before the Dunmer was done talking, Faedri was on her feet, bowing low. “Of course, Anointed. I’ll get right on it!” She turned and almost sprinted out the room, nearly knocking over a pair of Dunmer in brown vests who had just entered.
Scarcely was Faedri gone before Lydia heard laughter. She turned, and the two Dunmer were laughing together, clearly enjoying some joke. She hoped it wasn’t at Faedri’s expense; she quite liked the little elf.
The Ordinator chuckled. “You are as wicked as ever, Kitaiah.”
The Dunmer woman—Kitaiah, her name seemed to be—dug into her bowl. “I do try. Tell me, Orvas, is this the outlander who claims to serve dear Velandryn?”
Another of my thane’s friends, is it? Lydia didn’t much like being spoken of as though she weren’t there, but there were battles worth fighting, and this wasn’t one of them. She rose. “I am Lydia of Whiterun. Velandryn is my thane.”
The Ordinator—Orvas— rose as well and extended a hand. “I am Orvas Mathen. “ He waved at the woman—Kitaiah. “This is Kitaiah.”
“No last name?” She wasn’t used to that from Dunmer. They sat, and the Dunmer woman swallowed a huge bite of the spicy food.
Kitaiah laughed. “When a name is as beautiful as mine, why alter it with anything else?” She leaned in. “Is it true Velandryn is a Nord lord now?”
Orvas shook his head. “A thane is a warrior title.” He looked across at Lydia. “How did Velandryn come by it?”
Lydia wasn’t sure how much to say, considering how adamant the Prelate had been that the news of Velandryn as Dragonborn could have repercussions for the Dunmer. “He helped us defeat a dragon. You’ve heard that they returned?”
Kitaiah laughed. “They say such things. Is it actually true?”
Orvas, however, did not seem surprised. “I spoke with an Armiger who’d been stationed at Fort Llothis. They reported an unusual number of merchants taking refuge there, and an upswing in applications for entry into Morrowind. Apparently dragons have been sighted across the province.”
Sobering, Kitaiah gave Orvas a significant look. “Could they cross the border?”
The Ordinator thought for a moment before responding. “It depends. We have watchtowers and fortresses throughout the Velothi Mountains, but there’s nothing designed to intercept an enormous flying lizard,” He shrugged. “Best case is they attack the fortified locations, but there isn’t much to be done if the beast just flies over. They’d get warning to the major towns and garrisons, but that’s not a scenario they’ve ever trained for.” He shrugged. “If we could bring enough mages to bear, we could keep loss of life to a minimum, but it wouldn’t be a clean victory.” Looking at Lydia, he raised a fork laden with food to his mouth. “How did your lot kill it?”
“Throw enough bodies at it, and even a dragon dies. Velandryn drew its attention, and we whittled it down with spears and blades.” It hadn’t quite been that simple, of course.
“Hmm.” Orvas was clearly thinking of dragon combat, and began peppering her with questions about the dragon’s size, capabilities, and any weaknesses. Kitaiah, for all that she was clearly no soldier, asked a question here and there, though as hers tended to magical properties and counterspells, Lydia was less able to answer those. Nonetheless, both were well-educated and perceptive, and brought up some ideas Lydia herself had been considering on how best to defeat the dragons.
They ate as they talked, and Lydia felt fatigue creeping in as her hunger abated. She was considering the best way to excuse herself without seeming rude, when a familiar head bobbed into view. Faedri waved at her from the doorway, looking only a little the worse for wear given the work she’d undoubtedly been doing. Lydia smiled back, which only broadened the little elf’s grin.
Rising, Lydia bid farewell to the two Dunmer at the table with her. Neither paid her much mind, deep in conversation as they were, and soon she and Faedri were walking through the halls again. The Wood Elf chatted about nothing of much import, and Lydia let the words wash over her as she half-listened.
Well, she’s more fun than the Dunmer, at least. Lydia knew that Nords had a reputation as dour, but she’d never met anyone as…well, dark as the Dunmer. Everything about them seemed razor-edged, as though they were only a moment away from violence or cruelty. Even the kind ones, like the Prelate, had a sense about them, as though they were holding back a great many things and playing games with her. With Faedri, though…I really don’t think there’s too much she’s keeping from me. Not to mention, she was just a little bit cute, albeit in a very…elven…fashion. It’s the ears, I think, and the chins. It made their faces all look sharp and long.
They passed rooms and hallways, each filled with strange and alien sights. She saw a circle of children surrounding a creature made of flame that danced and twirled in the air. Elsewhere, a line of Dunmer in red robes proceeded down a hall, each with an orb of light in a different color hanging above their heads. One room was empty and dark save for a single Dunmer sitting naked in the center of the floor, eyes closed and looking for all the world as though he were on fire.
It seemed the temple never slept, though she had every plan to. No doubt I’ll be missing all sorts of things by sleeping tonight, but I’m not here to sightsee. She had to get what was promised her, and be on her way.
When they reached Lydia’s room, Faedri rocked back and forth on her feet as they faced each other in front of the door. As Lydia slid the key into the lock, the elf grew more agitated, biting her lip and looking as though there were something she desperately wanted to say. Finally, Lydia took pity on the little girl. “If there’s something you have to tell me, you’d best say it now.”
“Mephala!” The word came out as half a bark, and Lydia was taken more than a little aback.
“Excuse me?” Was this some oath or bizarre farewell?
“You should come to the Rites of Mephala tonight, in the Steamworks. Even if you aren’t devout, you should come along with me!” Faedri’s sharp features were animated again.
For a moment, Lydia was insulted. How dare she try to make me worship a Daedra!
Her thoughts must have shown on her face, because Faedri shrank back. “No, no, not in a bad way! I know outlanders don’t worship the Three, but it’s all right! There’s no mysteries tonight, you wouldn’t have to swear any oaths!” She looked thoughtful. “I mean…you might not like it, being all alone here, and I thought you’d have fun…”
Fun? She’d never given the circ*mstances under which someone would invite her to a Daedric worship much thought before, but fun certainly wasn’t the expected motivation. She was still indignant about being propositioned for Daedra worship, but a thought made her stay her tongue.
They’re all like this. Every person she’d met today worshipped Daedra, and as strange and alien as this place was, they weren’t sacrificing innocents in the streets or tearing open portals to Oblivion. It wasn’t something she particularly wanted in her life, but they’d made it work. Her thane had made it work, and she owed him enough to be patient with those who shared his faith.
“I’m sorry, Faedri, but I don’t think this is right for me.” At the Wood Elf’s crestfallen expression, she felt a tug of curiosity. “What exactly do you do there, if there’s nothing that needs oaths sworn?” She was the first to admit she didn’t know much about Daedric cults, but she’d always believed you had to demonstrate loyalty to the Daedra. Isn’t that kind of the point?
“Well, tonight it’s all about the Seventh Strand of Devotion. Pleasure and appetite, to feast until sated! It’s a popular one, and you’d be welcome for sure.”
A feast? It wasn’t what she’d expected, but it sounded innocent enough. However, the fact that Mephala was involved and she’d spent as much time as she had with Velandryn meant that she wanted more information first. “What exactly happens there?” She’d heard rumors about Mephala and her Spider Cults. Some of the stories—
“Sex, mostly. You can go with whoever you want, and try anything at all. Lots of alcohol too, good food sometimes, and some bring smokeweed or taballith kye.” Faedri’s cheerful explanation set Lydia’s stomach to churning. I was invited to a…a…
She couldn’t even figure out what word to use. “Why in Mara’s name would you want me to—“
“Because it’s fun to have outsiders there, and we don’t get many Nords! I mean, some show up now and again, but they’re mostly men,” her face scrunched up, “and I don’t like that so much. The big ones always want to try me, on account of I’m small, but it’s uncomfortable, you know?”
“Actually, no.” She barely even registered that she’d spoken. “You think I’d enjoy this?”
Faedri looked crestfallen. “You wouldn’t? I mean, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, of course, but…”
Suddenly, Lydia realized what the feeling in her gut was. It wasn’t disgust at the idea of the thing, but rather a particular upset at the idea of Faedri being involved. Why does it bother me? Could it be that she fancied the Wood Elf? Impossible! She’d never considered being in a relationship with an elf before, and Faedri was far too flighty for Lydia to tolerate for long.
You don’t have to be soul-mates to bed her, you know. Typically, Lydia did a good job of ignoring that wicked voice, but now it demanded attention. She’s practically begging you to give her a f*cking. It had been a very long time, and the fact that Lydia had never thought of an elven woman in that way had more to do with their scarcity in Whiterun than any inherent bias. She was honest enough to admit that Faedri was attractive enough, albeit with a stature that put her uncomfortably in mind of a child. That figure, though, was far from childish, and Lydia realized that the cleavage the Wood Elf was showing wasn’t by accident. She knows what she wants; why shouldn’t you take your pleasure too?
It had been a very long time, to be fair. Nords weren’t shy about things like that, and the fact that Lydia liked women hadn’t been a secret in Whiterun, but it was also a fact that serving under Irileth meant that every waking moment was filled with drills and work. Not time for pleasure, but now you’re free. Why shouldn’t you have your fun?
Why shouldn’t I, indeed? Velandryn certainly wouldn’t mind, though he’d be insufferable if she relayed a story about having sex at an orgy dedicate to Mephala. Am I seriously considering this? It wasn’t anything she’d ever wanted, but nobody would ever have to know, and Faedri, well—
Faedri would be fun, Lydia had no doubt. She was clearly shameless and eager, and it was definitely a hungry look the Wood Elf was shooting her way. She might be short, but I could hoist her up to a proper height. She’d probably like that, and Lydia knew enough to make sure that it wouldn’t be uncomfortable. She know what she was doing, after all. She wasn’t some man, grunting and thrusting without regard. Imaging what Faedri could do with her tiny little—
No! She had a job to do, and all of this was only a distraction. Yes, she had a duty. Whatever else might or might not be true about her, she had a duty to her thane, and that took precedence. She had to retire, so that she could be ready for the morrow. Yes, I must be ready!
With a shocking amount of reluctance—You are a housecarl, serving the Dragonborn, not some randy harlot let loose in the Outer Markets!—She bowed and shook her head. “Forgive, me, Faedri, but I must rest. I thank you for your offer, though.”
Faedri studied her. “Ne sell, vos…do you not like mer? Or do you not like women? I thought from the way you were looking at me…”
“No! I mean, yes, ah, I do, I promise!” For some reason, it was very important to Lydia that her reasoning not be misunderstood. “But, I don’t like the idea of a…group.” She couldn’t bring herself to use any of the words that came to mind, and she didn’t know how they called it. “I mean, I’m flattered that you’d offer, but it isn’t…” she trailed off, uncertain of what else she could say.
“I understand.” Faedri didn’t sound happy, but the note of sorrow in her voice was somewhat less. “Some don’t like it.” She turned to go, but looked back. “You’d have a lot of fun though. You’d best believe we know what we’re doing.” A tiny smile blossomed then.
Lydia realized that she was about to ask something very foolish, but she couldn’t have stopped now even if she’d wanted to. “And if I didn’t want to be at the Rite, but wanted to,” oh gods, her face was burning, “take you somewhere else, what would you say to that?”
Faedri’s eyes opened wide. “You mean…just…not in the…no, I couldn’t do that!” Something not unlike fear was on her face now.
Lydia was puzzled, and more than a little hurt. Did I misunderstand? “I thought you wanted—“
“I do! I meant it; I want to, but you’re…you’re an outlander.” Faedri looked as though she had something foul in her mouth, but she kept going. “If it’s part of the Rites, it’s okay, but I couldn’t…I mean, you don’t bed an outlander, you know?”
“No! I don’t know, so what is it about me that’s so repulsive to you?” Faedri didn’t get to do that: act forward one minute, and then tell her that just because she wasn’t from here, she wasn’t good enough for her. Who does she think she is?
“Nothing! But, you don’t do that. I’m an Acolyte; I can’t have sex with somebody who isn’t even of the Faith!”
“That didn’t stop my master.” Velandryn hadn’t bragged about his exploits, but she was fairly certain, given a few comments he’d made, that he hadn’t been entirely celibate since leaving Morrowind.
“Your master’s Anointed, though.” Faedri was talking fast, words spilling over themselves. “I’m still learning; I can’t risk it! Sex is sacred to Mephala, and I swore oaths. If I lie with somebody who isn’t even part of the Faith, I’ve betrayed my mistress and everything I swore. I’m sorry! Truly I am, but I can’t.” She reached out a hand towards Lydia. “You could come with—“
“No.” She was tired. Tired of this outlander horsesh*t, tired of being treated like some half-civilized Orc because she hadn’t had the misfortune to be born here! “Look, Faedri. I like you, and I’d gladly sleep with you tonight, but I won’t be treated like some embarrassing outcast because of who I am.” She opened her door. “I’ll be in here, and you are welcome to join me, but that’s the only way.” She passed through, and shut the door behind her, making sure it did not lock.
She sat on the bed and waited, eyes fixed on the door. She wasn’t foolish enough to think this was anything more than a little infatuation, but if they found each other attractive and each of them wanted the other, why shouldn’t they enjoy themselves? Apparently, because her religion forbids it.
She watched the door, but nobody came through. Sighing, she shed her clothing, half-hoping that she’d be interrupted by the little elf. However, she was alone. As she stretched out on the bed—it was a little too short, but she supposed that was to be expected—she wondered at this place. I could have taken her amidst a crowd, but not in a bed alone?
Lydia was the first to admit she wasn’t the most well-versed when it came to sex. She’d been with Freya for a time, but since then she’d never found anyone who was willing to put up with her duty to the Guard and give her anything more than a single night. She knew that some of the Watch and Hold Guard had families, but the Dragonsreach Elite were expected to live and breathe duty. Add that to the fact that she was expected to maintain decorum befitting her position at all times, and it was little wonder that it had been over a year since anyone besides her had been between her legs.
She sighed again. It was for the best, really, that Faedri hadn’t followed her. The strangeness of this place had driven her a little mad, but this was a terrible time to be distracted by lust.
It probably would have been terrible sex anyways. That thought brought forth a laugh. Whatever other flaws Faedri had, anybody who regularly participated in ritual orgies doubtless put her to shame. I wonder if Velandryn was a part of them at all? The image of her thane having sex wasn’t something she needed to think about, but the idea of teasing him about it was too good not to file away.
Somewhat cheered, she closed her eyes. She was alone; isolated in a strange country, and Faedri had been friendly and then showed an interest in her. It was only natural that she’d responded. Besides, once I help save the world, I can get any woman I want.
Smiling sadly to herself, she drifted off to sleep.
We should have broken, but we didn’t. The Dunmer are a people whole and strong because of us.
I have heard Councilors and nobles ask, why must the Temple have the power it does? What do they provide in exchange for the food they eat, the resources they demand, and the children they raise to do no labor but read?
I answer every one of them with pride: we hold the Dunmer together! You rule one people instead of many, and that is because we stood strong when none other would! When the very gods abandoned us and the land beneath our feet erupted in water and death, it was the priests who spoke of the Triune and the Testing, of the great sin upon us and how we might make it right.
And so we did. We reminded our people how to walk with pride, how to lay three shrine-stones in every hearth and make the Four Prayers to each corner so that the Troubles would turn away. In the absence of the Three Thieves, we gave them purpose and unity, and so they survived. Even in shrouded Telvannis, the mage-lords bow to the Sign of Three. We are the voice in every head, the sublime knowledge of the greater whole that unifies our people.
You ask why we are, and we answer: because we must be. We have overcome every trial, and we shall march onward to the inexorable beat of the Doom Drum.
AE ALTADOON DUNMERI! AE ALTADOON RESDAYNIA!
-Fragment recovered from the lesser fane at Ba’at Nur after Argonian raid, 4E 103
Lydia woke to a pounding from outside. At first, she’d tried to ignore it, but years of training meant that she found herself listening for each knock before it came. You were always on duty at Dragonsreach, in one way or another.
Finally, she hoisted herself out of bed and went to the door. “What is it?”
“I’ve been sent for you.” The voice was male, and unmistakably Dunmer. Damn. Some small, unworthy part of her had hoped it was Faedri, having seen the error of her ways.
“One moment.” She pulled on boots and her padded under-garb. The thick cloth was travel-worn and more designed for going beneath armor than serving as clothing in its own right, but as the Dunmer hadn’t seen fit to furnish her with new clothes, she’d have to make do with what she had. She glanced down at her sword for a moment, before giving it up and taking her dagger instead. No need to antagonize whoever she was going to meet by showing up girded for battle.
When she opened the door, it was to find a Dark Elf in the nondescript brown robes she had seen all over the temple. She’d assumed they were the servants, and the fact that this one had been sent for her only reinforced that belief. “Where are we headed?”
The elf had large, sad eyes that blinked slowly at her. “They want you below. Something about your master’s request.” He turned. “You should come quickly. They don’t like to be kept waiting.”
She wasn’t certain if this one’s ignorance was better or worse than deliberately keeping secrets from her, but she followed him nonetheless. He took her down a series of ramps, and she noted that the air was growing warmer. A pair of off-duty Ordinators in their blue robes passed by, neither sparing the human nor the servant so much as a glance. Nonetheless, her brown-robed guide pressed himself to one wall and bowed his head until they were gone. Lydia simply stood aside and watched them go.
It was early morning; what glimpses she got of the sky through infrequent windows showed pre-dawn light. They passed few people, and most of the ones they did meet were servants like her guide.
The silence grew longer, and Lydia found herself getting curious. “Where exactly are we headed? Who is it that sent for me?” Most likely it was whoever was in charge of the weapons she was supposed to be receiving, but she’d like to know for sure.
He glanced back over his shoulder. “Aravyn Nals. Kattash vul for the Temple.
Well, that’s helpful. They passed through a door, into a long and empty hallway.
As they walked in silence, Lydia studied her companion. He walked with sure strides, clearly at ease down here. I’d imagine servants come to know this place well. After a moment, she realized she might be doing him a disservice. He could well be a lower class of Acolyte. After all, that Kitaiah had no issue with sending Faedri off to perform a menial task. Not to mention, the Prelate had indicated that Acolytes were ideal for showing her around.
“Are you an Acolyte here?” if she was going to be shepherded around by somebody, she should learn something about him.
The Dunmer ahead of her froze for the merest second, then grunted and kept moving on. After a moment, he spoke. “No. I serve.”
“Of course.” She might have offended him, she realized. Prelate Llervos had mentioned that some Acolytes who failed stayed on as…what was it? Attendants?
She opened her mouth to apologize, but paused. She had learned to read body language as part of her training, and he didn’t move like he was offended. His steps were long and confident, and he held himself—
Is he trained at arms? She might not know exactly what fighting styles Dunmer taught, but he was moving like he knew how to fight. Do they give Acolytes training? Maybe he’d been an Ordinator or a guard once.
They turned a corner, and found themselves in a long hall, completely empty but for the two of them. The elf pointed at a door. “In there.”
She nodded thanks, and moved to open the door. As she did so, she noticed him pivot slightly, torso facing her. It was subtle, but it sent a chill down her spine. It could have been mere courtesy, were it not for the angle of his arms. He has a weapon on him, and he’s keeping his hands free to go for it. Something occurred to her then. If there’s an army of Acolytes eager to jump at commands, why would an Attendant be used for this?
She didn’t know what was behind the door, but she also couldn’t afford to turn her back on this one. She fumbled at the latch, and cursed loudly. “Come help me with this!” She didn’t know for certain that anything untoward was going on, but she knew that you never entered a potentially dangerous room if your back wasn’t secure. Let him go first, and prove my suspicions wrong.
He moved beside her, but when his hand reached out for the door, she saw his wrist twist, and something drop out of his sleeve. Her own hand flashed down to her waist and pulled the dagger from its sheath, but he spun away before she could do more than draw it.
They faced each other in front of the door, neither of them moving. The elf had abandoned the pretense of being anything other than dangerous, and his eyes, though still somehow sad, had lost every bit of their dullness. In one hand he held a short knife of some dark metal, and the fingers of his other were twitching in a strange pattern.
This situation, Lydia decided, was very bad. She had a dagger, but neither armor nor shield, meaning that she’d have to abandon her usual fighting style in favor of a lighter one. Unfortunately, she doubted her opponent was similarly handicapped. He’d prepared for this, after all.
Red eyes glowed in his dark face. “Put down your weapon, outlander. Enter the room and this will be over.”
“Don’t think I will, actually, but thanks for the suggestion.” She might not be in her ideal situation, but she would be damned if she let some sneaky elf bastard get the upper hand.
She feinted left before barreling straight forward. She was a good four inches taller than this elf, and much broader besides. No matter how quick the bastard was, there was no way he could get out of her way in time.
The elf dropped to the floor, and brought a leg around in a sweeping kick aimed at her legs. She leapt over it, but the movement also ensured she missed him completely, and instead nearly crashed into the wall. She brought a hand out, pushed off to steady herself, and turned to parry a thrust from the Dunmer’s knife. He fell back, eyes narrowed, and passed the blade to his other hand.
“Why are you doing this?” She stepped forward and brought her blade arcing in, driving the Dunmer back a step. “What’s your goal?”
“You.” He gestured with his free hand, and a plume of fire erupted towards her.
Had she never trained with Velandryn, this might have caught her off-guard, but she knew enough now to counter the attack. She dodged forward, making sure she was spinning as she passed through the outermost edge of the fire, all while keeping the elf’s location fixed in her mind.
Flame needs to find purchase. Spinning denies it that. The heat was bad, to be sure, but it was nothing compared to a dragon’s flame. If she told herself that, it made the pain less real. And so long as her clothes or skin didn’t catch the fire, she should be okay. She sliced with her dagger, and was rewarded with a grunt of pain and the fire dying down immediately.
Once more, they faced each other, though this time Lydia could feel pain from the fire all over her arms and face, and the Dunmer’s arm was trickling blood onto the floor. He raised his wounded arm, making a fist and causing more blood to gush out. “Shol zy drem, s’wit. Irk vay tol’aka’bal.” His words were angry, spat out as his darkened eyes stared daggers at her.
She lifted her dagger in a mockery of a salute. He isn’t healing. Good. That meant she could wear him down. He might be trained, but she was willing to be he didn’t have much experience fighting Nords. His elven build meant he had long arms, but she should still have a bit of an edge with reach. His magic was a problem, but that just meant she needed to end this quickly. And find out why he’s really doing this.
She charged again, and he dropped into a stance that showed he’d anticipated just this move. Perfect. Many Dunmer thought Nords were idiots, so this one was prepared for her to rely on a brute force charge again.
Not this time. As he moved out of the way, thrusting his knife into the space she would have occupied, she too threw herself to one side, catching him in a tackle and bringing him to the ground. She snaked an arm around his neck, and pulled with all of her might.
A gasp from the elf told her it was working, and his frantic movements did little to shake her grip. Grimly, she kept up the pressure, hoping against hope that he didn’t—
She felt a stab of agony as the knife dug into her gut, and her reflexive spasm of pain let the elf deliver a punishing blow to her face with his elbow and wriggle free. He crawled away and regained his feet, breathing heavily and clutching his arm, while Lydia drew herself upward, each breath causing a lance of pain down her side. She was bleeding, she saw, and gut wounds were no laughing matter. This one had been shallow, but she couldn’t drag this out for much longer.
Unfortunately, the elf clearly knew this too. He held his knife in a defensive grip, while his other hand wove some sort of shimmering trace through the air. “You wait, you die, outlander.” He flexed his free hand, and tiny lights shot towards her. She tried to dodge, but a few still struck her, leaving painful burns in their wake. “Surrender, and I promise you will live.” He attempted a smile; it was far more grotesque than Velandryn’s most unsuccessful attempt could ever hope to be. “You can return to your home, and your master.” A chuckle. “Sketh halab; a most fitting place for a human.”
Lydia’s only response was to charge again, this time weaving her dagger before her as though she were a child swatting at flies. Her world had narrowed to this moment, this battle, and she needed the initiative if she was going to win.
He interspersed his dagger in her approach as she closed, clearly intending to wound her. She was quick enough to meet him however, and blade met blade in a screeching clash that was over in a second but sent the elf’s weapon spinning away. He might know how to hold a knife, but he’d clearly underestimated the strength that Lydia could bring to bear. Instantly, she stabbed at him, but he darted backward again, bringing his hands up and sending a blast of fire her way. No longer caring about her wounds, she barreled forward once more, bowing her head against the searing pain of the fire and putting every ounce of her energy into reaching the elf. This was kill or be killed, and there was too much at stake for her to die here.
With a full-throated cry, she pushed through the flame and got into arm’s reach of the Dunmer. He clearly hadn’t expected her to get this far, and her free hand slammed into his gut. He doubled over, and she brought in her dagger hand—
“Enough!” Lydia spun as a shape rushed into view. She only got a glimpse, but she could see the shimmer of magic and the glint of metal. Another! She raised her hand to finish off the male elf, but the figure grabbed her roughly and threw her away from the downed elf. “Stay your blade, outlander!”
From her new position on the floor, Lydia took in the scene. Her would-be kidnapper was huddled against one wall, and standing over him was a woman who looked to have stepped out of a ballad about the cruel and mysterious Dark Elves of the east.
This new Dunmer wore pale armor studded with spines and cast in insectoid shapes. Her face was pierced and studded from her ears to her nose to her brow, and tattoos carved patterns across her cheeks and lips. Lydia counted six blades on her, and she held another in her hand that looked much like the weapon her thane sometimes called forth from Oblivion.
The Dunmer woman looked down at her. “You are injured. Can you stand?” Her words were correct for inquiring after someone’s health, but there was no warmth to them
Lydia gingerly got to her feet. “Aye, though you throwing me across the room didn’t help.”
She was met with a glare for her trouble. “You require healing. Follow.” She hauled the male elf to his feet, and marched him down the hall. She barked out a few words of Dunmeris, and her prisoner sullenly responded with a single syllable. In a single smooth motion, she drew a blade and sliced off one of his ears, so quickly that Lydia had barely registered what was happening before it was done.
“What in Oblivion! What was that for?” Lydia might be wounded, but she wouldn’t let abuse like that stand. He’s a prisoner! A little beating now and then was fine for criminals, but this went beyond anything she’d ever seen.
“This fetcher infiltrated the Temple and committed violence against a guest of Deyhn Llervos. There are questions that need answering.” She looked back at Lydia. “Or do outlanders not question their prisoners? Perhaps you bring them warm water and bread, so they are not hungry?” He voice dripped with contempt.
“We don’t cut off their ears!” Maybe it was the blood loss talking, but Lydia was past caring about being polite. “Why in the name of every holy thing would you do that?”
The Dunmer laughed. “You understand nothing, outlander. Now come. If you die here, it will reflect poorly on the Temple, and myself.”
A few minutes later, Lydia found herself in front of a nondescript door, swaying slightly as she stood in place. It was getting difficult to focus, and everything kept going slightly fuzzy if she let her mind wander. That can’t be good.
The Dunmer woman had handed over her prisoner to somebody—Lydia couldn’t quite remember who, but she had a vague impression of too many eyes—and now half-pushed her through this new door. Inside, she found herself given a quick examination by a pair of red-robed elves and led to a reclining bench padded with some sort of delightfully springy cushion. She prodded at it experimentally, while several Dunmer talked in the background about blood loss and poison. The woman handed over a knife to the pair. Hey, that’s the knife that cut me! She wondered if they’d let her keep it. A good souvenir. She giggled to herself.
She was asked to strip and lie down, and she did so slowly, taking care not to fall over or tear anything. It was a bizarre sensation, knowing that your mindset was wrong, yet being unable to correct it. Did somebody say something about poison? That might explain it. She’d lost blood before, and never felt anything like this.
She must have blacked out, because she came to with a Dunmer peering into her eyes. It was the woman who had saved her earlier, and she fancied there might have been a hint of concern in all that red. She has pretty eyes. Grimacing, she shook her head. Clearly, she still had a bit of whatever poison it had been in her system.
“What happened?” She spoke slowly, feeling as though her mouth were filled with wool.
Another Dunmer strode up; one of the red robes from earlier, she thought. “You were fortunate. The blade your assailant carried was coated in a potent venom designed to incapacitate. Had your rescuer,” he bowed deeply to the woman who’d found them, “not chanced upon you, you would have been rendered unconscious.”
That reminded her. “The room!” She sat up quickly. “He tried to get me to go into—“
The woman cut her off. “It has been dealt with. Had you entered the chamber, you would have been paralyzed and concealed, likely for transport out of Great Fane.” The elven woman studied her, eyes flicking down briefly, and with a start Lydia realized she was unclothed but for her shift. What did they have to do to me?
She glanced at the woman, who had returned to watching her impassively. “Thank you.” She turned to the red-robed Dunmer, watching from a seat near the wall. “And to you. You gave me an antidote?”
The elf nodded. “You were poisoned with aril sap.”
She knew little of poisons, but even she’d heard whispers of aril. “Do I want to know how bad it could have been?”
The elf tilted his head slightly as he regarded her. “It has been some time since I last treated an outlander. Was that question intended to be humorous? A worst-case reaction to aril sap would be an excruciatingly painful way to die.”
“Wait, what?” As notorious as aril was, it wasn’t lethal. In fact, the reason for its infamy was how easily it robbed a person of their sense.
The elf blinked at her. “You wanted to know how bad it could have been.”
“Thank you for your aid, esteemed healer, and for providing me with some amusem*nt this morning. However, we must be on our way.” The Dunmer woman waved the healer away, then turned to Lydia. “He spends too much time with reagents, and not enough with people. But, this means he won’t go talking about treating you.” The woman leaned over and tapped Lydia between her breasts. “You put on some clothes. We need to get you over to the armory.”
“How do you—“
“How do I know where you have to be?” The Dunmer tossed her a shirt. “Put this on. Great Fane hums with rumor at your presence. For an outlander to be admitted is unusual. For one to hold counsel with a Deyhn is unprecedented.” She rose. “I do not know if the poison took your senses when I said this, but any harm that comes to you in this place shames the Temple.”
Lydia followed the other woman down the hall. “How long was I out?”
“Less than thirty minutes.” A pause. “Do they have time-keeping in Skyrim, or do you reckon the hours by the position of the sun?”
Oh, for the love of—“Yes, I know what a minute is! It’s how often somebody insults me in this blasted place!”
The elf’s eyes widened slightly. “Did I offend? Forgive me, it was a question honestly meant. I know little of Skyrim.” She paused, and turned. “You find it very unpleasant here?” Her voice was almost musical, rising and falling with emotive depth that more than made up for the stillness of her face. Here, it conveyed her disbelief at somebody finding Morrowind anything but wonderful.
Lydia sighed. “It’s not that. It’s just…it’s all different here.”
The elf nodded. “I have never been outside Morrowind, but I hear it’s nothing like this. Green as far as the eye can see, and forests without a mushroom in sight.” She laughed. “So strange, no?”
The silence that followed was a companionable sort of quiet, Lydia thought. Eventually, she felt bold enough to ask a question that might be considered rude. “So, what do you do in the Temple? I haven’t seen anyone else dressed like you.”
“Oh, you don’t see us. Or you might, and simply not know. I’m Morag Tong.”
Oh, gods. Lydia knew of the Morag Tong. Everyone knew of the Morag Tong. Assassins who worshipped Mephala, cultists and murderers, the stories said they were as bad as the Dark Brotherhood, but even more mysterious. Rumor held that they had been destroyed a hundred years ago, but the proof against that seemed to be walking alongside her. What does an assassin want with me? And could she do anything about it if this elf wanted her dead? She still wasn’t feeling great, and she had no armor besides.
Her fear must have shown through—or perhaps she was just silent for too long— because the elf turned to look at her. “Is something wrong?”
“Morag—Morag Tong, you said?” Lydia fished desperately for something to say. The last thing she wanted was an angry assassin. “In Skyrim they say that you were disbanded.”
She nodded. “The old Morag Tong was. They were corrupt, and had lost their way. They were retired, or killed, or driven out of Morrowind. But, Mephala speaks through her children, and so we were reborn. We serve the Temple and our Patron Lord.”
“Why does the Temple need assassins?” If nothing else, the Morag Tong would probably do better business if they weren’t part of the Temple. Of course, this is Morrowind. Nothing makes sense here.
“Ah, I see your confusion. We’re not assassins.” She paused for an instant. “Well, not usually. Mephala’s sphere is subtle, and there is much that we can do to serve the Dunmer people from the shadows.”
Lydia was confused. “So you’re spies?”
The woman shrugged. “Some are. We all serve in our own ways. I mostly keep to the Temple, keep my eyes and ears open, and make sure nothing is amiss.” Her eyes brightened. “And sometimes, I hear a battle while I’m checking out a strange magical signature in the Underworks, and stumble onto something interesting.”
Lydia finally felt at ease enough to smile at the elf. For a spy and maybe an assassin, she isn’t so bad. She was even a little bit attractive, in a good light.
Then, she remembered the flash of a knife, and blood. Don’t be fooled by a pretty face. “And chopping off his ear? Was that interesting?”
The elf didn’t even bother to turn around. “No. Only necessary. He required a demonstration, a wound he could not ignore. Our healers can restore him, if he cooperates.”
That sounded suspiciously like rationalization to Lydia. “So what did you do with him?”
“I turned him over to my superiors for questioning. He will be dealt with, and we will learn who he serves.” She sounded very sure of herself.
Lydia envied her that. They walked a bit more, until Lydia realized that they weren’t returning to her quarters. “My things—“
“I’ve sent Attendants to bring them to the Indoril Armory. For now, you’re needed there.”
How did she know that? Suddenly, Lydia realized where she was. Somewhere in a temple dedicated to strange and cruel gods, following a woman of uncertain motives. Lydia was completely unarmed, and for all she knew, she was walking into another trap. With a sinking feeling, Lydia regarded her companion. She was friendly, true, but she was also an assassin and spy. Can I trust her? And, if she couldn’t, what was there to do?
She considered their respective positions, and began glancing surreptitiously around for anything she could use to even the playing field. Of course, if this was a trap, she probably wouldn’t have time—
They turned a corner, and a pair of Ordinators glanced over at them. They flanked a doorway through which Lydia could see red light flickering. Her companion gave her a little push. “Go ahead! You’re needed in there.”
Clearly, she’d been shepherded to her next destination by this elf, but she didn’t know why. “I thought you only knew who I was by rumor.” She didn’t believe it for an instant, but that was what the other woman had said.
The elf shrugged. “I’m a good liar, aren’t I? A good skill for an assassin, you know.” She bowed. “Blessings of the Three be with you, outlander.” She strode down the hall, vanishing before Lydia could even begin to think of a response.
I never even learned her name. Sighing, she turned back to the guards. “Is this the Indoril armory?”
One nodded. “You are expected.”
Well, what else is new? She entered the armory, and saw Dunmer working at forges, as well as others working leather and some sitting at what looked like lathes. The far end had a number of elves busily working what looked like stone. Weapons and armor covered the walls, and everywhere was the hubbub of busy work and chatter. She couldn’t understand a word of it, but she got the impression that these were dedicated craftsmen, the same kind of perfectionists as Adrianne Avenicci and Eorlund Grey-Man back home. She also noticed that, though it was called an armory, most of what they were making seemed to be more mundane work, designed for everyday life. Makes sense, I suppose. The Dunmer weren’t at war, after all, and doubtless had more urgent matters than militarizing their entire people. She wondered how many plates and glasses and—what else would Dunmer use? Mushroom pots? Little statues of Azura?—the Dunmer of the Temple needed each year.
Just then, she was confronted by a heavyset Dunmer wearing a thick leather apron and more than a few burns. His bald head shone in the light from the forges, and his thick features, while impassive, put her in mind of more than a few craftsmen she’d known. No-nonsense, dedicated to his work, I’d wager.
“You! You’re the outlander? You’re late!” His barks cut off abruptly, and he looked her up and down. “A big one! Well, we’ll have something for you. Might not be the most delicate, but then again, neither are you.” Muttering to himself in Dunmeris, he ambled back away from the door, waving at her to follow him. “Come! Come! You must come now! We have much to do!”
Do we? She followed him back into the workshop, wondering when this madness would end. I’m getting sick of following elves to places.
He led her to a small inlet set into one wall, and showed her a rack of armor. “I got the order yesterday. Most of the stuff I make these days is tebbekh’juhn, but I’d wager a big one like you wants something a bit heavier, eh?”
He was going too fast for Lydia. “Hold on. What is tebbekh’juhn?” All of these elven words ran together in her mind. Five minutes from now, she’d likely not even remember how to say this one.
The elf laughed loudly. “Right, forgot you’ve got only the one tongue. Not a problem, I’ll use your words.” He pointed to a set of armor much like the ones she’d seen the Ordinators wearing. “This is tebbekh’juhn. Ornamental bonemold. Light, flexible, and easy to enchant. However, not ideal for front-line soldiers.” He gestured to another set, which more closely resembled the armor on the Redoran guards in the city below. “Tebbekh’ahl. You could say, hardened bonemold. Heavier and stronger but slightly more brittle. Lighter than steel, tougher than iron. A nice balance.” He waved at the two. “Word from above is you can have a piece of one of these, but seeing as you brought me my newest toy, I might be persuaded to give you a bit of an upgrade.”
Lydia already found herself wishing for good honest steel. Why would Velandryn go through all of the trouble to get me this, when he knows I’d prefer my own? Could it be some bizarre power play, making sure that she was carrying his people’s armor?
Before that, though, there was another matter. “Your new toy?” Then, she understood. “You mean my crossbow?”
The elf nodded. “Just so! The arbalest was considered a dead-end design, but the work on the piece you brought me opens up some exciting avenues.” His eyes brightened as he regarded her. “We all love the Temple, of course, but there’s no denying that keeping armor in good repair and hammering out prayer-tablets isn’t the most exciting work. When we get the chance to play around with something new, you’d best believe we take it.” He pointed at a table covered in drawings and mechanisms. “I’d say it was an Imperial who did the metal-work, but I’d wager that they used a Nordic woodsmith. Maybe a Breton, but I’ve not seen enough of their work to draw a meaningful distinction. They used more wood than I think is wise, either way; I’ve already sent out for a sample of bones so I can find a good replacement for our own production.”
Their own production. She felt like a fool for not realizing it earlier. “You’re arming your own soldiers with them?”
“Of course! I doubt the Armigers or Ordinators’ll take to them, but the Redoran are going to jump on this like a nix-hound on a Khajiit. Not to mention, with all that talk of dragons, might not be the worst idea in the world to have some of these sitting around in the border forts.” He tapped the table. “Magic might be divine, but nobody ever regretted having some extra weapons on hand.”
“Others here told me the dragons were just rumors.”
The elf snorted. “Maybe, maybe not. I’d rather be prepared and not have anything happen then get caught with my robe open if one of the bastards comes swooping down on us.”
Well, that was sensible enough. “So, where’s mine? I’d like my crossbow back before I leave.”
He glanced down at his designs. “How long you staying? I should have a prototype ready in a week or two, but it won’t be anything I’m comfortable making in bulk for at least a month and a half, assuming a typical amount of bad luck.”
“No, I mean the crossbow I gave you. Where’s that one?”
He pointed to his table, covered in…oh, mother Mara save me…covered in bits of steel and wooden machinery. “Something like this, can’t really study it without pulling it apart.” He shrugged. “Nobody said I had to put it back together.” Another shrug. “Sorry about that.”
Lydia sighed, and waved away his apology. “Not your fault, I suppose.” Damn it all, she’d liked that weapon! Well, at least she was going to be stopping at Castle Dawnguard. They might be able to give her another one. Just so long as they don’t learn we abandoned their people in a crypt. They might not be so amenable then.
The elf looked almost apologetic. “Look, I’m sorry about the crossbow. I know what it’s like, losing a good weapon. Tell you what, I’ll send you the best one of the first batch. Let somebody at the Temple know where to find you, and I’ll send you a weapon that’ll make you regret ever missing that human-designed piece of junk!” He seemed to realize what he’d said. “Ah, no offense.”
She smiled. “Only the slightest bit taken.”
He chuckled. “You’re all right, and not just for an outlander.” With a wave, he motioned to the room as a whole. “So, back to business. What’ll it be? You need silver? I’ve heard there’s werewolves everywhere in Skyrim. We’ll need to size you, but I can make it happen.”
He’s almost giddy, Lydia realized suddenly. It was odd to see in one of the dour Dark Elves, but this one was unmistakably over the moons about being able to play around with a crossbow. Some small part of her wondered if she could finagle an entire suit of armor out of him. I don’t know what I’d do with it, but maybe for my thane…
Her thoughts were interrupted as a shield caught her eye. Blessed Talos…
It was a strange thing, wrought in some bronze metal and seemingly at once very old and exceptionally well-maintained. It was roughly oval, a little larger than her current shield, but shaped entirely differently. Its central boss was recessed, and the plates surrounding it were set forward, giving it the look of some flower that had unfolded in the daylight. It shone dully, and Lydia was seized with a desire to take it down and try it out. Her current shield was all well and good, but this one looked to be something else entirely.
The Dunmer noticed her gaze. “Like it, do you? A masterpiece, taken from the ruins of Mthenganz.”
With a name like that, its origin was obvious. “It’s Dwarven?” Once he’d said it, it made sense. Dwarven metal lasted longer than any other, and it did have that same color as other Dwarven pieces she’d seen.
The smith grunted assent. “Aye. Dwemer-forged, and woven with spells.” He shot her a sharp look. “That what you want? The whole of the Indoril armory made open to you, and you set your eye on that?”
Lydia was taken aback. True, it was a magnificent shield, but she had no right to it. “No! I was only looking, after all, and my thane charged me with—“
“’Thane.’” The Dunmer interrupted her with the single word, seeming to taste it as he spoke. “What is this?”
“Oh, my master. Velandryn Savani. He holds the rank of thane in Whiterun.” The warning about not letting people know her business here returned to her, but, she thought, this was fine. It’s not like I said he was the Dragonborn, and knowing I serve a Dunmer might make this one happy.
“Velandryn Savani? You serve Velandryn?” The Dark Elf laughed. “Last I heard he went wandering through the Empire. Never learned why, but glad to know he didn’t go and die. How’s he been?”
“He’s well. He thinks himself superior to just about everyone he meets.” From what she’d seen, the Dunmer took that as a compliment.
And, indeed, the Dark Elf only laughed. “Among you Nords, I’ve no doubt he is!” He chuckled again. “By the Branded Fire, I hadn’t thought of Savani in forever!”
“How do you know him, if you don’t mind my asking?” Given their long lives, Lydia supposed it was possible that they’d simply met, but they didn’t really seem to run in the same circles.
“You ever heard of the Nerevar Cult?” The Dunmer tapped his chest. “Met him there, and once you know somebody in this place, seems you just keep running into them.”
It might not be a bad idea, Lydia decided, to learn more about Nerevar and his cult. Velandryn had spoken the name before, but she hadn’t thought it was more than another of his strange foreign oaths.
“I’ve heard of it. Velandryn will be glad to know that his allies are aiding me, even in his absence.” If she had even half as good a read on this one as she suspected, that should get her whatever she wanted. It might be simpler if I knew what it was I wanted, but that can come after.
And, indeed, the Dunmer’s chest puffed up like a pig-bladder child’s toy. “Hah! You’ve the right of it there, Nord! Tell Velandryn that Fethan Daril’s got his back! Now, what can I do for you?”
“Mistress Assashami, you honor me with your presence.” Nerim Llervos had long since learned not to show surprise, even if the mer standing before him had somehow managed to get into his office unannounced.
The old Ashlander bowed slightly. “I figured I would save you the trouble of sending for me, Deyhn.”
“Had you decided to announce your presence, you might have. As things stand, there is an Acolyte with a very difficult task ahead of him.”
“Well then, it is good that he will be getting his exercise. Too many in the Temple spend their days with noses in prayer books. It does not do to ignore the body.”
“One of the benefits of my rank is that I can do no wrong. If asked, he will doubtless relay that it was a mediation on futile endeavors. Is he is clever, he will thank me for the lesson.” Nerim had never knowingly given an Acolyte an impossible task—well, almost never—but he might have to start. After all, failure was a necessary component of improvement. He made a mental note of it, then grew serious as he faced the old Ashlander. “I have come into some information, Nas-anu.” He let no hint of emotion enter his tone.
“And you thought to share it with me? How thoughtful of you, Nerim.” Her reply was equally calm, and they looked at each other across his desk for a long moment.
“The Ordinators report that a member of the Morag Tong was seen escorting the outlander Lydia to Fethan Daril’s forge.” He held her gaze. “Did you enjoy your conversation with the Nord yesterday?”
The Ashlander dipped her head. “A dutiful servant makes for a dull conversation, I’m afraid. She serves her master well, but not us.”
“Us?” He raised an eyebrow—an affectation he’d never been able to give up—and placed his hands on his desk. “To what us are you referring?”
Nas-anu Assashami, once the Wise Woman of the Harisali Clan Ashlanders of Vvardenfell, reached into her robe. Producing a tiny idol, she ran her fingers over its surface before returning it to whatever secret pocket it had come from. “Have you spent time among my people, Deyhn Llervos?”
He shook his head. “I briefly met a few clans when I made the Pilgrimage of the Incarnate, but I have never spent much time among the Ashlanders.”
“When a clan must move, it will send scouts before it, so they do not travel blind. When I led the Harisali outriders, we would find all manner of dangers, from bandits and renegades to stray Daedra or blighted beasts. Those that we could defeat, we did. However, some threats would have cost the lives of my people to overcome, and so the only good option was to warn the clan to swing wide.”
Nas-anu had never been accused of brevity, but in truth Nerim didn’t mind. He would rather listen to her, after all, than deal with the work he was actually supposed to do. Her accent, usually all but imperceptible, grew stronger when she talked of home and her past, and he quite liked that sound. Already she was half-swallowing the ‘t’ sound in many of her words, and her lower vowels were beginning to sing.
Unaware of his musings, she continued. “For better or for worse, the world has changed, and my people need no longer fear death at the hands of our House-sworn cousins. So, we come to see the world we have never known, and many join their fates to yours.”
“Including you.” There’d been a note of something suspiciously like disapproval in her voice, and he wasn’t going to let her get away with that.
“Yes.” She blinked at him. “This is now my home as much as the Grazelands, and out there in the city beyond I have kin I have never met. An odd situation for a Velothi, but I find it has grown on me. Even your Ordinators are less repulsive than they once were. And so, I find it intolerable that we close our eyes to the world beyond our borders, trusting in the goodwill of the lesser races not to seek once more our subjugation. If Morrowind as a whole is my nation, then I must safeguard my kin. I am doing this, as, I believe, are you.”
Nerim sighed. “And the events of this morning? If the criminal who sought to capture the outlander is found to have come from a noble or, gods forbid, a Councilor? Will you discharge your duty by threatening a member of the Great Council?”
Her eyes flashed. “If a Councilor of the House-born threatens violence against a servant of Velandryn Savani, they shall learn firsthand of the Thousand Rings.”
Nerim had been afraid of that. He didn’t know the details, but anytime an Ashlander brought up the Thousand Rings, it meant that they were going to close ranks against outsiders. “Lydia told me you knew nothing of Velandryn Savani yesterday, and now you are willing to invoke Ashlander law on his behalf?”
“It is not law, priest.” She was passionate now; ordinarily she was scrupulous with her use of titles and names. “And any with ears to hear his name would know of his heritage. I have ears, and so I searched and found the records. A son of the Urshilaku by way of his mother, he may be a half-breed but he is still of our blood.”
“Half-breed, is it?” How quickly her talk of all Morrowind being her nation vanished when she was incensed. Ashlanders cannot keep their temper; a shame that Velandryn too carries that flaw. “We are all Dunmer here, you know.”
She laughed. “Oh yes, how could I forget? You worship your false gods and then, when the Daedra punish you for your sins, you come crawling to those of us who kept the faith, begging us to show you how to beg for forgiveness! You give us a house and a name, so that we can forget our past and join you! Where was that hand of friendship when the Daedra poured forth from Oblivion? Where was that hand when the Ordinators hunted down and tortured any who spoke against your godly murderers? It was clenched into a fist so you could better beat my people into submission! We share blood, but for four thousand years your people murdered mine! I will not speak a word against any half-blood—there is no sin in a birth—but do not for an instant pretend that we are the same.”
Nerim should have held his tongue, but he was sick of this barbarian acting as though she was the arbiter of truth. “This Temple was founded on the ideals of the Dissident Priests! For millennia they fled from the persecution of the Temple. I was trained by mer who held the same ideals as you! We aren’t on opposing sides!”
“Be that as it may, I will not leave the fate of my people in your hands.” She seemed a bit calmer, if no less determined. “How many Dunmer of the true faith hold positions of power beyond our borders?” They both knew the answer to that. She continued, relentless. “And how many of our kin have the opportunity to influence the other nations of Tamriel?” She made a fist and stuck out her thumb. “Because I can count them on the thumb of one hand. It would be beyond foolish not to take this opportunity.”
“You think I haven’t? I have given him what he requested, and tested his retainer besides. He will not be alone, and he will remember who aided him.”
“How like a House Dunmer, to know nothing of esteem. Give him what he asks for, and he will think himself clever. Give him more, and he will think you generous. Give him a gift that honors him beyond his worth, and he will think himself in your debt. Lydia, retainer to the Dragonborn, will leave this place with a gift for her master, one that will ensure he does not forget his nation and his blood.”
Nerim knew better than to contradict an Ashlander on the giving of gifts. They’d turned it into something of an art form, after all. However, something she’d said intrigued him. “How did you know Velandryn’s the Dragonborn?”
“I told you, I have scouts watching for what will come. When word reaches me of a Dunmer who is something called Dragonborn, I listen. And so, I learn what is needed, and keep a watchful eye on each ship from Skyrim.”
Nerim understood then. “You knew the retainer—Lydia—was coming.” Of course, there was no way that someone as cunning as Nas-anu would simply run into the outlander by chance.
“I knew who was aboard ten minutes after that ship reached land. Azura blesses us with foresight, but we must take matters into our own hands as well. The Outland Quarter is thick with scum, imbecilic Nords and scheming Imperials who care for naught but the clink of coin in their purse.” She shrugged. “It would be remiss of me not to take advantage of their weakness.”
That only raised further questions, as she doubtless knew it would. There was no way that an Ashlander could afford to maintain a spy network herself, and Nerim couldn’t see her working with the Bal Molagmer. The Stonefire Elves served the Council, which left…
The Tongs. There was no way that Nas-anu would consort with the lowlifes that comprised the Camonna Tong, which narrowed the list of suspects down to one.
He’d long suspected that the old Ashlander held some rank in the Morag Tong, but he had as little to do with that group as possible. He was old enough to have grown up on stories of the old Morag Tong, little more than brutal killers sanctioned by Vivec and led by corrupt masters. That this new breed claimed to serve the Temple and nation of Morrowind was all well and good, but he still wasn’t going to seek them out. And if his office was lined with spells that could pull in a dozen atronachs as he needed them, well, it wasn’t paranoia if you were a high-ranking Dunmer.
“You know, the Morag Tong only takes writs for those who are doing harm to the soul and people of Morrowind. You have nothing to fear.” Whether he’d let some emotion slip or Nas-anu was simply adept as guessing his train of thought he couldn’t say, but he did appreciate her confirmation of his suspicions. That was kind of her. He’d never been much of one for subterfuge. He preferred books.
“And do they often escort outlanders to their destination? A destination, I was interested to note, where the out—where Lydia met with a smith who had not only been directly handed the crossbow but also had a preexisting relationship with young Savani.” He kept his tone light, as though he weren’t accusing her of weaving this whole things together for her own ends.
She shrugged. “Your hands are tied by convention and the need to keep the Temple neutral. Mine are not.”
“A great many people would be very upset hearing that coming from somebody associated with the Morag Tong.” The Tong served the Temple. Theoretically, at least.
She laughed. “Anybody with ability to do anything about it would have the wit to recognize the truth in there! I’m not saying there will be blood in the streets, but there’s a reason that the Temple made the Morag Tong subservient to the Temple itself rather than any individual or council.” She leaned in. “Do you think such…precise…mer would make an accidental omission of that magnitude? No, they wanted us to serve as the shadowed hand of the true faith.” Leaning back, she studied him with her piercing eyes. “And you know that, don’t you?”
Nerim touched his forehead and murmured a short benediction. “Through faith we are united, through suffering made pure.” Nas-anu whispered the rote response, and he rose. Pacing, he spoke as he thought. “I do not disagree with you. I too wish to see Velandryn succeed, and I’m not unsympathetic to your arguments. However, the Council will view this as foreign intervention, and you know as well as I the ramifications of such a course of action. I can assure you that the Redoran want an independent Temple as little as they want rogue Ashlanders, and I want to make very certain that you don’t go and pull the roof down on our heads while trying to repair the walls.”
Nas-anu looked thoughtful. “I’ve not acted in any overt manner. I would assume that it was the Ordinators who reported back to you, yes?” At his grunt of agreement, she continued. “I have my issues with the Repentant, but they are loyal to the Temple. Besides, you have acted appropriately in every particular, and I am a barbarian who knows little of political intricacies. At worst, you will be chastised by a Canon for humoring an Anointed too long gone from home, and I’ll be told off for sticking my nose into other people’s affairs. You overestimate how much the Council monitors the minutiae of events within Great Fane.”
He hoped that she was right, but it did not pay to underestimate the Bal Molagmer. Still, what was done was done. “She’s leaving later today. For now, it’s all but out of our hands.” He waved, and the door to the outer balcony opened. Nas-anu followed him onto the ledge, and they stood together in the morning light. “Did the one who tried to kidnap Lydia reveal anything?”
She shook her head. “He knows nothing. A common thug, paid by dead drop and recruited through intermediaries. He was instructed to bring her in alive, and given the tools to do so. A dagger and some poisons to incapacitate, and a crate to stuff her body in. It was all thrown together in a single day, meaning that whoever was behind it was reacting to the retainer’s arrival, rather than putting a plan into motion.”
“How did he infiltrate the Temple itself?” Nowhere was impregnable, but the Ordinators did good work with keeping Great Fane secure.
“Swam in through the Underworks. His contact gave him potions of water breathing and scrolls to dissolve the gratings barring his way. My people are already investigating the site, but it’s been done before and could likely be done again.”
She wasn’t wrong. However, that didn’t mean they had to make it easy. “How would the Morag Tong feel about being asked to quietly enchant the gratings and tunnels in the Underworks? Make sure that this route cannot be used again, and set a few traps for the next ones to try.”
Nas-anu nodded. “It will be done, Deyhn Llervos.” Her eyes brightened. “You are not unskilled at the subtle arts, it would seem.”
More than you know, at least. “Maybe, but I’ll leave them to you.” His suspicions confirmed, he thought about what he’d said, and nodded. “We’re both just trying to do right by our people, no? Next time you need help with the kind of Temple business I handle, come to me, and I’ll do the same when I need something accomplished…quietly.”
“I’m not used to having friends among the upper ranks of the Temple, you know. What if I accidentally use a Velothi prayer in place of one of yours?”
Nerim sighed. “You know, the House-Ashlander divide is lessening every year. One in ten of our Acolytes are what you would call ‘half-bloods,’ after all. Velandryn is typical of the future, I would hope, rather than an exception.”
If Nas-anu shared his optimism, she hid it well. “Better he be this Dragonborn than some Redoran warrior with a head full of nothing but stories. If nothing else, Velandryn Savani is supposed to be clever.”
“You do fast work, if you already know that about him.” Of course, it never paid to underestimate Nas-anu Assashami. “I do agree, however. For a Dunmer to be in this position is beyond strange, but that it is Velandryn is…” He trailed off as something occurred to him.
Nas-anu waited. She was patient, to a fault.
His mind raced. How lucky that it was Velandryn! Exceptionally intelligent, passionate but not a zealot, a naturally talented mage and, by the sound of things, not doing too terrible a job at being some sort of Nord hero. Almost too perfect. If he had been hand-selecting candidates…
He finally voiced his thoughts. “Doesn’t it strike you as fortuitous that Velandryn Savani is so perfectly aligned for the role he’s playing?”
The Ashlander studied him. “A Dunmer priest fulfilling the role of a Nord culture hero? No, I think he’s in a terrible situation, and if I cared for his personal safety over the opportunity he presents, I’d have already sent the Morag Tong to drag him home. However, so far as Dunmer go…”
“He’s perfect, isn’t he? As palatable to some Redoran Councilor as he is to you. How does a Dragonborn come about, do you think?”
He could see Nas-anu’s mind snap to deceit. “You think we’re being played? I can’t see either the Empire or Dominion—“
“You misunderstand.” He gestured out at the city. “We are blessed because we walk once more in the grace of the Triune House. Their wisdom is great, and their power unknowable. That the Dragonborn is Dunmer—this Dunmer— should not be ignored, for surely this is a blessing conferred by the Three.” It was so obvious; how could he have missed it? This was not happenstance, but the will of the Daedra. “He must succeed.”
Nas-anu laughed. “You priests, always so willing to thank the Three. Whatever the reason, we both want to see him succeed, no?”
Nerim did, though his reason was less because of whatever political ploy Nas-anu had in mind and more because he liked the idea of Nords being indebted to a Dunmer. Not to mention, he’d prefer if Velandryn survived. Either way, it seemed he and the Ashlander were allies of a sort, in this at least. “So, why did you come and see me?” It had been convenient, but Nas-anu Assashami did not go out of her way for the convenience of others.
She blinked in surprise. “Why, to have this conversation, of course. I think it’s far easier to bring you in on my plans than to try and manipulate you into doing my bidding.”
“But I was the one asking all of the quest….” He trailed off as he realized how thoroughly he’d been played.
Nas-anu Assashami, onetime Ashlander warrior and a high-ranking member of the Morag Tong, bowed slightly. “You spend too much time worried about the soul of the Dunmer, and not enough remembering that you’re one of us.” She turned and snapped her fingers, and the door swung open. “I’ll make sure the outlander is safely on her way, and that she gets what she needs.” She stepped into his office, then paused for a moment before turning back to face him. “For what it’s worth, I need you as much as you need me. Can you imagine if I was in charge of things?” Chuckling, she snapped her fingers again and the door clicked shut behind her.
Nerim looked out over Baan Malur, glorious in the morning light. Well, wasn’t that something? It would be nice if what she’d told him was true, but sadly, it didn’t seem to be so. He might not like playing games of spycraft and subterfuge, but you had to have something of a sense for these things to last any time at all in his position.
He might not have a network of fanatical cultists and assassins at his disposal, but he knew how to read people, even people as guarded as Nas-anu. She’d not been telling him the truth about the would-be kidnapper. It had been most noticeable when they were discussing the Underworks, and again when talking about who might have sent him. She knew something, and she didn’t want him to know what it was. Several possibilities came to mind, none of them particularly pleasant.
Well, such was life. He’d keep his eyes and ears open, and maybe write a few of his friends and see if they wanted to have dinner together sometime.
He had lived for quite a long time, and had quite a few friends.
Velandryn, my boy, you are lucky I’m on your side. He quickly amended that thought, as he wasn’t sure anybody, Velandryn included, knew exactly what side the Dragonborn was on, or even what game it was they were playing.
He took a deep breath before heading back inside. How he despised politics.
Lydia left the armory burdened with a new shield of Dwemer make, and though it was not the one that had first caught her eye, she had to admit it was one of the finest she’d ever held. It was lighter and more rigid than steel, but not as brittle as iron. It was cold to the touch, and the smith had assured her that it would shrug off heat and cold alike without deforming. She’d seen Dwarven shields in Skyrim before, but those had been wall-mounted conversation pieces intended as much for decoration as for protection, where this was a smoothed and reinforced oval of bronze, designed to deflect blows and magic alike. If I had to give up my crossbow, at least I got something in return.
Part of her felt guilty that she didn’t feel guiltier about giving up her shield from Whiterun, but the quality of the one she now carried managed to quash those thoughts. The metal that the long-vanished Dwarves—Dwemer, she now recalled, was their elvish name—had used to make their marvelous machinery and gear had never been reproduced in all the eras since they vanished, but it was possible to reforge it. She didn’t know how smiths accomplished the feat, but if it ended with the shield she’d been given, she was willing to let it be.
She was flanked by a pair of Ordinators tasked, she’d been told, with not only showing her where to go but also making sure she got there safely. After the events of this morning, she had a hard time saying no to the offer, even if she doubted they were there only to protect her. Don’t want the outlander getting into trouble, do we?
They came to a room, nondescript from the outside, and one of them moved to open the door. She wasn’t in the habit of letting other people do her work for her, but the possibility of another would-be kidnapper waiting on the other side meant she let the armored Dunmer proceed without comment.
The room beyond was, thankfully, free of obvious enemies, though it was more crowded than she’d expected. Also more enclosed. When they’d said she was leaving the city, she’d expected a carriage or a horse, and braced herself for some strange beast or riding-insect.
Instead, they stood in a room a little larger than the Prelate’s office, with a raised circular dais in the center. A Dunmer in rich robes stood atop the dais, looking at her intently. The rest of the room was filled with people, two of whom she recognized. Prelate Llervos nodded sagely to her, and Nassa—Lydia still couldn’t for the life of her remember that woman’s name—was leaning against one wall, eyes bright and holding something small and wrapped in cloth. The rest of the crowd was made of Acolytes and Attendants, each carrying a sheaf of papers or a stack of her belongings.
Prelate Llervos stepped towards her, and waved in the general direction of his Acolytes. “Here is our collection of dragonlore. Much is speculation and more is concealed within poetry or song, but hopefully it can be of some use to you.” A small smile flashed across his lips, and he handed Lydia a thick envelope bound with string. “This is for Velandryn. Give it to him with my regards.”
Next was Nassa, who pressed the wrapped bundle into Lydia’s hands. “Ensure that this reaches your master.” She moved off, catching Prelate Llervos—who looked more than a little interested about what was in the box— by the arm. The old Ashlander drew him away from Lydia, who now found herself accosted by an Ordinator in vaguely familiar armor.
Removing his helm, Orvas Mathen, the Ordinator from the gate and the one who’d joined her at dinner, looked up into her face. “I don’t know what Velandryn got himself mixed up in, and might be it’s none of my business. But he’s one of us, so you’d best do right by him.” Placing his helmet back on, the guard left the room. Well, alright then.
Looking around, Lydia was unable to see any indication of where she should go. “I’m supposed to be making my way south, no?”
Prelate Llervos nodded. “You are bound for Fort Virak, and from there to the Rift in Skyrim.”
Lydia knew of Fort Virak by reputation. Many a Nord had died beneath its walls, after all, and more than a few tragic ballads ended in a last heroic charge against its heathen owners. However, telling this group that bit of cultural history wasn’t likely to go over well, so she simply nodded. “Thank you. Is my horse nearby?”
The Prelate smiled. “In a way. Please stand there.” He pointed at the dais, and she stepped up, wondering what was going on. Prelate Llervos spoke a single sharp word, and the attending Dunmer piled the dragonlore and her gear around her. “They will provide you what you need at Fort Virak. Ask to speak to Sister Dranya. She has been made aware of your case.”
Lydia was still confused. “Okay, but where am I going? How am I supposed to get to Fort Virak?“
The richly dressed Dunmer who’d been staring at her earlier now stepped forward, and raised his hands. Light shimmered around her, and suddenly Lydia felt very strange. ‘What’s—“
A blinding flash of light came from all around her, and she threw up her hands in shock. Damn! Was it an attack? Had whoever was behind the earlier attempt returned?
Her vision returned a moment later, and everything was different. Either the world had changed, or she was somewhere else. Was this teleportation? She knew the art existed, of course—Velandryn’s little episode with the journal back in Solitude had made sure of that— but it wasn’t the sort of thing that happened to, well, real people.
The room she was in was similar to the one she’d just left, though the walls were darker and the lights were dim, but she recognized none of those before her. Instead of the Prelate, Nassa, and assorted Acolytes, she was faced with a pair of insectoid-looking Dunmer soldiers, and another with armor of black and gold who was clearly some sort of officer. He had on no helmet, and she recognized the set of those eyes. Another Dunmer who doesn’t want to have to deal with the outlander.
“You are the Nord we were told to expect?” The officer did not quite sneer at her, but only because Dunmer didn’t move their faces enough to make it work. A shame, really; they’d be great at it.
“Probably.” Lydia had no doubts as to who they were expecting, but she rather liked poking at these self-important types. “You get many Nords in by teleportation?”
The Dunmer’s eyes did not lighten. “Security is not a matter for levity, outlander. You are,” he consulted a piece of paper, “Lydia ko’thil’ten Serjo Indoril Velandryn Savani?”
It was certainly the longest name she’d ever had, even if most of it was her thane’s. “I think so. I serve Velandryn, at least. What’s a Serjo?”
“A term of respect, or is that another word an outlander cannot understand?” He really would have been good at sneering. “I use the word in your may be in your tongue, but I’ve never seen any evidence that your kind understand the meaning.
Lydia had just about had enough. “We’re at a border fort, right?” she didn’t bother waiting for an answer; she knew full well where Fort Virak was located. “If it’s people like you who interact with the rest of the world, then no wonder everyone hates the Dark Elves.”
The officer laughed. “Hate requires esteem. By hating us, you give us power in your minds, and that I will gladly have. You, however, I do not hate.” He managed to look down his nose at her while being almost a full head shorter than she. “You, and all of your heathen and outland kind, are beneath my contempt. Now, come. I have been bid give you provisions and gear for a journey into Skyrim.”
She followed him out of the room, despite an urge to punch him full in the face. Lousy stuck-up knife-eared ash-skinned—damn it all! When she realized that she was just running through every insult she’d ever heard directed at a Dark Elf, she caught herself and felt a moment of shame at how easily she’d slipped back into old ways of thinking. One bastard doesn’t make a race. I’ve got to be better than him.
Fortunately, they were met by another Dunmer before either one of them could say something inflammatory enough to bring them to blows. The new arrival was a woman in robes that looked a lot like the ones at the Temple back in Blacklight. She bowed politely to Lydia. “Welcome to Fort Virak, Lydia of Whiterun. Be welcome in the grace of the Three.”
The officer snorted. “This one is your problem now, Dranya. There’s a horse waiting for her down at the Rift Gate, so once you get sick of her, we’ll send her on her way.” He glanced at Lydia. “See that you don’t cause any trouble while you’re here.” He gestured with his hand, and he and his two escorts marched off.
“Charming man, that.” Lydia didn’t even realize that she’d spoken aloud until she heard the priest—Sister Dranya, Prelate Llervos had said—laugh.
“He is a dutiful soldier, but he has little love for outlanders.” She opened a door, and waved Lydia through. They proceeded down some stairs and along yet another hallway. “Too long on the borders can cause resentment in even the hardiest of souls.” She opened another door, and light shone in. “Welcome to Fort Virak once more.”
On some level, Lydia had known that she’d been teleported, but it was something else entirely to be confronted with the reality of it. They stood on a covered walkway overlooking a courtyard, while tall walls of dark stone rose around them. Behind those walls, towering mountains stretched far overhead, and their snow-capped peaks put her achingly in mind of home. “How…how far are we from Blacklight?”
The priest thought for a moment. “I do not know how you measure distance in the Empire. Is it leagues you use? Miles? The Altmeri saath? Either way, we are far to the south of Great Fane. Nine days ride by silt strider, or fourteen by guar.”
Two weeks’ ride in the blink of an eye! Her annoyance at being considered an Imperial vanished in astonishment. She might not love magic overmuch, but she would have been a fool not to see how powerful this was. “Teleporting. Is there any limit to it?”
From below came the sound of shouting, and Lydia glanced over to see groups of Dunmer locked in mock battle and training. She looked back up as Sister Dranya started talking. “Teleportation is a magic with great power, but greater danger. We use guides, and send only from aln’tur— way-circles, I believe they would be called in your tongue.” She shrugged. “For safety, we send one person only at a time, and ensure that the receiving circle is prepared in advance. It is exceedingly rare that anything goes wrong.”
Lydia decided to leave that rather disturbing thought be. “So, you were told I was coming? Thank you for helping me back there.”
Dranya bowed slightly. “It is nothing. Your business is your own, but the Temple looks out for those who serve it, as you do.”
“Didn’t seem to impress the officer back there much.” She was still slightly put out by his behavior, after all. Even the others who had a problem with her had been more polite about it.
The priest sighed. “He is a warrior of Redoran. You must understand, the Temple instills an unusual amount of…introspection in its members. We study, and through understanding we gain perspective, which is vital for our role as the soul of the Dunmer. It is a great source of pride for Anointed and Ordinator alike, but House warriors do not require such. Captain Molaril has held this post for the last three years, witnessing all who come to our borders. What manner of outlander, do you suppose, most regularly calls at Fort Virak?”
Lydia didn’t even have to pause to think. “Criminals and lowlifes.” She knew the types who fled from their troubles, and only a desperate human would hope for a better life in Morrowind. Although… “Surely some merchants from outside do trade with you?”
“A few, but none through here in recent years. Cyrod merchants use the forts to the south, and most of your kind come in through the ports on the northern coast. We see few humans here who possess any redeeming qualities, so do not hate the captain too much.”
“Hmm.” Lydia decided that she would keep her own judgement on that, but she’d stay quiet, at least. At least the priest seems more agreeable. “Thank you again for your help, but I do need to be on my way.”
“Of course, for this mission about which I must know nothing. How does an outlander come to serve an Anointed as ko’thil? Who exactly is Velandryn Savani?”
Lydia tried for a mysterious smile. “If you weren’t told, then you don’t need to know.”
She must have been getting better at reading Dunmer, because she could see the pout blossom briefly on the other woman’s face. “Oh, all right. They’ll be moving your things to the stables now. Come on.”
The fort was well-garrisoned, and Lydia saw Dunmer working at numerous tasks as they descended. Most were either clad in simple tunics and robes or that same familiar bonemold armor, though now and then she saw one in pale chitinous plate or oddly shaped armor composed or irregular green glass that might have been malachite. When she asked Dranya about them, the priest blinked in what Lydia assumed was surprise.
“They are the Armigers. Scouts and light skirmishers, I’m told, but I never studied war-craft so I’ll take the soldiers’ word for it. Mostly Ashlanders or House Sadras. I guess you wouldn’t see them in Skyrim, would you?”
Lydia had never seen their like. They moved with practiced grace, and when she saw two of them sparring—one with a long, flexible spear and the other with a pair of short swords that hummed as they whipped back and forth—she decided that she would sooner not face them. There was something she’d been wondering about, and she supposed this was as good a time as any to ask. “So, your soldiers have decades of experience, don’t they? Those Armigers, how long would you say they’ve been doing this?”
Dranya shrugged. “Armigers are the elite, so all of them at least twenty or thirty years. We haven’t had a real war in a long time, but I’d wager most of them have served on the southern border against the Argonians. I know that their high officers and the Mol’lakan—Smoke Guard, it might be in Imperial—are mostly veterans of Sharmat’s War, so they’ve been serving for at least two hundred. Why?”
“Just curious.” She’d been right. An army of elves could have tens of thousands of years of experience among them, and each would be a seasoned veteran beyond anything Nords could field. She reminded herself that these were the elite, like Dranya had said, and not every Dunmer was an ancient warrior packed full of a lifetime of warrior’s tricks. Still, best not to pick a fight with any Armigers while I’m here.
The stable was spacious, but most of that space was given over to strange scaled creatures like nothing she’d ever seen. Two-legged, with stubby front arms and round heads filled with teeth, they gave strange growling barks as she entered. Could these be the legendary guar? To hear Velandryn tell it, they were superior to horses in every way except taste. The fact that her thane thought horsemeat a delicacy was more than a little strange, but she’d learned to live with it. The horses here were relegated to a far corner, and seemed profoundly uncomfortable in the presence of these beasts. Or maybe they don’t want to be dinner for a Dark Elf.
A Dunmer woman with a shaved head sauntered over, waving at them causally. Dranya bowed and offered a few words in Dunmeris, to which the stable-hand responded in kind.
Then, the bald woman turned to Lydia. “Don’t worry about the guar! They don’t like the smell of human is all!” She wiped her hands on a dirty apron. “You’ll be the outlander here about the horse, I’d bet? I’ve got a strong one all ready for you out front—come and see!”
Lydia followed the woman out to a yard, where a hearty Skyrim horse—Whiterun-stock, she noted with some amusem*nt—stood chewing a sparse red grass. It was laden with everything she’d brought from the Temple, which left no room on its back for her. Lydia didn’t really mind, though. She trusted her own two feet more anyways.
She made her farewells to the priest, and led the horse towards the western wall, and the way back home. Supposedly, Fort Virak had stood here since the First Era, and the massive wood-and-metal gate rose with a ponderous creaking that seemed to convey every one of those years. As it slammed into place high above her, she felt a stab of cultural regret at passing through here when so many of her kinsfolk had died trying to do just that. Well, we did conquer them a few times, at least.
Soon, she was past the tower, and heading up the gently sloping path that led to the Rift. She glanced back over her shoulder, to where the dark bulk of Fort Virak squatted in the pass. It was completely different from the architecture in Blacklight, but something it made her certain that it had been made by the Dunmer. The angles, maybe? They weren’t insectoid or flowing, but they were still very different from any human structure she’d ever seen.
Well, no matter now. Straightening her spine and looking ahead, she led her horse onward.
“You there! Hold!” Lydia drew up short as a pair of Nords stepped onto the path. She was reaching for her sword before she realized it was on her horse. Not to mention, I’m unarmored. So, she smiled at them as she slowly took a step towards where sword and shield were waiting for her. These might be bandits, after all.
One of the Nords, a woman in chainmail, was the one who had hailed her before and spoke now. “These are dark times, traveler. What brings you to Skyrim by the Morrowind road?”
With a start, Lydia realized how odd it would seem for a Nord to be doing as she was. Fortunately, she’d already thought of this. “My master sent me to see if the elves had any insight on dragon-killing.” She wasn’t a good liar, after all, so she might as well keep mostly to the truth. “They have a few documents, so I’m hoping it was worth the time I spent there."
The other Nord, a bearded man in what she now noticed were Riften colors, nodded. “And who’d your master be, then?”
I suppose this is the moment of truth, then. Not that she was mad enough to give them an honest answer, but still… “Jarl Balgruuf of Whiterun. We’ve been attacked once already, and he wants anything and everything that could help us again.”
The bearded one turned to his companion. “Not the worst idea in the world. Those heathens to the east might be shifty bastards, but I’d bet they’ve all sorts of knowledge hidden away.” He gestured at the horse. “Get anything worth the time?”
Oh, damn. She didn’t want them to go looking for answers of any sort at Fort Virak. “A few old books, but nothing in a human language. Don’t think they liked me too much.”
The woman roared with laughter. “Aye, they’re a right pack of sour bastards over there, make no mistake! Bet you’re glad to be back in civilized lands again, eh?”
Lydia thought honestly about the question. Morrowind had been absolutely fascinating, but it was nice to be somewhere where things made sense again. “More than you’ll know.”
The woman chuckled, then sobered. “Best of luck to you, but I’d keep your sword a bit closer to hand. Winter’s driven some of the beasts out of the mountains, and if there’s bandits skulking in the backwoods, a lone woman with a horse makes a tempting target.”
Lydia nodded. They seemed agreeable, so she decided to push her luck. “I also heard about some vampire hunters near here. The Dawnguard, is it? I ran into a few around Whiterun, and I figured I’d drop in, see if they could give me some tips on good ways to end bloodsuckers.” She could probably find them eventually even without help, but she didn’t want to go wandering around aimlessly if these two could point her in the right direction.
And indeed, they were already nodding. The woman pointed. “Few miles up the road, you’ll see a bridge to your right. Path over that’ll take you to their canyon.”
The man grinned. “Got a half-ruined castle back there, and a whole mess of folk they’re training. Good sorts, if a bit single-minded. They’ll tell you more’n you ever wanted to know about vampire hunting.”
Lydia clasped their forearms. “My thanks, and the best of luck to you.”
The woman clapped her on the shoulder. “And to you, friend. Tell your jarl that he should join Ulfric soon! You’re good folk down there in Whiterun; we want you on our side in the war for our freedom! And welcome home!”
Lydia’s smile was genuine. These were good people, and she’d gladly fight alongside them. Maybe if things had been different, I could have served Ulfric Stormcloak…but now she was on a different path. “Watch the skies, and give those dragons a taste of good Nord steel!”
Laughing and jesting with each other, they parted ways, and Lydia headed west once more, back into Skyrim.
Back home.
Another Place, Another Time
As Velandryn sat on a bench, watching the people of Solitude and trying to get a feel for the place, his hand slipped into one of his belt pouches, more by habit than anything. The weeks in the wilderness had given him an almost compulsive need to check his supplies, and so he found himself ensuring that everything was where it should be dozens of times a day.
This time, however, his fingers found something unusual, and he pulled it forth. A piece of paper, folded over, smudged with the illegible remains of writing and bearing the unmistakable stiffness that could only have meant it had undergone some horrendous abuse. By the feel of it, it had been wedged into a fold of the pouch, where it had remained until now. By some unimaginable coincidence, he had carried this paper with him through everything, all while being completely ignorant of its existence.
So what is it?
It splintered apart in his hands when he tried to open it, and he could make out only one word, scrawled on the top of the page in a hand that was unmistakably his own.
Lydia.
All at once, his heart dropped into his stomach. Was this that letter? The one he’d penned to give his housecarl the names and locations of those who could help her in his homeland, and—
Did I ever actually give it to her?
If he hadn’t, then he would have sent her to Morrowind with a packet full of letters that she couldn’t read and no clue of how to deliver them. If he hadn’t included some sort of message for his housecarl, the Lydia was wandering clueless through a city of mer who despised her, without even a scrap of parchment to guide her way.
No, I gave it to her.
He’d even taken extra care when writing it. He’d been sitting at that desk, writing it and then—
Could I have stowed it in my pocket?
It was conceivable. The business with Serana had caused his mind to wander, and he distinctly recalled having to force his thoughts to return to the task at hand. But to forget to give Lydia such a vital missive would be…
No, there was no way he’d have forgotten it. Right now Lydia had a list of friends and allies in Morrowind. Nerevar knows she’ll need it. Gods forbid she go and cross a Councilor or something. Or get herself tangled up with the Tong, or the Telvanni, or the Dres.
Now that he thought about it, there were quite a few ways her journey could go bad if she didn’t know what she was doing. Still, the point was moot. He’d given her the letter, after all. This was doubtless some early draft, and he’d stuck the real one safely atop the bundle of documents to go to Baan Malur.
At least, he was pretty sure he had.
Well, no use worrying about it now.
He hoisted himself to his feet. The strange beggar’s words still disturbed him, and he needed to see who –or what—was waiting for him in the Blue Palace. He set off down the street, carefully turning his face to avoid an Imperial patrol and letting his magicka stir within him just enough to keep the chill palatable. He didn’t want to be uncomfortable, but neither could he afford to lose his edge.
Velandryn felt the strange hipbone once more, still nestled in one of his pouches. From the moment he had touched it, he had felt an inexorable pull towards the eastern end of the city. The Blue Palace was waiting, and something within it that demanded he come.
Velandryn Savani had never been one for blindly following orders, but sometimes there was no alternative. Sometimes life gave you the pieces and let you figure out the whole for yourself, and sometimes a mad beggar thrust a hipbone into your hand and gave you a cryptic quest to break into a Nord jarl’s home.
I wonder if this is what it’ll always be like?
If it was, well, at least he was getting used to it. He found himself humming, an ancient hymn called Nerevar’s Rising he had learned as a child, and flexed his fingers to limber them up and let the magicka flow. There was something delightfully clear about a single objective, even if the circ*mstances were surrounded in mystery. He needed to get into the Blue Palace, so that was what he was going to do.
