Kyne's Notes

The White Phial [archived July 2019]

A Skyrim fanfic by Tippetarius

Summary: Rumarin would rather not risk his life going into some draugr-infested crypt to retrieve a magical artifact, but there's money in it, and he has a debt to pay. He tries to hire a tough mercenary to go with him, but all he can get on short notice is a Khajiit mageling and a Breton girl who can't cast spells.

Notes: This version of The White Phial was archived in July 2019; the most current version is available at Archive of Our Own. The story is very much the same, but there were a number of tweaks to make sure the characters stay consistent. For details, see Revising The White Phial.

Chapter 1: Candlehearth Hall

“My price is five hundred gold.”

Rumarin stared across the table at the bearded Nord man in heavy armor. “Five hundred gold?” the Altmer repeated carefully.

The man gave a tight-lipped smile. “You heard me right. All up front.”

Rumarin’s hand strayed to the leather pouch hanging from the belt of his robes. It barely contained a fifth of the Nord’s price. He cleared his throat. “Wouldn’t an arrangement where we just divide the loot be more to your liking?”

“No.” The man tipped his head back to drink the last of his ale. He slammed his tankard back down on the table. “You want the strongest sword-arm in Eastmarch? You pay five hundred gold.”

“Hold on. In addition to a share in whatever we find, suppose I pay you… fifty gold now, plus a filled soul gem?” Rumarin hoped the Nord wouldn’t ask for details about the gem, because he was fairly certain it contained the soul of a skeever.

The man smiled without humor. “You’re lucky I’m in a good mood, elf. That almost sounded funny.” His smile turned menacing. “But you make one more insulting offer like that and I’ll hurt you.”

“Ah–yes, right then! Sorry to have troubled you.” Rumarin retreated to an unoccupied table a safe distance away. He sank into a chair and covered his face with his hands.

Candlehearth Hall had seemed like the best place for Rumarin to find a suitable mercenary or adventurer for hire. It was the only tavern in Windhelm where travelers could rent warm beds for the night. But so far he hadn’t found anyone willing to go with him, and it looked as if he would have to travel alone to a crypt full of deadly traps, deadlier draugr, and Divines knew what else. He had no wish to go there, but he had a debt to pay, and he was more afraid of what might happen if he delayed for much longer.

Rumarin was staying with his cousin Ulundil, an Altmer who ran the stables just outside the city gates. Ulundil was a good-natured fellow, and if it was just him, he might have let Rumarin stay indefinitely. But Ulundil was married. After letting Rumarin sleep on the floor of their one-room house for a few nights, both Ulundil and his wife Arivanya started hinting to Rumarin that perhaps he should think about moving on soon. The final straw for everyone was when Rumarin entered the house the previous night while Ulundil and Arivanya were in the middle of doing what couples will do. Rumarin was still trying to purge that entire night from his memory.

Rumarin pulled a few gold coins from his pouch and asked the tavern wench for mead. If he didn’t have enough gold to hire a mercenary, then he might as well enjoy a drink or three. Anything to distract him from the bards. Nords loved hearing the same songs over and over, and Rumarin could listen to Ragnar the Red only so many times before he wanted to bash his head against a table.

He had nearly finished his second Honningbrew when he noticed two people coming up the stairs: a Khajiit wearing simple robes, and a dark-haired human boy in poor-fitting fur and leather armor. In the flickering torch light, Rumarin couldn’t decide whether the lad was an Imperial or a Nord who hadn’t yet hit his growth spurt. But something wasn’t right about the boy, something in the way he moved.

The pair settled at a table not far from where Rumarin sat. The server went to the newcomers at once and asked if she could get them anything. The Khajiit ordered a glass of wine. Rumarin grimaced when he heard the boy say, “Black-Briar mead.”

Then Rumarin realized that voice didn’t belong to a boy; it was low, but feminine. It had to be a girl, probably a Breton.

“J’zargo does not wish to stay in this city for long,” said the Khajiit. “It is very cold.”

“It’ll be even colder in Winterhold,” said the girl.

“Yes, but J’zargo will be too busy studying magic to care. And J’zargo has heard that the College grounds are beautiful to behold. This city of stone and ice, it is like a place for entombing your dead.”

The server returned with their drinks. J’zargo sipped his wine delicately, mindful of the well-groomed tassels of black fur that framed his pale muzzle like a mustache. Rumarin heaved a sigh as the Khajiit’s companion drank the Black-Briar mead in gulps. He wondered why so many people preferred that vile concoction to Honningbrew.

“I’m ready to move on tomorrow if you are,” said the girl. “I think we have all the supplies we need.”

“J’zargo still thinks we could do with more gold. Why not sell some of those scrolls you carry? J’zargo already knows all the magic we need.”

“I might need them.”

“But for a Breton to rely on scrolls…”

“I can’t afford to worry about looking like a paper mage. I can’t do any magic without them.”

“Yes, and J’zargo thinks it is good you are coming with him to the College. If anyone can help you with spells, the mages there can. J’zargo is sure of this.”

“I hope so.”

What an odd pair, thought Rumarin. Khajiit weren’t known for their mages, and it was unusual for all but the most lowborn Bretons to not have some spellcasting ability. Bretons had magic in their blood. Still, Altmer were even more famous than Bretons for their mastery over magic, and Rumarin himself had never learned more than weapon conjuration.

From the sound of it, these two were running low on coin. Neither of them looked particularly tough, but appearances were often deceiving. More importantly, Rumarin was out of options. Whatever their qualifications, they would have to do. Rumarin picked up his mead and approached their table.

“Mind if I join you?” Rumarin asked with what he hoped was a disarming smile.

J’zargo’s eyes widened at the sight of the Altmer’s robes. “You do us honor. Please sit,” said the Khajiit, gesturing toward the empty chair at their table.

“Thank you. I’m Rumarin, by the way.”

“This one is J’zargo, soon to be a student at the College of Winterhold,” said the Khajiit, inclining his head. “And this is Mehra. She is–”

“Just Mehra. I’m just Mehra.”

J’zargo folded his arms and looked annoyed.

“Mehra? It seems like I’ve heard that name somewhere before,” said Rumarin. He hadn’t, but the girl’s odd interruption intrigued him.

Mehra shifted uneasily in her chair. “Have you? It’s, um… it’s a common Dunmeri name for girls. And there are a lot of dark elves here. In Windhelm, I mean.”

“No, I don’t think that’s it,” said Rumarin. Mehra lifted her hand to brush some of her dark hair forward, which was just long enough to obscure the sides of her face. The gesture reminded Rumarin of his own habit of adjusting his hood when he didn’t want others to read his expression.

“Well, I’m sure I’ll think of it later,” said Rumarin with a shrug. “So here’s a question for you: how do you feel about graverobbing?”

The Khajiit’s eyes were round and staring. “Are you a necromancer? J’zargo did not know the College supported the dark arts. Though if it helps you become a more powerful mage…”

“No, no, I didn’t mean anything like that. There’s little profit in reanimating dead bodies, it’s unsanitary, and you never get invited to decent parties again. What I meant was, have you done much exploring in ancient crypts and burial sites?”

“Not really,” said Mehra, brushing some of the hair away from her eyes.

J’zargo made a face and quickly added, “But we have faced many dangers. J’zargo has become very good at killing nasty things by throwing fireballs at them. And Mehra, she has skill with a sword and bow.”

“You don’t say! In that case, I wonder if I could interest either of you in an errand I’m running?”

J’zargo’s ears perked forward. “Is there treasure? Arcane objects of great power?”

“Yes and yes. The town alchemist asked me to retrieve something called the White Phial.”

Mehra’s eyes widened. “But I thought that was only a legend.”

J’zargo asked, “What is a white phial?”

Mehra told him, “I don’t know much about it, except that it’s a magic bottle that refills itself with anything you pour into it.”

“Yes, but it does a little more than that,” said Rumarin. “It also purifies and enhances the resulting liquid.”

The Khajiit’s whiskers twitched. “So if J’zargo were to pour wine into the White Phial–”

“Wine to make the Gods swoon. In any case, the White Phial is real and waiting for us in an ancient crypt about a day’s journey here. The alchemist will pay good money for it. And seeing as Nords like to bury gold and jewelry with their dead, we’re sure to find more than just the phial.”

There was a gleam in J’zargo’s eyes. “J’zargo wants to go to the College soon, but there is still time. And this sounds profitable.” The Khajiit looked to his companion. “We could use the coin, yes? What do you think?”

Mehra stared into her mead. “I suppose.”

“And besides, J’zargo could learn something from a mage like you. J’zargo sees that you wear College robes. Tell us, what is it like at the College? Are the grounds as magnificent as they say?”

Rumarin hesitated. He was tempted to let J’zargo go on believing he was a sorcerer from the College, but he also knew from past experience that he wouldn’t be able to keep up the ruse for long. If J’zargo was like most snotty little magelings, he would immediately ask questions about what kind of spells Rumarin knew. He might even ask for advice or, Gods forbid, a ward spell demonstration.

So Rumarin said, “Sorry, but I really have no idea. I’ve never even been to Winterhold.”

The Khajiit blinked. “J’zargo asks, if you are not with the College, why do you wear those robes?”

Rumarin forced a smile. “If you must know, it’s because they’re quite comfortable and they have a fashionable cut. I also find that I have less trouble with bandits on the road this way. They think twice about attacking.”

J’zargo narrowed his eyes. “You do not deserve to wear those robes. You have not earned the privilege.”

“They’re just robes,” said Mehra.

“No, they are not just robes,” snapped J’zargo. “They are a symbol of the College, and only members should wear them.”

“Oh, not to worry. These aren’t College robes I’m sullying. They’re actually a cheap imitation, woven and enchanted to look like their more esteemed counterpart.”

J’zargo was aghast. “By the Twin Moons, that is even worse!”

Mehra stifled a laugh.

“It is a travesty! Do you even know any magic at all?”

“Of course,” Rumarin said brightly. “Ever seen an elf juggle three axes while conjuring a fourth? Tie a cherry stem into a knot with their tongue? Now that’s magic.”

The Khajiit folded his ears back. “J’zargo speaks of magic, not foolish jester tricks.”

“Really? I bet you can’t do this.” Rumarin reached out toward Mehra’s ear. When he withdrew his hand, his fingers held a shining coin. J’zargo snorted, but Mehra’s eyes brightened with interest.

Rumarin closed his hand over the coin. When he reopened his hand, the coin was gone. Another gesture and the coin reappeared to roll across his knuckles. Mehra smiled and watched with the same fascinated, uncritical gaze that he normally saw when performing these sorts of tricks for children. It was the sort of attention that almost made him feel like a real mage. Almost.

“J’zargo cannot believe you are taking this seriously,” the Khajiit told Mehra. “Even you can see these aren’t real spells.”

“I don’t see why they have to be,” said Mehra.

Rumarin knew it would be wise to smooth things over so that J’zargo wouldn’t change his mind about helping him find the White Phial. Even an apprentice spellcaster was useful to have around. If Rumarin could just bring himself to seem contrite, to stroke the Khajiit’s ego–

But Rumarin found that he couldn’t stomach humbling himself for yet another mage. Besides, at least one person here appreciated his jester tricks, and now that he had almost two meads in him, he couldn’t resist showing off a little.

“So our Khajiit friend wants to see some real magic?” Rumarin grinned at the Khajiit. “For my next performance, I’ll need at least two daggers. I already have one.” He stood, pulled out the dagger he always kept hidden up his sleeve, and placed it on the table. He looked expectantly at Mehra and J’zargo. They stared back and made no move to offer their daggers.

They were attracting an audience. People turned in their chairs and craned their necks to see what was about to happen. Perfect, thought Rumarin. He spoke more loudly this time: “Anyone care to lend a blade?”

Mehra pulled out a dagger and offered it to Rumarin, presenting it handle first. “Do I get it back in one piece?”

Rumarin took the dagger and weighed it in his hand. This wasn’t the sort of weapon you’d find in a village pawn shop, and no Skyrim blacksmith could have forged it. From the sleek, elegant lines, Rumarin could tell it was of elven make. The Breton had almost certainly taken it from a slain Thalmor Justiciar.

“Of course,” said Rumarin. “Truth be told, your dagger’s chances of coming out of this in one piece are far better than my chances. If I accidentally stick myself with it and die, please make sure to give me a proper burial. Preferably with rites that will prevent me from coming back as a draugr.”

By now the bards had stopped singing about Ragnar the Red’s decapitated head. They became, for a moment, part of the audience as Rumarin began tossing two daggers rhythmically in the air. When the bards started playing again, they switched to a lively tune that harmonized with Rumarin’s performance.

Not everyone was impressed. A richly-dressed Imperial yawned and asked the serving girl for more wine. But most people leaned forward to watch with growing interest, including Mehra.

“I know what you’re asking yourselves,” said Rumarin. “Why is he only juggling two daggers? Anyone can do that. Are the blades even sharp? An excellent question. A juggling elf is only fun if he’s putting himself in mortal danger for your amusement.”

J’zargo murmured, “One can only hope.”

“I’ll prove these daggers are quite sharp.” Now Rumarin was juggling the daggers with just one hand. He extended his free hand toward Mehra. “Toss me that apple, would you?”

Mehra and J’zargo both reached for the fruit on the table, but Mehra got it first. J’zargo made a disappointed sound when Rumarin caught the apple and merged it into the juggling pattern.

“J’zargo wanted to throw the apple at the elf’s head.”

“Hear that, ladies and gentlemen? This noble Khajiit wants me to injure myself with an apple, because he doesn’t believe the daggers are dangerous either. He’ll probably threaten me with a cabbage next.”

Several in the audience chuckled. J’zargo glared, then sank lower into his chair.

Rumarin caught both daggers by their handles in either hand, gave his best war cry, and sliced the apple in half as it fell. One of the halves hit J’zargo in the face, which prompted several Nords to roar with laughter.

“Oh, so sorry,” said Rumarin.

J’zargo had fire in his eyes as he started to get up. “It was an accident,” said Mehra, pulling at the Khajiit’s arm to make him sit back down.

“I did promise magic, didn’t I? Watch closely.” Rumarin shifted the juggling pattern so that he was tossing the blades in the air with one hand again. He used his free hand to summon a dagger from the planes of Oblivion. It materialized with a hum and a flash of light. Now he was tossing three daggers in the air, one of them shining as if cloaked in blue flames.

J’zargo made a dismissive gesture. “Even a child can master a simple bound dagger spell.”

“Have you?” asked Mehra.

J’zargo muttered something indecipherable.

Rumarin kept the daggers flying in a high arc over his head. “I don’t think three daggers are enough, do you? More is better. Shall I summon a fourth?”

Several people banged metal tankards on wooden tables and shouted, “Yes!”

With a subtle gesture, Rumarin cast another spell. He cried out and pretended shock when instead of a bound dagger, a glowing blue battle axe thrummed into existence. “What? That’s not what I ordered!” The more drunken patrons laughed and roared as he made a frantic show of working the giant axe into the rest of the juggling sequence.

And then Rumarin threw all the weapons into the air. The glowing dagger and battle axe winked out of existence a fraction of a second before they could embed themselves in the table where Mehra and J’zargo sat. Rumarin caught the two remaining daggers in one hand and made a sweeping bow.

The tavern was alive with applause and cries of “More, more!” Mehra clapped with them. J’zargo looked disgusted.

Rumarin bowed again. “Thank you, but I like to quit while I still have my head. I mean while I’m still ahead.” He sat back down and returned the elven dagger to Mehra.

Mehra put the dagger away. “You’re very good. Where did you learn all that?”

Rumarin wiped his brow and took a long drink of mead. After finishing it off he said, “Oh, my parents were troubadours, so we spent every day with performers from all walks of life. Jesters, actors, magicians, bards… something was bound to rub off.”

J’zargo snorted. “So you’re merely a performer?”

“I’m not merely a performer. Juggling is simply one of my hobbies. No, this is Rumarin the adventurer, bladebinder, and graverobber at your service.”

“What’s a bladebinder?” asked Mehra.

Rumarin explained, “A bladebinder summons and binds blades and weapons from Oblivion. I was always good with a sword and a bow, and always too lazy to carry them. Learning how to conjure weapons solved that dilemma.” Rumarin began carefully concealing his dagger in his left sleeve again. “But I like having a somewhat more corporeal option on hand, just in case.”

“Bladebinder? There is no such thing,” said J’zargo.

“So what you’re saying is, I don’t exist?” Rumarin rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Of course, do any of us really exist? It’s one of those vexing philosophical questions that’s always plagued me. But if we accept that I exist, then yes, I am in fact a bladebinder. I consider myself something of a blacksmith: Oblivion is my forge, and conjuration my hammer.”

“Mehra, we should go straight to Winterhold tomorrow,” said J’zargo. “Let us forget the White Phial. It would be unwise to travel with someone who treats what little magic he has like a toy.”

Rumarin felt a stab of panic and tried appealing to the Khajiit’s greed. “Did I mention the alchemist offered six thousand gold? Not too shabby even after you split it two or three ways.” Rumarin preferred a bigger share of the gold. He was sure the girl would be of no use, but he needed the spellcaster. Perhaps later he could persuade the Khajiit to leave his companion out of the mission.

J’zargo grumbled something under his breath, but the gleam returned to his eyes. “Where is this crypt?”

Mehra produced a folded piece of paper and spread it on the table, revealing a map of Skyrim. She offered a charcoal pencil to Rumarin. He took the pencil and pulled the map closer for a better look. “Let’s see, it’s just bit west, past the mill… right around there. Fortunately we don’t have to worry about much along the way except possibly wolves, stray bandits, and bad weather.”

“So it is not far. But J’zargo knows bad things sometimes lurk in crypts. J’zargo asks if you know other spells. Real spells.”

Rumarin tugged at his hood so the Khajiit could not easily see his face. He hated discussing his limited magical abilities with anyone, least of all pompous magelings. He was still considering his answer when he heard Mehra tell J’zargo, “Spellcasting isn’t the only skill that matters.”

“Of course J’zargo knows this, but for survival it is better to travel with magic users.”

“Which I’m not,” said Mehra, very low.

“That is not– no, J’zargo did not mean to say–”

“Didn’t you?”

J’zargo lowered his gaze. “J’zargo apologizes, and he will help find the White Phial.”

“Fine.” Mehra folded the map and tucked it away.

Rumarin looked from J’zargo to Mehra, and then back again. There was something strange about this exchange, and he was at a loss to understand it. Spellcasters like J’zargo generally didn’t show remorse and apologize to people who weren’t peers in some way.

“I’m getting our rooms.” Mehra gathered her things and asked Rumarin, “Where can we find you tomorrow?”

“I have friends who work the stables. That’s where I’m staying for the time being.” If they let me back in tonight, thought Rumarin.

After Mehra had gone downstairs, Rumarin and J’zargo regarded each other for a moment. Few patrons remained in the upper level now. In one corner a red-faced Nord wept into his ale. Near the fire a well-dressed Imperial with bags under his eyes wrote on a sheet of parchment. The tavern wench wiped down the empty tables, and the bards put away their instruments for the night.

Rumarin casually leaned back and laced his fingers behind his head. “So, what’s next?”

J’zargo slowly pushed away from the table. There was nothing friendly about the way he looked at Rumarin. He walked away, tail lashing as he went down the stairs.

Rumarin breathed out a sigh. Tomorrow promised to be an interesting day.

* * *

Only a few minutes passed before Rumarin heard sounds of an argument downstairs, punctuated with Khajiit hisses and snarls. He got up and went down the steps cautiously.

J’zargo and Mehra faced Elda, the middle-aged proprietress of Candlehearth Hall, who glared at them from behind her counter. “For the last time, no. I won’t let any khaj-eets stay in my rooms.”

Mehra said, “But I already paid for the rooms.”

“Gold isn’t the problem. I took it before I knew you were planning to keep that cat here. He’ll shed and get fleas in the beds.”

“But J’zargo doesn’t–”

J’zargo hissed at the Nord woman. “Dark Moons take you for daring to suggest that J’zargo has fleas! This Khajiit bathes regularly, which is more than he can say for you.”

“All you outsiders, coming in here to insult me, threaten me, and tell me how to run my inn. Well, I’m not putting up with it.” Elda slapped a handful of coins on the counter. “Take your money and get out.”

Mehra gave Elda a hard look and swept the coins into a leather pouch. “Come on, J’zargo. We can just–”

J’zargo unsheathed his claws and scraped them across the counter’s surface, leaving long, deep gouges in the fine dark wood. Elda screeched and threw a tankard at J’zargo. Rumarin flinched when the tankard hit the wall beside him and clattered to the floor.

“Filthy creature, I’ll set the guards on you for that!”

Mehra called out, “J’zargo–!” But the Khajiit had already shoved through the door to the streets of Windhelm. Mehra cursed and followed him.

Damn it, he couldn’t afford to lose them. Rumarin ran after them into the cold night air.

Chapter 2: Caravan

Early the next morning, Rumarin approached a Khajiit caravan that had set up camp outside of Windhelm. These foreigners from Elsweyr weren’t welcome in most of Skyrim’s cities, partly because Nords distrusted the cat-like race as a rule, and partly because the caravans had a reputation for dealing in skooma, moonsugar and other narcotics. Since renting rooms at Candlehearth Hall wasn’t an option, J’zargo and Mehra opted to spend the night with the caravan.

The traders were already breaking down their campsite. Rumarin was surprised to see J’zargo helping them take apart the tents with an efficiency that could only come from years of experience.

One of the Khajiit traders was showing his wares to Mehra before he finished packing them up. He presented a silken garment for the girl’s inspection. “Are you sure you don’t want something like this instead? The finest material from Shimmerene, and it goes nicely with your eyes.”

Mehra reached out to touch the colorful silk with her fingertips. “It’s beautiful, but even if I could afford it, I could never wear it. I’d only get it torn and dirty. No, I’ll just take this lantern,” she said with a sigh.

J’zargo glanced over his shoulder. “A lantern? But we already have torches, and J’zargo can always use a magelight spell when we’re in caves.”

“Yes, but that takes magicka, and you might be burning through a lot of destruction spells,” said Mehra. She finally noticed Rumarin and waved to him. “Good morning!”

“So the elf returns.” J’zargo finished helping a female Khajiit fold up the last tent.

“Morning,” said Rumarin, stifling a yawn. He hadn’t slept well.

Mehra made quick introductions. The trader who sold her the lantern was Ma’dran, the leader of the caravan. Ma’dran was a noble-looking Khajiit with striped fur and a thick mane. The other two Khajiit were Ma’dran’s hired guards. In his blurry state of mind, Rumarin forgot the guards’ names almost as soon as Mehra had said them.

“Warm sands, friend,” said Ma’dran. “We are going to Solitude, and your friends here say that your destination is on our way. If you wish, you are most welcome to travel with us.”

“I would like nothing better,” said Rumarin gratefully. They would be much safer on the road with the caravan. He knelt down to get a better look at the wares that hadn’t been packed away yet, and absently picked up a stuffed skeever toy. The toy squeaked when he squeezed it. “Why didn’t they make noise when I was growing up?”

“Ah, a clever man from Hammerfell makes those,” said the Khajiit trader. “Very popular with children. Do you have little ones?”

Rumarin laughed. “Gods, no. I’m too lazy and scatterbrained to even take care of myself half the time.”

Ma’dran discreetly looked over the tall elf. Rumarin’s tattered cloak and weather-worn boots didn’t escape the Khajiit’s notice. “If it would be more to your liking, there are other things we have not yet packed away. I have here a wolfskin cloak that a man sold to me just yesterday.”

Rumarin bit back a sigh. He badly needed new clothes. Even his imitation College robes were getting threadbare. But he couldn’t afford to part with much gold, especially not after he’d already gone back to Candlehearth Hall last night to pay Elda for the damage inflicted on her counter. He hated doing it and doubted the guards would put that much effort into hunting down a Khajiit vandal, but he couldn’t risk loose ends endangering the mission. Finding the White Phial would more than make up for the loss of a few coins. If they didn’t find the phial–no, he would not let his thoughts turn in that direction.

Ma’dran tried again. “Perhaps a spell tome would be more to your liking? Here is one for a flame spell–”

Rumarin stood up suddenly and cleared his throat. “Nothing today, thank you.”

* * *

They were soon on the road traveling west. J’zargo spent much of the time talking to one of the guards, a sleek female Khajiit with bright green eyes. Mehra sometimes walked beside the caravan leader and asked the Khajiit questions about his travels; other times she went off the path to pick a few bright red snowberries, which offered one of the few splashes of color in the snow-covered region of northern Skyrim.

Rumarin watched Mehra for a while and puzzled over what he remembered from last night. He was convinced J’zargo wouldn’t be traveling with Mehra if there wasn’t something more here. Maybe she was some noble’s daughter. Maybe she had some skill that even a mage could respect, but that seemed unlikely. He knew she wasn’t a spellcaster. She couldn’t be a seasoned fighter; she looked more like a youth who’d run off with someone else’s armor and weapons. Then he realized, yes, she had run off with someone else’s weapons. Apart from the elven dagger, she also had an Imperial sword. She probably scavenged that bow, too.

Rumarin finally asked her, “What are doing with those berries? Is it too much for me to hope that you’re planning to make a snowberry crostata?”

Mehra smiled and shook her head. “Can’t cook worth a damn, unless you count turning pieces of meat over a fire. My stepmother knows some alchemy though, and she said that snowberries help ward off the cold.”

“Oh, I’d make a terrible alchemist. That requires far too much studying for a halfwit like me, and I’d likely poison myself. Is your father an alchemist too?”

Mehra seemed more than happy to chatter about her family and life back in Cyrodiil. From what Rumarin could piece together, her father had been some sort of spellcasting vagabond in his younger days before he settled down in Kvatch. Mehra spent her childhood there, but at some point her father picked up the wandering habit again and took her to different parts of Cyrodiil. Now he had a wife and ran a shop in Cheydinhal. But when Rumarin asked about Mehra’s experiences in Skyrim, her answers became brief and evasive. The most he could get out of her was that she came to Skyrim because she wanted to see the land where her mother had been born.

Rumarin asked if her father had taught her any spells. Mehra simply said, “He did what he could for me.”

Then Rumarin threw out the question he’d been saving up: “So when did you and J’zargo run into each other? Is he an old family friend?”

Mehra hesitated. She looked towards J’zargo, but he was too deep in conversation with the pretty female Khajiit to notice anything else. “We… we met after we’d both crossed the border.”

Rumarin tried a different approach. “You must have passed through Helgen, then. I heard it was destroyed after a battle between the Imperial Legion and Stormcloaks got out of hand. That’s easy to believe, because war is messy like that. But others say a dragon appeared out of nowhere and burned Helgen to cinders.”

He glanced at her to see what effect his words were having. She turned her face away.

“The dragon story is more exciting,” Rumarin continued, “but I thought that rumor came out of a skooma bottle. There hasn’t been a dragon around to burn anything down since the days when Tiber Septim was busy usurping everything. Or unifying everything, depending on whom you ask. But maybe you can tell me. Were you near Helgen when any of this happened?”

“No.” Mehra’s hands were shaking.

“Are you all right?”

“Y-yes– yes, I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”

She needs lessons on how to be a better liar, thought Rumarin. Seeing her distress, he didn’t have it in him to press her further. Besides, he might be able to get more out of J’zargo later.

“Have you ever played Withershins?” asked Rumarin.

Mehra looked up at him curiously. “What’s Withershins?”

“It’s a game that my jester friend Otero taught me when I was a child. We’d play it all the time when we were on the road. ‘A fine day to you,’ he’d say. Then I’d reply, ‘Better than the last.’ Then he’d reply, ‘Can’t say I disagree.’”

“I don’t understand. Is this is a game about discussing the weather?”

“Here’s the clue: It’s all in the first word of every sentence we say to each other.”

Mehra furrowed her brow in thought. “… A, B, C, and so on?”

Rumarin grinned. “You have it! So, care to give it a try? We can move closer to J’zargo and see how long it takes to drive him to distraction.” This made her laugh, and she agreed.

* * *

They traveled until nearly nightfall. By this time Rumarin and his companions would have needed to take their leave of the caravan and turn north if they wanted to reach the crypt that same evening. But there was an inn only a little further down the road and it seemed more sensible to get a cooked meal, a few drinks and a good night’s rest first.

Nightgate Inn was a lonely building that overlooked Lake Yorgrim. Rumarin had been here before and remembered it as a quiet place run by a man who looked almost as old and run-down as the inn itself. It would be a lot less quiet now that it hosted an Altmer, a Breton and several Khajiit. Unlike Elda in Candlehearth Hall, the old man didn’t mind renting his rooms to Khajiit. He couldn’t afford to turn away the business.

Not all was well between J’zargo and the female Khajiit. J’zargo tried to sit next to her, but she instantly got up and moved to the far end of the table. J’zargo folded his arms and scowled. His scowl deepened when Rumarin sat next to him.

“Why the face, J’zargo?” asked Rumarin.

“J’zargo wears this face because he travels with an elf who wears fake College robes and harasses him with stupid questions.”

Rumarin tsked. “Poor J’zargo, how the world tasks you so.”

The caravan leader, Ma’dran, looked at Rumarin’s robes with interest. “They are not true College of Winterhold robes? But they are very convincing, I must say. Who crafts these robes?”

“Well, I know a man. A real master of mimicry. Robes from Winterhold, fake scimitars from Hammerfell, there is nothing this craftsman can’t replicate… except maybe a personality.”

“Is that so? If you could tell me where I might find him, perhaps I could offer you that spell tome I mentioned for a special price.”

J’zargo buried his face in his hands and groaned.

“Really?” said Rumarin. “I don’t know about a spell tome, but if you happen to have any extra bottles of Honningbrew…”

“Pardon,” said one of the Khajiit guards, a large fellow whose ears were tipped with black tufts of fur. “This one does not know your customs, but may he ask why you wear those whisker-like stripes on your face?”

Rumarin knew the Khajiit was referring to the war paint on his face, two red streaks under each eye. Rumarin had been applying these marks to his face for years now. “I don’t think I’ve heard anyone describe them as whiskers before, but I’ll take it as a compliment. As it happens, I wear these markings to keep the dragons away. They’re terrified of the color red.”

Mehra looked at Rumarin questioningly. She opened her mouth to say something, then seemed to think better of it.

Ma’dran gave a short laugh. “Does anyone even believe those stories about the dragons coming back? Only tales meant to scare little kittens.”

J’zargo spoke up. “The stories are true. J’zargo has seen them for himself.”

Rumarin glanced at Mehra. She was staring at J’zargo with panic in her eyes.

The female Khajiit snorted. “And Rha’zhinda supposes you defeated them by yourself with your magic?”

J’zargo glowered at Rha’zhinda. “No, but J’zargo did everything he could. He did not cower when one of them came and–”

Mehra finally caught J’zargo’s eye. The girl was shaking her head at him. J’zargo made an exasperated noise and tapped his claws on the table.

“This story sounds fascinating. Why do you not continue, J’zargo?” asked Ma’dran.

Rumarin thought J’zargo was about to explode. The Khajiit mage made another half-choked noise. “It is… something J’zargo does not like to talk about. Let us speak of other things.”

The other Khajiit exchanged uncomfortable looks. J’zargo glared into his wine, and Mehra stared miserably down at her hands.

Rumarin attempted to rescue the conversation. “So, Ma’dran, has the war made your travels difficult?”

“Quite the opposite,” said Ma’dran. “The soldiers are some of our best customers, for we offer supplies and wares they cannot obtain by other means.”

“Really? Do go on.”

* * *

After a few hours of eating, drinking and swapping stories, people began drifting to their rooms for the night. Before long, only J’zargo and Rumarin were left at the table.

When J’zargo started to get up, Rumarin said, “Hold on, why don’t you stay a while?”

The Khajiit looked at him suspiciously. “What do you seek from J’zargo, elf?”

“Only a few words. And if that’s too much to ask, perhaps I can buy you off with another glass of wine.” Rumarin waved to the old man and ordered the wine.

“J’zargo thinks you are up to something. Bah, it does not matter. J’zargo’s night cannot get much worse.”

“No luck with… what was her name?”

“Ra’zhinda. No, she became upset with J’zargo and told him to go walk on cold sands.”

“She said that? To a charming fellow like you? Scandalous.”

J’zargo normally sipped his wine. This time he swallowed down half of it. “You mean that as another one of your jests, but it is true. J’zargo has charm, skill in magic and a strong will. He will be a successful mage, of this there is no doubt.”

“Oh, I’m not arguing with you. I doubt you’d be traveling all the way from the warm sands of Elsweyr to a frigid wasteland like Winterhold if you didn’t have the skill or ambition it takes to succeed at the College. They don’t take just anyone.”

The Khajiit seemed somewhat mollified. “It is true. J’zargo needs all these qualities and more, because he will have much to prove to the men and elves at the College. J’zargo does not like this cold land, but he will go wherever he can to learn magic. To Oblivion itself, if need be.”

“Which brings me to my next question. Why is an ambitious Khajiit mage traveling around Skyrim with an inexperienced little Breton who can’t even cast spells?”

“Do you not think J’zargo does this out of the goodness of his heart?”

“You might have a heart buried somewhere under that fur, but even I can see there’s more to it than that. Besides, if you really are protecting her, why are you letting her come with you on a dangerous mission? To an ancient crypt, no less?” As soon as he’d said this, Rumarin realized he’d been growing increasingly uncomfortable with the idea of letting Mehra come with them. Now that he had gotten to know her a little, he was no longer asking himself what she could possibly contribute; he was asking whether the girl would even come out of the crypt alive. It was distracting him from the business of worrying about his own skin.

J’zargo shook his head. “You do not understand. She and J’zargo have been through much together. She does not look like much, it is true, and sometimes she makes J’zargo have fits. But she has…”

Rumarin leaned forward. “What? What does she have?”

The Khajiit finished off his wine. “J’zargo has said too much. He does not understand her mind in this, but he has promised to keep her secret anyway. If you wish to know, you must ask her yourself.”

Rumarin waved his hand dismissively. “All right, let’s forget about the big secret I’m not supposed to know for the time being. Here’s what I do know: she has no magic, no enchanted weapons and no durable armor. She carries around a sword and a bow, but that doesn’t tell me she knows how to fend off a drunken bandit, let alone a draugr.”

“J’zargo believes you want to suggest we leave Mehra here and go into this crypt by ourselves, yes?”

“Yes, that is exacly what I suggest.”

J’zargo studied Rumarin as if the Altmer were an interesting specimen in a bottle. “J’zargo wonders if you say this because you care about what becomes of a girl you hardly know, or because you do not wish to split the reward three ways.”

Rumarin found the Khajiit’s eyes too penetrating for his liking. He gave his best cryptic smile. “Maybe it’s a little of both. Who says having a heart and being greedy are mutually exclusive qualities?”

“Ha! Then J’zargo will tell you what he knows. He has traveled with Mehra long enough to see what she is capable of, and to trust that she will not betray him. Can J’zargo say the same about you? No, he cannot. J’zargo is not stupid, and he will not go into that place alone with an elf he does not trust. You take both of us, or neither.”

They stared at each other. Rumarin finally shrugged and leaned back in his chair. “If you say so. You see, my survival instincts have a way of trumping most of my other qualities.”

“J’zargo thinks you mean your cowardice.”

Rumarin looked sharply at J’zargo. The remark shouldn’t have stung. Rumarin often declared himself a coward, a halfwit and many other things. But his self-deprecations were almost always a tool, a way to cajole people into letting their guard down. Hearing the Khajiit’s accusation made him feel unmasked.

There was no winning a staring contest against J’zargo. The Khajiit glared back without blinking once. Rumarin eventually sighed and turned his gaze away. After a moment, he heard J’zargo’s departing footsteps as the Khajiit retired to one of the rooms for the night. The same room Rumarin would have to share with him, he remembered with distaste.

Rumarin stared into the dying embers of the fireplace for some time. At length he stirred from his chair, pulled on his tattered cloak and went outside for a walk.

Chapter 3: Forsaken Cave

Rumarin hadn’t looked forward to going to bed. For one thing, Nightgate Inn didn’t have proper beds as such; they were more like low wooden surfaces covered by straw and animal furs. For another, he was forced to share a room with J’zargo. Rha’zinda wasn’t about to have anything to do with J’zargo and decided to room with Mehra instead. Ma’dran and the other Khajiit guard took a room for themselves, leaving the last one for Rumarin and J’zargo.

When Rumarin returned from his walk, the inn was dark and still. Even the old man who ran the place had turned in for the night and didn’t leave so much as a candle out, which left Rumarin trying to navigate in the dark without bumping into anything or waking anyone up. He failed miserably on both counts. First he stumbled into the wrong room, earning a stream of hisses and curses from Rha’zinda. “Sorry, sorry, my mistake,” said Rumarin as he hurried back out again. It reminded him too much of all the scathing things Arivanya had screamed at him after he’d walked in on her and Ulundil that one night. When he finally reached the correct room, he tripped over J’zargo, who had forgone the uncomfortable bed in favor of a bedroll.

Once J’zargo realized what happened, he summoned a ball of light and made it fly around Rumarin’s head like an angry insect. “Stupid elf! Do you not even know how to cast magelight or use a candle?”

“I considered using light from a conjured weapon, but then you might have thought I was up to something nefarious,” said Rumarin. He shielded his eyes as J’zargo’s magelight swooped at his head again. J’zargo continued growling out insults well after they’d both settled into their bedrolls for the night.

* * *

By the time he stirred, Rumarin was alone. He had a hazy recollection of J’zargo rummaging about and gathering his things, grumbling something about lazy elves, which only prompted Rumarin to bury his head under a pillow until the Khajiit was finally out of the room. After a few moments, Rumarin dragged himself out of the bedroll and got ready for the day.

J’zargo and Mehra were finished with breakfast when Rumarin stepped into the common room. There was no sign of anyone from the caravan; Rumarin guessed that Ma’dran and his companions had already left for Solitude. Mehra was sitting on the floor with her gear spread around her, sewing up a hole in her bag. J’zargo sat at one of the tables and watched her with a bewildered expression.

“Why do you waste time and effort on that old bag when you could have traded for a better one?” asked J’zargo.

“It’s still a good bag, and I’ve gotten used to it. See? Just a few stitches with strong thread and it’ll hold together just fine.”

“J’zargo does not understand you at all. When J’zargo is a great mage someday, no one will catch him dragging around castoffs like that. He will wear the finest robes and have the best equipment money can buy.”

“You’d fit in perfectly in Cheydinhal,” the girl murmured.

“Are there great mages in Cheydinhal?”

“Not exactly. What I mean is, the people there like nice things. The more expensive, the better.”

Rumarin finally spoke up. “Ah, Cheydinhal, the city of fine arts and overpriced taverns. The last time I visited, I had appalling difficulty finding a respectable establishment that served anything other than Cyrodilic brandy and vintage wines. I always want to ask people who only drink wine, do you enjoy being an arrogant sod?” He looked pointedly at J’zargo.

The Khajiit flexed his claws. “J’zargo thinks the sooner we find this White Phial and collect our reward, the better.”

“I suppose that’s one thing we can agree on: we should be underway soon. Are you nearly finished with that?” asked Rumarin, gesturing at Mehra’s project.

Mehra tied off the thread and cut it. “Nearly. Hang on, this won’t take long.”

Rumarin leaned against a wall and waited as Mehra put her gear back in travel-ready order. He was reassured to see that she had a few potions and scrolls. These things would be useful where they were going, though he had mixed feelings about the scrolls. Magic users sometimes dabbled with them to try new spells, but scrolls were commonly associated with paper mages–people who had no magical talent but desperately wished they did. Rumarin had just enough Altmer pride to cringe at the thought of being seen using scrolls himself, and he wondered if Mehra ever felt embarrassed by her dependence on them.

Mehra finally got everything packed. “Ready.”

* * *

Large snowflakes fell from a hazy sky as Rumarin and his companions followed the road. By the time they turned north to approach the mountains, they were shuffling through snow that was more than ankle-deep. Rumarin wanted to curse because he was overdue for new boots. His current pair had grown travel-worn, and snow was working its way through the holes.

J’zargo didn’t bother suppressing his own mutterings about Skyrim’s weather. He held the end of his tail to keep it from dragging in the snow. “How do we know this is even the right way?”

“Not to worry, we’re on course.” Rumarin pointed ahead. “See that little black patch on the side of the mountain? That’s no shadow. That’s our cave.”

“Strange,” said Mehra. “The cave isn’t hidden, and it’s not far from Windhelm. Why didn’t the alchemist try getting the White Phial before now? And why hasn’t someone already found it first?”

Rumarin paused to adjust his hood so the falling snow wouldn’t keep finding a way down his robes. “Nurelion is an old fellow, even for an Altmer. He’s also more of a scholar than an adventuring sort. Finally and most importantly, it was impossible to retrieve the White Phial before now because Nurelion only just worked out how to create a liquid mixture that will open the way to it. I carry that with me now.”

“How does the mixture work?”

“Do you want the long or short version?”

“Short,” said J’zargo.

“Long,” said Mehra.

“Medium it is. The phial was created by Curalmil, one of the greatest alchemists of his time. He never could work out how to turn lead into gold, so he settled on creating the White Phial instead. But he wasn’t keen on sharing it with anyone, so before he died he arranged to have it buried with him. To keep it from falling into the hands of respectable graverobbers like us, he sealed it away by magical and alchemical means. The key is a mixture Curalmil invented himself, and the keyhole a magic vessel. Pour the mixture into the vessel, and you have the phial.”

They still had to cross a long distance of rocky snow-covered terrain to reach the cave. J’zargo gave up trying to keep his tail above the drift and resigned himself to snow-clumped fur. Mehra was falling behind, and J’zargo and Rumarin occasionally paused to wait for her catch up.

“All the weapons you carry slow you down,” said J’zargo.

“That’s why I learned weapon conjuration.” Rumarin casually gestured as if he were about to cast a summoning spell. “Slogging from place to place with a weapon rack strapped to my back was never my idea of an adventure.”

“Ha! You use magic only to fight like a mere swordsman. Fireballs are far better.” J’zargo waved his hand and summoned a small flame. Rumarin was tempted to comment on how adorable the teeny ball of fire was, but he didn’t want J’zargo throwing it at him.

After Mehra caught her breath, she drew herself up and looked hard at them both. “All very fine–if you can cast the spells.”

J’zargo and Rumarin exchanged glances. The Khajiit closed his hand over the fireball to extinguish it.

“Is there anything you’d like us to carry?” asked Rumarin.

Mehra adjusted the straps of her bag and resumed stomping through the snow. “No, I have it, thank you.”

They’d made a long and ragged trail through the snow when they reached the cave entrance. The crevice was wide enough for two people to stand abreast but low enough that even Mehra would have to stoop to slip inside. J’zargo sent a magelight into the cave first. The white ball of light illuminated a long narrow tunnel with a floor covered by windblown snow and loose rocks.

Mehra unhooked a metal lantern from her bag and pulled a tinderbox from one of her pockets.

“What are you doing? We have no need of a lantern. J’zargo has his magelight, see? It goes anywhere and weighs nothing.” As if to emphasize his point, J’zargo’s magelight drifted back out of the cave and flew wide circles around Mehra. The light made Rumarin think of an obnoxious fly that needed swatting.

Mehra paused to watch the flying light wistfully. “Yes, and I’m glad you can cast it. But if we were separated, or if something else happened… it’s just better to have another light source, and I don’t want to fumble with a tinderbox in the dark.”

“Bah, fine, but at least let J’zargo light it. Flame spells are faster.”

After J’zargo lit Mehra’s lantern, they ventured into the cave. J’zargo went first, magelight floating ahead of him like a white star. Rumarin followed, ducking low to avoid hitting his head on the tunnel’s ceiling. Mehra trailed close behind, lantern radiating heat and light. They followed the tunnel until it opened up to a large cavern.

For Rumarin, caverns like this stirred memories of his stay in Summerset Isle years ago. While some Altmer architects sought perfection in hard lines and angles, others took inspiration from more organic forms. They must have spent a great deal of time in caves like this to study flowstone rippling like cloth, columns textured like mushroom gills, and stalagmites reaching up like spires, because many of Alinor’s glimmering buildings looked like cave formations recreated from glass or crystal. Although Summerset Isle was the traditional home of the Altmer, Rumarin found the province more alien than a Skyrim cave.

Mehra paused to hold her lantern over the remains of a campfire. “Someone’s been here before,” she said. The cavern echoed back her words. “And they’ve gone and…” She pointed at a pile of broken stalagmites.

“I’ve never understood the point of cave vandalism. Now, desecrating graves so you can get at buried treasure, that I understand perfectly.”

J’zargo twitched his ears to listen for unusual sounds. Apart from the patter of dripping water, the cavern was quiet. The magelight wove its way through a forest of stalagmites, casting finger-like shadows as it went.

The Khajiit suddenly pointed ahead. “J’zargo sees a statue.”

It was indeed a statue, roughly man-height and hewn from dark rock, positioned several feet away from a cavern wall. They gathered around for a better look.

Rumarin tilted his head and squinted at it. “I can’t tell if this is supposed to be a squawking bird or a deformed fish.”

“Or a dragon,” said Mehra quietly.

“I suppose it has a dragonish aspect if you squint hard enough. But I’ve never seen a dragon, so I daresay you and J’zargo are betters judges of that.”

Mehra said nothing.

J’zargo made an impatient noise. “J’zargo thinks we are wasting time. We should find a way into the crypt.”

“True enough. All right, why don’t you search that side, and Mehra and I will take the other side. Call out if you find another opening and we’ll do the same.”

Rumarin didn’t have to look back to make sure Mehra was keeping up. If he could still see by lantern light, then she wasn’t far behind. He occasionally paused to look for J’zargo’s darting magelight at the opposite side of the cavern, hoping the Khajiit had spotted something–a tunnel entrance, an opening to another cavern, symbols etched in stone, anything. So far, nothing. Rumarin was beginning to feel unnerved. What had they missed? Did they stumble into the wrong cave?

Then Rumarin noticed Mehra staring up at him questioningly. He tried to distract himself and conceal his growing dismay by striking up a conversation.

“So what do you know about dragons?”

“Not much.” The girl’s voice was tense.

They continued following the cave wall in silence. After a moment Rumarin asked, “Do you know much about jesters?”

“Not really.”

“I haven’t been a jester for years, but you never forget the tools of the trade: misdirection, deflection, painful truths disguised as jokes. It also helps to know how to read your audience and adapt accordingly.”

Mehra stopped suddenly. “Where are you going with this?”

“What I’m trying to say is that is that you’re dealing with a professional fool who knows a thing or two about lying, and I’m afraid your technique needs work.”

Mehra’s eyes flashed with indignation. “You– I don’t– I’m not–” she broke off and looked mortified when Rumarin chuckled.

“It’s all right, everyone has things they’d rather not talk about. For example, I learned that discussing politics and religion is an exercise in futility, and I evade those subjects whenever I can. But the thing you want to hide seems like it wants to jump out of you whenever someone mentions dragons. People are talking about dragons a lot these days, so if you really don’t want anyone catching on, you might want to think about how to handle that.”

Mehra dropped her gaze, shoulders sagging. “I know. Sometimes I wish I’d never come to Skyrim.”

“Why?”

She pulled in a deep breath. “Because–”

The magelight darted towards them, and J’zargo was not far behind. “J’zargo finds nothing. Why is this?”

Rumarin shielded his eyes with one hand and swatted at the magelight with the other. “I would take it as a kindness if you would stop trying to blind me with that light of yours.”

“J’zargo might do worse if you have dragged us here for nothing!”

Rumarin sighed. “There must be some trick here we’ve missed. Let’s have another look at that statue.”

J’zargo muttered curses under his breath as he followed them back to the statue.

“Do you suppose it does something?” asked Mehra.

“You can never be sure in places like these.” Rumarin examined the statue, prodded it, pressed at anything that even remotely resembled an etched rune.

Mehra seemed puzzled as she stared up at the statue. “It doesn’t make much sense.”

“In what way?” asked Rumarin, still searching in vain.

“That’s the head, right? Facing this way? Seems like it ought to face the rest of the cavern. Why would someone carve a big stone statue, drag it into a cave and leave it facing a wall?”

Rumarin paused. As he turned to look at the wall of the cavern, his mind seized on an idea. “Why indeed? Let’s see what this stone beast is staring at so intently.”

When they reached the wall, Rumarin inspected it by the light of Mehra’s lantern for unusual markings or seams. He placed his hands on the cool, damp stone. Nothing happened. He followed the wall to the right, always keeping at least one hand pressed against it.

J’zargo groaned. “Another waste of time. We should have gone straight to Winterhold.”

Rumarin suddenly felt his hand push out into open air. Half his arm disappeared through the wall. “Ah ha!”

Both his companions stared, wide-eyed.

Rumarin pulled his hand back out, then pushed it through solid-looking rock again. He gave a low whistle. “Oh those tricky ancient Nords. Looks like you hit on the answer, Mehra.”

Mehra shook her head. “No I didn’t. You’re the one who found it.”

“Well yes, strictly speaking, but you asked the right questions first. All right, let’s go in. Cautiously.” Rumarin conjured a glowing sword and stepped through the illusionary wall.

Chapter 4: Traps

Rumarin’s conjured blade shed a ghostly blue light, dimly illuminating a narrow passage. If he were to stand with arms outstretched, both his hands would brush against the stone walls. There was no echo in here; every sound he made was muffled. He stepped forward and waited. When warm lantern light flooded the tunnel and a brilliant ball of white light darted past his shoulder, he knew J’zargo and Mehra had joined him.

“So far so good,” said Rumarin, dismissing the summoned blade.

“No, not good,” said J’zargo. He stood rigid, ears flat against his head, mouth parted in a snarl as he stared into the darkness ahead. His magelight lingered near his feet as if uncertain about going further.

“What is it?” asked Mehra.

“J’zargo smells death.”

Rumarin sniffed the air. “It still smells like musty cave to me. Are you saying you smell something rotting?”

“Dead and rotten.”

“Then let’s go slowly and be ready. Send your light further ahead. If you please.”

J’zargo set their pace with slow, cautious footsteps. Rumarin didn’t like him, but he nonetheless found it reassuring to be in the company of a spellcaster who was also a Khajiit. J’zargo’s people had the most keen senses of any race. If a draugr came staggering along, J’zargo would be the first to hear and smell it.

Rumarin started picking up a faint whiff of decay. The magelight shed its rays on the body of an unlucky explorer lying face-up on the ground, barely recognizable now as human. Much of its face had rotted away to reveal the skull, and what remained of its skin was dry and gray. The body was well past the most noxious stages of decomposition, and unlike J’zargo, neither Rumarin nor Mehra noticed much in the way of smell.

J’zargo gave a low hiss. “J’zargo told you so.”

Rumarin glanced at his companions to see how they were taking this. J’zargo had the look of someone expecting an attack: eyes wide, claws unsheathed, hackles raised. Mehra moved to stand closer to J’zargo and put a hand to his arm, but Rumarin couldn’t tell if she was trying to reassure herself or the Khajiit. She watched Rumarin as if awaiting further direction.

“The poor wretch is too dead to hurt anyone, so there’s that,” said Rumarin. “And this wasn’t recent, or he’d be in better shape. J’zargo, I need you to shine your magelight a little further.”

The magelight slowly drifted away from the body. It illuminated some bones and scorch marks on the ground. At length, the light revealed a pillar of rock. The light went up the pillar like a small animal scurrying up a tree. There at the top rested a gem the size of a fist, glowing deep violet.

“I’ve seen something like this before. Stand back and brace yourselves.” Rumarin picked up a rock and threw it at the pillar. The jewel’s glow intensified and the air around it seemed to crackle. A blinding flash struck the rock as it landed, sending a blast like thunder reverberating through the walls around them.

J’zargo gasped, held a hand to his heart and steadied himself against a wall. When the last of the thunderous echoes died away he shouted, “We needed no demonstration, stupid elf!”

“I’m going to pretend you thanked this stupid elf for pointing out a trap before you walked into it. In any case, now we all know what we’re up against. We can’t go forward as long as that gem is in place.”

Mehra looked more pale than usual. “How do we get at the gem without being struck first?”

“We knock it loose with an arrow.”

“That’s all? Won’t the gem still send out lightning after that?”

“Not in my experience, no.” When Rumarin saw Mehra reach for her bow, he put his hand out to stop her. “That bow’s nice, but we’d better save your arrows. With a bound bow, you never run out of arrows and they don’t cost a septim. Good thing too, or I’d owe Oblivion a fortune. J’zargo, would you move your light back over–yes, perfect.”

In a moment, Rumarin had both a shining bow and a quiver full of glowing arrows. He nocked an arrow to a shimmering string that barely seemed to exist, drew it back and took aim. He loosed the arrow at the gem. The arrow went through the bobbing magelight instead.

“Would you hold that light steady? It’s dancing about like it needs to relieve itself.”

“J’zargo will not accept blame for your poor aim.” But J’zargo stretched out his hand and stared hard at his magelight. The little ball of light went still.

Rumarin loosed another arrow. It flew clean and straight, striking the gem from the pillar. The gem clinked against the stone floor. With a small gesture he made the bow and quiver disappear.

“It is safe to take this gem?” asked J’zargo. His magelight was already spiralling around the place where the gem had fallen. When Rumarin indicated that it was quite safe, J’zargo hurried forward and snatched it. The Khajiit was disappointed after examining the prize. “But this is only a soul gem. How can this be?”

“Soul gems only turn into hideous weapons if you put them on an enchanted pedestal like that one. And this is a filled one of high quality, so it’s nothing to sneeze at.”

“Yes, that is true. J’zargo was hoping for a powerful weapon, but at least this is worth something. J’zargo hopes we find more valuable things that fit inside pockets.”

* * *

They followed another tunnel, picking their way through piles of rock that had fallen away from the ceiling over time. The three of them had an unspoken agreement: J’zargo led the way, using both his magelight and his senses to detect danger before it found them first. Rumarin followed next, ready to summon a blade if needed. Mehra came last, which was how Rumarin preferred it. He had no idea how she would handle herself if they ran into trouble.

After they had followed the tunnel for some time, Rumarin began noticing spirals, curves and other flowing shapes carved in the walls. He didn’t know whether these sinuous lines had symbolic meaning for the ancient Nords who made them–the flowing energy of life, perhaps–but he knew one thing for certain: it meant they had nearly reached the crypt.

“Let’s stop for a moment,” said Rumarin.

J’zargo turned to face him. “To rest? But J’zargo is not tired.”

“I’m pleased to hear it, but that’s not true for everyone.” Rumarin saw that Mehra was already squatting on the ground and drinking from a water skin. The floor was too cool and damp to sit on directly. Rumarin decided to do the same, and then continued: “We should also discuss strategy, because we’re close to the crypt.”

J’zargo joined them, careful to keep his tail out of the damp as he crouched down. “If J’zargo sees something move, he will throw fireballs at it.”

“Excellent. But don’t rush ahead, and leave room for me to slip through. I’ll need to get in close if I’m going to strike anything with a conjured sword. And Mehra–”

“Yes?”

“We may find some pretty horrible things ahead. Things that will not hesitate to kill us.”

Mehra looked at Rumarin as though he had just finished explaining that the sky was blue. “I know. What is it you want me to do?”

“If anything like that shows up, I want you to keep your distance. Just let me and J’zargo take care of it, all right?”

“No.”

“You should know I’m being quite serious for a change, which is unnatural for me. You should also know that I’m much more effective in combat when I’m not dividing my attention between cutting down one draugr and keeping an eye on someone else to make sure she isn’t taken out by another draugr.”

J’zargo rolled his eyes. “But never mind what happens to the Khajiit.”

“That’s very different,” protested Rumarin. “I don’t want either of you coming to harm, but you’re a spellcaster who knows destruction magic. She’s–”

“A girl who probably doesn’t know which end of a sword to hold?” asked Mehra.

“That’s not at all what I was going to say.”

“I’m sure you would have said something more kind than that, but the meaning wouldn’t have been very different. You don’t think I can handle myself.”

Rumarin tried forceful eye contact. Mehra didn’t return his gaze with the intensity that J’zargo would have, and she quickly looked away.

“Do you consider yourself a warrior, by chance?” asked Rumarin.

“Not really.”

“Do you have much experience killing draugr?”

“No, but–”

“Well then.”

J’zargo made one of his irritated noises and started to speak, but when Mehra made a gesture that seemed to ask for silence, he folded his arms and sulked.

“I was going to say, I know how to use a sword, and–”

“And that means I have no reason to worry that I might need to get word back to an anxious father in Cyrodiil that something terrible happened to his daughter? Well thank the Eight!”

Mehra set her jaw and looked Rumarin in the eye again. “Now that you’ve brought me here, you can’t expect me to stand back and do nothing if some undead thing goes after you or J’zargo. Please don’t ask me again, because I won’t do it.”

Rumarin started to reply, but J’zargo interrupted him: “Do not argue with her, elf. Not if you want J’zargo to come any further.”

They sat in uncomfortable silence. The tunnel offered no sounds of its own, not even of dripping water. Beyond the lantern’s light, complete darkness awaited in either direction.

Rumarin sighed, shifted his position, and looked at Mehra again. “At least stick close and don’t charge after any draugr by yourself, all right?”

“Fair enough.”

* * *

They were in a wide chamber cluttered with jars and urns, some no bigger than a child’s doll and others large enough for someone Mehra’s size to crawl into. A slab stone table occupied the middle of the room, covered with bowls, jars, dirty wraps of linen and small metal insruments that had lost their shine long ago. The instruments were too small and specialized to be useful as weapons.

“Trust me, you don’t want to check the tall jars there,” Rumarin told his companions.

“Why? They might have something valuable,” said J’zargo.

Rumarin shrugged. “Perhaps you can find a use for a desiccated liver. Who am I to judge?”

J’zargo grimaced and drew his hand away from a jar.

Mehra held the lantern near the table to get a better look at the tools. “What are these?”

“How do you think they get the livers out?”

“Oh.”

“The urns might have a handful of coins, if you don’t mind sifting through the ashes of someone’s ancestor.”

J’zargo peered into an urn and seemed to be making up his mind on whether he wanted to stick his hand down there or not.

Rumarin checked to make sure nothing had followed them, then crossed to the other side of the chamber to have a look at the next tunnel. If they searched this place thoroughly, they might find a few gems, coins or even some jewelry. But trinkets like that were nothing compared to the White Phial, and Rumarin was anxious to move on. Mehra noticed his movement and followed part of the way, glancing back to make sure they weren’t about to leave J’zargo behind.

J’zargo quickly lost interest in the urns and approached a lectern that they had all overlooked. J’zargo only noticed it now because his magelight happened to stray near it. The khajit’s eyes widened at the sight of a large book resting there. “Look, a spell tome!”

Rumarin turned to see J’zargo reach for the book. “Wait, hold on a minute!”

But J’zargo had already picked up the tome. As he opened it, the tome disintegrated until it was nothing but dust spilling out of his hands. The magelight disappeared, and that part of the chamber was suddenly swallowed by darkness.

Rumarin and Mehra rushed to J’zargo’s side. The Khajiit was on the edge of panic. He kept gesturing, trying and repeatedly failing to cast a spell.

“J’zargo, what’s wrong?” asked Mehra.

J’zargo gestured frantically to no avail. “The magic… J’zargo’s magic is gone, just like that!”

“Occasionally you’ll find traps that drain your magicka. I’m sorry, I should have thought of that and warned you first,” said Rumarin. He had some understanding of J’zargo’s panic. All spellcasting drained magicka, but it was something magic users could sense and control. Having all magicka reserves suddenly ripped away often left a spellcaster reeling in shock, especially if he was inexperienced and trapped in a strange place. Magicka took time to regenerate, and until it did, the magic user was vulnerable. Rumarin had been through it himself. It was part of why he carried a real dagger.

“But you still have a magicka potion, right?” asked Mehra.

J’zargo put his head in his hands. “No, no, J’zargo used his last one from before.”

“Sheogorath…”

“Well not to worry, we can afford to wait until your magicka comes back,” said Rumarin, trying to sound more optimistic than he felt. The depths of an ancient Nord crypt was not a good place to suddenly lose the ability to cast spells.

“Yes, it always comes back,” said J’zargo, but he still sounded anxious. He squatted on the ground and flexed his claws as if to remind himself that he wasn’t completely helpless.

Mehra set the lantern down and crouched next to J’zargo. She watched with concern as the Khajiit continued his nervous claw-flexing. After a moment she asked, “Vara jer do?”

J’zargo’s ears perked up at the words spoken in his native language. “Na may’a,” he replied. “Your accent is improving, but J’zargo still thinks it is better if you learn how to do a proper hiss first.”

Mehra gave a thin hiss. “More like that?”

J’zargo was beginning to look amused. “That is still the hiss of a little cat, not a Khajiit. Also, you need to work in more spit.”

“Are you also teaching her off-color Ta’agran curses and insults? Please say you are,” said Rumarin.

Mehra smiled impishly and said “Jekosiit,” which made J’zargo snicker.

Rumarin raised a brow. “Do I want to know what she just said?”

It took J’zargo a moment to stop sniggering. “She said–” but then he broke off and went tense.

“What is it?” asked Mehra.

“Something is coming,” whispered J’zargo. He turned his face towards the dark opening of a tunnel they hadn’t entered yet.

They went silent and listened.

Rumarin heard a sound so faint that at first he thought he’d imagined it. A distant scraping.

Mehra put the lantern down and drew her sword. J’zargo also pulled out his, but Rumarin could tell from the way the Khajiit held the blade that he wasn’t experienced in its use.

Rumarin moved to put himself between his companions and the tunnel. He kept his hand poised to summon a weapon.

The scraping noises became louder, more distinct.

Rumarin glanced back at the Khajiit and the Breton. J’zargo’s bristling fur, flattened ears and wild eyes made Rumarin think of a cornered animal putting on a desperate show of bravado. As for Mehra, someone had evidently taught her how to hold a sword and stand in a guard position, but she looked frightened. Rumarin couldn’t count on a magicka-drained spellcaster or an inexperienced girl to put up a real fight. He had a feeling his chances against the undead would be better if he were on his own, because now he had to worry about their lives in addition to his own.

One thing at a time. Rumarin tried to focus on keeping his breathing steady.

The creature that shambled into the chamber was neither man nor elf, at least not any longer. Its flesh had rotted away long ago and left nothing but dry bones, a thing brought to some semblance of life by an ancient spell. The skeleton gripped a long sword that had somehow kept both its edge and shine after many centuries.

Only one undead creature. Good. Rumarin chose that moment to conjure a sword. The weapon materialized with a low hum and a flash of blue light. The creature slowly turned its head to fix its empty eye sockets on the Altmer.

It advanced towards them. Rumarin was ready: he deflected the first strike and delivered a quick riposte that knocked his opponent off balance. Mehra slipped around them both and swung her weapon at the skeleton’s back. Rumarin thrust again, and this time the thing went to pieces. Its sword fell to the ground with a clang that echoed through the chamber.

J’zargo stood nearby, still clutching at his sword and breathing hard. He hadn’t moved once.

Rumarin wiped his brow and breathed a sigh of relief. “That went far better than I–”

“There’s another one,” cried Mehra, backing up quickly.

Rumarin, still high from their first victory, grinned and flourished his glowing sword at the approaching fiend. “You’ll just be another worthless pile of bones in a minute, you rattling monstrosity!”

“Two more behind it,” shouted J’zargo.

Rumarin’s jaw dropped. “The Gods hate me.”

Three skeletons closing in, all armed. Rumarin swallowed hard and tried to keep his hands from shaking. If he only had himself to think of, he would have started running for his life. This wasn’t option. If he fled now, he would be sentencing his companions to death.

From somewhere behind him, Rumarin heard paper rustling followed by a muttered incantation. He’d forgotten about Mehra’s scrolls. A blazing point of light shot past him, flew at the nearest skeleton and burst into flames inside its rib cage. The creature’s mouth fell open in a silent scream, though Rumarin was certain there was no soul in there that could experience pain. The thing collapsed into a jumble of smoking bones. Their odds just improved.

Rumarin closed with one of the remaining undead. He would have to make quick work of it–no telling how long J’zargo and Mehra would last against the other one by themselves. Fortunately, skeletons animated by pure magic weren’t on the same level as corpses possessed by the souls of warriors or mages. These creatures went through the motions of fighting. They were dangerous, but they lacked a true fighter’s finesse and intuition.

But Rumarin quickly found his attention divided between his companions and the opponent facing him. He knew this was a mistake but he couldn’t help it. As he parried his foe’s attacks, he tried at the same time to get a sense of how Mehra and J’zargo were handling theirs. Mehra was fending off the other creature, but she was better at deflecting and dodging than pressing an advantage. Her opponent would never tire– she must be more aggressive if she hoped to defeat it before it wore her down and finished her. But at least she was holding up. J’zargo’s every move was fueled by terror, his few attempts at stabbing their enemy wild and unpredictable.

The skeleton took advantage of Rumarin’s distraction and surprised him with a thrust that the Altmer failed to completely parry. Rumarin felt a sudden pressure in his left side that made him gasp and stagger, and he knew he’d been stabbed. The pain hadn’t set in yet. He tried not to look at the growing red wet stain on his robes. The creature lunged again. Rumarin deflected its attack and retaliated by stabbing his sword through the skull’s mouth. A quick twist of his blade and the skull came loose and tumbled to the ground. The skeleton swayed for a moment then clattered to the floor in a pile of bones.

Rumarin turned to aid his companions but discovered they’d already laid waste to their foe. He sagged to the floor and pressed a hand to his wound. He suddenly became aware of Mehra kneeling at his side, asking if he was all right.

“I’ve– I’ve been better. Got stabbed.” Rumarin tried not to sound as worried as he felt. They had no healer and there was only so much even a good healing potion could do for internal injuries. If the wound went deep, if the blade had penetrated anything vital–

“I’ll have a look.” Mehra removed her cloak, rolled it up and placed it under Rumarin’s head.

“Can J’zargo do anything?” The Khajiit’s voice sounded faint, almost strangled.

“Yes, I need more light. Bring the lantern closer.”

While J’zargo fetched the the lantern, Mehra pulled a cloth and a potion from her bag. She gently moved Rumarin’s hand and parted his robes to have a look at where he’d been stabbed. Rumarin bit his lip and watched her face for some hint about the extent of his injury.

Mehra looked tense for a moment. Then her features relaxed. “This isn’t bad.”

Rumarin let his head drop back down on the cloak in relief, then winced when Mehra firmly pressed a cloth to the wound to stanch the bleeding. “So… you’re saying I don’t have to plan my epitaph just yet…?”

“You’re going to be fine, don’t worry. A healing potion will take care of this.” Mehra glanced at J’zargo, who crouched nearby with his head bowed. “J’zargo, I need your help again.”

The Khajiit barely lifted his head. “What can J’zargo do?”

“Hold this cloth in place. Give me your hand… right, now hold it there. Keep applying pressure, just like this. If that cloth gets too soaked, don’t remove it, just put another one on top. You have it? Good.”

Mehra uncorked the healing potion and helped Rumarin sit up just enough so he could drink it. Potions weren’t known for their flavor, but Rumarin drank the astringent liquid like someone dying from thirst. He immediately felt soothed–it must have been one of of those brews with additional ingredients mixed in to help dull pain. Everything went blurry, warm and soft. He drifted into a half-waking dream where he was ten years old again and sick in bed. Both his mother and his friend and mentor, Otero, were fussing over him, wrapping him in blankets trying to convince him to take a foul-tasting medicine so he could get better. Rumarin was having none of it, but Otero kept distracting him by making faces until Rumarin finally drank it all. Then his mother scolded Otero for getting ash on the blankets, to which the big Nord man replied, “A little dirt never hurt anyone!”

Chapter 5: Candles

Rumarin had no idea how long he lay there in a half-dozing state. When he fully came to his senses, he was aware of a bedroll beneath him, a dark vaulted ceiling above him, and a warm lantern light beside him. His left side was sore, but at least it wasn’t sending out waves of pain like before.

Why was it so quiet? Rumarin lifted his head and tried to locate his companions. Mehra was close by, head bent over her map of Skyrim. J’zargo sat further away, staring into the darkness beyond the lantern’s light. The Khajiit looked as if he had retreated into himself.

Mehra noticed Rumarin’s movement and put the map away. “How are you feeling?”

Rumarin started to sit up. The place where he’d been stabbed ached slightly, and he could feel his loosened robes rubbing against the bandages wrapped around his midsection. “Much better, thanks to you, but my pride needs more time to recover. I was stabbed by a brainless swordfighter, you know.”

“Brainless or not, they knew what to do with their weapons.”

Rumarin started adjusting his robes, pausing to glance at them with a sigh. It would take aggressive laundering to get the blood out along with the rest of the cave grit. “They did at that. By the way, how long was I out of it?”

“A couple of hours, maybe?”

Rumarin stiffened. “That long?”

“I think so. That healing potion was the kind that puts you in a doze while it works. I have one more like it.”

“I wouldn’t have been able to help if another wave of those things attacked us.”

“You wouldn’t have been able to anyway, not in your condition. You needed healing, and I can’t… we didn’t have other options.”

Rumarin studied her for a moment. The girl had wrapped her arms around herself and let her hair fall forward so that it partially hid her face. This Mehra was quite unlike the one who had taken things in hand, tended to his wound and reassured him that he would be fine.

“I suppose that’s true,” said Rumarin, deciding to let the matter drop. He shifted uncomfortably. “And I think I owe you an apology.”

“For what?”

“I wasn’t taking you seriously as another partner in this mission, and you knew it. I even tried convincing you to stay out of any fighting. And why? Because you don’t look or act like one of those soldiers of fortune who usually volunteer for errands like this? Someone wearing fake College robes ought to know better.”

“I suppose I didn’t give you a reason to take me seriously. Most people don’t expect much from Bretons who can’t use magic.”

“That’s just it. I don’t want to be like most people, especially not like every mage who ever looked down on me for being a bladebinder. Not all Altmer or Bretons are destined to be wizards, and it’s not the only way to make a difference in the world.” Rumarin slowly got to his feet and looked at J’zargo. “Speaking of magic users…”

J’zargo barely glanced up.

“How’s the magicka?” asked Rumarin.

Without lifting his head, J’zargo held up his hand and summoned a tiny flame. He made a fist, smothering the fire.

“That’s good to know, because you weren’t going to do much damage with that blade of yours, not the way you were handling it. Didn’t it ever occur to you that you might run out of magicka for one reason or another, or that you won’t always have time to get off a spell when your enemy is right on top of you?”

“J’zargo was doing his best with what he had left,” protested Mehra.

The Khajiit snorted. “What does that matter? The elf is right. J’zargo’s best was worse than nothing.”

“But you–”

J’zargo abruptly got up and paced at the edge of the lantern’s light. “J’zargo lost his magic and had no potion to restore it. J’zargo panicked and left all the fighting to you and the elf. And before that, J’zargo told you we had no need for a lantern. We already have a magelight, he said. Bah! If you had listened to J’zargo, those creatures would have come for us in the dark and we would be dead.”

“Well, that didn’t happen. We’re not dead.”

“But I got stabbed,” said Rumarin.

J’zargo gestured at Rumarin and told Mehra, “See?”

“All right, yes, that was… what do you want me to tell you?”

“You should be calling J’zargo names, or shouting at him, or–”

“You really don’t want me shouting at you.” The way Mehra said this made Rumarin believe that some implied joke or secret meaning just went over his head.

“You know what J’zargo means! Why do you act as if his mistakes do not matter?”

Rumarin spoke up. “J’zargo, if you’re looking for someone to heap abuse on you, normally I’d be happy to volunteer. But you’re already doing it to yourself, so there’s no point. We also need to think about moving on.”

The Khajiit dropped his gaze. When he spoke again, his voice was barely more than a whisper. “But J’zargo could have been responsible for the death of the– of his friend.” He looked up when he felt Mehra’s hand on his shoulder.

“J’zargo, ahziss trevan, I’d probably be dead already if it weren’t for you. You’re why I’ve gotten this far. But now we need to go further, and we’re going to need your help.”

J’zargo squeezed his eyes shut. He took a deep breath and nodded. “Yes. Yes, of course. J’zargo will do everything he can.”

Rumarin held up a hand. “I just have one question before we get moving. What’s ‘jekosiit’?”

Mehra and J’zargo exchanged quick looks.

“You tell him,” said J’zargo.

Mehra shuffled her feet. “Uh… ‘one-who-sheeps’.”

“A sheep-shagger,” added J’zargo.

“You mean you accused me of being a sheep fancier? I’m shocked. I prefer goats.”

* * *

J’zargo led the way with his magelight as before. But he was altered now, more subdued and less assured than he was when they first entered the cave. And although J’zargo still wouldn’t address “the elf” by name, Rumarin no longer heard contemptuous remarks or insults like “stupid elf.”

Rumarin stopped making a point of staying ahead of Mehra. Now they took turns carrying the lantern, which determined who brought up the rear. They gradually came to this arrangement after Rumarin noticed that if he tried following Mehra while she held the light, she would frequently glance back to make sure he wasn’t falling behind.

The tunnel they followed now had several recesses carved into the walls. Most of the spaces they passed were empty, at least at first. They paused when they noticed the decayed remains of someone’s ancestor laying inside one of those recesses, its fleshless face grinning in their direction.

It never moved. It wasn’t a draugr, just a body.

Then they turned a corner and saw candles spread out before them, clustered on the floor against the passage walls. A tiny yellow flame danced on each wick. The burning wax released a honey-sweet fragrance.

Mehra’s hand strayed to the hilt of her sword. She was more unnerved by the sight of the candles than of the mummified bodies. “Candles don’t light themselves.”

“You don’t think so?” asked Rumarin.

“No more than plants grow in caves. Who puts them here? Who lights them?”

“Perhaps even draugr appreciate homey touches in their crypts. I’m sure it helps cut down on the smell too.”

Mehra eyed Rumarin as if she couldn’t decide whether to be annoyed or amused.

J’zargo made a face. “J’zargo does not understand you. We are surrounded by bodies and we could be attacked at any time. Why do you make jokes about things like this?”

“Why make jokes about anything? But if you prefer, I can go find a corner and curl up into a fetal position instead.”

The three companions drew closer together as they passed even more candles. The little flames revealed more than they cared to see of shriveled bodies slumbering in beds of stone.

Presently the passage opened up to a circular chamber, and then they could go no further–it was a dead end. The chamber was empty and featureless save for a shallow stone basin resting on a low pedestal. As they approached the basin, Rumarin handed the lantern back to Mehra.

“There is nowhere to go. Did we miss another turn?” asked J’zargo.

“I think we’re closer than ever. Time to see whether Nurelion got the mixture right.” Rumarin reached into his bag to retrieve a small glass bottle. He uncorked it and then poured its contents into the bowl. The liquid turned dark and murky, but that was all.

“Nothing is happening,” said J’zargo.

“It needs a moment, that’s all,” said Rumarin, trying to sound confident. He had no idea if the solution was working as intended.

The fluid began to churn and bubble. Everyone backed away when it gave off a misty vapor, a green glow, and a terrible sulphurous odor. J’zargo was the first to cover his nose and gag.

Mehra, who’d covered most of her face with the corner of her cloak, made a startled sound and pointed to the wall on the other side of the basin. Stone scraped against stone as part of the wall sank into the floor, opening the way to another tunnel.

J’zargo and Mehra started making a run for the new tunnel, but Rumarin grabbed them both and herded them the other way. They all fled from the pungent smell, eyes stinging and stomachs turning. The odor dwindled to a bearable level when they returned to the tunnel filled with flickering candles.

“By the Gods, I’ve met rotten eggs that smelled better,” said Rumarin with a cough.

J’zargo caught his breath. “Why did you bring us back here? We should be moving forward, not backward.”

Rumarin started to answer, but stopped when Mehra abruptly put down the lantern and darted out of sight around a corner. There was a brief retching sound followed by silence.

“That’s why,” said Rumarin.

“You knew she was going to–?”

“No, I only knew that the way we came was safe, but we don’t know anything about the new tunnel. That smell could have driven us into the arms of a draugr.”

Mehra returned with faltering footsteps, looking pale and more than a little embarrassed. She crouched down by some candles, pulled out a water skin for a drink and avoided looking at either J’zargo or Rumarin.

“Vara jer do? It was only the smell and not something worse that made you sick, yes?” asked J’zargo.

Mehra looked up at him. “Ahziss kroz…” she trailed off, struggling to piece together Ta’agran words. She gave up and said, “I think so.”

Rumarin paced back and forth. “I want a look at that tunnel, but that’ll be next to impossible until the smell dies down. Hopefully that won’t take long.”

“So we must wait again? Bah! J’zargo tires of this place.” Then J’zargo kicked over a candle.

Mehra picked up the candle and set it upright again, which seemed to annoy the Khajiit even further. “Why do you bother with that?” asked J’zargo. “The whole tunnel is made of stone! A fallen candle will set nothing on fire.”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking about it. Does it matter?”

J’zargo muttered under his breath and glared at nothing in particular, tail lashing.

Rumarin took quick stock of the situation. He knew they were getting close to the White Phial, but there was sure to be more danger ahead. He needed his companions alert and ready for action, but their morale was fraying. J’zargo looked like he wanted to sink his claws into something. Mehra was drooping like a wilted plant, which concerned Rumarin, but at least she wasn’t flapping about in a panic. After reminding himself that Mehra had kept her wits about her during their first encounter with undead creatures, Rumarin decided to focus on J’zargo first.

“J’zargo, I want out of this bloody crypt as much as you do, but at least we’re safe for the moment. If we–”

They heard and felt a distant explosion that sent tremors through the passage and made the candles shake. Rumarin summoned a blade, Mehra sprang to her feet and J’zargo readied a fireball.

In the silence that followed, J’zargo and Mehra stared at Rumarin as if to ask what they should do next.

“I’m having a look,” said Rumarin, picking up the lantern. He didn’t object when his companions followed. He sucked in a deep breath and held it so he wouldn’t have to inhale the nauseous smell that still lingered in the chamber with the stone basin.

J’zargo’s magelight darted ahead and illuminated the smoking, charred remains of human bones scattered around the entrance of the newly opened tunnel. The smell was still intolerable, and they didn’t look long before they retreated.

“What happened back there?” asked Mehra.

“I think we roused a few undead things when we opened that tunnel, but fortunately they weren’t very bright. If I were to guess, one of them stepped on a fire rune trap and blew themselves to pieces.” Rumarin did his best imitation of an exploding noise.

Mehra covered her face with one hand and struggled against laughing. “Oh Gods, that shouldn’t be funny.”

J’zargo’s eyes widened in horror. “No, there is nothing funny in this. If we had gone into that tunnel, we would have blown up instead!”

“Explosions are only funny when they happen to the thing that wants to kill you,” said Rumarin.

Chapter 6: Curalmil

Once the green liquid in the basin stopped effervescing and the noxious smell had died down to a level they could stand, Rumarin announced that he was ready to try the new tunnel. He asked Mehra if he could take a turn with the lantern again; he wanted as much light as possible so he could examine the floor for any remaining rune traps. After Mehra had given it to him, he instructed her and J’zargo to follow him single file.

They cautiously went forward. Rumarin clearly had a better idea of what to look for, but that didn’t stop Mehra from glancing down often and keeping her eyes open for anything that signaled a trap. She tried following Rumarin’s footsteps exactly, stepping only in the places proven safe. Behind her, J’zargo did much the same.

After a time, Rumarin stopped and pointed down at a faintly glowing flame shape. “Whatever you do, do not step there. Remember it when we come back this way.”

Mehra had never seen a magic rune trap before and tried to commit the details to memory. She tried not to imagine what it would be like to accidentally step on such a thing and be blown to pieces.

They followed the passage to another chamber, the largest they had encountered so far. Beyond the lantern’s light, pitch blackness kept much of this place a mystery to them. Worse, the air didn’t just smell of must and damp. Mehra picked up a faint whiff of something that made her skin crawl–something ancient and rotten. She had her fill of all the terrible smells an old Nord crypt could offer.

Mehra glanced at her companions. Rumarin seemed to be making up his mind on what to do next. J’zargo was tense and staring about with wide, frightened eyes. When J’zargo caught her looking at him, he made an effort to collect himself and appear calm.

Rumarin quietly asked J’zargo to send his magelight to scout ahead. They followed the white ball of light as it darted here and there like a nervous animal. They froze when the magelight paused near a large sarcophagus covered by ages of dust. The lid bore a single inscription: Curalmil.

Mehra grew numb as she stared at the word. Somewhere under the stone lid was the remains of the alchemist who had designed this place and filled it with traps meant to kill them. Was Curalmil truly dead and gone from this world? Or was his soul trapped in a rotten old corpse?

Rumarin turned to face them and raised a finger to his lips, signaling for silence. Then he crept around the sarcophagus, keeping a wide distance from it. Mehra and J’zargo followed close behind.

They passed two more coffins of stone, both unmarked and smaller than the first. Unlike Curalmil’s sarcophagus, they were uncovered. Rumarin led Mehra and J’zargo away from these, not daring to get close enough to see whether anything laid inside. Mehra suppressed a shudder, because she was sure the coffins weren’t empty.

Then she heard a voice in her head, low and guttural: Dinok saraan.

Mehra tried to ignore the voice, tried to focus on breathing normally. This was not the first time the voice had intruded into her mind to speak words she didn’t understand. It had been happening for weeks, though at first the voice had been so faint that she thought her imagination was playing tricks on her. She didn’t tell anyone about it, not even J’zargo. She had a terrible feeling she knew why she was hearing the voice, but because she didn’t know what to do about it and because the implications frightened her, she avoided thinking on it for long.

The magelight revealed something that made Mehra’s breath catch in her throat: a creature towering over them, eyes glittering, skeletal hand reaching out for them.

But it was only a statue with jewels for eyes.

Mehra wasn’t the only one fooled. Rumarin looked embarrassed as he dismissed the glowing sword he had suddenly conjured.

J’zargo started to whisper something. Rumarin whirled around to silence him with a “Shh!”

“But look.” J’zargo pointed.

The magelight circled around something in the statue’s other hand. Something small, smooth and the color of freshly fallen snow. The White Phial!

Rumarin stared at the artifact, tense and unmoving. He set the lantern down, readied a conjured sword, and looked expectantly at Mehra and J’zargo. Mehra understood his meaning and pulled a piece of paper from one of her pockets. It was a scroll for summoning a flame atronach. J’zargo lifted his hands, preparing to cast a spell.

Mehra held her breath as she watched Rumarin reach for the White Phial.

Rumarin’s hand closed around the artifact. He very, very slowly lifted it. After a pause, he carefully tucked the phial away into his bag. Mehra let out her breath in a sigh of relief.

Then they heard a deafening crack, then the crumbling of stone.

Mehra’s racing heart felt like it was trying to burst out of her chest. She moved closer to J’zargo, who looked at least as afraid as she felt. Rumarin assumed a guard position, conjured sword at the ready.

Beyond the lantern’s light, J’zargo’s magelight darted about like a hummingbird and revealed several creatures shambling toward them. These things weren’t people, at least not anymore. Their dry gray skin and half-rotted armor marked them as draugr–upright, shriveled corpses of men who died years ago and yet moved as if they still lived. They made low rasping noises in their throats and smelled like rotten meat.

Two of these creatures trailed behind their leader, a daugr wearing a dark helm and a cloak that hung from its shoulders in rust-red tatters. This one didn’t shamble or sway like the other two; it advanced toward Rumarin at great speed. The Altmer stood firm and kept his weapon steady.

While J’zargo started the spell for a fireball, Mehra read her scroll aloud. Purple whisps of smoke gathered and swirled at her feet, pulling a creature from the depths of Oblivion. But instead of the expected flame atronach, a glowing rodent the size of a small dog appeared.

“A rat?! Gods damn it,” said Mehra, drawing her sword and wishing an incurable case of witbane on the shopkeeper who sold her the scroll.

From the corner of her eye she saw Rumarin cross swords with the helmed draugr. She couldn’t observe for long because the other two draugr were coming straight for her and J’zargo. One of the creatures gave a feral cry when J’zargo’s fireball struck it, but it still kept going and waved its single-handed axe erratically. Now the air smelled like cooked rotten meat.

Mehra raised her sword and prepared for an attack from the other draugr, a hideous thing with a moldering beard and a jagged blade. But the conjured rat scurried forward with surprising speed and sunk its teeth into the bearded draugr’s leg. The oversized rodent couldn’t do much damage, but at least it slowed the draugr down.

Everything was a confusion of clashing metal, scurrying footsteps, cries, grunts and dancing shadows. A second fireball drew another howl from the axe-waving draugr. Mehra started to rush forward so she could thrust her sword into the bearded draugr while it still had a giant rat attached to its leg.

Before she had taken more than a few steps, the helmed draugr fighting Rumarin suddenly turned its head toward her and gave a terrible shout. But this was no mere battle cry. It was a Thu’um, a power that the Nords of Skyrim had learned from dragons hundreds of years ago. The intensity of the Shout generated a shockwave that knocked Mehra and J’zargo off their feet and sent them flying back.

Mehra managed to keep hold of her sword when she landed, but she was bruised and stunned from having the breath knocked out of her. She heard the helmed draugr howl in pain; Rumarin was making it pay a heavy price for turning its attention away from him.

Mehra struggled to her feet and again faced the bearded draugr, fully expecting to be struck down by its blade at any moment, but she was relieved to find the draugr occupied with trying to stab the big rat savaging its legs. She heard J’zargo shout. Turning, Mehra saw him crumple to the ground, his arm bloodied by a swipe from a draugr’s axe. The triumphant draugr raised its axe for the killing blow.

There was no time to save J’zargo, not with a weapon, she would never reach him in time. Mehra used the only option left to her and shouted: “Fus!”

Mehra’s Thu’um wasn’t powerful enough to send anyone flying through the air, but it staggered the axe-wielding draugr. J’zargo’s eyes snapped open and he painfully got up. The Khajiit grimaced as he readied another fireball and hurled it at the draugr, ending its undead existence.

Rumarin was still fighting for his life. The helmed draugr wielded its weapon with a finesse its two servants lacked, keeping Rumarin on the defensive. But the creature wasn’t immune to distractions: the draugr paused to search for the source of the unexpected Thu’um, giving Rumarin an opening to lash out with his summoned blade. But the draugr reacted quickly, deflecting the worst of the blow and taking only a small cut to its arm.

The conjured rat gave a high-pitched squeal when the bearded draugr finally sent it back to Oblivion. Now this draugr came for Mehra, and she threw all her attention into fending it off.

The bearded draugr drove Mehra back. It had no eyes for her to read, just empty sockets, but there were other ways to predict what it would do next–the way the hand tightened around the handle of the sword, the way the shoulders tensed before a lunge, or even the way its breath hitched. Despite her terror and revulsion, Mehra started to see something human in the draugr. It had been a man once. Something about this realization took the edge from Mehra’s fear, and she began turning her parries into counterattacks.

The undead warrior sensed the change in its opponent but was slow to adapt. Mehra struck again and again, and now she was the one driving the creature back. If she could just break through its defenses–

An orange burst of light flew past Mehra as one of J’zargo’s fireballs found its mark on the helmed draugr, which gave a shriek and faltered. Rumarin took advantage of the opening to push his sword through the monster, shouting “Why don’t you stay dead this time, damn you!” His enemy fell and moved no more.

Only one draugr remained. Even when its master lay dead it would not surrender. With an outraged howl it beat on Mehra’s defenses in a furious effort to cut her down. But Mehra had the measure of her opponent now and kept her guard up long enough for Rumarin’s sword to stab through it in a flash of blue. The draugr would not get another chance to avenge its master– down it went with a strangled cry.

Chapter 7: Recovery

“Damn that Curalmil,” said Rumarin, wiping his sleeve across his forehead. He was drenched in sweat and all but shaking from the effort of the last fight.

Mehra was pale-faced and shivering as she stared at the unmoving draugr at her feet. She still had her sword drawn as if she expected the dead creature to leap up again.

“You’re all right then? Nothing serious?” asked Rumarin.

Mehra’s answer was so faint that Rumarin almost didn’t hear it. “Think so. You?”

“Don’t worry about me, I’m in the best shape of a sload’s life.” When Mehra only stared at him, Rumarin added, “I promise I’ll think of a better joke later. I’m still reeling a bit.”

They heard a scuffing sound and a groan. “J’zargo,” gasped Mehra. Though she had looked close to passing out, she sheathed her sword and rushed to the fallen Khajiit’s side. Rumarin picked up the lantern and followed.

J’zargo lay curled up on his side, gritting his teeth, his eyes squeezed shut. His left hand clutched at his right arm. Dark blood flowed between his fingers.

“Just– just hang on, J’zargo.” Mehra removed her bag and rifled through it, frantically searching for bandages.

“We’ll get you patched up and ready to throw more fireballs in no time,” said Rumarin. Recalling a little of what Mehra had done for him when he was injured, Rumarin bundled up his cloak and placed it under J’zargo’s head.

J’zargo’s eyes sought Mehra’s. “J’zargo had to make a choice. J’zargo is sorry.”

“This isn’t your fault. You just relax.” Mehra was making an effort to keep her voice calm, but a slight tremor betrayed her worry for her friend. She produced a cloth from her bag and pressed it to J’zargo’s arm to stop the bleeding.

J’zargo reacted with a hiss. Through the pain he said, “But J’zargo must explain. Mehra, J’zargo almost threw a fireball at the draugr you fought, he wanted to, but–”

Rumarin struggled to follow what J’zargo was saying. Then he recalled the final moments of the last battle: just when Rumarin felt his strength about to give out, a fireball pelted the helmed draugr he had been fighting. J’zargo had given Rumarin the opening he needed to run the monster through and kill it. But in doing so, J’zargo left Mehra to fend for herself against the other draugr, at least until Rumarin was finally free to rush in and put a sword through it. J’zargo’s gamble had worked out in everyone’s favor.

”– but the draugr with the cloak and big helm was the best fighter, and he had the Thu’um, and if he–”

“And if he beat me, he would have ended us all,” Rumarin finished for J’zargo. “Not to worry, J’zargo, it was a good call. Everything worked out the way your instincts said they would.”

“They did?”

Mehra started bandaging J’zargo’s arm. “They did. We’re still alive.”

“Then you are not angry with J’zargo?”

“Of course not. Don’t worry about it anymore.”

After Mehra had finished binding up J’zargo’s arm, they decided to relocate to get away from the dead draugr. The sight of their distorted gray bodies was unsettling, and they reeked. J’zargo was still in a great deal of pain, but he got to his feet and followed while Mehra and Rumarin carried his bag and bedroll.

After they had put sufficient distance between themselves and the dead things, Rumarin spread out the bedrolls and Mehra got J’zargo to drink the last healing potion. The soporific effect of the potion kicked in quickly and J’zargo was soon dozing off. Mehra collapsed on another bedroll and gave a shuddering sigh.

Rumarin thought he might drift off, but as tired as he was, sleep wouldn’t come. He was too aware of his filthy robes, and he could still smell those damned rotting things even from here. After a while, Rumarin propped himself up on his elbow and looked in Mehra’s direction. “Are you awake?”

Mehra lifted her head. “Uh huh.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Yes?”

“That shout earlier. You called up a Thu’um during that fight, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I thought only Nords could do that, and then only after they’ve spent years studying with the Greybeards. But you say you came very recently from Cyrodiil.”

“I did.”

“And you picked up Thu’uming just like that?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

Mehra didn’t answer for a long time. Then, “Before I came to Skyrim, I didn’t know what a Thu’um was. That changed after I saw a dragon die.”

“So you did see dragons.”

“Twice. The first was in Helgen. J’zargo and I barely got away. The second was near Whiterun. Many Whiterun soldiers died, but they finally killed it. Then… I don’t know how to describe it. It was like the whole dragon caught on fire. And… this is going to sound stupid… it was like his energy started pouring into me. The soldiers who saw it happen said I took his soul. Whatever happened, I’ve been able to Shout ever since.”

Rumarin sat up suddenly. “Wait, wait, hold on a minute. Are you saying you’re the Dragonborn? The Dovahkiin?”

Mehra wouldn’t meet his eye. “That’s what they said.”

It was impossible to stay long in Skyrim without hearing the bards sing about the Dragonborn, a prophesied hero who could steal souls from dragons and shout foes into submission. Many Nords believed this great warrior would appear in Skyrim’s time of need to save the land from evil and ruin. Rumarin had always dismissed the prophecy as nonsense, but he quickly learned that the legend of the Dovahkiin was one thing you never mocked around a bunch of drunken, hot-tempered Nords.

Could Mehra really be the Dovahkiin? Rumarin pictured Skyrim’s champion as a hulking axe-waving Nord, and this little Breton was about the furthest thing imaginable from that. She had the Thu’um, yes, but so did the draugr he just killed. So did the Greybeards. So did Jarl Ulfric, the leader of the Stormcloak rebellion. There could be another explanation.

“Why didn’t you say anything about this before?” asked Rumarin.

“The last time J’zargo told someone I was the Dragonborn, she laughed and told him to lay off the moonsugar. J’zargo threw a fit.”

“And that’s the reason for all the secrecy? Because someone might laugh about it? That’s an odd thing to be afraid of after you’ve faced a couple of dragons.”

“That’s not what I’m afraid of,” said Mehra, very low.

“What, then?”

Mehra looked at him searchingly. “Do you believe any of this?”

Rumarin hesitated. He didn’t think Mehra was lying, at least not intentionally. She clearly believed something had happened to her, and whatever it was, she didn’t want it to be true. Why else would she take pains to hide it and introduce herself as “just Mehra”? He also had a feeling she wasn’t looking for a simple yes or no answer from him. The underlying question was whether he now saw her as a liar, a lunatic or someone to curry favor with. Rumarin decided that the prudent thing was to answer the way a jester would: make light of it, pretend it scarcely mattered.

So he said, “After the day I’ve had, I’m prepared to believe almost anything. You could tell me Martin Septim is coming to tea and I’d start fretting over our lack of good silverware.”

Mehra latched onto the opportunity to change the subject. “And this place is a mess.”

“Oh yes, all these dead draugr lying about, what would he think? I’m afraid we’ll have to call the whole thing off.”

Mehra slowly got up and went to check on J’zargo, who was still curled up asleep. She then approached Rumarin and asked, “Can I see it? The White Phial?”

“Of course.” Rumarin reached into his bag and carefully withdrew the artifact, which felt nearly as cold and hard as an ice wraith’s tooth. The bottle gave off a blue-white glow like snow reflecting moonlight. Just as he started handing it to Mehra, he saw something that made his heart drop and his breath catch in his throat.

The White Phial was cracked.

How had it happened? Was it during the fight? Was it already like this when he took it?

“What’s wrong?” asked Mehra.

“It’s– it’s damaged.”

“Oh! Badly?”

Rumarin drew his hand over his eyes and handed the phial to her wordlessly.

Mehra gently took the White Phial and stared at it with wonder. “Oh Mephala, I’ve never seen anything like this. It’s beautiful.”

“For all the good it does us,” said Rumarin, feeling as broken as the phial. “If it can’t hold liquid, Nurelion isn’t going to give the full reward he promised. That’s assuming he gives us anything at all.” And I’ll never be able to pay off my debt in time, he thought. It’s over, I’m finished.

Mehra traced a finger over the crack. “Maybe it can be repaired?”

Repair a unique magical artifact? Was she serious? Rumarin felt a headache coming on and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Somehow I don’t think we’ll find magic glue in the next cave.”

“Maybe Nurelion will know how it can be fixed. He figured out how to make the solution that opened the way to it, right?” She offered the phial back to him.

“That’s optimistic.” Rumarin wrapped the phial in a bit of cloth and placed it in his bag again. He leaned his head on his hands, closed his eyes and tried to think. If he couldn’t get the money from the old alchemist, he would need to come up with another scheme fast.

“Do you need the reward money badly?” asked Mehra quietly.

Rumarin privately cursed and regretted his lapse of composure. He put on a smile and answered lightly. “It’s just that I’ve always wanted my own horker ranch in Dawnstar. But dreams like that don’t come true without capital, you know.”

Mehra stared as if he had offered to turn himself into a mudcrab. Then she recognized the deflection for what it was and looked away. “Sorry. It’s none of my business.”

“You don’t owe an apology to an insufferable elf who continually sticks his nose into other people’s horker ranches. Wait, that came out wrong. Well, you know what I mean.”

“You’re very strange.”

“Why thank you. It comes from years of practice.”

Chapter 8: Insufferable

The three companions had little to say to each other after finally dragging themselves out of the Forsaken Cave. They trudged through the wind and snow in miserable silence. Heavy dark clouds hid away the stars, the twin moons, and all that was beautiful to see in Skyrim’s night sky.

Rumarin was in a black mood by the time they reached Nightgate Inn. He was cold and hungry. His disheveled robes gave every appearance of having been dragged through dirt, clay and blood. And he was still picking up whiffs of draugr. Between that and ice-sharp blasts of wind blowing in his face, Rumarin felt the early pangs of what promised to be a skull-pounding headache.

J’zargo and Mehra looked no better. J’zargo’s fur was matted with the same cave-crud that covered his robes. Mehra’s hair stuck up in all directions and parts of her armor looked like they had been made from a furry beast that got into a fight and rolled around in some muck.

They were hardly able to stand upright when they slogged into Nightgate Inn, catching their breath, blinking at the firelight and dripping melted snow on the floor. Rumarin leaned against a post, J’zargo collapsed into a chair, and Mehra settled on the floor.

The old man who ran the place didn’t even blink. He had been an innkeeper for too long to be unsettled by a few dirty foreigners. As long as they paid and didn’t start throwing things, they could be bandits, Daedra worshippers or even hagravens for all he cared.

“Suppose you’ll be wanting water for washing,” said the old man after putting some clean mugs on the table. “There’s a tub full of water downstairs, but if you’re wanting it good and hot, you’ll have to see to that for yourself.”

“Thank you,” said Rumarin. He couldn’t wait. He went to the fireplace, retrieved several egg-sized rocks from a basket and dropped them onto the glowing coals. The sooner the rocks heated up, the sooner they could be used to warm the bath water.

* * *

A bath failed to improve Rumarin’s mood. Since there was only one tub of water to share between the three of them, they had to settle the question of who would go first. They drew lots at J’zargo’s insistence. Rumarin’s turn came after J’zargo’s, and by then the water was already dirty and had bits of fur floating in it. Then he had to wear his spare robes, which were terribly outmoded and too short in the sleeves. At least they had a hood.

Dinner was all but inedible. The mashed potatoes looked like glue, the greens were mushy and the meat might as well have been strips of leather. Didn’t Nords know how to cook anything? Rumarin picked at it for a while, forced down what he could and then pushed the plate away with a sigh. He couldn’t understand how Mehra was able to eat without so much as a grimace, when even J’zargo regarded this slop with distaste.

And there was no Honningbrew mead.

“None at all?” asked Rumarin.

“Clean out,” said the old man, “still waiting for my next shipment. Got some Black-Briar though.”

“I’d rather drink a skeever’s bath water.”

“I think I have a skeever nesting somewhere in the basement. If you want me to–”

“Just tea, thank you.”

J’zargo and Mehra talked, but Rumarin was too out of sorts to enjoy conversation for its own sake. They had already agreed to return to Windhelm and see what the old alchemist would pay for a broken phial, which wouldn’t be much. What more was there to say? He stared into the fire while J’zargo grumbled about the trip being a waste, Mehra argued otherwise, J’zargo couldn’t wait to go to his damned school– this, that, on and on.

Then Mehra said something to J’zargo that caught Rumarin’s attention: “I just hope they’ll let me in. Didn’t you say they make you pass some kind of test just to cross the bridge?”

“They will let you into the College. J’zargo is sure of this.”

“Can’t imagine why anyone who wasn’t trying to be a mage would want to go there,” said Rumarin. “Unless the meals are good enough to make up for a bunch of wizards looking down their noses at you.”

J’zargo scowled. “They would not look down on Mehra. As for looking down on you, that is another matter.”

Rumarin tried the tea and grimaced. It tasted like grass juice. “Mages have a way of looking down on anyone who isn’t a spellcaster.”

“No they don’t,” said Mehra, “they’re not all like that. And if you hate the College, why wear College robes?”

“Imitation College robes,” Rumarin reminded her, “and I don’t hate it. What I hate is a bunch of stuck-up magic users who–”

“You use magic,” said Mehra.

“I use a spell or two to enable my lazy habit of traveling light. That doesn’t make me a mage.”

“You’ve never wanted to be a mage? Ever?”

“Never,” he snapped.

The Khajiit snickered. “J’zargo will believe that when it snows in the jungles of Elsweyr.”

Rumarin adjusted his hood and heaved a sigh. Usually he was better at tempering his moods, but Mehra’s question had hit a nerve. He sometimes wished he were a mage, or at least something more than a one-trick bladebinder, but he would never admit it. He tried smoothing things over: “I beg your pardon. Stick me in a tavern without bards or a drop of Honningbrew and I become insufferable. More insufferable than usual, that is. Carry on.”

J’zargo turned back to Mehra. “J’zargo was going to say that many of the College mages research the mysteries of magic, and one of them might know how you can tap into magicka. It is possible to fill ordinary items with magic– armor, weapons, jewelry. Perhaps the same is true for people who do not possess their own magic.”

“That’s what I’m hoping. Because if they don’t know…” Mehra faltered and looked down at her hands. “My father and I already tried looking for answers like that all over Cyrodiil. Every mage we spoke to said there’s no power in the world that can give someone magic they don’t already have. But I’m not ready to give up. Not yet.”

Rumarin stared. It was bad enough she thought they could repair the White Phial, but this kind of naivete was beyond endurance. “What makes you think these mages will say anything different? Even if they could help, why would they? The College isn’t exactly known for its charity.”

“I have to try.”

Rumarin saw the pain in her eyes and wished he had kept his mouth shut. How often had people sneered and looked down on him for his lack of magical ability? Now he was trampling the hopes of someone who couldn’t cast spells at all. He struggled for words. Finally he said, “At least you have your Thu’um, which is a kind of magic in itself.”

J’zargo cast a sideways glance at Rumarin, then asked Mehra, “Have you told him?”

“About what? Oh. Yes.” Mehra suddenly looked very interested in a scratch on the table.

“Then J’zargo no longer has to keep it a secret? Good. J’zargo tires of secrets, especially this one.”

“You must have been champing at the bit to say something about this Dragonborn business,” said Rumarin.

“J’zargo does not understand why she wishes to keep it hidden. The Gods chose her for a great destiny, and J’zargo believes in embracing greatness.”

Rumarin looked at Mehra. “Do you believe you’re the Dragonborn?”

Mehra kept staring at the table as if she hadn’t heard Rumarin at all. When Rumarin asked the question again, she blinked. “I’m sorry, what?” she asked.

“Didn’t you–” Rumarin stopped, took a deep breath. He tried to keep the impatience out of his voice when he repeated the question.

Mehra sank down in her chair, making herself as small as possible. “I’m not sure.”

J’zargo sputtered. “Of course you are the Dragonborn! You took the dragon’s soul.”

“No. No, that’s not what happened.”

“But J’zargo saw–”

“I would never– not on purpose.” Mehra’s voice was tight with distress. “I don’t know how it happened. Or why. But I would never do a thing like that. Killing him was enough. What right does anyone have to his soul?”

“That is simple,” said J’zargo with a shrug. “If you did not take the dragon’s soul through your own will, then it was the will of the Gods.”

Mehra shook her head but made no reply.

“So when this happened, what did you actually see?” Rumarin was curious if J’zargo’s story would match up with Mehra’s.

“The dragon had many arrows sticking out of it when it finally died. Then a magic fire swept over it, and the flames turned into streams of light that went straight into Mehra. The next thing J’zargo knows, the soldiers of Whiterun are calling her the Dragonborn.”

Magic fire and light? At least their stories agreed. Rumarin steepled his fingers and mulled this for a while. “Hypothetical question: if none of the local Nords had been around to comment on the event, would you still have thought Mehra was the Dragonborn?”

J’zargo made a frustrated noise. “Why do you doubt this? Did you not hear Mehra’s Thu’um in the crypt?”

“Oh yes, it was very impressive. But then so was that draugr’s Thu’um, as you recall. And you didn’t answer the question.”

“J’zargo does not have to!”

Rumarin rolled his eyes and turned back to Mehra, who was by now hiding behind her hair. “Maybe there was unusual magic at work, but it doesn’t necessarily follow that you’re a Nord legend of the likes of Talos. You’re not the only one who can call up a Thu’um. Didn’t you say your mother was born in Skyrim? Most Bretons in the Reach have Nord blood in them. Maybe your magic was channeled in a way to make you a… well, a Thu’uming prodigy of some sort.”

“No, my magic couldn’t have–” Mehra stopped and reconsidered what she was about to say. “I mean, the soldiers were convinced by what they saw.”

“These are Skyrim Nords we’re talking about. They go to taverns every day to listen to songs about old heroes and the glory days. They’re tired of the war and they’re desperate for someone to make their problems go away. Now here’s a dead dragon, and then they see strange magic they can’t explain. Do you see what I’m getting at?”

“Yes, I see.” But Mehra sounded doubtful.

J’zargo tapped his claws on the table. “J’zargo knows what he saw, and he is no Nord. Anyone who saw it would be convinced.”

Rumarin looked pointedly at J’zargo. He thought: you’re not a Nord, you’re an ambitious, overreaching Khajiit in a land full of people who distrust your kind. Of course you’d be quick to believe your little companion might be someone important. But Rumarin didn’t dare say any of this out loud. Instead he gestured at Mehra and said, “She lived through it and she’s not even sure herself. What does that tell you?”

“Of course she knows. She simply does not wish to believe it for reasons J’zargo does not understand.”

“If you say so.” Rumarin tried the tea again. Perhaps the flavor would grow on him.

“And the soldiers were not the only ones convinced: after the dragon died and gave its soul to Mehra, the Jarl made her Thane of Whiterun.”

Rumarin almost choked on the tea. “What?”

Mehra turned red again and fidgeted with a loose thread on her sleeve. “It doesn’t make sense. I didn’t even kill the dragon.”

“You helped and you are the Dragonborn,” said J’zargo with a sigh, disgusted at having to endlessly explain a thing so obvious.

Thane of Whiterun? Rumarin needed a moment to let that sink in. Most thanes served as advisors to their Jarls, and they usually earned their positions through military achievements or by performing great services for one of the holds. He stared at Mehra. She was wearing a fresh set of clothes, but they were plain and didn’t fit properly. The loose shirt made her look more like a frail-faced boy than a young woman, let alone a thane.

But why would they make up a thing like that? Rumarin couldn’t think of a reason that made sense. At the moment he had more immediate concerns, like scraping together enough gold so he could remain among the living. But he was out of options, out of ideas, out of names of people who could help him. It wouldn’t be long before more of Sarthis Idren’s men cornered him and demanded compensation for botching the smuggling job. He knew they wouldn’t let him off with a warning this time. If he didn’t have the money when they found him, they were sure to make him pay his debt in blood.

If Mehra was indeed a thane, Rumarin would be a fool if he didn’t try to use this to his advantage somehow. It occurred to him he was being worse than J’zargo, but he squelched the thought.

“So you’re telling me I dragged the Thane of Whiterun through a draugr-infested crypt and back? I think I’m going to need something stronger than this tea,” said Rumarin.

“A Thane of Whiterun and the Dragonborn,” said J’zargo.

The girl frowned and muttered, “Just Mehra.”

Chapter 9: Bargaining

Mehra liked alchemist shops, and Nurelion’s shop did not disappoint: so many things to look at, every shelf buried under colorful glass bottles, vessels full of glow dust and fire salts, illustrated books and bundles of sweet-smelling dried herbs. Sometimes Mehra wished she had tried learning alchemy–at least then she could make healing potions–but she knew running a shop wouldn’t suit her for long.

J’zargo did not share Mehra’s interest in alchemical clutter. He looked bored until he found a book opened to a page on enchantments.

“Mind you don’t smudge the pages,” the old alchemist grumbled at the Khajiit.

Rumarin had said the alchemist was old even for an Altmer. Mehra was no good at guessing the ages of elves, but she supposed Nurelion to be well over a hundred years old. Maybe two hundred. There wasn’t much gray in the Altmer’s beard, but his face was heavily lined, his shoulders stooped and his eyes rheumy. Mehra had a feeling most of the real potion-making was now handled by Nurelion’s apprentice, a young Imperial man named Quintus who jumped whenever his master barked orders. Quintus stood in a corner grinding dried snowberries into a powder, but he often stole glances at Mehra and her two companions.

Rumarin told Nurelion the story of how they acquired the White Phial. Nurelion scowled and made impatient noises; he wasn’t even interested in the parts about clattering skeletons, exploding traps and shambling draugr. The old alchemist only wanted to know one thing: “Do you have the White Phial or not?”

“Well, we have good news and not so good news on that particular detail.”

Nurelion’s face went pale. “Go on.”

“The good news is yes, we found the White Phial.”

“And the bad news? Out with it, don’t leave an old man in suspense.”

“I’m afraid we found it damaged. It’s in one piece, but… well, you can judge for yourself.” Rumarin produced the phial and placed it on the counter before Nurelion. The thing glistened like ice in starlight, but a large crack marred its beauty.

Nurelion’s hand trembled as he reached for it. “This… it matches every description of the phial that I’ve found in lore. But if it can’t hold liquid, there’s no way of knowing.” Nurelion withdrew his hand, unable to bring himself to touch the phial. “How did you damage it then? This is what I get for not retrieving it myself–” he was overtaken by a violent coughing fit.

“That’s the state we found it in, unfortunately. But with your expertise, we thought you might–”

“Never mind the details. I doubt you have sufficient knowledge to harm the phial even if you wanted to.” Nurelion leaned against the counter and breathed heavily.

“Shall I fetch a tonic, master?” asked Quintus.

Nurelion waved him off. “Stop harassing me, boy. If there was a tonic that could help me, I would have found it by now.”

“Can the phial be fixed at all?” asked Mehra.

The old man squinted at her. “Fixed? An artifact from the age of Dragon Priests and you ask if it can be fixed, as if that were as simple as mending a pair of old boots? What a question.”

“Given that it’s a unique relic from that long ago, surely it has historical value,” said Rumarin.

“Historical value? Do you suppose I left the warm embrace of the Summerset Isles and came to these frozen reaches because I’m in love with history? I’m an alchemist, not a historian. I wanted the phial’s power and now it’s gone.” Nurelion gazed at the phial again with a pained look. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m not in the mood to entertain guests. I trust you can show yourself out. Oh– for your trouble.” With a trembling hand he pulled five septims from his pocket and slapped them on the counter.

Mehra drew in a sharp breath. Rumarin’s posture went tense and his hands clenched. J’zargo hissed and said, “That is an insulting offer, worse than nothing.”

“Do you have any idea what we went through to get this for you?” Rumarin’s voice was cold. “Mehra used up her scrolls and healing potions. J’zargo nearly had his arm taken off. I was stabbed.”

“That’s of no consequence to me. I tasked you with fetching the White Phial, not a broken bottle–”

“Broken or not, it’s still the White Phial and there is no other,” said Mehra.

“We deserve fair payment, and now you insult us with a handful of coins,” said J’zargo, jabbing a finger at the old man.

“I don’t have to take this kind of talk–” Nurelion succumbed to another bout of coughing, pressed a hand to his heart and sank into a chair.

Quintus went to the old man’s side. “Master, you’re not well. You know what the healer said about overtiring yourself.”

“What does it matter? Leave me be. Years spent in libraries, years seeking out tiny villages with local legends that had but a whisper of the phial… all wasted.”

Rumarin snatched the phial and tucked it into his bag. “We risked our lives to retrieve this little bauble for you. If that isn’t worth more than a few septims to you, then we’ll just keep it. Perhaps we’ll find someone who has the knowledge that you obviously lack to repair it.”

The old alchemist sagged in his chair and closed his eyes. “Go then. Leave an old man with a ruined dream.” But something sparked in the young apprentice’s eyes as he watched them leave with the White Phial.

* * *

Mehra and her companions pulled their cloaks tightly around themselves as they exited the alchemist shop, shielding themselves from the cold. The wind carried the smell of cooked food, burning coal and spices. Rumarin and J’zargo ignored the marketplace vendors who tried drawing their attention to everything from jewelry to charred skeever meat. Mehra glanced at their wares but turned away, the failure to redeem the phial weighing on her nearly as much as her companions.

J’zargo grumbled about pathetic old shopkeepers who knew nothing about the dangers of haunted crypts. “Skeletons and draugr, all that for nothing.”

“That’s not quite true,” said Mehra. “We pulled some gems and other things out of those urns, remember? And that filled soul gem.”

J’zargo snorted. “Yes, but the gold from selling these will not go far between us. And who will buy a broken phial?”

“You can sell almost anything if you tell the right story or sing the right song to the right person,” said Rumarin. “Not that we’re going get the kind of money we were promised, but–”

They heard running footsteps behind them. “Wait, stop!”

It was Quintus, the alchemist’s apprentice. The young Imperial shivered and rubbed his arms for warmth. He had been in such a rush that he forgot to grab a cloak. “I know my master is disappointed, but even though the phial was damaged, your efforts still deserve reward.”

“It’s good of you to say so,” said Rumarin.

“You don’t have to walk away empty-handed. If you let me have the phial, I can pay you.”

“How much?”

“Well… how’s five hundred gold sound?”

J’zargo and Mehra perked up. Rumarin hastened to speak before one of them tried to accept the offer: “That’s quite a leap from five septims, I must say. And here I thought this poor damaged thing was worthless.”

Quintus spoke quickly, tripping over his words. “Oh it is, broken like that, won’t work at all. No one else would want it or know what to do with it I assure you.”

“But you do, I take it?”

A stricken look came into the fellow’s eyes as he realized his blunder. “Uh, of course not. It just has sentimental value. That’s all.”

Rumarin barely suppressed a smile. “I see. Thank you, we’ll think about it.”

J’zargo’s mouth fell open. “But–”

“Come on, we can discuss it at the Cornerclub. I need a Honningbrew anyway.”

* * *

Rumarin led J’zargo and Mehra through Windhelm’s Gray Quarter, a slum full of broken cobblestone, crumbling buildings and faded, tattered flags blowing in the icy wind. Other than a guard or two, none of the people they passed were Nords. They were all elves, mostly Dunmer with hard, weathered features. Dunmer did not have the Nordish tolerance for cold, so those who could afford to dressed in thick layers of fur or course wool– no silks or brocades.

“Are all the Dunmer forced to live here?” asked Mehra.

“That’s my understanding,” said Rumarin. He spoke casually, but the way he pulled at his hood and darted his gaze about suggested he was hoping to avoid being recognized. “Windhelm is very much a Nord city and they don’t love elves here. Or Khajiit. Or Argonians. Or anyone who isn’t a Nord, really. Most Altmer get on all right, but the Dunmer have it worse. Still, at least they’re allowed to live in the city. Argonians have to make themselves cozy on the docks.”

“Hmph. No Khajiit with self respect would choose to live in this city anyway,” said J’zargo.

“Is Jarl Ulfric doing anything about this?” asked Mehra. She knew little about Ulfric Stormcloak, the Jarl of Windhelm and the man leading the fight to break Skyrim away from the Empire. Some hailed Ulfric as a hero and a true son of Skyrim; others claimed he did not have the land’s best interests at heart and only wished to crown himself High King. Mehra didn’t know what to make of Ulfric’s cause, but she couldn’t think well of him if he was the sort of jarl who knowingly let his Dunmer citizens live in squalor.

“I’m afraid I don’t have a head for politics, so I haven’t the slightest idea,” said Rumarin.

J’zargo wrinkled his nose at a Dunmer beggar pawing through a barrel full of rubbish for scraps of food. “J’zargo thinks a better question is why these elves do not leave. The cities to the south are at least warmer.”

“It’s not always easy to leave a place once you put down roots,” said Mehra, watching a dark-haired elven woman leading a little boy by the hand.

J’zargo also glanced at the Dunmer child toddling beside its mother. “J’zargo wonders what sort of life that elfling can hope to have with his roots in a place like this? Shall he dig through the trash like that beggar? Better for him if his mother pulls up their roots now.”

“This is why I never bothered putting down these so-called roots,” said Rumarin. “I get to avoid all those difficult issues and keep life simple.”

“Graverobbing is simple?” asked Mehra.

Rumarin made some reply, but Mehra didn’t hear him. A voice in her head chose that moment to speak and drown out all other sounds. She could never predict when it would burst in on her thoughts, but it was becoming more frequent, more insistent. The voice growled out words she didn’t understand, words like joorre and meyye. She pressed a hand to her head and tried without success to block out the voice.

Mehra didn’t realize J’zargo had stopped and she almost ran into him. She saw the concern in the Khajiit’s eyes but could not hear him speak.

The voice in her head went silent. Mehra gave a sigh of relief.

“J’zargo asked if you are all right. Did you not hear?”

J’zargo and Rumarin were staring at her. Mehra swallowed hard and tried to collect herself. She couldn’t say anything about voices in her head– they would think she was going mad. “Sorry, sudden headache,” she murmured.

There was an unspoken question in Rumarin’s glance to J’zargo. The Khajiit answered him with a shrug.

“I think we all need a drink,” said Rumarin. “Come on, we’re almost there.”

* * *

The New Gnisis Cornerclub was the most depressing tavern Mehra had ever seen. The floorboards groaned underfoot and the wall behind the bar had a hole kicked into it. The sunset-colored banners hanging from the ceiling would have been pretty if they weren’t also faded and moth-eaten. But Mehra was most disturbed by the quiet: no laughter, no bard song, no cheers, no bluster. The place hosted only a few Dunmer who either conversed in low sullen tones or drank their mazte in silence.

“The Cornerclub isn’t as popular as Candlehearth Hall, but you can see why,” said Rumarin after they had settled at a corner table. “See that poor fellow pushing the broom around? He’s the closest thing this place has to a tavern wench.” He waved to get the Dunmer’s attention so they could order their drinks.

J’zargo winced when he discovered his chair creaking at the slightest movement. “J’zargo hopes we are not sleeping here tonight.”

“No, this place doesn’t offer rooms anyway. But there’s a shopkeeper in the Gray Quarter who owes me a favor, and he might be willing to put us up for the night. Now, about the phial…”

“J’zargo thinks we should accept the apprentice’s offer before he changes his mind. Five hundred is better than nothing.”

“Certainly, but we would still be taking a heavy loss. Add up the travel expenses, the scrolls, the potions, a draugr almost hacking your arm off, the laundry–”

“You’re thinking we can get a better offer elsewhere?” asked Mehra.

“Look at it this way: apprentices of grumpy old alchemists make almost no money of their own. He probably offered his life’s savings for this little broken bottle. Now why would he do a thing like that?”

“He said it has sentimental value, but that doesn’t make sense.” After a pause, Mehra’s eyes brightened with realization. “Unless he thinks he can fix it.”

“Exactly. I doubt we can get more money from the apprentice, but if this thing can in fact be repaired, I’ll wager we can get a better offer if we talk to the right people.”

“But who?”

J’zargo leaned forward, all eagerness now. “Who else but magic users and alchemists? We should take this phial to the College of Winterhold. If anyone would know how repair it, they would.”

“That’s an idea. And we’re going there anyway,” added Mehra. She glanced at Rumarin and corrected herself: “Well, at least J’zargo and I are.”

Rumarin pulled out a septim and twirled it in his fingers, but he wasn’t showing off coin tricks so much as keeping his hands busy while he considered their options. “So, these College mages. Do you know if they often do business with us non-wizard types?”

“Oh yes, J’zargo knows that many Nords seek out the College mages to have their weapons and armor enchanted. The College provides many services like this to the people of Skyrim.”

“You don’t say! It sounds like you’ve hit on a promising idea. This sort of transaction wouldn’t be out of the ordinary for them?”

“J’zargo does not think so,” said the Khajiit, eyes bright and ears perked. “The College does not only teach, you see. It also collects and studies rare artifacts.”

“Really? So if we showed this phial to the mages, they would recognize what it does? Or what it once did, at any rate?” asked Rumarin. He mirrored J’zargo’s demeanor, showing enthusiasm for a subject he expressed disdain for only yesterday. Mehra couldn’t decide whether this was unconscious or calculated.

“Their scholars are very wise and know about such things. The phial is broken, yes, but it is obviously magical. They will see its worth and find a way to restore its power, J’zargo is sure of this.”

“Should we try finding a buyer here first?” asked Mehra.

Rumarin turned the coin over in his hand as he considered her question. “I could make inquiries while we’re here, but Eastmarch Hold isn’t known for its scholars. We’re not likely to find a rich farmer or blacksmith who’s secretly an expert on magical artifacts.”

“And so we go to Winterhold tomorrow, yes?” J’zargo asked hopefully.

Rumarin pocketed the coin with a smile. “I don’t see why not. Let’s be off to see the wizards of Winterhold.”

Chapter 10: Cart

The late afternoon sun shone like a distant magelight behind frosted glass. The Windhelm shops would soon close their doors for the day. Rumarin wanted to be quick about their errands, but he forced himself to move at a slower pace for the sake of his companions. A brisk walk for him was a gallop for someone Mehra’s size.

“This particular pawnbroker offers good prices for the sorts of things we have to sell,” said Rumarin, leading them to the door of another shop.

Rumarin was brought up short when the door creaked open and out stepped an Altmer. She had the sharp, well-bred features of most high elf women, but her golden hair was disarrayed and she wore a dress that had been mended many times over. Her face hardened when she saw Rumarin.

“Hello Arivanya,” said Rumarin, putting on one of his forced smiles.

Arivanya looked at him severely. “So you’re back.”

Rumarin could barely look Arivanya in the eye. Every disapproving line of her face told him she had not forgiven him for having the thoughtless stupidity to burst in on her and Ulundil that one night. He pulled his cloak about himself. “Yes, back for the moment. I haven’t managed to get myself killed yet, which suits me just fine.”

“Are you here for long?”

After assuring her that he would not be in town long, Rumarin introduced Mehra and J’zargo. Arivanya barely glanced at them. “More ‘friends’ of yours? Honestly, Rumarin, where do you pick up these ruffians?”

“J’zargo is no ruffian!”

“Certainly not,” said Rumarin, clapping J’zargo’s shoulder. “J’zargo here has a long way to go if he hopes to be a degenerate on my level.” He drew his hand away when J’zargo displayed a set of claws. “Anyway, we really shouldn’t keep you–”

“Before you go, I have something to tell you. An Argonian came nosing around the stables last night and spooked the horses. Ulundil nearly chased him off, but the Argonian said he was looking for you.”

Rumarin’s insides twisted. “Oh?”

“He wouldn’t say his name. He wanted to know where you’d run off to, but we told him we hadn’t the slightest idea. What’s this all about?”

Rumarin’s smile was slipping. “I suppose he still wants to break my face for beating him at cards twenty-three times in a row.”

“If he comes slinking back the way he did before, I’m showing him the business end of a pitchfork.”

“No! Ah, that is to say, this fellow is on the jumpy side and rough around the edge. Best not to provoke him. If he comes around again, just tell him I left town.”

“So you’re leaving again?”

“Indeed I am. Good to see you, thanks for everything, please give Ulundil my regards.”

Rumarin motioned for his companions to follow him up the street. His instincts screamed at him to run, but that would draw attention.

“What are you doing? J’zargo thought you were taking us to another shop.”

“Change of plans. We have to leave the city at once.”

“But why?” asked Mehra. “It’ll be night soon and–”

“I’ll explain later.”

* * *

“Again and again you said you would explain later. Now J’zargo wants to know why we are in a cart that is going to Whiterun instead of Winterhold.”

“We’re not really going to Whiterun. We’re only taking the cart as far as the first fork, and then we hoof it the rest of the way to Winterhold while the driver goes on to Whiterun. We certainly paid him enough to do that much.”

“Yes, this you said already. Now J’zargo wants to know why.”

From his seat in the horse-drawn cart, Rumarin stared into the distance. The setting sun lit the sky in hazy golds and reds, but Rumarin could not appreciate the display when he knew darkness was not far off. He would rather spend the night sleeping under warm blankets, not marching through ice and snow in travelworn boots that wanted mending. But he saw no other option.

J’zargo and Mehra looked at Rumarin expectantly. For a while they heard nothing except the horse’s clip-clopping hooves, the cart’s clattering wheels, and the driver whistling the tune of Ragnar the Red.

Rumarin cleared his throat. “I’m trying to avoid someone.”

“That is obvious,” said J’zargo.

“You didn’t want to leave until Arivanya mentioned the Argonian,” added Mehra.

Rumarin stared at the straw-strewn bottom of the cart. What should he tell them? That he took a skooma smuggling job from one of the most notorious crime lords in Skyrim, bungled it and now had a bounty on his head? That they were endangering their lives just by being with him? If they knew and had any sense, they would kick him off the cart and leave him to fend for himself. But more than that, Rumarin was ashamed for them to know the depths he had sunk to just to earn some coin. Skooma was illegal for a reason– a highly addictive substance that brought waves of euphoria, drained strength from the body, and dissolved the workings of the mind.

But these two expected an answer. He decided to begin with the truth. “The Argonian and his friends would like to beat me to a pulp. As I would rather remain healthy and alive, I’m sure you can see why I wanted to leave with all haste.”

Mehra asked the question Rumarin wished to avoid answering: “Why is he after you?”

J’zargo snorted. “J’zargo can guess.”

Rumarin reached into his memory for more truths he could weave into a lie. “If by that you mean to imply I got myself into trouble because of my winning personality, I’ll have you know you’re absolutely right. A while back I played what began as a friendly game of cards with this Argonian. Jaree-Ra, he calls himself. But he had a partner, and they were terrible cheats. By terrible, I mean their collusion was painfully obvious and I couldn’t help feeling insulted. So I called them out on it.”

“What happened then?” asked Mehra.

Rumarin picked up a piece of straw and twirled it in his fingers. “The thing is, I didn’t simply let them know I was onto them. I made a joke of them for everyone to laugh at. Jaree-Ra and his partner didn’t take kindly to being humiliated. They were going to teach me a lesson that involved fists, or possibly knives. I soon learned Jaree-Ra has other friends, strapping fellows with plenty of muscle between them. So if they ever catch up with me…” he twisted the straw, tore it in half.

The sky was darkening, the last red-gold traces of the sun nearly gone. A cold breeze picked up. J’zargo wrapped his arms around himself and grumbled, “J’zargo wonders why you did not tell us this in Windhelm. He also wonders why we must continue on foot to Winterhold.”

“Jaree-Ra is from Riften. I hoped he might have given up and gone back there by now. But obviously he hasn’t, and time was of the essence. He might try tracking me down, and I see no need to make it easy for him.”

Mehra spoke up. “Does this have anything to do with–” she stopped.

“With what?” asked Rumarin. When he saw Mehra glance at J’zargo, he had a sinking feeling he knew the rest of her question. Unlike J’zargo, Mehra had seen Rumarin’s reaction to the broken phial. She knew he badly needed money, but not why. Rumarin realized too late that his story explained his need to leave Windhelm but not his financial troubles. Deflection might not be enough this time. If Mehra drew J’zargo’s attention to the subject by probing further, Rumarin would have to spin another story to satisfy them both.

To Rumarin’s relief, Mehra didn’t finish her question. “Nothing,” she said. She rubbed her hands together to warm them. “It’s a very long way to Winterhold on foot, isn’t it? Even from the fork?”

J’zargo’s expression soured. “J’zargo thinks we should take the cart to Winterhold. We have already fought undead and survived. Why should we be afraid of angry Argonians who may or may not be following us?”

Rumarin tucked his hands under his arms. “That’s a risk I’d rather not take. And for what little it’s worth, I’m sorry for dragging you into my mess.”

“Yes, your apology is worth little,” said J’zargo. “Better if you had said something of this before.”

They listened to the horse’s hoofbeats and the cart’s creaking. Unlike his passengers, the Nord driver wore no cloak and was unbothered by the cold night air. When the freezing wind picked up again, Mehra unclipped the lantern from her bag and asked J’zargo to light it. Soon the lantern was aglow and radiating heat.

“Is there a place to stop on the way to Winterhold?” asked Mehra.

“There’s Fort Kastav,” said Rumarin, warming his hands near the lantern. “It’ll be crawling with Stormcloaks. We could see if they’re in a charitable mood and willing to take us in for the night. You can’t travel to the town of Winterhold without passing the fort, and there’s no inn on the way, so I imagine they’re used to visitors. And at least I look like someone who’s headed for the College,” he added, gesturing down at his imitation College robes.

J’zargo glared at Rumarin. The Khajiit’s eyes were penetrating enough by day, but the way they caught and reflected the lantern’s light made his scowls more unsettling. “J’zargo thinks you should not wear those robes to the fort.”

“I’m well aware of your opinion of anyone who takes the College’s image in vain–”

“That is not what J’zargo means this time. J’zargo thinks you draw attention and ask for trouble by dressing like a College mage, which you are not.”

“Not to worry. High elf College mages aren’t exactly a novelty in these parts, and Nords have little interest in magic. I doubt anyone at the fort will give me a second glance.”

“College mages do not wear war paint on their faces,” grumbled J’zargo.

“He has a point,” said Mehra.

“But mages are known to be eccentric. I’ll just say the war paint is one of my magical experiments in aphrodisiacs or something.”

“Would you really say that to a big Stormcloak carrying a battle axe?” asked Mehra.

“Well… perhaps not. But I have plenty of other stock answers for questions about war paint. Really, you should ask me more often. You’ll never hear the same answer twice.”

“I don’t because I know it’ll never be the real answer,” said Mehra, shaking her head.

“And war paint is for Nords, not mages. It makes you look ridiculous,” said J’zargo.

“That’s a compliment,” said Rumarin.

Chapter 11: Fort Kastav

After trudging for hours through snow and wind, Mehra’s ears felt numb, her legs ached and her lungs burned. She wondered if she would ever get used to Skyrim’s climate, wondered if she would ever get back home to Cyrodiil. But when the night sky came alive with thousands of stars and glowing ribbons of a blue aurora, she momentarily forgot her weariness and lost herself in its beauty. When she drew J’zargo’s attention to the sky, the Khajiit only sighed and said, “It still does not compare to the golden sands of J’zargo’s home.”

Rumarin overheard them and glanced up as though noticing the sky for the first time. “I suppose I’ve lived in Skyrim for too long. After a while you stop noticing things like that.”

At last they reached Fort Kastav. The bright twin moons shed more than enough light for Mehra to get a good look at the palisaded structure. Simple and almost crude, the fort reminded Mehra of tiny dollhouses she made by stacking rocks as a child. The entrance was guarded by several soldiers, tall Nords in Stormcloak armor that had never seen battle.

The soldiers straightened and watched the newcomers narrowly. They stared hardest at J’zargo. Someone muttered, “One of those skooma-smoking cats.” J’zargo bristled but said nothing.

Rumarin did the talking, which suited Mehra just fine. After the high elf made introductions and explained that they were headed for the College, one of the soldiers nodded and motioned them inside.

“See, they’re used to this sort of thing. Didn’t I say looking like a College mage would come in handy?” said Rumarin cheerfully, earning a dirty look from J’zargo.

They passed several campfires, dozens of tents, and scores of soldiers. Some of them read books or wrote letters to home by candlelight. Two young fellows argued about how and whether to roast a dead skeever on a spit. Mehra had never seen so many Stormcloaks crowded together in one place. That so many of them were forced to camp out in the open suggested that the number of volunteers swelling the ranks was stressing the fort’s resources.

Although Mehra could feel many eyes watching her and her companions, she didn’t detect alarm or hostility. Perhaps Rumarin was right and these Stormcloaks were used to visitors.

Rumarin paused to ask a passing Stormcloak where they might settle in for the night. “Oh, you’re from the College?” asked the young man, glancing at the Altmer’s robes. “‘Fraid there’s no room to spare in the barracks, but we often keep an extra fire going for visitors. We’ve had more lately. Mages like you, pilgrims, even merchants. You can set your bedrolls near that if you like.” He gestured vaguely in the direction of a small campfire.

A few minutes after settling by the fire, Rumarin began regaling J’zargo and Mehra with stories about his days traveling with entertainers. Mostly he spoke of the Nord jester who had been his mentor, Otero. Rumarin’s gestures grew theatric as he spoke of a time when he and Otero were threatened by bandits.

“What did you do?” asked Mehra.

“Well I was terrified. I was only ten, after all. But Otero rose up, looking fat and half drunk, and warned the bandits to leave or die. The bandits started roaring with laughter. When Otero made another threat, some were reduced to tears. They never saw the blade slide out of his sleeve. I never saw a fat man act so swift. And that’s when I learned how disarming laughter really is.”

“Did you also learn swordfighting from Otero?”

Rumarin looked pensive as he ran a hand over the sleeve where he kept his dagger concealed. “Otero was never willing to teach me how to fight. Maybe he thought it would make me too serious. Or maybe he just wanted to protect me. Whatever his reasons, I had to find other ways to learn.”

Mehra almost jumped when she heard a new voice behind her:

“So you know how to use weapons as well as magic? Unusual for a mage.” The man was a Stormcloak, but his flowing blue cloak, elaborate cuirass and air of authority all indicated that he ranked higher than a common foot soldier. A lieutenant at least, but Mehra knew nothing of Stormcloak hierarchies. Yet he was shorter than the average Nord and had fine, almost elven features.

“It helps to be versatile,” said Rumarin. J’zargo grumbled something that Mehra couldn’t make out, but it probably wasn’t flattering.

“Are you all traveling to the College?”

“Why yes. And we’re grateful to your gatekeeper for letting us in for the night, seeing as none of us looked forward to sleeping in the snow. I’m Rumarin, and this is J’zargo and Mehra.”

The Stormcloak gave a stiff nod. “Adjutant Colin. I take it none of you have been in Skyrim long?”

“I’ve lived in Cyrodiil for the better part of my life, and I suppose the same goes for Mehra. J’zargo is of course from Elsweyr.”

“Are you from High Rock?” Mehra asked Colin. His accent sounded like the brogue of that region. She was beginning to think he was part Breton.

“No I am not,” snapped Colin, unable to keep a scowl in check.

“From Markarth, perhaps?” asked Rumarin.

“Yes,” said Colin, but his scowl only deepened. Mehra recalled that the city of Markarth bordered High Rock to the west. That would explain his accent, but she did not understand the man’s hostility to her question. Had she insulted him?

In the awkward silence that followed, Colin stepped closer and scrutinized Rumarin’s robes. “How is Sergius Turrianus these days?” asked the man.

A few Stormcloak soldiers approached and lingered under the pretense of warming their hands by the fire. They pretended to ignore the adjutant’s conversation with the strangers.

“Beg your pardon?” asked Rumarin.

“Sergius. Have you spoken with him lately?”

“Sorry, I’m afraid I don’t know him.”

Colin’s eyes hardened. “Anyone who does business with the College of Winterhold knows who Sergius is. We received a shipment of enchanted daggers from him several weeks ago.”

Rumarin’s easy smile faltered. “Ah. Well…”

“Those aren’t real College robes you’re wearing.”

J’zargo dropped his face in his hands and muttered, “Stupid, stupid elf.”

Rumarin shifted uneasily. “You have a good eye. As it happens, imitation College robes are much cheaper than the real thing.”

“And useful for tricking people into believing you represent the College.”

“As to that, I’m only interested in fooling bandits so I can travel the roads without worrying about–”

“Don’t insult my intelligence. Any fool can see why you really wear those robes.”

“I must be the biggest fool here, because I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re driving at.”

“I think you do, Altmer.” Colin put heavy emphasis on the last word.

Mehra began to see where this was going: Colin suspected Rumarin of being a Thalmor spy. Rumarin understood the direction this was taking too, and his eyes widened. “Hold on. You don’t honestly think I’m–”

Colin’s hand strayed to the hilt of his sword. “If you’ll come with me.”

“Wait,” said Mehra, getting to her feet.

Colin’s voice sharpened: “Don’t interfere.”

More Stormcloak soldiers gathered and pressed close to see what would happen next. Mehra wanted to shrink away from them. She glanced at her companions. J’zargo held up his hands and shrugged helplessly at her. Rumarin bit his lip, struggling for the words to talk his way out of this mess.

“But he’s done nothing,” said Mehra.

“I can have you detained as well.” The man stepped close enough that Mehra had to tilt her head up to look him in the eye. She could not lift her arms without touching him. Her instincts told her to step back, but that would be a show of submission. She was already small and looked younger than she was; she couldn’t afford to give a further impression of weakness.

With an effort, Mehra pushed down her fear and said, “Then you’ll be arresting the Thane of Whiterun.”

The soldiers stared at the tiny Breton. One of them snickered. Soon they were all bellowing with laughter. Except Colin, who rounded on them with an order to be silent. When the laughter subsided to chortling, Colin addressed Mehra again. “You don’t carry a thane’s axe. You bear no shield or insignia of Whiterun. Why do you expect anyone to believe your claim?”

J’zargo stood and narrowed his eyes. “She is more than the Thane of Whiterun. This is the Dragonborn!”

Again the soldiers roared with laughter, and this time Colin could not silence them. Several began speaking at once:

“Ha! If that’s the Dovahkiin, then I’m a priestess of Dibella.”

“The cat’s flying on skooma!”

“Hold now, we did hear something about the new Thane of Whiterun being the Dragonborn–”

“And I heard the Dragonborn is traveling with a Khajiit…”

“Don’t be stupid, everyone knows the Dragonborn is a Nord and not some milk-drinker.”

J’zargo glowered at them all, ears back and tail lashing. “Mehra, show them what you can do.”

“A little demonstration might not go amiss,” added Rumarin, glancing about anxiously.

Mehra reached under her shirt collar and removed a slender chain upon which hung a signet ring. J’zargo made a disappointed sound when she presented this to Colin; the Khajiit had hoped she would instead shock all the sneering Nords with a Thu’um.

Recognition flickered in Colin’s eyes as he examined the ring. It bore the symbol of Whiterun. “How did you come by this?”

“Jarl Balgruuf gave that to me as a sign of my office.”

The man looked like he just swallowed curdled milk. When he gave no answer, Mehra asked, “Do you still mean to arrest one of my companions?”

Colin turned to the nearest soldier. “Sergeant Kjell, keep watch over them while I fetch the captain.”

“Yes sir,” said the sergeant, a big man with the toned muscles of someone used to hard labor.

Mehra watched Colin stalk away, blue cloak swirling. She let out a breath she didn’t realize she had been holding.

“Well, that was…” Rumarin didn’t finish his thought. At length he quietly said, “Thanks for stepping in when you did.”

Mehra didn’t trust herself to answer. She had too many distressing emotions knotting up her insides to be warmed by Rumarin’s thanks, especially since it was his choice of wardrobe that drew attention from a Stormcloak officer in the first place.

J’zargo muttered, “This is the fault of your vanity, elf. You should never have worn those robes.”

“And you wouldn’t know anything about vanity, would you?” said Rumarin peevishly.

Mehra stared at her companions. Sheogorath, were they really going to argue here, surrounded by soldiers who were listening to every word?

“J’zargo has pride, not vanity. He would never make up a ridiculous title for himself like ‘bladebinder’ and pretend to be something he is not for the sake of–”

“I don’t think you–”

Mehra snapped at them both: “This isn’t the time or place!”

J’zargo sat down and glared into the fire. Rumarin didn’t seem to know what to do with himself. He kept glancing about, adjusting his hood, and fidgeting with something in one of his belt pouches by turns. After settling on the ground he asked Mehra, “Do you have anything that goes with crow? I may be forced to eat a few.”

“Is this your way of saying J’zargo was right about the robes?” asked Mehra. J’zargo kept his eyes on the campfire, but one of his ears twitched.

“Well… possibly…”

“We can talk about it later.” Mehra sat on the ground and put a hand to her head. She felt and heard the rumbling inner voice: Gaar zu’u! Not now, she thought. I don’t need this right now.

Chapter 12: Questions

Mehra could neither ignore nor shut out the torrent of strange words thundering in her head. Between that and the soldiers gathering to stare, point and gossip, she was soon overwhelmed. She held her head in her hands and closed her eyes to blot out the world.

When at last the roaring voice died down, she heard J’zargo hissing and Rumarin laughing.

“It is not funny!” said J’zargo.

“You’re right, it’s not funny, it’s hilarious,” answered Rumarin between snickers.

“What are you talking about?” asked Mehra.

They stared at her. “Did you not hear?” asked J’zargo.

“I wasn’t paying attention.”

“That’s a shame,” said Rumarin with a grin. “More soldiers came along and tried figuring out which of us is the Dragonborn. Seeing as we’re not proper Nords, they decided the real Dovahkiin must be taking care of some personal business. Guess what they’re doing now?”

Mehra looked to where Rumarin pointed. In the bright moonlight she saw a group of Stormcloaks gathered around a latrine. The soldiers let out a collective groan when a Stormcloak stumbled out of the latrine. “What?” asked the man, gaping at the crowd and adjusting his pants. “Does the whole camp have the runs again?”

Rumarin had trouble containing his amusement, but J’zargo was disgusted. “Mehra, why did you not use your Thu’um to show them who you are?” asked the Khajiit.

Mehra stared at the ground. The thought of calling up a Thu’um made her stomach churn. The only reason she had this strange power was because a dying dragon’s soul had been thrust into her. The dragon had possessed a mind, a will, and a language of his own, and somehow she had stopped his spirit from ascending to an afterlife. For a while she thought his identity had been destroyed when she absorbed him, but now– No, she told herself. Stop thinking about it, you’ve got to hold together.

“I didn’t use the Thu’um because I didn’t have to,” said Mehra. “The signet ring was enough.”

“But these Nords would not be scoffing at us now if you had.”

“I’m not scoffing,” said a new voice, high and clear. The young woman in Stormcloak armor was about Mehra’s age, but tall and ginger-haired. “My name is Tess. You really are the Dragonborn, aren’t you?”

Mehra hesitated. J’zargo answered instead: “Yes, Mehra is the Dragonborn. J’zargo was there when the dragon at Whiterun gave its soul to her.”

“I wasn’t around for that,” added Rumarin, “but I heard her Thu’um once, so I know better than to get into a shouting match with her.”

Tess beamed. “I knew it. I just knew the Dragonborn would join our side.”

“If she’s the Dragonborn…” muttered Kjell, the big sergeant who had been tasked with keeping an eye on Mehra and her companions.

Mehra asked Tess, “You mean the Stormcloak side?”

“Of course. We’re fighting for our freedom. The Empire betrayed us when it let the Thalmor come to Skyrim.”

“No, the Empire betrayed us the day it signed away our rights to the damned elves,” said Kjell, leveling a cold stare at Rumarin. “The knife-ears mean to butcher us all unless we give up our god Talos. But we’ll gut them first.”

Mehra watched Rumarin turn his head until the hood hid his face. She started to tell Kjell, “I think you mean Thalmor Justiciars, because–”

“Yes, don’t worry,” said Tess. “We know not all high elves are Thalmor, and not all Khajiit are smugglers.”

J’zargo’s eyes flashed. “Not all Khajiit are smugglers? This is like J’zargo saying not all Nords are–”

“Mediocre cooks?” Rumarin finished for him.

“That is not what J’zargo was going to–”

“Now look here,” said Kjell, “we Nords know plenty about cooking. My mother makes a stew worthy of Sovngarde. Not like that watery slop you elves call soup.”

“Worthy of Sovngarde? Does that mean your mother’s stew–” Rumarin stopped himself from saying something the big Nord man would make him regret. “Er, have capers in it?”

Kjell narrowed his eyes. “What in the name of Akatosh is a caper?”

Mehra had been dreading Colin’s return, but now she was relieved to see him approach. With him was a middle-aged woman, tall and sharp-eyed, dressed in the armor of a Stormcloak officer. The other soldiers went silent and straightened when she passed. By the time Colin and the woman reached the campfire most of the loitering soldiers had scattered. Only Tess and Sergeant Kjell remained. They stood to attention and saluted.

Colin introduced the woman as Captain Agnetha. “Welcome to Fort Kastav,” said Agnetha, greeting Mehra with a closed-mouth smile that did not reach her eyes. “Adjutant Colin tells me you’re the new Thane of Whiterun. We’re honored to have you here.”

Mehra stood to face the captain and spoke with an assurance she did not feel. “Thank you. My name is Mehra. These are my companions, J’zargo and Rumarin. We’re on our way to the College.”

Agnetha cast a curious glance at Rumarin. He tensed under her gaze, but all she said was, “Yes, Adjutant Colin mentioned it. I apologize if he alarmed you earlier. He’s under my orders to look into anything out of the ordinary. Are the three of you planning to enroll at the College?”

“J’zargo is,” said Mehra.

“Yes,” said J’zargo, puffing out his chest, “J’zargo is going to study there and become a great mage.” The Khajiit’s pride was flattened when the captain ignored him and turned her attention to Rumarin.

“And you?” Agnetha asked Rumarin.

“Not as such,” said Rumarin. He avoided looking at Colin, who was still glaring at him. “We’re hoping the College mages will let us take advantage of their library and other resources– anything that might help us understand why the dragons are coming back.”

“Yes,” said Mehra, relieved to avoid explaining their true reasons for going to the College. She didn’t think it was a good idea to advertise the White Phial, nor did she enjoy discussing her inability to cast spells.

Mehra did not hear Agnetha’s response, because the voice tore through her mind again. Dur Dovahkiin, gaar zu’u! it shouted, launching into another tirade. She wanted to scream at the voice, tell it to stop, but she couldn’t without looking like a madwoman.

The captain looked hard at Mehra, expecting an answer. Mehra twisted her sweating hands into the material of her cloak. “Sorry, I… didn’t catch all that.”

“I only asked if Jarl Balgruuf was in good health when you last saw him.” Agnetha’s tone was cordial, but Mehra could see from the slight narrowing of her eyes that the captain was not pleased.

“Oh. Yes, he’s well.”

Agnetha followed up with more pleasantries. She asked about Mehra’s travels and whether she and her companions had much trouble on the road. But when Agnetha inquired whether Jarl Balgruuf was still decorating Dragonsreach with mammoth skulls and wondered if it was true that his new steward was a Breton, Mehra realized the captain was dancing around other questions: Are you truly the Thane of Whiterun? Were you ever in Jarl Balgruuf’s presence? Did you steal that signet ring?

It didn’t help that the voice in Mehra’s head was still shouting foreign words and blotting out parts of the conversation. Mehra finally lost all patience and spoke sharply: “Jarl Balgruuf’s steward is an Imperial and his name is Proventus Avenicci. Irileth is his housecarl and she’s a Dunmer. Farengar is the court wizard and he does most of his research on dragons. There’s a dragon skull hanging over the Jarl’s throne. Is there anything else you want me to say that will convince you I’m the Thane of Whiterun? Do you want to see the ring too?”

J’zargo and Rumarin gaped at Mehra. Colin frowned and looked to his captain for direction. Captain Agnetha’s face was a mask of calm.

“No one here doubts you, Thane Mehra,” said Agnetha. “I’m sorry if my questions gave offense. It’s simply been a long time since anyone here has visited Whiterun, and we’re always anxious for news. But I’m sure you’re all very tired from your travels. Sergeant Kjell will see to it that you have tents for the night, and he’ll make sure no one disturbs you. I look forward to continuing our conversation in the morning.”

“Thank you,” said Mehra. She watched the captain and her adjutant walk away. When they had gone some distance the captain turned to the adjutant and spoke at length. The man nodded and went to speak to the Stormcloak soldiers at the fort entrance.

“I see they’re making sure we don’t stage a disappearing act,” muttered Rumarin.

Now that the captain was gone, Tess dropped the arrow-straight posture and asked Mehra, “So what was it like? Killing a dragon?”

“I didn’t kill a dragon,” said Mehra, more forcefully than she intended.

“But you’re the Dragonborn, and everyone says you killed the dragon in Whiterun.”

“I… what?” stammered Mehra. “People are saying I’m the one who killed him?”

“Yes, of course. They say–”

“Tess,” snapped Kjell, “the Thane doesn’t need you bothering her. Go make yourself useful and fetch the tents.”

“Yes Sergeant,” said Tess, reluctantly turning away.

Mehra realized she was digging her nails into her palms. She unclenched her hands. “Why would people say that? I hardly did a thing during the dragon attacks,” she said, voice barely more than a whisper.

“Stories about true events have a way of taking on a life of their own,” said Rumarin. “I should know, I grew up around theater actors.”

Soon Tess returned with lengths of poles and bundles of folded tarp. Kjell began helping her set up the tents near the campfire.

“This is taking a long time. Khajiit are far better at setting up campsites, much faster,” said J’zargo.

“Perhaps you should tell these Nords how it’s done. I’ll stand back and watch,” said Rumarin.

Kjell and Tess finished with the tents, one for each of the fort’s guests. When Mehra thanked them, Tess brightened and started to ask another question, but the sergeant ordered her away on another errand.

Mehra and her companions began gathering their things. For Rumarin and J’zargo this meant little more than picking up their travel bags and bedrolls. Mehra had more gear than either of them and struggled to collect everything at once. Rumarin started to pick up her bag, but J’zargo grabbed it instead. The Khajiit gave the Altmer a parting glare before following Mehra into one of the tents.

“J’zargo has something he wishes to discuss.” The Khajiit summoned a magelight as he spoke.

“What’s that?” asked Mehra.

J’zargo sat cross-legged on the ground. “The elf should not wear those robes to Winterhold. You saw how much trouble it caused.”

“I agree.” Mehra placed her quiver, bow, and sword in a corner of the tent and spread out her bedroll.

“Then you will help J’zargo convince him to wear his other robes when we go to the College?”

“Yes, but after what happened, I don’t think it’ll take much to convince him now. At least I hope not.”

“He must be convinced. J’zargo does not wish to make a bad impression on the mages.”

Mehra sat opposite of J’zargo and watched the magelight drift about. Though she knew it was under J’zargo’s control, the ball of light moved like it had a mind of its own. At length she asked, “J’zargo, why Winterhold? I mean, I know you’ve heard wonderful things about it, but there are places in Cyrodiil where you can learn magic too.”

“Skyrim was not J’zargo’s first choice. But the Synod and the College of Whispers are more interested in politics than the study of magic.” His expression darkened. “Also, the people of Cyrodiil are no different from the Nords of Skyrim.”

Mehra was taken aback by J’zargo’s statement. To her the two peoples were almost nothing alike. Few Cyrodilic Nords had the fierce pride or blunt honesty of Skyrim’s people. If they worshiped Talos, they did so in secret. If they hated the Thalmor diplomats who walked amongst them, they hid it. Mehra supposed the Thalmor Justiciars who hunted Talos worshipers only recently increased their presence in Skyrim, because the Nords here bridled as if the ban on Talos worship had only just been signed into law.

“How are they the same?” asked Mehra.

J’zargo glowered at nothing in particular. “You hear how these Nords speak of Khajiit. They look upon us and see only thieves and smugglers. But the people of Cyrodiil also see J’zargo’s people this way. J’zargo has traveled far enough to know this now.” His tail twitched and his magelight swirled in agitated circles.

“They’re wrong. But they don’t all think that way. I don’t.”

“But enough of your people do. J’zargo only hopes…”

“What do you hope?”

“J’zargo is prepared to do almost anything to learn magic, but he knows it will be difficult.” He paused and made a face. “People look at that elf in his fake College robes and decide he must be a mage. Why? Because he is Altmer. Even J’zargo made this mistake. Now J’zargo begins to wonder if being a student of magic will change how people see him. Perhaps they will look at J’zargo and decide he is only a thief wearing stolen College robes.”

Mehra pulled at a strip of leather securing one of her fur bracers. “I was always told that if you’re going to follow a dream, you can’t worry too much about what other people think. This is something you’re doing for yourself because it’s what you’ve always wanted, right?”

J’zargo had a faraway look. Then he brought himself back to the present moment. “Yes, of course that is why. But J’zargo wishes to speak of something else.”

“What?”

The Khajiit’s eyes turned piercing. “You sometimes miss what people say. J’zargo thought it was your mind wandering, but when the captain spoke, J’zargo saw you were trying very hard to listen. Even so you did not hear all that she said.”

Mehra glanced away, her pulse quickening. She was afraid to think about the voice in her head, let alone talk about it.

“J’zargo knows something is wrong. What is it? Why do you not wish to speak of it?”

“I… sometimes I just don’t hear well.”

“But you hear J’zargo now, yes?”

Mehra took a deep breath. “Yes, but– but sometimes my hearing comes and goes. I don’t know why.”

“When did this begin?”

“I’m not sure.” Mehra waited a moment, expecting the voice to shrill through her mind again. “A couple of weeks ago, maybe?”

“Why did you keep this to yourself? You should have told J’zargo sooner.”

Mehra flared at him, “What for? You can’t do anything about it.” Instantly she regretted it. J’zargo was stung, but he quickly hid it behind a scowl.

“No,” said the Khajiit, “this one is no healer, but that is no excuse. At least J’zargo would have understood what was wrong when you acted strangely.”

“I’m sorry.”

J’zargo was somewhat mollified, but his tail still twitched. Even his magelight sulked in a corner. “Just do not keep secrets like that from J’zargo in the future, yes? J’zargo wants to help if he can. J’zargo does not understand this problem, but he thinks you should ask the College mages about it. Their healers will know what to do.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Do you wish for J’zargo to light the lantern before he leaves?”

“Yes. Please.”

After lighting the lantern with a flame spell, J’zargo got up to leave. But he paused and asked, “One last thing. Should J’zargo keep this from the elf?”

“No, you don’t have to. Rumarin is bound to ask anyway.” Just thinking about answering another round of Rumarin’s probing questions made Mehra feel weary.

When J’zargo was gone, Mehra got ready for bed. She went to her bedroll, blew out the lantern, and listened to the sounds of the camp around her: the murmur of conversation, the crackling campfire, the rising wind. For a long time she lay tense and silent, waiting for the voice to torment her again. She closed her eyes for what seemed like a few moments and then it was morning.

Chapter 13: Negotiate

Rumarin stumbled out of his tent, rubbing his sleep-heavy eyes. He had not slept well for weeks. Bounty hunters were unlikely to sneak into a Stormcloak fort, but that knowledge did not stop Rumarin from tossing and turning and shuddering awake from strange dreams.

The morning air was cold and crisp. Dark featureless clouds were gathering low in the sky, promising another snowfall. Several Stormcloak soldiers milled about and attended to their duties, and someone had already put out the campfire and packed away the other two tents. Mehra and J’zargo were nowhere in sight.

Rumarin started to look for his companions when he noticed someone approach him. It was the captain’s adjutant, Colin.

“Might I have a word?” The man sounded almost friendly. That was enough to put Rumarin on guard.

“I’m afraid I need to find my companions first,” said Rumarin.

“They’re with the captain. But what I have to say will interest you.”

Rumarin looked hard at the adjutant’s face, trying to read whatever was behind that forced smile. “All right, I’m listening.”

“Not here. If you’ll follow me.”

Rumarin hesitated. But curiosity got the better of him and he followed the adjutant into one of the stone buildings. They stepped into a dingy hallway lit by wall torches. Rumarin heard noises from a nearby mess hall, clattering dishes and boisterous Nord voices raised in song. The voices faded as Rumarin followed the adjutant up a spiraling staircase and into a cramped room with a window that overlooked the fort grounds. There was a crude bed, a chest, a couple of chairs, and a handsome oak writing desk.

At the adjutant’s invitation, Rumarin sat in one of the rickety chairs. His eyes lingered on the desk. He knew little of soldiering, but the lifestyle generally didn’t come with good furniture. Everything had to be light and travel-ready. The adjutant must be well off or well connected to have the means to haul around a heavy thing like that.

“I see they let you bring your own desk. It doesn’t match the rest of the place.”

“I’m allowed a few conveniences, and paperwork is part of my job,” said the adjutant. Rumarin thought he saw a look of distaste cross the man’s face.

“If I had a head for paperwork, I’d take it over the front line,” said Rumarin. “Paper cuts are less fatal than stab wounds.”

Colin looked anything but amused. “What are you implying?”

Rumarin held up his hands innocently. “Nothing at all. But I must confess I’m a little confused. Last night you were about to arrest me, and now we’re up here making small talk. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining, but my halfwit brain is having trouble keeping up.”

“Last night we didn’t know knew you were a trusted companion of the Thane of Whiterun.”

Rumarin wondered if the adjutant was being sarcastic. Probably not. He was sure the man had no sense of humor. “I’m glad that’s cleared up, but what did you want to see me for?”

“We’d like your help with something.”

“Help in what way?”

“There’s a Thalmor Justiciar staying at the College. He’s been there for several weeks.” The adjutant watched Rumarin’s face. Rumarin kept his expression neutral. The man continued: “What we don’t know is why he’s there.”

Rumarin considered this for a moment. “I suppose he could be hunting for Talos worshipers, but then you’d be dealing with a very stupid Thalmor.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Mages aren’t known for being devout. And really, who in their right mind would tell a bunch of mages what they can and can’t worship? You might as well ask them to set your clothes on fire.”

Colin made a sound of assent. “That’s why we think he may be trying to convince the College to side with the Aldmeri Dominion. Or he’s looking for something that could turn the war against us.”

“Or maybe he’s just taking a few classes at one of Tamriel’s most famous schools of magic. How do you know he’s up to anything at all?”

Colin’s voice turned defensive. “Of course he’s up to something. He has to be.”

That’s interesting, thought Rumarin. This is personal for you, but why? Aloud Rumarin said, “I’m sure you’re right, of course. But what does this have to do with me?”

“Since you’re already–” Colin stopped and looked Rumarin over. “Do you have anything to wear other than those fake robes?”

The abrupt question took Rumarin by surprise. “Er, yes, but why–”

“And do you know any magic? Basic spells?”

Rumarin struggled to keep a frown off his face. Questions like that always jabbed at a sore spot. “Yes, I know a few spells. What of it?”

“Good. You shouldn’t have a problem getting into the College.”

Rumarin decided to play stupid and force the adjutant to spell out what he wanted. “Sorry, but I think we just skipped ahead in the conversation and left my brain somewhere behind. What does this have to do with the Thalmor?”

“We want you to find out what this Thalmor is doing.”

“We?”

There was an uncomfortable pause. “Of course. The captain and myself.”

Liar, thought Rumarin. You’re acting on your own, I just haven’t figured out your angle yet. Rumarin put on his most innocent expression and asked, “But why me? Why not one of your people?”

“We don’t have anyone who’s quite… suited for the task. Most Stormcloaks are fighters. Not scholars or magic users.”

“So you want me to talk to this Thalmor?”

“Talk to him. Spy on him. Rifle through his papers. Whatever it takes. Find out what you can and report back to me.”

“Just you?”

“Just me.”

So not only was the adjutant acting alone, he wanted to keep the whole transaction a secret. Rumarin turned his thoughts to how much money he could wheedle out of this guy. If the mages refused to pay a fair price for the White Phial, the extra money from this job could help him settle his debt with Sarthis.

“I assume there’s some sort of compensation,” said Rumarin, trying not to sound eager.

“Of course you’ll be paid.”

“How much?”

“I can offer one hundred gold up front– what are you laughing at?”

Rumarin stopped snickering long enough to say, “Sorry, it’s just– it’s an amusing offer.”

Colin clenched his jaw. “This is a very serious offer.”

“All right, so it’s only the down payment. What do I get when I talk to this fellow and return with information about his nefarious plans?”

“Depends on your report.”

Rumarin tsked. “I’m afraid that’s not much of an incentive. You do realize people who trifle with the Thalmor have a way of disappearing or turning up dead?”

Colin glared at him. “As I said, the final price depends on the information.”

“Out of curiosity, why isn’t the captain part of this discussion?”

“She has many things demanding her attention right now.”

“But didn’t you say this could change the outcome of the war? And just think, if you caught wind of some terrible plan and put a stop to it, that would surely get someone’s attention. Jarl Ulfric himself might take notice.” Rumarin stole another glance at the fine desk and added, “I’m sure the distinction would net you more than another expensive piece of furniture.”

Colin’s expression tightened. “This isn’t about personal gain, Altmer. This is about winning a war.”

“Really? A shame we can’t all afford to be as noble as you. But I have my own life to worry about, and I happen to think my hide is worth a bit more than the price of a Colovian brandy.” Rumarin looked up at the ceiling thoughtfully and scratched his chin. “Suppose I went straight to the captain? What do you think she’d offer me?”

The adjutant tensed. “That would not be in your best interest.”

Rumarin smiled and shook his head. “I should say it’s more the other way around. Your captain has no idea what you’re up to. That’s why she’s not here, that’s why you can’t part with much gold, and that’s you’re offering this job to me instead of one of your fine Stormcloaks. You don’t have the authority or resources to put this plan of yours into action. If you really want my help, perhaps you should think about upping the ante a little.”

There was a long silence. “You think I’m the one backed in a corner, don’t you,” said Colin. “But I know your sort.”

Rumarin straightened. “What do you mean?”

“The captain and I spoke to the Thane of Whiterun earlier this morning.”

“Really.”

“She hasn’t known you for long. Couldn’t explain why you’d try to pass yourself off as a College mage. Hardly knows anything about you.”

“I’m not sure I follow you.”

“Anyone can see she’s new to her role as Thane. Young. Inexperienced. Decides to go to Winterhold. Who does she meet along the way?” The adjutant looked at Rumarin significantly. “A vagrant Altmer disguised as a mage who also has ‘business’ at the College. Coincidence, she thinks. Never occurs to her that her new companion has something to hide.”

For a moment Rumarin was unable to summon the words he wanted. Did this Nord somehow have connections to the underworld, or was he just going on a hunch? “Hold on a minute. In the first place, I don’t have anything to hide–”

“The robes say different.”

“I already told you why I wear them.”

“And I say you’re a liar.”

The man looked smug. Rumarin fought an impulse to punch him in the face.

“Most people in these parts see high elves as enemies,” Colin continued. “Now what if they saw posters offering a reward for information about a Thalmor spy? A suspicious-looking Altmer in College robes last spotted near Fort Kastav…”

Rumarin swallowed hard. That kind of publicity would make it that much more difficult to find save havens. More bounty hunters would start dogging him for sure. Was the man bluffing? Don’t panic, Rumarin told himself. He doesn’t know anything, just stay calm. “As I said, I don’t have anything to hide. And in any case it takes money to get posters made and distributed. You can’t even afford a decent spy.”

Colin showed a trace of a smile. “You assume I’d have to pay for it.”

“Don’t you?”

“Not if you have the right connections.”

Rumarin searched the man’s face. If the adjutant was lying, he was hiding it well. Rumarin considered his options. Leaving now would be a gamble. He was looking over his shoulder enough as it was without worrying about wanted posters. But if he stayed and negotiated, he might be able to turn this situation in his favor. A little money was better than nothing.

So Rumarin sank back into his chair with a sigh. “All right. Maybe we can work something out.”

“Yes, I think perhaps we can.”

Chapter 14: The Bridge

“You are famous?” asked J’zargo.

“Yes, very,” said Mehra.

“You have saved the lives of many?”

“I did.”

“J’zargo asks if they made a statue of you.” When Mehra answered yes, J’zargo said triumphantly, “Then J’zargo says you are the Hero of Kvatch.”

“That’s right. How did you figure it out so quickly?”

“J’zargo knows you grew up in Kvatch and he has heard you speak of its hero. J’zargo is beginning to know you well.”

“Your turn now,” said Mehra.

Passing time on the road by playing Twenty Questions had been Mehra’s idea. J’zargo had thought Rumarin would join the game, but he barely spoke a word since they left Fort Kastav. J’zargo decided the elf was upset because he was now wearing his plain robes. Mehra and J’zargo had both insisted he put away the fake ones.

Mehra began asking her questions. Was J’zargo a person? Yes. Was he a great mage? Oh yes.

Rumarin said, “Shalidor.”

“Shalidor?” echoed Mehra.

“Yes, the founder of the College of Winterhold,” said Rumarin. “Am I right?”

J’zargo folded back his ears, annoyed that the elf had guessed so easily. “Shalidor, yes.”

“You’ll never guess what I am,” said Rumarin.

“An insufferable elf,” said J’zargo.

“Well yes, but aside from that.”

Freshly fallen snow muffled their footsteps as they followed the path around the foot of a mountain. To their right the ground turned steep and dropped down to meet the sea. The pale coast with its sheets of ice was nothing like the golden shores and sapphire waters of Elsweyr. J’zargo’s excitement grew as they neared Winterhold, but he could not help feeling homesick too.

“Are you a person?” Mehra asked Rumarin.

“Yes and no.”

“That is ridiculous,” said J’zargo. “The answer must be one or the other.”

“But not everything is black and white. In my experience, most things aren’t.”

“Were you once a person?” asked Mehra.

“Indeed I was.”

“J’zargo asks if you are dead.”

“Yes.”

“Are you a god?” asked Mehra.

Rumarin laughed. “Oh how I wish.”

“A draugr?” asked J’zargo.

“No, I’m not quite that repulsive.”

“A ghost?” asked Mehra.

There was a long pause. “Yes. I’m a ghost.”

They walked in silence through a veil of mist and gently falling snow. J’zargo’s thoughts drifted to all he had heard of the College. How it rose from the sea like a beacon, how its magic lights danced, how its halls shone. J’zargo could not wait to learn from the wise and powerful mages who knew everything there was to know about magic.

“Is that the College?” asked Mehra, pointing ahead.

J’zargo brushed snow from his whiskers and squinted. Through the mist he could make out a monolithic structure in the distance, dark and looming.

“It must be,” said Rumarin. “From what I’ve heard, the College is the only thing of consequence in Winterhold.”

J’zargo stared at the structure. Something about it was strange. Darker than he expected. No, he told himself, there is nothing to fear. The College of Winterhold is everything J’zargo has heard, grand and beautiful. It will be much better up close, yes.

* * *

The town of Winterhold proved to be little more than a handful of snow-covered buildings huddled at the edge of a sea cliff. Several houses sat empty, rotting shells with caving roofs and shattered windows. J’zargo saw no smith, no alchemist shop, no marketplace. Lights flickering in the windows of a tavern and the Jarl’s longhouse gave one of the few signs of life. Near the tavern, a man dressed in ragged clothes chopped firewood. He paused to glance at the newcomers but did not greet them.

As they passed through the town Rumarin wondered aloud, “Does the College pay taxes to the Jarl of Winterhold? I’m struggling to see what the economy here is based on.”

J’zargo did not answer and instead quickened his pace. They were so close now. He could see the College ahead, a tall fortress that loomed like a great shadow over the town.

“Wait for us,” called Rumarin. J’zargo cursed under his breath. The elf could walk fast, and J’zargo knew he was really speaking of Mehra. Why must she always fall behind? J’zargo forced himself to walk slower.

J’zargo’s tail quivered as they neared the edge of the cliff and the entrance to the College. The elevated gateway to the College’s bridge was like a tower, tall and majestic. Beyond it J’zargo could just make out a font that sent up a column of blue light. And there standing guard at the gate was a mage, a real College mage.

“Well, here we are at last.” Rumarin sounded nonchalant, but the way he looked at the gate told J’zargo that even he was impressed. “You ready for this, J’zargo?”

“Of course. J’zargo has always been ready.” J’zargo willed his insides to stop trembling and led his companions up the stone ramp to greet the mage.

J’zargo was not good at telling apart the races of men, but no one would mistake this gatekeeper for a Nord. He was a Breton like Mehra, small and slight. Heavy furs hid most of his College robes, and his dark beard was specked with snow and frost. He watched with unfriendly eyes as they approached.

J’zargo puffed out his chest. “We bring you greetings. This one is J’zargo and these are his companions, Mehra and Rumarin. We wish to–”

“Look, cat, I don’t care who you are or why you’re here,” said the mage. “All I need to know is whether you can cast spells or not.”

J’zargo’s mouth fell open. Skyrim peasants and shopkeepers had insulted him often enough, but to hear a College mage address him with such contempt left him reeling. After collecting himself he said, “Yes, J’zargo can cast spells.”

“Let’s see one then. Don’t be all day about it.”

“Yes, I’m sure you’re in a terrible rush to be somewhere,” said Rumarin under his breath.

The Breton’s eyes snapped to the Altmer. “What was that?”

“Nothing, nothing at all.”

“Hmph. Well, cat? Where’s your spell?”

J’zargo took a deep to steady himself. “This one is J’zargo. Not ‘cat.’”

“Just cast a damn spell already.”

J’zargo struggled to keep his composure. He had long dreamed of the moment when he would speak to a College mage for the first time. The mage of his imagination was always dignified, wise, and gracious when asking J’zargo to demonstrate a spell. Nothing like this vulgar man wrapped in the furs of a peasant.

At length, J’zargo held up his hand and called up a flame.

The gatekeeper snorted. “A basic fireball? I suppose that’ll do.”

J’zargo felt his blood run hot. The flame in his hand grew larger and brighter and threw out sparks. A gentle pressure on his arm made him hesitate. He saw Mehra looking up at him. Gritting his teeth, he let the flame die.

The gatekeeper turned to Rumarin. “Well?”

Rumarin flipped a coin and made it roll across his knuckles.

“What do you think this is, tryouts for the circus?”

Rumarin rolled his eyes and flashed up a conjured dagger. “Happy?”

“Next,” said the man, fixing his gaze on Mehra.

“I’m not here to study at the College,” said Mehra. “Do you have a visitors hall or a–”

“Didn’t you hear me? No magic, no entry.”

“Mehra, use your Thu’um this time,” said J’zargo.

The man’s eyebrows quirked up. “You’re saying she has the Thu’um? She’s not even a Nord.”

J’zargo flexed his claws from the effort of holding back his anger. “She has the Thu’um because she is the Dragonborn.”

“Dragonborn?” The man looked the girl up and down and gave a contemptuous laugh. “Sure you are. Let’s hear your Thu’um then.”

Mehra glared up at him. “No.”

The gatekeeper turned his head and spat. “Thought so.”

J’zargo gaped at Mehra. “J’zargo does not understand you! You have this dragon magic, why will you not use it?”

“You’ve come this far,” added Rumarin. “What’s a little shouting at this point?”

Mehra folded her arms and set her jaw. “No. I want to talk to someone who’s in charge.”

The Breton sneered and said, “I’m in charge today.”

“Now hold on,” said Rumarin. “She’s a Breton like you, and everyone knows the people of your race are among the most magically gifted.”

“What’s your point?”

“I think we both know she’d pass, so why bother with the red tape?”

“Like I said, no magic, no entry.”

Mehra said, “Then I’m going to stand right here until you either bring out someone else or let me pass.”

“You’ll be standing there a long time. Makes no difference to me.”

J’zargo heaved a sigh and said, “Mehra, this is foolishness.”

“You and Rumarin can go in without me,” said Mehra, “but I’m not using the Thu’um.”

Rumarin said brightly, “Actually, I think I’ll stay here too. And as long as we’re going to be here, I can entertain you with my best jokes about magic. Here’s one: what do you call something you bought for one gold piece from a magic store?”

The gatekeeper scowled. “I don’t know. I don’t care.”

“A cheap trick. Here’s another. What do you call a spell that changes the size of your robes?”

“I really don’t–”

“Alteration magic, of course. Now I know you’ll love this next one–”

“These jokes are terrible,” said J’zargo. “No one wants to hear them.”

“Least of all me,” muttered the Breton.

“But I have so many more, and I’m sure Mehra would like to hear something to pass the time if she’s going to stand out here all day. Shall I continue?”

“Please do,” said Mehra, looking pointedly at the gatekeeper.

“Wonderful. Where was I? Oh yes. What holds together a book of magic? Spell binding. Have you heard the one about the necromancer? He married his–”

“All right, fine, I’m not paid enough for this. All of you just cross the damn bridge and get out of my sight.”

They brushed past the gatekeeper and made their way up an elevated walkway. When they were out of earshot J’zargo asked Mehra, “Why do you never use your Thu’um? Why do you not wish for people to know who and what you are?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Mehra would not look him in the eye. “Not now.”

“You never wish to speak of it!” J’zargo’s fur bristled. He wanted to claw something.

Rumarin cleared his throat. “It might be better to talk about something else right now. Like how we’re going to cross that.”

They looked to where Rumarin pointed. From this angle on the landing they could see the school balanced on a column of rock that tapered to a spindle near the base. J’zargo could not understand how such a rock could bear the weight of such a vast structure. But it was the bridge that made J’zargo’s stomach lurch. Tall stone arches once supported it, but these had fallen away and left a span of heavy stone to defy the laws of nature.

Mehra stared at the bridge. “We have to cross that?”

A fierce wind rushed through the space between the cliff and the College, gusting and howling. Rumarin fought to keep his hood in place, J’zargo wrapped his arms around himself, and Mehra shivered and pulled at her cloak.

J’zargo forced himself to sound confident. “Yes. It must be safe. This has stood for hundreds of years.”

“But that bridge should’ve dropped into the sea by now,” said Mehra.

“It is powerful magic that makes the bridge stay. J’zargo thinks it comes from these wells of magicka.” J’zargo gestured at the landing’s font. The well was sending up a shaft of dazzling blue light.

“So these mages are powerful enough to hold up a structurally unsound bridge for hundreds of years, but it never occurred to them to use their magic to fix it properly?” asked Rumarin.

J’zargo’s ears twitched in irritation. “Not hundreds of years, no. J’zargo has read of the Great Collapse. Part of the cliff fell and took much of Winterhold into the sea. The College survived.”

“And when did this Great Collapse happen?”

J’zargo’s mumbled reply was drowned out by the wind. When Rumarin asked him to repeat it, J’zargo reluctantly said, “In the year 122.”

“But that’s almost eighty years ago,” Mehra exclaimed. “We’d never let something like this stand in Kvatch. We’d rebuild it and–”

“We are not in Kvatch and J’zargo thinks we are wasting time. Let us go.”

They paused at the next landing. The masonry on one side had crumbled away, leaving no barrier to save an unwary traveler from a bad fall. And here was another font, but this one was empty and lifeless.

“Why isn’t that well glowing?” asked Mehra.

J’zargo’s chest tightened and his heart thudded. He had no answer.

“Let’s hope any glowy effects are purely decorative,” said Rumarin.

They carefully made their way up the final walkway and faced the bridge. J’zargo suppressed a shudder when he saw how much of the stonework had fallen away, leaving a perilously narrow walkway. One misstep, one slip on a patch of ice meant falling to one’s death.

“Maybe there are invisible magic guardrails,” said Rumarin hopefully. “Or maybe the bridge is perfectly fine and they just cast an illusion spell on it to make it look like a death trap.”

“You think so?” asked Mehra.

Rumarin shook his head and sighed. “I’m just trying to reassure myself with pleasant lies.”

They stared at each other miserably. The wind shrilled around them.

“There’s nothing for it,” said Rumarin. “We’re just going to have to cross this thing.” Without waiting for the others, he dashed over the worst part of the bridge and skidded to a stop on the far side, breathless but unharmed. He drew an arm across his forehead, then turned to beckon at his companions.

Mehra started to follow, but she paused to glance back at her friend. “J’zargo?”

J’zargo made an effort keep his tail from frizzing and his whiskers from quivering. He tried to speak, but his voice died in his throat.

Mehra watched J’zargo’s face. After a moment she returned to his side. “I’m afraid to cross it.”

“We must.” J’zargo’s voice was faint. “We must not be afraid.”

“I know. Will you help me cross?”

“Yes. Of course J’zargo will help. Stay close.” J’zargo steadied himself. Took a step. Glanced down. The sight of the sea washing over the sharp rocks made his stomach flip. How many people had slipped and dashed themselves to pieces down there?

J’zargo felt Mehra’s hand on his shoulder. He gathered his courage and took another step. Mehra stepped with him, keeping close. In this way they made slow but steady progress until the danger was behind them. J’zargo let out a breath, shoulders sagging.

“Remind me never to hire mages for architectural maintenance,” said Rumarin.

Chapter 15: Settling In

Long ago, J’zargo’s mother gave him a book about the College of Winterhold. He read the book many, many times. In this book was a picture of the College courtyard, a place filled with dancing lights and plants that bloomed even in winter. A great tower rose up at one end, topped with a gleaming window in the shape of an eye. But J’zargo most remembered the shining statue of the College’s founder, arms spread wide to welcome new mages to the great halls of learning.

J’zargo now stood before that very courtyard, but it was cold and bare. No dancing orbs of light, no magic plants. The statue of Shalidor was here, but the gray and dingy stone did not shine, and its claw-like hands stretched forth as if casting a fearsome spell to ward away visitors. At the foot of the statue, a font sent up rays of pulsing blue light that made Shalidor’s face strange and alien. Behind the statue, a tower of dark stone loomed, all hard lines and flat stone. The tower’s uppermost window was a watchful eye.

Rumarin put a hand to his chin as he studied the statue. “I expected more pigeon droppings.”

“Do not mock the statue of Shalidor,” said J’zargo, but he put no energy into his words. He felt sick inside.

A bitter wind swept through the courtyeard, stirring dead bushes.

“Where are we supposed to go?” asked Mehra.

“I suppose that big tower is the logical place to start, but these smaller towers look less intimidating,” said Rumarin.

They heard a door creak open and slam shut and saw a mage crossing the courtyard. He was gray-skinned and red-eyed like all Dunmer, but his white hair stuck up like cotton and his College robes looked like he had slept in them. He glanced sidelong at the newcomers as he passed, grinning like he was enjoying some private joke.

J’zargo rushed forward to greet the mage. “Please, this one is J’zargo, and we are new here. Where must we go to–”

The Dunmer gasped and took a step back. “You can actually see me?”

J’zargo and Mehra exchanged baffled looks, but Rumarin was unfazed. “No,” he told the Dunmer. “We can’t see you at all.”

“Oh, excellent, my spell worked!” The mage looked pleased. But then his brow furrowed. “Wait, you can still hear me. No, something isn’t right, not right at all…” He shook his head and started wandering away, mumbling to himself.

“Wait,” called Mehra. “Can you help us?”

The Dunmer looked at her with fog in his eyes. “You want me to what? Help you?” Now his eyes lit up with understanding. “Oh yes, certainly! Do you need help with illusion spells? I’m very good at those. Invisibility in particular, but you already knew that.”

J’zargo tried hard to keep his voice polite. “J’zargo asks where we should go? J’zargo is a new student here.”

The Dunmer looked puzzled. “But you’re all new students, surely?”

“Oh, no, only J’zargo,” said Mehra. “Rumarin and I are just visiting.”

“Really, how very odd. I would have expected you or this Altmer to be the new students.”

“It is not only Bretons or elves who become great mages,” said J’zargo. It was all he could do to keep his ears from twitching back.

“That’s very true, but we almost never have Khajiit or Argonian students. Well, we had one Khajiit few years ago, but…”

J’zargo’s attention sharpened. “What became of this other Khajiit?”

“Don’t know the details myself,” said the Dunmer with a shrug. “I only know that she left.”

J’zargo had many more questions about this other Khajiit, but it would be useless to ask them. And there were more pressing matters. So he said, “J’zargo would like to know where we should go. Is there another mage who must see us first?”

“Oh, you’ll be wanting to talk to Master Wizard Mary Bell. I mean Mirabelle. She knows this place like the back of her hand, she does.”

They waited for the Dunmer to continue. He just smiled vacantly at them.

J’zargo’s eyelid began to twitch. “J’zargo asks if you know where the master wizard is.”

The Dunmer’s mouth fell open. “Oh, that’s right, you wouldn’t know where to find the master wizard, you’re new. I know! I’ll show you the way. Just follow the sound of my voice so we don’t get separated.”

“This should be entertaining,” said Rumarin as they fell in step behind the mage.

The Dunmer led them to the great tower. With a grunt he dragged open one of the twin iron-bound doors. After catching his breath he said, “Go on in, I’ll be right behind you.”

They entered a hall full of shadows. J’zargo could not tell if the walls of stone were always this dark or if they became that way through time and wear. A tapestry bore the symbol of the College, an eye embroidered in silver thread, but the dark material was now gray with dust and peppered with moth holes.

J’zargo wrinkled his nose. The air had a singed smell. “Does something burn?”

“What?” The Dunmer paused and sniffed. “Oh, that. Sometimes the students practice destruction spells in there.” He pointed to an iron gate that barred the way to a vast room dominated by another glowing font. J’zargo could make out scorch marks on the floors and walls. He glanced at his companions. Mehra was round-eyed with dismay, but Rumarin looked amused. J’zargo wanted to sink into the floor.

“But if they’re firing spells at the walls,” said Mehra, gaping at the disfiguring scars on the magnificent chamber, “How does this place hold together?”

The Dunmer paid her no mind. “Let’s see, Mirabelle’s office is… that way? No, I think the other way…”

A door at one end of the hall swung open, and out stepped several elves and humans in College robes. The hall echoed with chatter and footsteps. Several apprentices pushed open the creaking gate and filed into the circular room to practice spells; others went outside, letting in a blast of cold air before the heavy door slammed shut behind them. None of them acknowledged the strangers, but one Breton woman greeted the Dunmer with “Hello, Drevis.”

“What! You can see me?”

“Of course.”

Drevis shot an accusing look at Rumarin. “Why did you lie to me?”

“Your spell wore off just now,” said Rumarin. “These things happen.”

Drevis pouted. “Wore off, you say? How disappointing.”

“You– he was not–” J’zargo choked on what he wanted to say. He could not correct Rumarin now without looking foolish or worse.

“Are these new students?” asked the Breton woman. She was not much taller than Mehra, but she wore the robes of a high-ranking wizard and carried herself with authority.

“Oh yes,” said Drevis. “This is J’dingo and his–”

Rumarin chuckled. Mehra struggled to keep a straight face. J’zargo glared at them with undisguised annoyance. To Drevis he said, “This one is J’zargo.”

“Isn’t that what I said?”

“Thank you, Drevis, I’ll take it from here,” said the woman.

“But I’m supposed to take them to–” Drevis broke off. “Oh, Master Wizard Mirabelle, just the person we wanted to see! Would you mind showing them to the–”

“Yes, of course, I have it all in hand.”

Drevis stammered, “Oh, well, I’ll just be off then.”

When he was gone, the master wizard turned to the newcomers. “Your names, please.”

“We are J’zargo, Mehra, and Rumarin,” said J’zargo, gesturing to his companions in turn. “J’zargo has come to study here at the College. His friends have come to visit.”

“Yes, we’ve been expecting you for some time.” The woman’s tone carried a hint of annoyance. “Since you’ll be a student, I can show you to your room. If your friends need a place to stay, I’m sure the tavern can accomodate them.”

J’zargo watched Mehra and Rumarin exchange anxious looks. J’zargo’s thoughts went to the treacherous bridge, and he did not like to think of Mehra crossing it day after day. He turned to the master wizard. “J’zargo asks if you have rooms for important visitors?”

Mirabelle looked over the Altmer in his shabby gray robes and the Breton girl in her ill-fitting armor of hide and fur. “Important in what way?”

J’zargo gestured at Mehra, silently urging her say who she was. Mehra started to speak, but she faltered. J’zargo muttered a Ta’agran oath under his breath. Of course she would make him say it: “Mehra is the Thane of Whiterun and the Dragonborn.”

The master wizard’s brow creased. “The Thane of Whiterun? Truly? That’s unexpected. Do you bring a message from Jarl Balgruuf?”

“No, I… only have this.” Mehra was red-faced when she produced her signet ring for the master wizard’s inspection. The older woman cleared her throat and took a moment to collect herself. “Yes, I believe we can arrange something for you,” she told Mehra. “I regret no one was on hand to welcome you properly, but we had no word of your coming. Now we can–”

“Please, do you have any room to spare for Rumarin as well?” asked Mehra.

The woman’s attempt to look pleasant slipped. “I’m afraid not.”

“Not even a nice corner broom closet?” asked Rumarin. “I’m sure the brooms won’t mind.”

The master wizard’s voice turned brittle. “I’m sorry, but that’s quite impossible. You’ll simply have to make arrangements in town. Now if you’ll please follow me.”

J’zargo hurried after Master Wizard Mirabelle, who had a quick stride for a Breton. “Where are we going first?” he asked.

“To the Hall of Attainment,” replied the master wizard. “Your new home. All first-year students live there.”

The master wizard went on to explain the two ways to reach the Hall of Attainment: they could go through the courtyard, or through the service passages that ran under the halls. “We’ll be using those passages now,” she added. “Most people prefer them. They’re warm, convenient, and connect all the towers.”

J’zargo felt dread pressing down on him as he followed the woman into an underground labyrinth full of gloom and dust. He had come to the College with his head full of bright images of his future, but the more he saw of this place, the more the images darkened. What would his room be like? Would he even have a real bed, or would they expect him to sleep on a pile of straw?

They reached the Hall of Attainment, a large multi-storied chamber open at the center, dominated by a well overflowing with a magical glow that bathed each story in a cold blue luminescence. Many small rooms were arranged in a circle about the hall, their arched entrances facing the font. No portraits brightened the walls, no carpets softened the stone floor. A few tapestries laced with cobwebs clung to walls thick with dust and grime.

“Why aren’t there any doors?” asked Mehra. J’zargo looked at the archways and saw that Mehra was right: none of the entrances to the student rooms had doors. Many were covered by curtains, but these would do nothing to muffle sound.

The master wizard’s reply was smooth and automatic: “This dormitory was designed to foster a collaborative environment for our first-year students. Closed doors discourage open communication and promote isolation.”

“J’zargo thinks this is a good idea, yes.” J’zargo made an effort to sound positive, but inside he was reeling. It did not help that Mehra was looking at him with her eyes full of concern.

“How very interesting,” said Rumarin. “Have you done away with doors for the upper-level students and professors too?”

“No.” The woman’s voice had an edge now. “The advanced students and mages need privacy to conduct more delicate experiments.”

Something about this answer raised J’zargo’s hackles. He clamped down on his outrage. No, he told himself, there is no reason to be angry. These mages only do what is fair and right. And J’zargo came to learn magic from other mages, not spend his days in a room reading books.

“This will be your room.” The master wizard pulled aside the archway’s tattered curtain. J’zargo swallowed hard and went in.

J’zargo saw the bed first. A real bed with pillows and covers, nothing like the fur-draped cots in cheap Skyrim taverns. His eyes went to the desk next. His spirits lifted when he saw that the desk was solid, clean, and supplied with parchment and bottles of ink.

“It’s… nice?” Mehra faced a low table. Three human skulls stared back at her.

“Yes, I always think skulls add a nice homey touch,” said Rumarin. “And everyone should have one of those.” J’zargo followed Rumarin’s gaze and almost groaned when he saw the wall mounting. It was the head of a goat.

J’zargo could see from the way the master wizard’s expression tightened that she was not pleased by these remarks. She turned her back to Rumarin and motioned to the desk. “Everything is ready for you, J’zargo. You’ll find scrolls with information that should help you through the next few days. You’ll be taking your entrance exam tomorrow morning.”

J’zargo’s pulse quickened. He knew of the exam. He had intended to study for it on his way to Winterhold, but his few books on spells and magical theory were consumed by dragonfire in Helgen. Now there was little time to prepare.

“An entrance exam? But J’zargo had to prove he knew magic just to cross the bridge,” said Mehra.

“That’s only the test for visitors. The entrance exam tests your knowledge in all areas of magic.”

“What happens if you don’t pass?” asked Rumarin.

“It’s not a question of passing. Some students simply require… remedial coursework. The exam helps us place students in the appropriate classes.”

The master wizard directed J’zargo’s attention to the wardrobe. “Your new apprentice robes are in there. You may find them more to your liking than your–” she looked with veiled disdain at J’zargo’s travel-stained robes. “Than your current clothes.”

J’zargo hurried to the wardrobe. He barely stopped himself from seizing the sky-blue robes from their shelf. No, he would not grab them like a beggar snatching at scraps of food. Instead he reverently placed his hands on the robes. A tingling in his fingertips told him that the material had been woven with a powerful enchantment. He carefully lifted the robes and held them up to the light.

“Mehra, look!” said J’zargo. “Are they not wonderful?”

Mehra was rubbing her temple and staring into space. At length she noticed the robes. “Um. Yes. They’re… nice.”

“Nice? No, they are glorious! And they are real.” J’zargo aimed a smug look at the elf.

“Oh yes, genuine College robes for a–” Rumarin broke off. J’zargo sensed that the elf had started to say something insulting. “A… genuine student,” Rumarin finished.

The master wizard spoke again. “I’m sure you’re anxious to get settled in. If you need anything, my office is in the largest tower. You’ll find it marked on a map of the College on your desk.” Now she turned to Mehra. “If you’re ready, I can show you to your room now.”

Again it took Mehra a moment to realize that someone was expecting an answer from her. “I’m sorry, what did you say?” After the master wizard repeated herself, Mehra said, “Oh. Yes, of course.”

“I’ll tag along if you don’t mind,” said Rumarin. “Besides, I think J’zargo wants a few moments alone with his robes.”

“What? You– you–” J’zargo could not find the words for a scathing reply before Rumarin and the others were gone.

But Rumarin’s jest was not far off the mark: J’zargo could not wait to wear his new robes, and he wasted no time changing into them. He ran his hand over the material again. Smooth like silk, but warm and strong. J’zargo had never worn anything so fine as this. If only he had a mirror!

Clad in his beautiful new robes, J’zargo turned his attention to unpacking. He paused to examine his spare robes, frayed and stained and mended in many places. These were the robes of a poor traveler, not a great mage. J’zargo wadded them up and shoved them into the wardrobe, hoping he would have no reason to wear them again. Next he searched for a place to store his short sword, the one he had taken from a slain Imperial. After their adventure in the Forsaken Cave, J’zargo had promised Mehra that he would find someone to teach him the sword. He wondered now whether any mages in Winterhold knew how to fight with swords. Would they be willing to train him? Would he have time to learn? He would be so busy with his studies now. Perhaps he should not have made such a promise.

J’zargo had just stashed the sword in a chest when Rumarin returned. “Changed already, I see,” said the elf.

“Yes.” The Khajiit drew himself up with pride. “J’zargo is a student of the College now.”

“Congratulations. By the way, do you mind if I sleep here tonight?”

J’zargo stiffened. “What?”

“You’ll hardly know I’m here. I can just put my bedroll over in that corner–”

“No. The master wizard told you to stay in the tavern and J’zargo thinks that is what you should do.” J’zargo had no wish to share his nice new room with this elf or anyone else.

“I know what she said, but I’d rather not cross the Bridge of Death more than I already have to.” Rumarin heaved a sigh. “Well, I suppose I could ask Mehra.”

“You would not dare.”

“Why not? At least her room has a door.”

J’zargo slammed the lid of his chest. “Fine. You may stay. For tonight.” He paused and blinked. “Wait. Mehra’s room has a door?”

“Oh sure. I suppose it’s one of the perks of being the Dragonborn.” Rumarin went to a corner of the room to shed his bag and bedroll.

J’zargo grumbled something under his breath.

“What was that?”

“Mehra would not have a room at all if J’zargo had not spoken up. J’zargo does not see why he must always be the one to tell people who Mehra is.”

“How many times have you heard her say ‘just Mehra’? It’s rather obvious doesn’t want to be a thane or the Dovahkiin.”

“But these are among the highest honors in Skyrim. The Nords respect thanes and the Dragonborn.” J’zargo stalked over to the low table to gather the human skulls. These would have to be put out of sight. How could anyone sleep in a room with skulls staring back at them?

Rumarin sat on the floor and leaned back against the wall. “That’s assuming they believe they’re talking to the Dragonborn. And you have to admit she doesn’t look or act the part.”

J’zargo dumped the skulls in a large basket under the table. “She knows how to prove she is Dragonborn. The one power she has, a gift from the gods, and she never uses it! It is enough to give J’zargo fits.”

Rumarin stared at the ceiling thoughtfully. “A gift or a curse? I have to wonder. If I were the Dragonborn, I’d probably use my status to get free food, drinks and lodgings. At least until everyone expected me to slay a bunch of dragons, chase the Thalmor out of Skyrim, or something unhealthy like that. Then I’d probably find a nice cave to hide in until it all blew over.”

“J’zargo hopes that is a bad joke. It is a coward who would enjoy the privileges of being the Dragonborn and then turn his back on the world.”

Rumarin fixed cold eyes on J’zargo. “And when you tell people who Mehra is, I’m sure it has nothing to do with wanting everyone to know you’re friends with the Dragonborn.”

J’zargo matched Rumarin’s glare with his own. “You accuse J’zargo of saying things he should not? Of taking advantage of Mehra’s position?”

“What, you? Certainly not.” Rumarin spoke easily enough, but J’zargo could see the accusation in his eyes. That alone was enough to fill J’zargo with outrage.

The curtain parted and Mehra appeared in the arched entrance. “Are we going to see the–” She stopped, abruptly aware of the tension in the room. “Is something wrong?”

“No, not at all,” said Rumarin, his smile forced.

J’zargo turned away from them and made a show of going through the scrolls on his desk. “Nothing is wrong. J’zargo is only putting his new room in order.”

Mehra looked with relief at the empty table. “Oh good, you got rid of the skulls. Are you going to do anything about the goat’s head too?”

J’zargo glanced up at the animal’s head. The goat’s lifeless glass eyes sent shivers down his tail. “J’zargo has not decided.”

“It might make a nice coat rack,” said Rumarin. J’zargo grimaced. The elf’s jokes were growing tiresome.

“When do you want to see Sergius?” asked Mehra.

“Sergius?” asked J’zargo. “What is a Sergius?”

Rumarin got to his feet and stretched. “Oh, I asked the master wizard about buying and selling magical curiosities. Turns out we need to talk to this Sergius Turrianus fellow. I’m ready to see him whenever you two are.”

J’zargo’s ears perked. “Then we can now sell the White Phial? This is good.”

Mehra pulled out a folded piece of parchment. “She also gave me the names of some healers I can talk to.”

“This is also good. Do you not wish to speak with the healers first? J’zargo saw you were having the problem again.”

“That came up in the conversation too.” Rumarin looked significantly at Mehra. “A hearing problem that comes and goes, you said?”

“Yes.” Mehra turned her face away and shoved the parchment back into her pocket. “But that can wait until after we talk to Sergius.”

“Then let us go,” said J’zargo. “The sooner we sell this phial, the sooner J’zargo can prepare for his entrance exam.” And the sooner the elf can leave, he thought.

Chapter 16: Business

Entering the College’s service passages felt like descending into another dark and musty crypt. The flickering candle glow of the wall sconces barely gave Rumarin enough light to see as he and Mehra followed J’zargo. After Mehra tripped over an uneven part of the flagstone floor, J’zargo grudgingly produced a magelight.

“We should have brought Mehra’s lantern. I hope the College doesn’t keep skeletons or draugr down here,” said Rumarin. He winced when J’zargo’s magelight flashed past his eyes. “Would you stop that? That’s the third time your light’s tried to blind me.”

J’zargo’s hands pinched tight around the edges of his map. “If you would stop talking and let J’zargo concentrate, J’zargo would soon find the workshop of Sergius.”

“We’ve been down here a while,” said Mehra. “Maybe we should ask the next person we pass for directions?”

“There is no need, J’zargo will find it.”

Rumarin peered over J’zargo’s shoulder. “Why don’t you let one of us have a try at the map?”

The Khajiit moved away from him. “This is not your map. This is J’zargo’s map. J’zargo knows how to read maps.”

“So where are we on this map of yours?”

“If you would stop bothering J’zargo with bad jokes and stupid questions, J’zargo would now know where we are.”

“And you wouldn’t be leading us in circles? Because I’m pretty sure I’ve seen this crack in the wall before.”

Mehra winced and lifted a hand to her forehead. “Would all of you stop it?”

Rumarin darted a curious look at Mehra. “All of us?”

“I… I mean both of you.”

“This is not J’zargo’s fault! J’zargo needs only a quiet moment to find where we are and the elf gives him no peace.”

They heard approaching footsteps and voices echoing through the passage.

“So you’re of House Telvanni?” said a youthful male voice, high and pleasant. “Then you must know plenty of spells already. House Telvanni’s history is steeped in magic.”

An irritated girl’s voice answered, “I didn’t come to Winterhold to talk about my family. I came here to learn.”

“Oh, certainly, that’s why I’m here too. To learn, I mean.”

“I’ve just been asked enough questions.”

“I can understand that. Would you like me to carry some of those books for you? They look heavy.”

“No, I can manage.”

Two students appeared around the corner, followed by two magelights that illuminated the passage far better than the sconces. Both students wore College robes, but there the similarities ended. One was a smiling young Breton, the other a scowling Dunmer girl. Distracted by her companion, she nearly ran into J’zargo. She cried out when one of her books slipped from her arms and fell. J’zargo bent down to retrieve the book, but the Breton grabbed it first and handed it back to the Dunmer.

“So sorry, didn’t see you,” said the Dunmer girl. Her eyes fell on J’zargo’s map. “Oh, do you need help finding something?”

J’zargo hastily folded up the map. “We are not lost.”

“Do you know where we can find Sergius’ workshop?” asked Mehra.

“Yes, I know the way. I can show you if you like.”

Mehra answered before J’zargo could protest: “Thank you, yes. We’ll follow.”

“I’m Tirel, by the way, and this is Brelyna of House Telvanni,” said the Breton pleasantly. “Brelyna already knows this place inside and out.” Tirel’s face fell as J’zargo began to walk beside Brelyna. He was quick to move to Brelyna’s other side. Mehra and Rumarin trailed behind.

“J’zargo is here to master destruction magic. What schools of magic do you study?” asked J’zargo.

“I study illusion and destruction myself,” said Tirel. “Brelyna here is the expert on conjuration magic.”

“Really? Does she conjure weapons?” asked Rumarin.

“No,” said Brelyna. “I mean, I could if I wanted to. But most serious conjurers don’t bother. It’s a simple spell, but why summon a sword when you can get an atronach to fight for you?”

Rumarin pulled his hood forward, shadowing his face.

“I’m not sure there is such a thing as a simple spell,” said Mehra.

Brelyna glanced over her shoulder at Mehra and asked, “What makes you say that?”

“Because one time–” Mehra stopped and hesitated.

Rumarin said quietly, “Please go on.”

“Because once I had a friend who was studying to be a healer. She knew enough advanced restoration magic to close wounds and mend fractured bones. But then she tried learning how to conjure a dagger. Just to see if she could. Everyone said it should be simple, but she never managed it.”

Rumarin studied Mehra from the depths of his hood. Something about her story was puzzling. If he didn’t know she lacked the ability to cast spells, he would have guessed the friend she spoke of was actually Mehra herself.

“Sounds like she just needed to study and practice more,” said Brelyna, her tone lofty. “Anyone who’s serious about learning magic won’t give up when there’s a setback.”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” said Tirel.

“Oh yes, J’zargo agrees. Talent is good, but the true secret of learning magic is many hours of hard work.”

Mehra’s face turned red. She brushed at her hair until it veiled her face.

“Words to live by indeed,” said Rumarin. “Anyone who fails at anything simply needs to work longer and harder. If the lame can’t be dancers or the blind can’t be painters, clearly it’s their own fault.”

“Touchy,” murmured Tirel.

“That’s not at all what I meant,” snapped Brelyna.

“You twist our words,” added J’zargo. “We speak of people who fail because they are lazy.”

Rumarin clenched his jaw. Lazy. The word unleashed memories he usually kept locked away. When he was a child, people had called him lazy, stupid, and worse when his attention slipped from his books and scrolls. Stop making excuses, they told him, even a simpleton could understand– Rumarin pushed these thoughts away when he noticed Mehra had drawn close. Her face showed the concern she often displayed when J’zargo was rattled or distressed. Rumarin forced a smile to convince her all was well.

They walked through the dark corridors in awkward silence. At length they heard new sounds echoing through the passages: rattling, hammering, and the thrumming of spells. Brelyna pointed ahead to light flooding from an open doorway and said, “That’s Sergius’ workshop.”

From this angle they could just make out the back of an apprentice leaning over a cluttered workbench. The apprentice ran glowing hands over soul gems and amulets, casting enchantment spells to bind souls to the jewelry.

Brelyna took her leave. Tirel was at her heels, but he changed his mind and came back.

“Don’t let us keep you,” Rumarin told Tirel. “I’m sure you have far too much to do.”

Tirel smiled and shrugged. “My business can wait, but maybe I can help you with whatever it is you need to see Sergius about?”

“No thanks, we can manage,” said Rumarin. The less people knew about their business, the better.

“I’m sure you can. But Sergius already knows me, you see, and I would be happy to–”

“Then you have some pull with Sergius? What luck. You see, we have a prototype for an enchanted circumcision device. If you’d like to help us sell it, we can take a few minutes to show you how the chopping action works–”

Mehra covered her mouth and made a sound that turned into a cough.

J’zargo gaped at Rumarin. “What?!”

“I know we agreed to keep it a secret,” Rumarin told J’zargo. “But I think we’ll get a better price if someone like Tirel would give the sales pitch.”

Tirel backed away. “Sorry, I just remembered I’m terribly late for something. Good luck with your… thing.” And then he was gone.

J’zargo whirled on Rumarin: “J’zargo does not understand you! He could have helped us, and you turn him away? Tell him a ridiculous lie? Why?”

Rumarin bit back a sigh. “Some friendly advice: if a perfect stranger offers to ‘help’ you with a business transaction, be suspicious. They usually don’t have your best interests at heart.”

“But he is a student of the College, as is J’zargo. He has no reason to take advantage of us.”

“If you believe that, I have a bridge in Winterhold to sell you. I swear it’s in perfect condition.”

“You– you–” In his rage, J’zargo’s voice sputtered and lapsed into Ta’agran: “Ziss! Wafa hadozay mezubiit!”

“J’zargo!” said Mehra.

“That sounded colorful,” said Rumarin. “Did he accuse me of fancying horkers this time?”

Mehra was red-faced. “Not horkers– um. I think we should just… go see Sergius now.”

“Yes, let us go and be done with this phial forever.” J’zargo stalked into the workshop, tail lashing.

Rows of cluttered shelves and stacks of crates filled the workshop, making the room feel smaller than it was. The air felt warm and stuffy. Several apprentices with faces shining from perspiration leaned over workbenches to consult diagrams and cast enchantment spells. Most items receiving these enchantments were weapons: daggers, swords, war axes.

“J’zargo, didn’t you say the College is neutral?” asked Rumarin.

J’zargo folded back his ears and refused to even look at the elf. Mehra answered instead: “Yes, it is. Why?”

“It looks like most of this is meant for the Stormcloaks, but I see a few Imperial swords and cuirasses mixed in too. They don’t seem to mind profiting from both sides of the war.”

J’zargo ignored him and went to a Bosmer woman who was closest to the entrance, examining crates and comparing labels to a list she carried.

“This one brings greetings,” said J’zargo. “May we speak with Sergius Turrianus?”

The Bosmer tensed and closed her bloodshot eyes. After a moment she put on a tired smile. “Do you have an appointment with Sergius?”

J’zargo started to reply, but Rumarin beat him to it: “Unfortunately no. The master wizard only told us he’s the man to see about buying and selling magical artifacts of any kind.”

The Bosmer ran her hand through frizzled blonde hair. “I see. Sergius should return soon. If you don’t mind waiting by his desk, I’ll be sure to tell him you’re here when he gets back.” She waved their attention to a desk that occupied the least crowded corner of the workshop.

They wove their way past workbenches and stacks of boxes to the desk. Rumarin and J’zargo sat on a bench next to the wall. Mehra paused to stare up at one of the shelves behind the desk. Her eyes widened.

“What do you see?” Rumarin asked Mehra.

“There’s a cage up there. With a lizard inside.”

“Is it terrifying?”

“It’s dead.” Mehra backed away from the shelf and joined her companions on the bench.

For a while they watched the apprentices work. They heard a crash. One of the students had dropped a soul gem, shattering it. A senior apprentice yelled at him for his clumsiness and shoved a broom into his hands. “Sweep that up before Sergius gets back or he’ll take both our heads!”

After a time J’zargo spoke. “Before we talk to Sergius, J’zargo wishes to make something clear.”

“What’s that?” asked Rumarin.

“J’zargo will handle this transaction.”

Rumarin almost choked. “You’ll what?”

“You offend these mages with your bad jokes and disrespect. J’zargo saw that the master wizard was not pleased with you. And you were not always polite to Brelyna and Tirel. J’zargo thinks you will offend this mage too, and then he will not give us a good price. He might even turn us away.”

“Give me a little credit. I know how to watch my tongue when it matters. I also have quite a bit of experience when it comes to transactions like this, and no one wants a good price for this phial more than I do.”

“J’zargo knows you do not like mages. He does not trust you to be polite. J’zargo knows how to talk to other magic users, and J’zargo is a student of the College. You are not.” He looked pointedly at Rumarin’s shabby robes.

Rumarin shot him an ugly look. “Yes, you’re the student with the nice new robes here. But do you know the art of negotiation? The whole dance of driving a hard bargain? When to push and when to ease off?”

“Of course J’zargo knows these things! J’zargo’s family runs a caravan.”

“And they let you haggle with the customers often, did they?”

J’zargo’s tail slashed back and forth, stirring dust and cobwebs on the floor. “J’zargo has experience with such things. And these are College mages, not thieves or greedy merchants.”

“You put these College mages on a pedestal, and that’s dangerous for any transaction. You’d think any offer they made was generous. I’d almost rather have Mehra handle it.”

Rumarin felt Mehra’s eyes on him, full of surprise and hurt. Too late he heard the sour tone in his own voice. Rumarin had never spoken to Mehra of what happened at Fort Kastav, but he was sure the adjutant had pressured or bullied her into saying enough to put Rumarin under the adjutant’s power. If not for that, Rumarin would not be facing the dangerous task of playing spy and gathering intelligence on a Thalmor.

“It’s just that you intimidate easily,” said Rumarin. Mehra turned away from him.

J’zargo sat straighter. “J’zargo thinks this is the first good suggestion you have made. Mehra will be well received. She is the Thane of Whiterun, this she can prove, and she will not insult or offend Sergius. And she helped find the phial. She has as much claim to it as you do.”

Rumarin wanted to shout, Mehra isn’t the one with a bounty on her head! I’m the one whose life will be hanging in the balance if this doesn’t work out! He took a deep breath and fought to maintain his composure. “Let’s be practical about this. Of the three of us, I’m the one with the most experience handling things like this–”

“With little success, J’zargo thinks.”

“Plenty of success, actually, and–”

“J’zargo doubts this.”

“Now look–”

Mehra said, “We need to decide before Sergius comes. Does it really matter who handles this? I mean, as long as someone sells it–”

“It matters if we want the best price,” said Rumarin.

“It matters if we do not wish to offend one of these mages,” said J’zargo.

“All right,” said Mehra. “What if we–”

“I’m handling this transaction.” Rumarin’s eyes bore into J’zargo’s.

J’zargo glared back, eyes intense and unblinking. “No, J’zargo will.”

Mehra sighed and tried again. “I think we should–”

“I’m the one who learned about the phial first, I was the one who got us through the traps in one piece, and I’m the one who’s been keeping the phial safe all this time.”

“Safe? The phial is cracked. How do we know you did not break it when we fought the draugr?”

“I told you, I had it wrapped safely–”

Deep in his argument with J’zargo, Rumarin did not notice when Mehra gritted her teeth and put her head in her hands. Nor did he notice when Mehra slipped away from the bench and left them.

“J’zargo thinks we would have gotten the offer we deserved if you had been more polite to the alchemist in Windhelm.”

“I was never rude to him, at least not before he stiffed us. And I seem to recall you were this close to coughing up hairballs on his counter when that happened.”

“J’zargo does not have hairballs!”

“That’s not the point!”

They heard someone clear his throat. A balding Imperial stood before them, his eyes glowering from under bushy eyebrows.

Rumarin and J’zargo looked at each other, and Rumarin could see his own panic mirrored in the Khajiit’s eyes. What now? They had not reached an agreement, Mehra was nowhere to be seen, and Sergius had caught them in the middle of an argument. Rumarin’s insides clenched when he wondered just how much Sergius had overheard.

“One of my assistants said you wanted to speak with me,” said Sergius.

Rumarin took the lead and hoped J’zargo would have the sense to follow. “Yes, the master wizard told us you buy magical artifacts. We have one that might interest you–”

“And it is called the White Phial,” said J’zargo. Rumarin glared at him.

Sergius’ bushy eyebrows twitched. “What was that? The White Phial, you said?”

“It has every indication of it,” said Rumarin. “You see, it’s a–”

“It is a magic white bottle that purifies and refills any liquid,” said J’zargo. “It is now broken, but we think the College mages will know how to repair it.”

Rumarin turned to J’zargo and whispered, “Just let me handle this, will you?” But J’zargo only answered with a hiss.

Sergius cleared his throat again. “Would you show me this bottle of yours?”

Rumarin carefully pulled the White Phial from his bag. The bottle shone with the brilliance of snow reflecting sunlight. Slowly he placed it in the man’s outstretched hand. Sergius held it as though it were an egg and brought it up to his eyes. He rubbed his thumb over the crack. “How did it get damaged?”

“I’m afraid it was like that when we found it,” said Rumarin.

“Hm. And where did you find such a thing?”

“In a Nord crypt,” said J’zargo. “We also found skeletons and draugr with swords.”

“But how did you know to look for it at all?”

“Many people know the legend of the White Phial,” said Rumarin. “I often venture into caves in search of things like this, and–”

“This is not the whole story,” said J’zargo. “He was hired by an alchemist in Windhelm to find it.”

Rumarin flexed his hands. He wanted to throttle J’zargo.

“Really.” The man’s face settled into a tight-lipped frown. “If you made arrangements with the alchemist, why have you brought it here instead?”

Rumarin said, “There’s been a slight misunderstanding between myself and J’zargo here–”

“There is no misunderstanding,” said J’zargo. “We tried to sell it to this alchemist, but he would not pay what he promised. We almost died to find the phial and bring it back, but he would only give five gold coins. So we brought it here.”

Rumarin tried not to groan. He took a deep breath and hunted for the words he would need to salvage the situation.

“I see,” said Sergius, white eyebrows lowering. “But since this is damaged, we can’t very well prove it’s anything more than a pretty bottle.”

“Not by pouring liquid into it,” said Rumarin. “But surely you have experts who can identify it?”

“We might, but it would take time.”

“How much time?”

“Hard to say. We’re all very busy here. Perhaps a week? Maybe longer. But we can make you an offer once someone finishes analyzing it.”

“I’m afraid we’re on a tight schedule ourselves, and we already have someone who’s interested in buying it,” said Rumarin. “However, if you would consider–”

“No,” said J’zargo. “This White Phial should not be sold to just anyone. It belongs here at the College. J’zargo knows you will make a fair offer.”

Rumarin felt his chest constrict. “Now just wait–”

“Very well,” said Sergius, gingerly wrapping the phial in a cloth. “We’ll be in touch.”

“Wait, we haven’t actually agreed on–”

“As soon as our experts learn anything about this phial, you two will be the first to know.”

“J’zargo thanks you.”

It was too late. Sergius had already turned away, an apprentice was escorting them outside, and Rumarin’s head was spinning.

They stood in the dark service passage. Rumarin leaned a hand against a dust-covered wall. Inside he was screaming curses at J’zargo for being a pigheaded fool and at himself for letting the situation spiral out of control.

J’zargo summoned a magelight. “J’zargo thinks that went very well.”

“You think that went well?”

J’zargo looked at Rumarin. Something about the Altmer’s demeanor made the Khajiit uneasy. “Yes, of course. They will study the phial and–”

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done? You’ve thrown the phial into their power. Our phial. Against my consent. Now we have nothing to bargain with. No leverage. Nothing.”

“Why do you speak of bargaining and leverage? J’zargo knows they will keep to their word. We have left the White Phial in good hands, and soon they will pay us. You will see.”

“You…” for once it was Rumarin who was speechless with rage, and for once it was J’zargo who was the first to look away. After a long moment, Rumarin turned and walked away.

Chapter 17: Books

J’zargo returned to his room feeling pleased with himself. The transaction with Sergius went very well. Despite the elf’s brash attempts to intervene, J’zargo had conducted the affair with dignity and honesty. The phial would fetch a good price, and the College would add a worthy prize to its collection of rare artifacts. J’zargo’s name would soon be on the lips of every magician at the College.

The sight of Rumarin’s bedroll in the corner soured J’zargo’s mood. How dare this elf who slept on a floor in fake College robes suggest that the College might trick them out of the phial. Of course the elf would expect to be cheated, even by noble mages. The worthless wafiit has no honor. J’zargo wanted to take the bedroll and throw it off the bridge.

J’zargo went to his desk to sort through his papers. His eyes were drawn up to the goat head mounted on the wall. The bared teeth and shining glass eyes made J’zargo’s fur stand up. He considered removing the wall mount, but there was no time for that. J’zargo needed to study for his entrance exam.

Thinking of the morning’s exam made J’zargo’s stomach churn. If he failed to demonstrate basic knowledge of all five schools of magic–destruction, restoration, alteration, illusion, and conjuration–then J’zargo would be forced to take remedial courses. The master wizard had said as much. This would be embarrassing and add greatly to the cost of his education. J’zargo’s family had already sacrificed much for his future.

But how could he study when he had no books? J’zargo remembered his horror when the dragon set Helgen ablaze. He had left his books in his room at the tavern, precious volumes about magic that his mother had collected for him over many years. They were nothing but ash now. J’zargo had not mentioned any of this in his last letter to home, for the loss shamed him.

But surely the College’s library would have these same books. J’zargo checked his map of the school. He could not see the library marked anywhere. He was on the edge of panic until he remembered that the College’s library was called the Arcanaeum. A fine grand word. J’zargo set out to find it. Before he left, he paused to kick the elf’s bedroll.

This time J’zargo chose not to use the service passages. Though warm compared to the exposed, frigid garden, the twists and turns of the service tunnels had bewildered him, and though he would never admit it, the dark corridors reminded him too much of a crypt. Instead he ventured outside and crossed the courtyard. Snow came down fast and freezing wind tore at his robes. J’zargo shivered and muttered curses, hating this cold land– no, this was not true, J’zargo did not hate Winterhold, how could J’zargo hate the home of Tamriel’s greatest school of magic?

Though it was night, J’zargo could not fail to see the statue of the College’s founder. Shalidor stood tall and dominating, a great mage watching over his domain. But his grim stone face caught the frost-blue light from the magical font in a way that made J’zargo shiver from more than cold. J’zargo gave the statue a wide berth and entered the College’s largest tower.

Lingering in the entrance hall to warm his hands with a flame spell, J’zargo’s ears perked at the sound of voices.

“I don’t believe you,” said a female voice, low and haughty. “That spell is far too advanced for a first-year.”

“And too dangerous.” This was a young man’s voice. “Lightning spells can roast you alive if you don’t know what you’re doing.”

The answering female voice was high and defiant: “Say what you like, because I’ve mastered lightning already.”

J’zargo approached the adjoining room where a font shed cold blue light on three apprentices: a young Imperial man and two women, one a Dunmer and the other a Breton. So many Bretons here, thought J’zargo. They easily outnumbered the elves.

The Dunmer sneered, hands on hips. “Prove it.”

“Don’t egg her on,” said the Imperial. “It’s much too–”

The Breton flexed her arm. Blinding streaks of light flashed from her palm, scorching the ground inches from the Dunmer’s feet and rending the air with an explosive sound that made J’zargo’s tail frizz. The Imperial flinched and the dark elf stumbled back with a gasp.

“Let’s see you do it next,” said the Breton.

The other apprentices stared open-mouthed at the Breton. There was no scorn in the Dunmer’s eyes now, only fear. J’zargo suspected she would never taunt the Breton now, not after such a display. J’zargo resolved to learn more powerful spells so that he too would win the respect of anyone who would dare sneer and look down on him.

But J’zargo remembered tomorrow morning’s exam and his need for books. He turned away and went up the stairs.

J’zargo hesitated in the Arcanaeum’s entrance hall. He was not sure what to expect. Overhead, moonlight streamed through a great window. Before him was the Arcanaeum itself, a room flooded with warm inviting light. Feeling encouraged, J’zargo went in.

The room was large and round and bright, its walls lined with glass cabinets filled with books. So many books! Not even the cabinets could hold them all, for there were stacks of tomes everywhere on the floor and tables. The center of the Arcanaeum was a sunken area where perhaps a dozen apprentices sat at oak tables, bending their heads over books and scribbling notes on sheets of parchment. At the back of the Arcanaeum, a hulking orc sat behind a large counter. This must be the the librarian, thought J’zargo. Something about the orc’s grim face and watchful eyes reminded J’zargo of the statue of Shalidor.

A movement caught J’zargo’s eye. He watched a tall Altmer apprentice stagger to a table around which sat three students. The elf was panting from the effort of carrying an armload of books. “I think I found them all,” he gasped.

“Oh good, it’s about time,” said one of the apprentices. It was Tirel. “Just set them down here, will you?”

The Altmer dumped the books on the table, but one slipped free and fell to the ground.

“You.” From behind the massive desk, the orc’s eyes locked on the Altmer.

“Y-yes?”

“Bring that book here.”

“Uh oh, Finwen, now you’ve done it,” whispered one of the other apprentices. J’zargo recognized Brelyna.

“You’re in for it now,” murmured Tirel. “Urag gro-Shub is going to tear into you for that.”

A young Nord man at the table added, “I heard a student spilled ink all over a book, and Urag ripped his arm off and beat him with it.”

The Altmer’s hands shook as he picked up the book. He approached the counter with halting footsteps and presented the volume to Urag. The orc took it with the greatest care and gently wiped a streak of dust from the cover.

“This is a rare conjuration tome,” said Urag. “Fully illustrated. Talks about summoning creatures from Oblivion. You know how to summon Daedra?”

“No sir.”

“I do. And if you so much as crease a page of any one of my books, I will have you torn apart by angry atronachs. Are we clear?”

“Yessir.”

“I’m watching you, elf. Don’t let it happen again.”

Finwen was red-faced when he returned to the other apprentices, who were now grinning and snickering at him. J’zargo had considered approaching the table and re-introducing himself to Tirel and Brelyna, but something about the group made him feel awkward. Besides, there was little time for J’zargo to find the books he needed.

J’zargo approached a cabinet and strained to see the volumes inside. The cabinet glass was scratched and dusty, but J’zargo thought he saw the shimmer of an enchantment spell. He tried unlatching the cabinet, but it held fast. He turned to another cabinet, but this would not open either. J’zargo moved through a haze of panic as he tried one cabinet after another. All were locked.

“It’s no use trying to open those. Urag gro-Shub keeps the best books under lock and key, and Sergius Turrianus enchanted those cabinets himself.”

J’zargo turned to find a young Breton woman kneeling on the floor and shuffling through stacks of books. She wore rumpled College robes streaked with dust.

“But why would the librarian lock up the books?” asked J’zargo.

“Urag gro-Shub doesn’t trust apprentices to handle the more delicate tomes.” The Breton used the hem of her robes to wipe dust from her hands. “Name’s Eleanor, by the way. I’m the assistant librarian.”

J’zargo breathed a sigh of relief. At last someone who could help him. “J’zargo must find books to prepare for his entrance exam. Books about all five schools of magic. Can you help J’zargo find these?”

Eleanor began sorting through the books again. She moved with the haste of a snail. “Sorry, I’m pretty sure I can’t.”

“You… you will not help J’zargo?”

“Oh, I’d like to, don’t get me wrong,” said Eleanor with a shrug. “It’s just that the professors and students come in here and scatter all these books without concern for who has to clean up.”

J’zargo sputtered for a moment. “But why do you not put the books back on the shelves? Does the librarian not get angry when books are on the floor?”

“Urag doesn’t care about organization, he cares about the books staying in pristine condition. And besides, I thought it might be more efficient if I waited until the end of the day to put everything back in order.”

J’zargo’s mouth went slack. He was too astonished to be angry.

“If it helps, I think I saw some beginner alteration books somewhere over there.” Eleanor waved vaguely at more books stacked in a corner.

“But–”

“Good luck.”

With a sinking heart, J’zargo went to the book pile. He picked over the books with care, avoiding sudden moves that might draw Urag’s attention. Books about alchemy, enchantments, history, anatomy– everything except the subjects he needed. Nothing alphabetized or grouped by topic. J’zargo could spend the whole night searching. His spirit threatened to collapse under the weight of despair.

He felt a touch on his shoulder and turned to see the smiling face of Tirel.

“Hello again. Getting ready for your entrance exam?” asked Tirel.

“Yes,” said J’zargo, trying to sound casual. “J’zargo came to find the books he needs.”

“You didn’t bring your own?”

J’zargo willed his ears not to fold back from shame. “J’zargo had books, yes, but he lost them in Helgen.”

Tirel’s eyes widened. “Helgen? That town was destroyed by a dragon, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, J’zargo was there when the dragon came.” Although J’zargo had not forgotten the terror of that day, he could not help feeling a touch of pride. How many people in the world could say they looked a dragon in the eye and survived?

J’zargo was gratified to hear the awe in Tirel’s reply. “That’s simply amazing. And you travel with the Dragonborn too. Why didn’t you mention any of this when we first met?”

J’zargo regarded him with surprise. “You know that Mehra is the Dragonborn?”

Tirel’s smile widened. “Word gets around fast here, especially when it concerns important visitors.”

“It is true, of course. She is also Thane of Whiterun. But Mehra does not like to speak of it.”

“So where are your friends now? Mehra and that Altmer fellow?”

J’zargo’s expression darkened. The elf was no friend. Worse, being associated with someone who thought nothing of insulting mages, wearing counterfeit College robes, and sleeping on floors could stain J’zargo’s reputation. “J’zargo is not sure. J’zargo parted from his companions after speaking to Sergius.”

“I see.” Tirel sounded disappointed, but then he brightened. “Say, if you need books to study for your entrance exam, you could always borrow mine.”

J’zargo’s ears perked hopefully. “You would lend these to J’zargo? But do you not need them?”

“Oh no, I’m in my second year now. No need for me to prepare for any exam. Come with me and I’ll get them for you. Then I’ll show you the best places to study.”

The clouds were lifting. J’zargo’s future again looked bright. He followed Tirel out of the Arcanaeum, privately thanking the Twin Moons for his good fortune. As they walked, Tirel asked questions about J’zargo’s home, family, and travels. J’zargo was more than happy to answer, pleased by this attention from a fellow student. Not just a student, a second-year apprentice.

“It sounds like you’ve been everywhere,” said Tirel. “Well, at least you’ve seen far more of the world than I have. So I understand why you’ve come to Winterhold, seeing as you want to be a mage like I do, but I’m a bit puzzled why Mehra came as well. I mean, I didn’t get the impression she’s here to enroll as a student.”

“No, Mehra is not here to study magic,” said J’zargo with a sigh. “It is sad, but she cannot use magicka to cast spells.”

Tirel stared. “What? No magic at all? But she’s a Breton and the Dragonborn besides.”

“J’zargo does not understand it either, but it is true. Mehra has the Thu’um and she can take souls from dragons, but she cannot cast even a simple spell. That is the reason Mehra came to the College. She is going to ask the healers for help with this problem.”

Tirel gave a low whistle. “Well, I certainly hope one of our healers has the answer. So what about that high elf, uh, what was his name…?”

J’zargo made a disgusted sound. “The elf calls himself Rumarin.”

Tirel gave him a sidelong glance. “Not a friend of yours, eh?”

“No, that one is no friend of J’zargo. The elf has no respect for anything, not even magic. J’zargo only tolerates him for Mehra’s sake.”

They each summoned a magelight and descended into the service passages. J’zargo did not like these dark halls with their grime and cobwebs and flickering candles, but they only unsettled him when he was lost and alone. Tirel knew where he was going and J’zargo felt at ease.

At length Tirel asked, “You don’t like this fellow, but Mehra does? Whatever for?”

“Mehra likes many things for reasons J’zargo does not understand.”

“But Mehra and this elf, are they, you know…” Tirel trailed off and made a vague gesture.

“What?” After a pause, J’zargo caught Tirel’s meaning and almost hissed. He stopped himself and scowled instead. “No, they are not. The elf is beneath her, she would not stoop so low.”

“He does seem like a shifty sort. Good thing Mehra has you looking out for her. By the way, did you have any success selling that… thing to Sergius?”

“Yes, J’zargo is very pleased. But the elf lied about what we came to sell. It is an item of great power called the White Phial.”

“The White Phial? What’s that?”

J’zargo briefly told the story of how he and his companions found the White Phial. Tirel was clearly impressed. He listened intently and asked many questions. J’zargo played up the most thrilling parts, especially the exploding traps and the undead monsters with their terrible weapons.

“The elf would have ruined our chances of selling the phial,” added J’zargo. “But J’zargo took control. Sergius now has experts studying the phial, and they will pay us once they confirm it is the White Phial.”

“Wow, what a story,” said Tirel. “Good thinking on your part. I’m sure you and your friends will get the price you deserve.”

J’zargo thrust out his chest. “Yes, J’zargo is also sure of this.”

They entered the Hall of Attainment, and J’zargo followed Tirel up the stairs to the second floor. The rooms on this level were arranged in a circle like the rooms below, but these had doors. J’zargo could not help feeling envious.

Tirel’s room was larger than J’zargo’s and had a window that overlooked the courtyard. “It’s turning into a blizzard out there,” said Tirel, glancing through the window at snow falling thick and fast.

J’zargo stared in wonder at a large bookcase. The shelves held fifty books, perhaps more, beautiful volumes bound in fine leather. Books such as these were neither cheap nor easy to find.

“You need material for all five schools of magic, right?” Tirel pulled out several books and offered them to J’zargo. “Here you go.”

J’zargo took in a quick breath and held the books as though they were made of glass. “J’zargo thanks you. J’zargo promises to take great care of these and return them quickly.”

“I know you will,” said Tirel, clapping him on the shoulder. “Now you just need a place to study.”

“J’zargo has his room–”

“Oh no, that’s no good. It gets noisy on your floor, trust me. Better use one of the empty class rooms in the main tower. Come on, I’ll show you. And on the way you can tell me more about your travels with the Dragonborn.”

J’zargo followed, cradling the precious books to his chest. He was all but bursting with happiness now that he had at last found a peer who understood and respected him. Telling his new friend everything he wanted to know was the least J’zargo could do.

Chapter 18: Voice

Mehra fled the workshop into the poorly lit service tunnel. She could not escape the voice in her head, but she could get away from her two quarreling companions. Her nerves were fraying. The voice in her mind would not be silent. The heated argument between Rumarin and J’zargo merged with the flash and hum of apprentices casting enchantments, bringing more misery to her already aching head. Mehra welcomed the relief of the dim tunnel like one entering a cool cave after the heat of a burning desert. She leaned against a wall and pressed a hand to her head.

The voice shouted, “Gaar zu’u!”

“What are you saying?” asked Mehra. She had no idea if it could hear her, let alone understand her.

“Hi gahrot stini,” said the voice.

Mehra closed her eyes. “I don’t understand you.”

The voice rumbled again. Mehra did not understand the words, but she knew frustration when she heard it.

Mehra waited for the voice in her head to growl something further. Mercifully it fell silent. She massaged her head once more, then looked back toward the workshop. How much time had passed? Neither J’zargo nor Rumarin had come looking for her. No doubt they were still locked in their argument about who should sell the White Phial. They probably haven’t even noticed I’m gone, she thought.

Was it worth going back? Her companions had ignored her efforts to share her thoughts on how to handle the transaction. Mehra didn’t know what prompted Rumarin’s sarcastic remark about how he’d “almost rather have Mehra handle it,” but his words still stung.

Mehra’s interest in the phial transaction faded. Rather than remain where she wasn’t wanted, she decided to try finding someone who would know what to do about the voice in her mind. Someone who might even know how she can tap into a source of magicka.

Mehra pulled a bit of parchment from her pocket and squinted at the master wizard’s spidery handwriting. The service passages were filled with more shadows than light. Mehra regretted leaving her lantern in her room. If she had magic like J’zargo, she would have summoned a magelight. Mehra was tired of being crippled like this. She held the parchment near a flickering candle sconce and finally made out the name of the master healer, Colette.

She was tucking the parchment away when she heard footsteps. A magelight flew around a corner, almost too bright to look at. A sharp-faced Altmer woman wearing the robes of a high-ranking mage was not far behind.

Mehra approached the Altmer. “Sorry, could you help me find someone?”

The elven woman stopped, her face twisting into an expression of distaste. “Why aren’t you wearing your apprentice robes?”

Mehra glanced down at herself. She was still wearing her stained and poor-fitting armor. “I’m not a student,” she said.

The Altmer’s eyes lost some of their sharpness. “You’re a guest?”

“Yes.”

“Whom do I have the honor of addressing?”

“My name is Mehra.”

Now the Altmer’s voice was very small. “The Thane of Whiterun? Who just arrived today?”

Being addressed as a thane was strange and unsettling, like wearing fine clothes made for someone else. With reluctance Mehra said, “Yes.”

“Oh. I’m very sorry. If I’d known who you were, I certainly wouldn’t have–” the woman stopped and cleared her throat. “I’m Nirya, teacher of destruction magic. If there’s any way I can possibly assist you, please tell me. Didn’t you say you were looking for someone? I know everyone here, I assure you.”

Mehra considered this. Nirya’s fawning made her uneasy, but Mehra had lost her bearings and did not have a map of the College. “Do you know where I can find the master healer?”

“Colette? Yes, I know her. Do you require healing?”

“Not healing exactly. It’s more of a–” Mehra stopped. She had almost said more than she wanted a stranger to know. “I just need to speak with her.”

Nirya’s smile faltered. “Well then. If you’ll please follow me, I’ll show you to the infirmary.”

Mehra followed Nirya through the dark tunnels. It was not long before Nirya spoke again. “My daughter is a healer too.”

“Is she?”

“Indeed. Her name is Lenari. She works right here at the College, you know. Perhaps you’ve heard of her?”

“No, sorry, I haven’t.” Mehra resisted the impulse to check her parchment again. She did not remember seeing Lenari’s name written there. “She works with Colette?”

“Yes.” Nirya sounded almost bitter. “She’s an apprentice under Colette. But Lenari has exceptional skill, and she’s more than ready to be named a master healer.”

“Has she been an apprentice long?”

“I should say a little over three years now.”

“Oh.” Mehra didn’t trust herself to say anything of substance. Even someone with extraordinary ability couldn’t expect to be named a master healer after only three years. Healing magic was difficult to master, and apprenticeships commonly lasted five years or longer.

Nirya continued, “The College has failed to recognize Lenari’s talent. The only way she’ll truly advance is by finding an appointment elsewhere. In one of the holds as a court wizard or healer, perhaps.” She gave Mehra a sidelong glance.

Mehra saw the hint in the woman’s eyes and grew uncomfortable. “I see.”

“I don’t suppose Jarl Balgruuf has said anything about wishing to appoint a court wizard, has he?”

“Not to me. And he already has Farengar.”

“Farengar?” Nirya spoke the name with disdain. “I had him in my classes. Nothing but clay between his ears. He only got where he is now because Mirabelle recommended him, and I can assure you he didn’t secure her good opinion through his skills in magic. Now as for his skills in other areas…” She made a contemptuous sound.

“Other areas?”

“Mirabelle recommended Farengar for a reason. That reason has nothing to do with merit, but it has everything to do with– well, it would be unseemly for me to say more on the subject.”

Listening to this talk made Mehra feel somehow unclean. “Why are you telling me this?”

Nirya raised her brows. “As Whiterun’s thane, I’m sure you care about what’s best for Jarl Balgruuf and his hold.”

“Well, yes.”

“And any jarl deserves to know if he was misinformed about his court wizard’s qualifications.”

“I– I suppose.” Mehra didn’t like where this was going, but she couldn’t work out how to move the conversation in another direction.

“All I’m saying is that if the occasion arises–say, if Farengar were entrusted with an important task far beyond his abilities–that would be the proper time to speak up and remind Jarl Balgruuf that there are other fine candidates at the College.”

Mehra didn’t know how to answer and tried to think of an excuse to part ways with Nirya. Surely some other mage could help her find the infirmary. “I just remembered, I forgot to bring a… a thing I’m suposed to show Colette, and I need to go back and find it…” Mehra winced just listening to herself.

“Ah, here we are,” said Nirya, pausing to motion Mehra through an open archway. Mehra was unsure whether to feel relieved or demoralized that Nirya had not heard a word she said.

They entered a small waiting area illuminated by several floating balls of light. The walls and floor were of the same dark stone as the rest of the College, but scrubbed spotless. Unlike the dank and musty odors of the service passages, the infirmary was filled with the pleasant fragrance of healing herbs.

An Altmer woman stood over a seated dark-haired Imperial in apprentice robes, carefully removing an herbal poultice from his arm. The Altmer was young and had Nirya’s pointed chin. Mehra decided this must be Lenari. Lenari’s expression darkened as Nirya and Mehra approached, but otherwise she did not acknowledge them.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to clear up the scar as well? I can do it easily,” said Lenari to the Imperial.

“Are you kidding?” The young man flexed his arm to better show off a freshly healed burn wound. “A scar like this gives me something to brag about.”

“Suit yourself. By the way, you probably shouldn’t wear that openly.”

The man clutched at something around his neck. “I thought the College didn’t care which gods you worship.”

Mehra caught a glimpse of an amulet in the shape of a double-headed axe, the symbol of Talos. Such amulets were rare in Cyrodiil, but in Skyrim they were a common sight. Especially in Stormcloak territory.

“You’re right,” said Lenari. “But we have a Thalmor Justiciar staying at the school as a guest. He could be here for some time.”

The Imperial hastily tucked the amulet under his robes. “Gods, I didn’t know.”

“Just keep your amulet hidden and you’ll be fine.”

The man looked anxiously at Nirya and Mehra.

“Don’t worry, I won’t say anything,” said Mehra. Like most people from Cyrodiil, she was used to pretending she didn’t know anyone who worshiped Talos in secret.

“Nor I,” said Nirya. “Venerating a dead human as if he were a god is of course unthinkable for an Altmer, but what the Aldmeri Dominion does to Talos worshipers is simply dreadful.” She gave a wistful sigh. “Though this particular Thalmor is rather handsome.”

Lenari cringed. “Mother, really!”

“What? What did I say?”

The Imperial man fidgeted with the collar of his robes, mumbled something about being late for an appointment, and hurried away. Mehra wanted to follow his example and get away from Nirya, but Mehra had business here.

“Excuse me, is Colette here?” asked Mehra.

Lenari shook her head. “I’m afraid not. She’s in town seeing Jarl Korir right now.”

Nirya laughed. “Oh, is it the ‘problem’ again? The jarl’s dull knife seems to need more sharpening lately.” Nirya’s amused look and Lenari’s answering glare told Mehra more about the Jarl of Winterhold than she had a right to know. Mehra did not know what sort of man the jarl was, but it was wrong to treat his affliction as a joke. How did Nirya even know? Surely not from the master healer herself. Good healers followed a code and respected the privacy of their patients.

Mehra turned away from Nirya and asked Lenari, “Do you know when Collete will be back?”

“She won’t risk crossing the bridge during this blizzard,” said Lenari. “I expect she’ll be back in the morning if the weather is decent.”

“Oh. Thank you. I’ll come back then.”

“Wait,” said Nirya. “Thane Mehra, perhaps my daughter can help you? She’s a very proficient healer, you know.”

“You’re the thane who’s staying here?” Lenari pursed her lips and looked Mehra up and down. Again Mehra was acutely aware of her shabby appearance.

“She most certainly is,” said Nirya. “Do go on, Thane Mehra, tell Lenari what it is you need and she’ll see to it.”

Mehra hesitated. She didn’t wish to explain the depth of her problems in Nirya’s presence, and she was certain the kind of healing she needed was far beyond any apprentice’s abilities. “I… I really need to see a master healer.”

Nirya’s expression tightened. “You don’t think Lenari has sufficient skill?”

Mehra’s mind flailed for words. How could she explain without giving offense? “No, not at all. Wait, that’s not what I meant. It’s just that it’s a personal matter.”

“And Lenari can’t be trusted?” The woman’s voice was like acid.

“No, I only meant…” Mehra wanted to kick herself. No wonder Rumarin hadn’t wanted her handling the transaction with Sergius.

“It’s fine if you need to see Colette instead,” said Lenari with a shrug. “I’ll let her know to expect you tomorrow.”

“What kind of talk is this? You’re every bit as qualified as Colette,” said Nirya.

Lenari groaned. “Mother, this is exactly why Colette doesn’t want you coming to the infirmary anymore.”

Nirya said, “Oh, I see, I’m the enemy now. Must you listen to everything that woman says?”

“This isn’t about Colette, this is about you making all our patients uncomfortable.”

“What nonsense. This is about Colette doing everything she can to hold you back and keep me from helping you–”

“That’s ridiculous!”

Mehra felt dismissed, forgotten by the bickering mother and daughter. The sour memory of Rumarin and J’zargo arguing in the workshop returned. Her presence had made no difference there either. After a few moments, Mehra slipped out of the infirmary unnoticed.

* * *

Mehra took several wrong turns in the underground passages before finally reaching the Hall of Attainment. She had considered going back to her room instead, but her thoughts kept turning to her companions and the White Phial. She was running low on coin and hoped Rumarin and J’zargo had sold the phial for a good price.

The students were settling in for the night, and the hall echoed with talk and laughter. Mehra was startled by the sound of breaking glass. From one of the rooms someone groaned, “I can’t believe it, you just broke our last bottle of ale.”

Mehra approached the entrance to J’zargo’s room and hesitated. Knocking on a curtain was impossible, but she couldn’t just barge in either.

“J’zargo? Rumarin?” Mehra called. There was no answer. She pulled back the curtain. Cold blue light from the font filled the room. From above the desk, the goat head stared at her. Mehra shrank back and let the curtain fall.

Mehra turned to leave the hall, but a conversation from one of the rooms caught her attention.

“Did you hear about the dragon near Riften?” said a tinny male voice.

“What? You’re mixed up.” Another male voice, but low and deep. “The last dragon was spotted near Whiterun.”

“No, this was a different dragon. They’re spreading. I overheard the Arch-Mage himself talking about it.”

Mehra felt her blood run cold. More dragons?

“So what else did the Arch-Mage say?” asked the low voice.

“Not much, except that he thinks it’s a wonderful research opportunity. I wonder if dragon parts are good in potions?”

“What I want to know is what General Tullius and Jarl Ulfric are going to do about the dragons coming back. Better yet, what’s the Dragonborn doing about it?”

The question tore at Mehra’s conscience. Jarl Balgruuf had told her what to do: climb the highest mountain in Skyrim and ask the Greybeards to teach her how to use the Thu’um. The Greybeards were masters of the Voice and could help her understand what it means to be the Dragonborn. But Mehra had put off the task and kept it a secret from everyone, even J’zargo. Now there were more dragons in the world and she had done nothing about it.

The tinny voice spoke again. “I don’t know, but I hear the Dragonborn is at the College at this very moment.”

“What? Really? Shouldn’t she be out there slaying dragons?”

Mehra didn’t wait to hear more. She fled from the hall and didn’t stop until she somehow found her way back to her room.

* * *

Helgen was burning. Mehra sagged to her knees, choking on smoke. Her eyes stung and everything blurred.

A moment ago an Imperial soldier had pressed her neck to the chopping block, slick with fresh blood. She turned her head to avoid looking at the open crate awaiting her head. She did not want to see the severed head of the man who had gone before her. Instead she stared up at the headsman whose hood concealed all but his piercing eyes.

Mehra should have been fighting for her life, pleading for mercy, screaming with outrage– anything. Instead she was numb. She watched the headsman lift the axe. She heard a sound like thunder. A winged black shadow passed overhead, eclipsing the headsmen and draining the color from the pools of blood. The shadow swooped and landed on a watchtower with a sound that shook the earth and made the headsman stumble and drop his axe.

Mehra stared in disbelief. The shadow was a dragon.

The monster let out a terrible roar, a shockwave that Mehra felt down to her bones. The world became a haze of screams and panic and smoke and flame. Mehra struggled to her feet, but another shout from the dragon knocked her down.

The air was black with smoke. Mehra gasped and struggled to free her hands from the rope binding her wrists. The smoke turned thick like a blanket. The town buildings became black shapes in a halo of blue fire. No, not fire but light. From a window. Mehra blinked and strained to make sense of what she was seeing. The veil of her nightmare fell away and she remembered where she was. This isn’t Helgen, Mehra told herself. I’m at the College now.

She became aware of the shouts in her mind. Mehra curled up on her side and held her head between her hands.

“Ruth wah,” shouted the voice.

There was no getting away from it. Mehra sighed and pushed herself upright. The room was mostly in shadow, but the window facing the courtyard let in a ghostly blue light.

“I know who you are,” said Mehra. “You’re the dragon from Whiterun. You can’t be anything else.”

The voice said nothing.

“I know it’s not your fault you ended up in my head. But I didn’t take your soul on purpose. I didn’t want any of this to happen.”

“Zu’u ni mindoraan,” said the voice.

Mehra knew it was pointless to try making conversation when they couldn’t understand each other. But she felt very alone, and she couldn’t help thinking the dragon soul must feel even lonelier trapped where he was.

“I’m hoping the healer will know how to free you,” she continued. “And that she’ll know how to heal me so I can use magic. This is my last chance.”

The dragon soul rumbled something further in his strange tongue. Mehra thought he sounded calmer. Maybe you’re pleased to have someone acknowledge you at last, she thought. I know how that must feel.

Mehra wrapped her arms around her knees and stared into the darkness. She spoke to the dragon in her head. “I don’t see how I can be of use to anyone without my magic. That’s part of why I haven’t gone to High Hrothgar yet to see the Greybeards. Jarl Balgruuf said they’re the only ones who can teach me what it means to be the Dragonborn. But I wasn’t ready to think about that yet.”

The voice said nothing. Mehra kept talking anyway. “And I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to J’zargo. You weren’t there, but he helped me back in Helgen. We started looking out for each other. We’d already agreed to travel to Winterhold together, and… and I was afraid to go to High Hrothgar alone.”

Mehra laid on her side and hugged a pillow to herself. “I’ll have to tell J’zargo goodbye soon. I can’t stay here forever. And Rumarin…” she looked toward the window at the patterns of light and shadow. “I haven’t known him long, but I think he has his own problems to worry about. I don’t think he’d come with me to the mountain. It’s not like I can offer him anything.”

“Dreh nahlot,” grumbled the voice.

Mehra waited for the voice to say something more, but there was only silence. She pulled the blankets over her head and drifted off to sleep.

Chapter 19: Souls

Rumarin walked fast through the poorly lit service tunnels, not knowing where he was going and too angry to care. The transaction with Sergius could hardly have gone worse. Rumarin would have sold the White Phial for a tidy sum if not for J’zargo’s reckless interference. The foolish Khajiit had given away the precious artifact and with it Rumarin’s hopes of paying his debt in time. Now Sergius possessed the phial and could give any excuse to delay payment. They would be lucky to get anything.

How much time did he have left before Sarthis Idren’s men figured out where he was? Rumarin and his companions had paid the cart driver to go to the next city without them, but even if the men hunting Rumarin fell for the ruse, they would soon discover that their quarry never made it to Whiterun. There were few safe places to hide this far north. Winterhold was the first place they would look.

Rumarin paused to stare at a candle sconce. The candle had burned down to almost nothing and the slightest movement of air made the tiny flame sputter. If I don’t have the money when they find me, they’ll put me out like this candle.

Maybe the situation would turn around. Maybe J’zargo was right and Sergius was an honest mage who would pay a fair price. Rumarin grimaced. And maybe the Winterhold bridge would magically fix itself.

Rumarin considered his options. He had nothing of value to sell. Possibly he could persuade someone to give him an errand to run, but jobs that didn’t involve going into deadly caves to retrieve magical artifacts would pay next to nothing.

There was still the task Rumarin didn’t want to think about: spying on the Thalmor. Trifling with a Thalmor Justiciar was like playing with lightning, and he couldn’t even expect a reward for his trouble. The adjutant in Fort Kastav had promised only that he would not have his friends in low places distribute notices throughout Stormcloak territory about a suspicious elf matching Rumarin’s description. Rumarin was already hunted and that kind of attention was the last thing he needed. Why did Mehra have to tell the adjutant everything he needed to know to– No, it was no good thinking about that now. Rumarin sighed and rubbed his temples to ease a headache.

The flickering candle flame died, leaving the tunnel darker than before. Rumarin watched a small black shape scurry across the floor. Of course the College would have rats.

Voices and approaching footsteps echoed through the passage. Two dancing magelights flooded the tunnel with light. Rumarin recognized the white-haired Dunmer as Drevis, and with him was a female orc companion.

Drevis said, “While I appreciate the spellcasting skill that went into somehow cramming several hundred apples into my pillow, I hope it doesn’t happen again. I’m well versed in making things disappear permanently, and if I ever find out who did it…”

“But I don’t think it was a prank,” replied the orc in her rough voice. “My theory is a rare form of spontaneous cloning.”

“Are you saying an apple snuck into my pillow and magically cloned itself?”

“Why not? Stranger things have happened around here.”

The two mages passed without acknowledging Rumarin. But he thought they might know the way out of the service passages and decided to follow them. He was at first amused by their talk about self-cloning apples, undead plants, and floating silverware, but he soon grew bored. Rumarin had almost decided to go another way when Drevis said something that caught his attention.

“No, Mugnor, I’m quite certain the dragons returning won’t change the weather patterns. But you might ask the Dragonborn about that. I met her today, you know. What was her name? Mara, or Marmot, or something like that.”

“Really?” said Mugnor. “I’d love to meet the Dragonborn. She’s a walking soul gem for dragons.”

“Yes, quite remarkable,” said Drevis. “I wonder, does the Dragonborn become more like a dragon with every soul she absorbs, or do the souls remain separate? If you had another soul in your body, would you know it? Would you feel or hear it?”

These were questions that had never before entered Rumarin’s mind. He found it hard enough to believe that Mehra was the Dragonborn, and he accepted it only because he could see no other reason why the Jarl of Whiterun would make her a thane. What would absorbing a dragon soul do to a person?

“I’d rather find out what you can do with a Dragonborn,” said Mugnor. “If you knew how, I bet you could use her to power something big. Like a Centurion.”

“Or a Dwemer airship. I wonder how many dragon souls that would take?”

These comments unsettled Rumarin. How many other magic users were discussing the Dragonborn as if she were a curious artifact? Mehra had come to seek help from these College mages. How would she pay them? Rumarin was sure she didn’t have enough coin to satisfy them, but they might jump at the chance to study her. Or worse. The more Rumarin thought on this, the more uncomfortable he became. He made up his mind to caution Mehra about accepting help from any of these mages.

A flash of light drew Rumarin’s attention to a side passage. The dark elf and the orc walked on without reacting. Their voices faded and their magelights vanished around a corner, leaving the passage quiet and full of gloom.

Rumarin approached the point of light that glimmered like a dying star. The source was a soul gem in a strange contraption. Rumarin knelt to study the device and was startled to see a large rat. Rumarin waved his hand to shoo the rat away, but the creature didn’t even flinch.

After a moment Rumarin conjured a glowing dagger. He had never learned how to call up a magelight, but sometimes he summoned weapons to help him see his way. The rat was alive and breathing, but Rumarin felt a chill when he saw how the unblinking eyes caught the blue light. The rat was an empty shell staring at its own trapped soul.

Rumarin almost dropped the dagger when a male voice called out, “What are you doing over there?”

Rumarin cursed and dismissed the conjured dagger. He put on his most innocent face before standing to face a Dunmer and an Altmer, both dressed in apprentice robes. Their bright magelights darted around the passage like moths.

The Dunmer asked, “You looking to steal our soul gems? Or destroy our traps?”

“Nothing of the sort,” said Rumarin. “It’s just that I’ve never seen such a clever-looking contraption. What does it do exactly?”

The Altmer replied in a perfect Summerset Isle accent, “It’s a soul trap for rats and other small rodents, obviously. Don’t you know? Everyone who takes Sergius’ class on basic enchantments learns how to make them.” His eyes narrowed as he looked over Rumarin. “Those robes are hideous. You should be in school robes like the rest of us.”

Rumarin hated the shabby gray robes he was reduced to wearing, but he would be damned if he let some snooty apprentice know it. “I wear these because they’re terribly comfortable, and I can’t very well wear school robes when I’m not a student.”

The Dunmer squinted. “What’s that red stuff on your face? Don’t tell me it’s–”

“Blood?” Rumarin finished for him. “Don’t worry, it’s just a birthmark marring my otherwise perfect high-bred features.”

The high elf apprentice made a disdainful sound. “No one has birthmarks like that. That’s obviously paint of some sort. I simply fail to understand why even a low-born Altmer would do something so… Nordish.”

“What were you doing with that conjured dagger just now?” asked the Dunmer.

“I was curious about your trap and needed the light.” In the past Rumarin would have answered with a lie, but attempts to cover up his limited spell repertoire usually backfired and led to greater humiliation.

“Why not just summon a magelight?”

“I never bothered learning that spell.”

They gaped at him. “Why wouldn’t you? It’s absurdly easy,” said the Altmer.

“Oh no, that requires far too much studying for a simpleton like me. But I can do this.” Rumarin whipped out a coin and made it dance across his knuckles.

“That’s not real magic,” said the high elf. “Anyone can master a simple coin trick.”

“Really? Perhaps one of you would care to demonstrate?” Rumarin offered the coin.

The Altmer rolled his eyes. “That would be a complete waste of time.”

Rumarin flourished the coin again. “But you obviously know so much about these things, and a half-wit like me is always anxious to learn new tricks from a master.”

The Dunmer snickered. The Altmer glared at Rumarin and said, “Smirk all you want, but no parlor trick will make up for an appalling lack of magical ability on your part.”

Rumarin felt a rush of anger and his hand squeezed around the coin. No, don’t go down that road, Rumarin told himself, it’s no use throwing a fit over a snotty mageling. The last thing I need is another enemy, especially in a place like this.

The Altmer apprentice brushed past to inspect the trap. “This one’s caught a soul. Vilonos, do you mind…?”

“You always make me get the rats. Why don’t you do it this time?” Vilonos thrust a basket at his tall companion. Inside the basket were several rats caught somewhere between life and death, their eyes staring at nothing. Rumarin suppressed a shudder.

“I told you, I don’t have my rat tongs. Besides, I’m better at resetting the traps.”

“Typical.” Vilonos bent down to collect the rat.

Rumarin asked, “Out of curiosity, what do you do with these gems and leftover rats?”

“Sanriel and I split the gems between us for our enchanting projects,” said Vilonos. “As for the rats, more often than not we sell them in the village–”

“Don’t tell him that,” snapped Sanriel, who was placing an empty soul gem in the trap.

“Oh lighten up. He’s not even a student, who’s he going to tell?”

Rumarin blinked. “I didn’t realize there was a market for not-quite-dead rats.”

Vilonos laughed. “That’s why you call it squirrel or rabbit. Once it’s meat, who can tell?”

Rumarin kept the disgust off his face. “Makes perfect sense. I’m sure it’s passable with the right seasonings, and there’s little risk in selling it to villagers.”

Sanriel finished baiting the trap with a piece of bread. “And what pray tell do you mean by that?”

“I’m only saying it’s a clever idea and I wish I’d thought of it myself. Skyrim peasants aren’t known for their discerning palates, so they’d never catch on. Even if they did, what would they do about it? There’s no danger in offending beggars and peasants.” Rumarin paused. He decided to risk nudging the conversation in another direction. “Now if you were selling these to, say, Thalmor…”

“Selling rat meat to Thalmor Justiciars? No one would be that stupid,” said Vilonos. “I hear they kill you just for looking at them the wrong way.”

Sanriel stood and brushed a speck of dust from his sleeve. “That’s ridiculous. Thalmor Justiciars are diplomats and advisors who help manage affairs of state.”

Vilonos dropped his voice. “But there’ve been reports of Thalmor destroying homes and slaughtering people on the mere suspicion of Talos worship. That they even arrest people for simply helping Talos worshipers.”

Rumarin adjusted his hood so neither of them could see his face. Killing Talos worshipers was the least of what the Thalmor did. In Cyrodiil there had long been whispers of the Thalmor spiriting people away to torture them, but Rumarin had never quite believed the rumors until he met fugitives who had escaped from a Thalmor prison camp. Rumarin was still with the traveling artists back then, and his troupe gave food and money to the escaped prisoners. Their starved and bruised bodies were proof enough of Thalmor cruelty, but Rumarin most remembered the small child. Rumarin could not approach without making the boy tremble and shrink away. The fugitives explained that the sight of an Altmer was enough to fill the boy with terror. Rumarin could not dwell on this memory without feeling a twist of shame, as though he were somehow to blame for what other high elves had done to the child.

Sanriel shook his head. “Thalmor don’t kill anyone, at least not without just cause. It’s all Stormcloak propaganda. Ulfric’s followers will say anything to justify their rebellion.”

Rumarin had to bite his tongue. When he spoke again, he kept his tone light. “And here I thought a Justiciar came to the College to root out Talos worshipers. Clearly I’ve been listening to the wrong people.”

Sanriel looked down his nose at Rumarin. Sanriel was only a few inches taller, but it was enough. “Indeed you have. Ancano is here to promote relations between the Aldmeri Dominion and the College, and to serve as an advisor to the Arch-Mage. He said so himself.”

“Really? I didn’t know the Arch-Mage had advisors. I thought Arch-Mages knew everything.”

“Of course he doesn’t have advisors,” muttered Vilonos. “That’s what he has Mirabelle for. Everyone knows Ancano’s so-called position here is a sham.” He gave Sanriel a sideways glance. “Well, almost everyone.”

Sanriel glared at the Dunmer. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know that Urag gro-Shub tightened up security in the Hall of Relics. Now he won’t let anyone near it without an escort and a note of permission. That didn’t happen until after Mirabelle caught that Thalmor snooping around.”

“Who says Ancano was ‘snooping’ anywhere? Did you see it for yourself?”

“Well no, but–”

“That’s what I thought. Hearsay.”

Rumarin could see he wasn’t going to learn anything more from them. But at least now he knew the Thalmor’s name and cover story. If other students were as talkative as these two, getting more information would be child’s play. He left Sanriel and Vilonos to their argument and walked away unnoticed.

* * *

“I don’t have time for your idle questions,” said the gray-haired Nord woman. Instead of robes she wore a roughspun servant’s dress. She shook a bucket full of rags at Rumarin and added, “Do you have any idea how long it takes to clean these halls?”

Rumarin glanced at the hall around them. Unlike the service passages and the dormitory for apprentices, the place was mostly free of dust and cobwebs. No doubt this had something to do with the fact that the rooms were reserved for high-ranking mages and important guests. Mehra’s room was in this tower, but that wasn’t why Rumarin had come. He wanted to find out exactly where the Thalmor Justiciar was staying.

“I couldn’t say,” said Rumarin. “I’m far better at making messes than cleaning them up, I’m afraid.”

“It’ll take me all night if you don’t stop bothering me.”

Rumarin suppressed a sigh as the woman turned away. Even the servants recognized that an elf in tattered old robes didn’t belong at the College and treated him with disdain. He considered changing back into his imitation College robes but dismissed the idea almost immediately. He couldn’t risk it after what happened in Fort Kastav.

So far Rumarin’s efforts to learn more about the Thalmor Justiciar had proven a waste of time. Almost no one had anything to say that Rumarin didn’t already know or guess at for himself. However, he did overhear intriguing gossip about the Thalmor sleeping with one of the professors.

The door to the service passages opened, and Mirabelle entered the hall. She was closely followed by a high elf in dark robes, gold-trimmed and immaculate. Rumarin tensed. This was the Thalmor.

“I believe I’ve made myself rather clear,” said Mirabelle, her tone barely civil.

“Yes, of course,” said the Thalmor. “I’m simply trying to understand the reasoning behind the decision.”

Rumarin pulled out a crumpled map of the College that he had found in a rubbish bin and pretended to study it. He could hardly make sense of the map, but it was a useful prop when he wished to look like he wasn’t eavesdropping.

“No one may enter the Hall of Relics without permission from the Arch-Mage himself.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand why you won’t make an exception for a representative of the Aldmeri Dominion–”

“You may be used to the Empire bowing to your every whim, but you’ll find the Thalmor receive no such treatment here. You are a guest of the College, here at the pleasure of the Arch-Mage. I hope you appreciate the opportunity.”

The Thalmor moved his arms behind his back. From this angle Rumarin could see the gloved hands clench into fists. “Yes, of course. The Arch-Mage has my thanks.”

“Very good. Then we’re done here.”

The Thalmor’s eyes were full of hate as the Master Wizard walked away. After a moment he stalked up the stairwell. Rumarin had no wish to be anywhere near a Thalmor who was in a dangerous mood, but he was compelled to follow. Rumarin kept his distance and stepped softly.

Rumarin froze when he heard a shout and a terrible clatter ahead. The Thalmor’s voice echoed down the stairwell. “You fool, leaving this rubbish lying about– I might have broken my neck!”

A frantic woman’s voice cried, “I’m so sorry sir, are you much hurt?”

Rumarin reached the upper level and lingered in the shadows to avoid notice. The old servant woman he spoke to earlier was helping the Thalmor to his feet. The Thalmor pressed a hand to his bleeding forehead. Nearby was an overturned bucket and rags strewn across the floor. Rumarin suppressed a laugh when he realized the Thalmor must have tripped over the bucket.

The woman picked one of the rags off the floor. “Here, let me help you–”

The Thalmor pushed her away. “Get that filthy rag away from me. I’ll report you. I’ll see to it the school turns you out. I’ll–”

The old servant twisted the rag in her hands. “Oh please don’t. I’ve nowhere else to go.”

“You should have thought of that sooner. Where I come from, we have no tolerance for such slipshod behavior.”

“Please. I don’t have money, but I cook, clean, sew…” The old woman wilted under the Thalmor’s look of contempt. In a rush she added, “And I know things– what the people do, where they go. Who they worship.”

The Thalmor regarded her as though she were a horse he was thinking of buying. “Is that so?”

“Yes, I–”

“Very well. The first thing I want you to do is clean up this mess properly. I’ll speak with you later.”

“Oh yes, I’ll do that right away, yes, thank you sir!”

Rumarin wondered what the Thalmor had in mind and was reminded of plays where mortals made pacts with the Daedra. From his place in the shadows he watched the Thalmor turn away from the pitiful old servant and pull out a key. Strange, thought Rumarin. Wouldn’t mages insist on magical locks?

The Thalmor unlocked the door to his room, but he didn’t go in. Instead he turned his head and stared hard in Rumarin’s direction.

Rumarin held his breath. The Thalmor was looking right at him. What would Rumarin say if the Thalmor decided to have a word with him? Oh no, I wasn’t spying on you at all, I simply enjoy skulking in dark stairwells–

The Thalmor went into his room and shut the door. Rumarin let out a sigh of relief. The old woman rushed to put the place in order, huffing as she gathered rags and swept the floor.

Rumarin’s eyes lingered on the door to Mehra’s room. He almost knocked but checked the impulse. She was probably asleep at this late hour. And after what happened in Sergius’ workshop, Rumarin was sure any conversation with Mehra would be awkward at best. He was too rattled and exhausted to put on a good face just yet.

Sleep was all Rumarin wanted now. But then he remembered where his bedroll was and silently cursed. He did not want to deal with J’zargo right now, not after that damnable Khajiit gave away their phial.

Rumarin wandered the College halls and passages, learning their twists and turns. He disabled every soul trap he found, though he knew there was little point in it. Apprentices would keep setting the traps long after he was gone. But disarming the loathsome things made him feel better anyway. As an extra touch he added a handful of ash to make it look like each trap had incinerated a rat. Rumarin had no idea what mages used ash for, but there were bags of it in all the classrooms he explored.

The halls were empty this time of night and Rumarin heard nothing but the echo of his own footsteps. He paused to stare into a cabinet full of specimens– brittle white animal bones, winged insects trapped in amber, bottled pig embryos suspended in liquid. Rumarin found himself wondering what Otero would make of all this. In his mind he heard Otero say in his booming voice, “My collection of pig embryos is far more impressive.”

Otero had been dead for years, but Rumarin could still see his old friend and mentor clearly in his head. A big Nord man dressed in the motley colors of a jester, pretending more often than not to be drunk or soft in the head. Most people bought the act and believed him a fool, but even as a child Rumarin knew better. The man’s wit could flash like the coins he used in his tricks. In life the old jester had often given him advice, though it was usually wrapped in a riddle or a joke.

I wonder what you would say if you could see me now, thought Rumarin.

Otero said, “I wonder what you’re doing in a place like this, seeing as you love mages almost as much as Black-Briar mead.”

Rumarin sometimes had conversations in his head with his memory of Otero, particularly when he was down on his luck. In his mind Rumarin replied, “I don’t have much of a choice. I have to play spy for a Stormcloak just so he’ll stay off my back, and I have to wait and hope the College will give us something for the White Phial. It’s all a mess.”

“Don’t you have friends you can turn to? What about those two you’ve been traveling with?”

“They’re not my friends, least of all J’zargo. Do you know he gave away our phial? He’s all but served my head on a platter if this doesn’t play out right. He’s no different from any other pompous, self-absorbed mage I’ve met. Worse, actually.”

“And yet you both have the same taste in robes. What do you suppose that means?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

“What about Mehra?”

Rumarin hesitated. “I barely know her.”

“You’ve known her as long as you’ve known J’zargo, yet you’ve already made up your mind about him.”

“Mehra is part of the reason I’m in this Thalmor mess.”

“Indeed! How dare she be a terrible liar and let a Stormcloak officer trick her into revealing inconvenient truths.”

“Well, when you put it like that…”

“Didn’t she heal you in the cave? Didn’t she stand up to the Stormcloak when he was about to arrest you? Didn’t she speak up when that one student made light of bound weapons?”

“I doubt she’d be so quick to do any of that if she knew what I really am.”

“And what are you?”

“Worse than useless. The smuggling, the scams, the debts, all the things I’ve had to do to survive since our troupe broke apart. If she knew, she…”

“Wouldn’t understand? Wouldn’t want anything more to do with you?”

“Yes.”

“No more than I would?”

“I’m not sure even the real you would understand or forgive me for what I’ve become.”

Otero’s voice turned soft. “My boy, didn’t I say that I’d always be there for you?”

Rumarin’s hands clenched. Those words used to comfort him, but that was before he realized Otero had made a promise he couldn’t keep. Now there was no Otero. He was dead.

Slowly Rumarin’s mind returned to the present moment. From the cabinet glass his reflection stared back at him like a ghost. After a time Rumarin drew away to aimlessly wander the halls again.

* * *

Sergius looked across his desk at Isolithi, a Redguard woman clad in the green robes of an alchemist. “You’re sure this is the White Phial?” he asked.

Isolithi finished her examination of the shining bottle and placed it gently on the desk. “This matches every description I’ve read of it. Yes, I’m sure this is the artifact Nurelion spent his life searching for.”

Sergius nodded. “I remember the last time Nurelion visited the College. We spoke at length about what it would take to enchant a bottle to refill itself of any liquid. Sadly such enchantments are beyond even my skill.”

“So Nurelion hired these vagrants to find the White Phial and they brought it here instead? Why?”

“The Khajiit said something about Nurelion refusing to pay what he promised.”

“It all sounds highly suspicious. Did they say how the White Phial was damaged?”

“They found it like that, or so they said.”

Isolithi heaved a sigh. “That crack– it’s enough to break any alchemist’s heart. What are you going to do now?”

Sergius reached for parchment and a quill. “We need Nurelion’s side of the story before we can make a decision. Tomorrow I’ll send one of my assistants to Windhelm with a message.”

Chapter 20: Magic Tricks

Mehra entered the College dining hall, a spacious round room that smelled of spices and fresh baked bread. Only a few mages were gathered at this early hour, poring over books and scrolls as they ate. One of the mages clearly didn’t belong, an Altmer in drab robes who sat apart from the others with his hood pulled forward, but Mehra didn’t have to see his face to know it was Rumarin. He was staring into a bowl of stew and made no sign of noticing her. Mehra hesitated, then approached him.

Rumarin barely glanced up. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep. “What does this look like to you?” He pointed his spoon at the bowl.

Mehra stared, not sure what to make of the question. “Sorry, am I disturbing you?”

Rumarin motioned to one of the empty chairs, inviting her to sit. “Not at all, I just want a second opinion. The fellow who brought this assured me it’s beef and vegetable stew, but he wasn’t very convincing.”

“Why not?”

“Unless I’m quite mistaken, beef comes from cows. Do you remember seeing any cows in town?”

“Actually… no.”

“Exactly. I only hope it’s not rat meat.”

“Why would it be rat meat?”

“No reason. Just my morbid imagination running loose again.”

A young Nord man with shaggy yellow hair approached them. Mehra could see from his simple clothes that he was neither a professor nor a student. When he asked if he could get her anything, she realized he was a server.

“What do you have?” she asked.

“Er, well, there’s the beef stew, salted fish, and we have horker loaf.” The flustered way he answered Mehra’s questions made her think he was new to his job, or else very shy.

After he left Rumarin asked Mehra, “Did I really just hear you order the horker loaf?”

Mehra rubbed the side of her head. The dragon soul was quiet this morning, but already she felt the edge of a headache. “Yes. I’ve never had it and it’s cheap.”

“At least you’re sure to get what you ordered. There’s no shortage of blubbery sea cows in these parts.”

An uncomfortable silence followed. Mehra watched Rumarin use the spoon to nudge at floating bits of food. Nearly all the color had been boiled out of the vegetables and meat.

“I’m sorry for running out yesterday. I was… I had to…” Mehra struggled to put words together. She couldn’t admit she fled the workshop because a dragon was shouting in her head, nor could she think of an excuse that sounded reasonable.

Rumarin shrugged, his eyes never leaving the stew. “You don’t owe me an explanation. I probably wouldn’t be able to make heads or tails of it anyway. My mind is too slow and stupid this morning.” He stifled a yawn.

“You didn’t sleep?”

Rumarin rubbed his eyes. “Funny thing about mageling dormitories: I’m not sure anyone actually sleeps in them. Too busy carousing and setting fire to the curtains. I think I dozed for a couple of hours before someone rang a bell and got everyone up.”

The server returned with the horker loaf, veined with fat and steaming hot. Mehra thanked him and paid for the meal, but the young man lingered and stared until she started feeling self-conscious. Had she given the wrong amount of gold? Was there something on her face? Was her hair sticking up?

The Nord blurted out, “I just wanted to say I’m honored to meet the Dragonborn.”

“Um, thank you?” Mehra felt her face grow hot. Many people scoffed at the very idea that she could be the Dragonborn, but she preferred that to someone looking at her with their eyes full of reverence. It reminded her of the way the Whiterun soldiers had stood gazing at her after she absorbed the dragon soul.

The young man fled and Rumarin said, “I’ll bet you could have gotten a free meal out of him if you’d tried.”

Mehra didn’t trust herself to answer. After a moment she began eating the horker loaf, ignoring the way Rumarin eyed it with distaste. The meat was a little gamey and left an oily film in her mouth, but she was glad for something to fill her empty stomach.

At length Mehra asked, “Did you sell the phial?”

Rumarin looked away. “No. J’zargo gave it to Sergius.”

“J’zargo did what?” asked Mehra. She must not have heard him right. J’zargo wouldn’t do a thing like that, surely.

Rumarin explained what happened. At first Mehra was relieved that the situation wasn’t quite as bad as it first sounded–at least Sergius had said he would pay later–but the way Rumarin spoke of it troubled her. She asked, “Did you both agree to this?”

“Absolutely not.”

Mehra turned this over in her head, trying to make sense of it. J’zargo placed great value on fairness and honor, and however much he might dislike their new companion, Rumarin was entitled to his share of the phial. She put these thoughts aside for the moment and asked, “So Sergius is going to pay for it after he confirms it’s the White Phial?”

“Yes, right after sloads grow wings and take flight.”

Mehra was taken aback by the bitter edge in his voice. “You don’t think he’ll keep his word?”

“Why should he? Sergius already has the bloody thing. He could pay us in snowberries or never get around to paying us at all.”

“But Sergius might mean what he says. It could still work out.” Mehra had meant to be reassuring, but she saw that her words only pushed Rumarin deeper into his black mood.

“I suppose you can afford to be optimistic,” he said. “As for me, I don’t trust anyone who keeps a dead lizard for a pet.”

Mehra retreated into herself and stared at what remained of the horker loaf. She had lost her hunger and could not bring herself to eat more. She was about to take her leave when Rumarin asked, “Have you spoken to any of the mages yet? About the magic and the… hearing problem?”

Yesterday Mehra had told Rumarin of the “hearing problem” after he noticed she hadn’t caught a word of something he said. She couldn’t admit the real problem to him or anyone else– they would all think she was going mad if they knew she was hearing a voice in her head. Mehra sensed that Rumarin never really bought her story, but to her relief he didn’t question it.

“I went to see the master healer last night, but she was away,” said Mehra. “I’m going to see if she’s back yet.”

“Not that it’s any of my business, but do you know what sort of arrangement you’ll make with them?”

Mehra stared down at her hands. Even if the mages here could help her, she knew she had nothing to offer in exchange. She had been clinging to the hope that she would figure something out when the time came. “I don’t know.”

Rumarin pulled out a coin and turned it over in his hands. “If they offer to help, I’d think twice about accepting. Their price might be rather high.”

Mehra considered this. She didn’t think he was referring to gold. “How do you mean?”

“You should eavesdrop on these mages from time to time. They have all sorts of interesting conversations about their pet projects. For example, one of them is looking for a test subject who’s willing to have their brains swapped for Dwemer gears.”

Mehra watched Rumarin play with the coin. The motions looked less like a performance and more like fidgeting. She asked, “Are you saying they might want to use me in an experiment?”

“If you were a mage bent on unraveling the mysteries of the world, wouldn’t you be interested in knowing how a Dragonborn works?”

Mehra kept anticipating a shout from the dragon in her head, but it remained silent. She was unsure whether to feel relieved or concerned. “I was actually hoping they’d know already know something about that.”

“Why?”

Mehra spoke haltingly. “The Dragonborn is supposed to be a warrior, but I’m not. Being a Dragonborn just makes me a… a… soul vampire.”

Rumarin had been avoiding her gaze, but now he looked at her intently. “You’re not going to ask them to cure you of being the Dragonborn, are you?”

“I don’t know. I might.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier to simply avoid dragons? Leave Skyrim and pretend none of it ever happened?”

Mehra thought about the dragon soul trapped in her head, imagined living with it to her dying day. “No. It’s not that simple.”

Rumarin started to say something more, then appeared to change his mind. He turned his attention back to the coin and twirled it in his fingers.

Mehra watched him for a while. Her eyes couldn’t catch the trick he used to make the coin disappear and reappear at his whim. “How do you do that?”

“This?” Rumarin made the coin reappear in his palm. “Are you asking me to teach you the arcane secrets that all upstanding street magicians swear never to reveal on pain of death?”

“They don’t swear that,” said Mehra. But his lack of reaction gave her pause. “Do they?”

Rumarin’s mouth twitched from the effort of suppressing a smile. He held up the coin. “Otero said that one of the most important elements of a coin trick is misdirection.” He transferred the coin to his other hand and closed his fingers around it. When he opened his hand again the coin had vanished.

“How did I make it disappear?” asked Rumarin.

Mehra thought hard. “It couldn’t have really disappeared.”

“True enough.”

“Was it ever in that hand to begin with?”

Rumarin turned his other hand just enough to reveal the coin. “You’re right, it never left this hand. The real magic is that these little deceptions work even when people are watching for them.” He paused for a moment and looked pensive. “Otero taught me how to do these when I was a child, but it still took me a while to figure out how deception works in the real world.”

Mehra watched his hands as he slowly repeated the trick, letting her see the coin’s true journey. She asked, “How are the deceptions different?”

“Intentions, mostly. There’s a world of difference between a jester who wants to make you laugh and a charlatan who wants to use you. But it’s also just…” he trailed off.

“Just what?”

“Just a shame they never have the good manners to wear signs that say ‘thief’ or ‘assassin’ or whatever they are,” said Rumarin with a forced smile, and Mehra suspected he hadn’t finished what he had really started to say.

Mehra saw J’zargo enter the dining hall. His steps were halting and his eyes bore a striken look that Mehra did not associate with the normally alert and confident J’zargo. Mehra lifted her hand to draw J’zargo’s attention. Rumarin heaved a sigh and mumbled something Mehra couldn’t make out.

J’zargo settled into one of the chairs. Mehra noticed he would not look her in the eye.

“Are you all right?” asked Mehra.

J’zargo took a deep breath. “Yes, J’zargo is fine. It is only…”

“Only what?”

“J’zargo took his entrance exam.”

“And failed?” asked Rumarin.

J’zargo bristled. “Of course J’zargo did not fail.”

“What happened?” asked Mehra.

J’zargo put his head in his hands. “J’zargo must take remedial courses in restoration and illusion magic.”

“Oh dear, extra magic classes, how horrible,” murmured Rumarin.

“It is horrible,” snapped J’zargo. “It is another expense that will be a burden to J’zargo’s family. Already they have paid much. And to begin with such classes– it is a bad beginning, very bad.”

“But it’s not forever, right?” said Mehra. “You’ll have more advanced classes after that.”

Mehra saw from the way J’zargo’s ears twitched back that her words had only annoyed him. “It is temporary, yes, but now J’zargo must work twice as hard to prove himself to these men and elves.” His eyes hardened. “And this J’zargo will do. Yes. They will see what Khajiit can do.”

A server came to ask for J’zargo’s order, but the Khajiit waved him away. J’zargo retrieved a book from his bag and began paging through it.

Mehra leaned closer for a better look. “What’s that one about? Restoration magic?”

“Yes,” said J’zargo, pausing to read one of the pages. He made a face and shook his head. “J’zargo does not understand. The exam had many questions about things which are not in this book.”

“May I see?” asked Mehra. J’zargo gave her the book. She bit her lip and frowned as she turned the pages. “Is this really a book you were supposed to read for the exam?”

“Yes, this was in the list of books that came with J’zargo’s acceptance letter. Why?”

“Well…” Mehra turned another page. “It’s just… I’m surprised the College recommends it. There are healing spells here, but it doesn’t talk about when and how to use them. And there’s very little about anatomy or common diseases.”

Rumarin asked, “Are there at least any pictures worth looking at?”

“It would almost be better if there weren’t any. See this one of the digestive system? It puts the liver in the wrong place, and the gallbladder is missing.”

“I hate misplacing my gallbladder,” said Rumarin.

Mehra turned to J’zargo and asked, “Do you have any parchment and a pencil?”

“Yes, but why?”

“I know some other books you can try instead. If you want, I’ll write them down for you.”

“But J’zargo does not understand. You are not a magic user. How did you learn all of this?”

Mehra ran a hand through her hair, arranging it so that it partly concealed her face. “I just… I grew up around magic users and picked things up after a while, and… that’s all.” She wished she sounded more convincing. From the beginning she let J’zargo think she had never been able to cast spells, it was easier that way, but she didn’t know how he would react if he learned she had never told him the truth. She glanced at her companions. J’zargo seemed satisfied with her answer and started searching through his bag. Rumarin’s face gave away nothing.

J’zargo sorted through several sheets of parchment, seeking one that wasn’t already covered in notes and drawings. Mehra stopped him and asked to see a drawing that had caught her eye, a Khajiit mage in flowing robes.

“J’zargo sometimes does these to help him think,” he muttered, clearly embarrassed.

“I didn’t know you could draw. It’s very good. It looks…” Mehra paused. There was something both familiar and unsettling about the Khajiit mage’s outstretched arms and grim face. She realized what it was when Rumarin said, “It’s the spitting image of Shalidor. With fur and a tail.”

J’zargo immediately hid the drawing under his notes and grumbled something under his breath. He pushed some parchment and a pencil toward Mehra.

Mehra wrote easily, building a list from works she knew well. She took care to limit the books to those that would not overwhelm a new learner. “If you study these in order they’ll be easier to follow. Oh, and here’s the standard work on anatomy. They should have it in the library.” She had barely finished writing the title of the anatomy book when two students approached their table. She recognized Tirel, the dark-haired Breton they had met in the service passages. With him was an Altmer, tall and sharp-faced even for his kind.

“Hello J’zargo,” said Tirel pleasantly. “All right if we join you?”

J’zargo hastily put away his notes and drawings. “Of course, we would be honored.”

Tirel introduced his Altmer companion. “Sanriel specializes in enchantments, he’s one of the best. We take a lot of the same classes. Sanriel, this is J’zargo and his friend Mehra, the Dragonborn.”

Mehra winced. She was sure she would never get used to people calling her the Dragonborn.

“You haven’t introduced everyone,” said Sanriel, his eyes unfriendly as he turned to Rumarin. “I remember you from the tunnels. What do you call yourself?”

Rumarin answered, “The name’s Rumarin. Professional sluggard and wastrel.”

Tirel told Sanriel, “He also helped them retrieve the magical artifact I was telling you about. You know, the White Phial.”

Rumarin straightened. “How do you know about that?”

“J’zargo told me all about it. Quite a fascinating story, I thought.”

“Really,” said Rumarin. Mehra thought he sounded indifferent, but then she saw him fold his arms to hide clenched hands.

Sanriel shook his head. “I thought it sounded rather fanciful. Skeletons? Draugr? All the trappings of a children’s bedtime story.”

“It is no bedtime story,” said J’zargo, tail lashing. “It is the truth. We fought such things and survived, all of us.”

“Of course you did,” said Tirel. “By the way, are you all coming to the party?”

“What party?” asked Mehra.

“Oh, you know, the big party they’re having here in the dining hall in a couple of days. They always have a banquet this time of year. Everyone will be there.”

J’zargo’s ears perked. “Everyone? Even the Arch-Mage himself?”

Sanriel chimed in this time. “Most certainly. The professors, the students, Arch-Mage Savos Aren, and Justiciar Ancano.” The Altmer’s voice had a note of reverence when he mentioned the last two names, especially Ancano’s.

“An Arch-Mage and a Thalmor Justiciar at the same party?” asked Rumarin. “I’m getting tingles just thinking about it. It’s a shame I left all my fancy ball gowns at home.”

J’zargo glared at him. “How can you make jokes about such things? Do you respect nothing?”

“On the contrary, I’m so full of respect for this event that I wouldn’t dare ruin it by showing up.” Rumarin got out of his chair and stretched. “Well, I must be going. You know how it is, so much time and so little to do. So long.”

“Why do you put up with an ill-bred ruffian like that?” Sanriel asked when Rumarin was gone.

“He’s not a ruffian,” said Mehra.

J’zargo said, “That one is no friend of J’zargo. Once our business with the phial is done, he will leave. The sooner the better, J’zargo thinks.”

Tirel asked, “Say J’zargo, how did the exam go?”

J’zargo made a choked sound. “It was fine. Why would it not be fine?”

“Splendid, I knew you wouldn’t have any trouble. I bet you’ll even be ready for the next magic competition.”

“Competition? What is this competition?”

“You have a lot to catch up on,” said Sanriel with a disdainful shake of his head. “Every year the school holds a magic competition. The students who cast the most powerful spells or use their magic in the most clever and surprising ways win prizes. Last year I took first place in enchantments.”

Tirel said, “Oh, Sanriel, you’ve got to show them that thing you’re working on.”

“What thing?” Sanriel’s question came out flat, like he knew perfectly well what Tirel was talking about.

“You know, the thing. Go on, show them.”

Sanriel gave Tirel a hard look. The Breton gazed back, never losing his smile. Mehra noticed that Sanriel broke eye contact first.

“If you insist.” Sanriel reached into his satchel and produced a silver ball. He placed it gently on the table.

At first the ball did nothing. Sanriel tapped his fingers on the table, and the ball twitched and jolted to life. By varying the rhythm of his tapping, Sanriel could coax the ball to move any way he pleased. It zipped this way and that and rolled in dizzying circles.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” said Mehra, wide-eyed.

“Yes, it… it is most impressive.” J’zargo’s voice sounded like it was getting caught in his throat.

Sanriel picked up the ball and used his sleeve to rub out a smudge from its shining surface. “I got the inspiration from the remains of a Dwemer automaton. Sergius let me study the one he has in his workshop.”

Tirel said, “What I’m working on is a little more basic. Here, I’ll show you.” He reached over and snatched the parchment Mehra had been writing on.

“Wait, no,” said Mehra. “That’s–”

Tirel held the parchment aloft. Mehra gasped as it burst into flames.

J’zargo was horrified. “What are you doing? This is not–”

Tirel grinned and waved the paper a few times, sending out a fountain of sparks. Just as suddenly the flames vanished, leaving the parchment whole and unharmed. “See? It’s only an illusion spell, no harm done.” He offered it back to Mehra. She took it and gave Tirel a reproachful look.

“So how about it?” Tirel asked J’zargo. “What’s your best spell?”

Mehra knew J’zargo couldn’t cast many spells, certainly nothing that would impress the likes of Tirel or Sanriel. Her friend’s expression hardened, but she could see the distress he was trying to mask.

“Actually, we need to be somewhere,” said Mehra. “We have to–”

“No. J’zargo must show his spell first.” J’zargo took a deep breath and called up a magelight.

Sanriel snorted. “Oh please. Even a child can cast a magelight.”

J’zargo held up his hand. “It is not the whole spell. Watch.” He kept his eyes on the magelight and concentrated. The little ball of light changed color, shifting from white to pink.

Tirel raised his eyebrows. “Can you make it turn other colors?”

J’zargo kept his eyes fixed on the magelight and gritted his teeth. The light turned a deeper shade of pink. Sanriel laughed. J’zargo sighed and let the spell fade.

Tirel cleared his throat. “Yes, well, perhaps with a bit more work.”

“J’zargo admits it is not one of his better spells. Of course he has others.”

“Better than that one? Do tell,” said Sanriel.

“J’zargo apologizes, he has many things to do and must go now.”

Mehra saw that J’zargo was crushed and though he was doing his best to hide his shame, he had clearly had enough. She watched J’zargo leave the dining hall, her paper list of restoration books lying on the table, forgotten in his haste. Taking the list, Mehra got up to follow her friend.

Tirel said, “Wait, do you have to go so soon?”

“I have to–” Mehra broke off. She was going to say she had to make sure J’zargo was all right, but it would only further damage him in their eyes. “I have to see the master healer, Colette.”

“Not for anything serious, I hope?”

“No, but she’s expecting me.”

“Then I’ll go with you.”

“Oh, no thank you, you don’t have to trouble with–”

“It’s no trouble at all,” said Tirel with a smile. “The infirmary is in the service passages and it’s very easy to lose your way. It’s better to have a guide until you’re used to them.”

Sanriel said, “And since you don’t have any magic, you’ll want him to fend off the big rats for you.”

“What?” Mehra stared at Sanriel and felt the flush rising in her face. She couldn’t decide whether she was more stung by the insult or surprised that he knew about her inability to cast spells. Only J’zargo and Rumarin knew anything about that, or so she thought. How did Sanriel find out?

“Take it from me, the service tunnels are full of them,” Sanriel continued with a smirk. “Rats, that is.”

Tirel motioned Mehra ahead and said, “After you.”

There was no time to pause and collect herself. Numbly Mehra began to leave the dining hall, Tirel close behind.

Chapter 21: Challenges

J’zargo sat at his desk in his room, struggling to write a letter to his family. Normally the words flowed out of him, especially after coming to Skyrim. J’zargo had seen many strange and terrible things in this land of Nords. How many Khajiit had stared into the face of an undead monster or had their whiskers singed by dragonfire? J’zargo suppressed a sigh, knowing deep down that only his mother and little sister M’iahni would believe any of it. His father and older siblings paid little heed to anything J’zargo said. And now J’zargo must tell them he would soon need more money to cover remedial classes. His father would shake his head and say he knew it all along, J’zargo did not have what it took to succeed in such a place, the thjiz ja’qara would not last a year.

J’zargo laid his head on the desk and closed his eyes. It did not help that he had made a fool of himself in the dining hall earlier that morning. He could still hear Sanriel’s laughter ringing in his ears. Why did J’zargo think anyone would be impressed with his trick of turning a magelight pink? Only M’iahni had ever thought it was anything wonderful.

The curtain rustled. J’zargo instantly recognized Rumarin’s footsteps and sat up, pretending to read a book so he would not have to acknowledge the elf. But J’zargo’s ears kept twitching back, expecting to hear some stupid joke or comment. He was surprised when the elf said nothing and went to collect his belongings.

“You are staying at the inn?” asked J’zargo. He was not sure why he spoke. Who cared where the infuriating elf took himself? Unless… “You are not sleeping on Mehra’s floor now?”

“Of course not.”

“Good.”

“Her bed, on the other hand…”

“What!” J’zargo’s tail frizzed. He could not have been more horrified if one of his sisters had taken to the elf that way.

Rumarin shook his head. “You walked into that one. In any case, I’ve made arrangements to stay in the servant quarters for a few days.”

Anger at having been baited set J’zargo’s tail lashing. “You are not worthy of even a servant’s bed. You do not belong anywhere in the College.”

“That’s a compliment.”

J’zargo twitched his claws, hating the elf’s indifference. J’zargo could call him a stupid sheep-shagging troll dropping and Rumarin would brush it off and treat it like a joke. The worst insults never touched him. No, thought J’zargo, that is not always true. Once Rumarin had bridled after J’zargo called him a coward. And Mehra had once upset Rumarin with a simple question: Did he not want to be a mage? The elf could be insulted, yes. If you used the right words.

“J’zargo knows why you hate the College.”

“Is that so.” Rumarin started folding up his bedroll.

“You want to be a mage.”

“I’d sooner eat stewed rats. And I probably have. The cuisine here is highly questionable.”

“J’zargo does not believe you. If you did not want to be a mage, you would never wear the robes of a College mage. You hate mages only because they wield power you will never have. You are too lazy or stupid to learn more than one kind of spell, and now you hide your shame by calling yourself a bladebinder.”

Rumarin kept his face turned away and said nothing for a long time. When he did speak, his voice was cold. “Tell me something, J’zargo. How many spells do you know?”

This was not the response J’zargo expected. “What?”

“Two? Three, perhaps?”

Not so long ago J’zargo would have lost his temper and shouted the worst Ta’agran insults he knew, but not this time. He was a student of magic now, clad in the magnificent robes of a College mage, and he would not let this worthless elf get the better of him. “J’zargo will soon know many spells. That is more than J’zargo can say for you.”

“How fortunate that your family can afford it. They must have been relieved when you showed promise in the art of hand-waggling, because judging from the way you handled that little transaction with Sergius, you obviously have no future as a merchant.”

J’zargo’s fur bristled under his robes. “Yes, J’zargo is fortunate to have people who care for him, and he will soon bring honor to his family by becoming a great mage. But you know nothing of such things. You belong nowhere and you care for no one but yourself.”

These words must have hit their mark, because Rumarin’s movements became abrupt, almost reckless as he put his gear in order. In his haste he knocked over a basket and sent several human skulls clattering across the floor. J’zargo had forgotten about putting the room’s skulls there. The sight of the hideous things staring with their empty sockets made J’zargo hiss.

Rumarin grabbed one of the skulls, and for a moment J’zargo thought the elf would throw it at him. Instead Rumarin gazed at it and smiled without humor. “‘Miser and mage, mer and man, all return to clay and ash.’”

J’zargo was sure Rumarin was quoting from a play or book, but he was not curious enough to ask. Instead he jabbed a finger at the skulls and said, “You are making a mess of J’zargo’s floor.”

Rumarin put the skull down, gathered up his bag and bedroll, and turned to leave. He paused only to say, “This place suits you. Enjoy looking down on the rest of the world from your ivory tower.”

“The College is not made of ivory,” J’zargo called after him.

* * *

The time was drawing near for J’zargo’s first class. It was only the remedial class on illusion, but J’zargo could not help feeling excited. He was about to begin his life as a scholar of magic. He smoothed down his robes, checked his bag to make sure he had everything he needed, and hurried off.

J’zargo avoided the service passages and instead crossed the courtyard. The sky was clear and bright, but last night’s blizzard had left the statue of Shalidor frosted in white, his outstretched arms dripping with ice. Shalidor did not look dignified this way and J’zargo hoped the ice would soon melt.

J’zargo paused to glance at a first-year Breton student who stood looking about with his eyes full of confusion. J’zargo was inclined to move on so he would not be late for his first class, but to his dismay the young man approached and asked, “Please, do you know where I can find the class for basic enchantments? I forget which tower it’s in.”

“No, J’zargo is sorry, but he does not take this class.”

“Do you at least have a map I can look at? I’ve lost mine.”

“No,” J’zargo lied. It was not his fault if another student had been stupid enough to lose his map. “Please excuse J’zargo, he must–”

“Do you need directions?” The question came from a passing Altmer. He wore the colors of a second-year student, but his robes were wrinkled and had a stain on the sleeve. Even the elf’s shoulder-length hair was in disarray. J’zargo was sure he had seen this elf before, but he could not remember where.

“Yes,” said the Breton. “I need to find Sergius’ class on enchantments, and I’ve lost my map.”

“I lose things all the time. Just this morning I lost my best dip pen. Anyway, Sergius’ classes are always in the east tower…”

J’zargo slipped away and headed for the main tower. J’zargo had barely persuaded the heavy door to open when he heard footsteps in the snow. The Altmer student had caught up with him.

“I’m headed for Drevis’ illusion class,” said the elf as they entered the tower together. “How about you?”

“J’zargo is also taking this class,” said J’zargo with reluctance. The Altmer was friendly, but the careless state of his clothing repelled J’zargo. The enchanted robes were a symbol of the College and deserved to be treated better. More than this, J’zargo was troubled to learn that this second-year student was taking a remedial class. Should this elf not be studying more advanced magic?

“Wait, you’re J’zargo? I should have known, I’ve heard about you. I’m Finwen, nice to meet you.”

Now J’zargo remembered. Finwen was the clumsy Altmer he had seen dropping books in the Arcanaeum. “J’zargo asks what you have heard about this one?”

“People are saying you arrived yesterday with the Thane of Whiterun, and that she’s also the Dragonborn. Oh, and that you brought an artifact called the White Phial.”

J’zargo was gratified to hear a note of awe in Finwen’s voice. It was good that people were linking J’zargo’s name with Mehra and not the worthless Rumarin, and he was relieved that Finwen said nothing of pink magelights.

Finwen continued, “But those are only things I’ve heard. Is it really true, all of it?”

“It is true, all of it and more.” As they walked J’zargo told Finwen a little of his experiences since coming to Skyrim, and Finwen listened with wide-eyed interest, more rapt than even Tirel had been.

They entered a windowless classroom lit from above by a cluster of blazing white magelights. J’zargo squinted and pulled on his hood, the brightness hurting his eyes and making his head throb. There were almost a dozen students gathered around several workbenches. J’zargo sat at one of the workbenches and murmured a greeting to the student beside him, a young Nord man who introduced himself as Onmund. Finwen took the empty seat next to J’zargo.

A furtive movement drew J’zargo’s attention to a cage on the workbench. Inside the cage was a large rat, rearing back and sniffing the air. Every workbench had at least one caged rat, some scurrying and nosing about, others cowering in a corner.

Finwen leaned in for a better look. “Wonder what these rats are for?”

“I guess they’ll be part of the lesson,” said Onmund, scrunching up his face. “Big ugly things, aren’t they?” He tapped the cage. The rat inside jumped and squealed.

“The rats in Elsweyr are far bigger,” said J’zargo, and held back a sigh. He could not predict what strange things would make him think of home.

“Do you miss your home?” asked Finwen.

J’zargo’s mind called up images of his family, most of all his mother and his sister M’iahni. He pushed the thoughts away before they could overwhelm him. “J’zargo misses the warm sands of his home. But Elsweyr does not have such a school as this, and he is glad to be here to learn magic.”

“I still miss mine,” said Finwen. “I’m from Solitude. I know that’s not so far away as Elsweyr, but I still don’t see my mother very much. Sometimes she sends packages, but the cookies are usually crumbs by the time they get here.”

Onmund snorted. “I’m not expecting anything from my family. Most of them don’t really approve of me coming here at all.”

“Why do they not approve?” asked J’zargo.

“Most Nords want nothing to do with magic. Magic is seen as something for elves and weaker races.” Onmund cleared his throat and quickly added, “No offense, of course. But my mother was convinced coming here was a death sentence or worse. It took years of insisting that this is what I’m meant to do.”

“It was just the opposite with my mother,” said Finwen. “I wanted to go to the Bards College at first, but she didn’t think I’d have a future as a bard. She decided I’d be better off as a mage, so here I am.”

J’zargo stared. “You do not wish to be a mage?”

Finwen rubbed the back of his neck. “Being a mage wasn’t my idea, but I guess it suits me better than most things. My mother doesn’t even trust me to help manage the family shop.”

J’zargo’s memory took him back to the days when he was learning the caravan business. Try as he might, J’zargo could never please his family. One day they might say he was letting customers take advantage of him, and the next they would accuse him of being too stubborn and driving business away. J’zargo was relieved when they began to recognize his talent for magic. His mother had told him it was his destiny to be a mage.

And now here was this elf who had this same chance for a glorious future as a mage, but he treated it almost as nothing. He was here only because he had bent to the will of his mother. If Finwen had a shred of pride or ambition, he would not be taking a remedial class in his second year. J’zargo looked over Finwen’s College robes and felt almost personally insulted by each wrinkle and stain.

Finwen gazed back questioningly. “All right there, J’zargo?”

“Yes, yes, J’zargo is fine. J’zargo simply does not like these rats and their filth.”

Onmund poked at the cage again. He whipped his hand away when the rat tried to bite him. “Shouldn’t the class have started by now?”

Other students shifted in their chairs and asked each other the same question. The teacher had not yet arrived.

“Hope nothing bad’s happened,” said a Redguard student, twirling a strand of dark hair between her fingers.

“Drevis Neloren teaches this class,” replied a round-faced Imperial man. “You all know about him, right? He’s not all there, if you know what I mean. A few apples short of a pie.”

“That’s not a very nice thing to say,” said the Redguard.

J’zargo’s ears twitched at the sound of the door creaking shut behind him. He looked over his shoulder but saw no one.

“But it’s true. Besides, illusion magic is a joke. I wouldn’t be taking this class if it weren’t a requirement.”

At that moment one of the Imperial’s books came to life, rising from the workbench and making a leap for his head. The Imperial scrambled out of his chair and shrieked.

The other students watched slack-jawed as the book wobbled in the air. The book seemed to speak. “You should know better than to talk about an illusionist behind his back. You never know when he might be eavesdropping.”

The next instant Drevis appeared, holding the book aloft. “Illusion really is the least appreciated of the schools of magic. But in the hands of a skilled and subtle master, illusion magic is no joke.” The white-haired Dunmer tossed the book on the workbench.

The Imperial student mumbled an apology and sank back into his seat.

J’zargo remembered meeting Drevis Neloren briefly and could hardly believe this was the same person. The Drevis of yesterday had a dazed look in his red eyes and could barely find his way through the school. This Drevis strode through the classroom with an air of confidence, his eyes clear and alert.

“The real reason illusion magic is so unappreciated is because the spells are among the most difficult and dangerous to master. Yes, what is it?” Drevis stopped to address a student who had raised his hand.

Onmund replied, “Sorry, but how is illusion magic dangerous? I thought calm and charm spells don’t actually hurt anyone.”

“The danger isn’t in the spell itself. What happens if your charm spell fails and your target realizes you were trying to bend his mind?”

“I suppose he’d get angry.”

“Indeed he would. If you overplay your hand or pick the wrong target, he might make you eat your own teeth. That’s why we’ll be practicing on skeevers today.” Drevis bent over a workbench to squint at a caged rodent. “No, sorry, it’s rats this time. Skeevers were a bad idea. The mess they made! Took weeks to get the smell out. Where was I? Oh, right, you’re all going to learn how to cast a calm spell.”

Drevis explained the basics of a calm spell, then instructed everyone to try casting it on the rats. “There aren’t enough rats for everyone, so most of you will have to share. Oh, and you’ll need to make them mad first.”

“How do we do that?” someone asked.

Drevis shrugged. “Try rattling the cages or clapping your hands. Just don’t let them bite you. These rats probably aren’t diseased, but better safe than sorry.”

Soon the classroom was filled with sounds of rattling, clapping, and thumping as the students worked to infuriate the rodents. A few like Onmund tried poking the rats with a pencil. Some rats screeched and threw themselves at the cage bars, ready to sink claws and teeth into their tormenters; other rats fled to the corners, eyes bulging in terror.

Drevis nodded with satisfaction. “Good, very good. Now everyone cast your spells.”

No one could quiet their rats. If anything the calm spells only seemed to provoke the rats into greater fits of squealing and leaping.

“I don’t think it’s working.” Onmund dropped his hand with an exasperated sigh.

“It’s a tricky spell to get right at first,” said Finwen. “When I was taking another one of Drevis’ illusion magic classes, he said–”

J’zargo gaped at him. “Another illusion class? J’zargo asks why you are in this class now?”

Finwen gave a sheepish smile. “I didn’t do so well. I needed to learn more of the basics if I was going to keep up, so Drevis advised me to drop it and take this class instead.”

J’zargo turned away to give his look of scorn to the rat instead. He lifted his hand and focused his magicka into a spell.

“So when I was taking the other class, Drevis said–”

“J’zargo is trying to concentrate.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry.”

J’zargo frowned at the glow blooming in his fingertips. The telltale sign of magic would give him away if he were to cast the spell on a person, but it would take much practice to suppress such cues. As it was he could not calm the rat. The creature let out a rasping screech and strained against the bars of the cage like it wanted to kill him.

“Bah, this is impossible,” said J’zargo.

Onmund glanced at the other students struggling to quiet their rats. “No one else is getting anywhere with this spell either.”

“Shall I go next?” asked Finwen.

J’zargo tossed up his hands in surrender and leaned back in his chair.

Finwen made a small gesture. His hand never glowed, yet within seconds the rat went silent and began grooming itself. J’zargo and Onmund gaped first at the rat, then at Finwen.

“How in the name of Talos did you do that?” asked Onmund.

“Well done Finwit,” said Drevis, pausing at their workbench to observe the quieted rat. “I see you remembered a thing or two from my other class.”

“Thank you sir,” said Finwen, looking embarrassed but pleased.

It took much effort for J’zargo to hide his frustration, to keep his ears from folding and his tail from thrashing. This slovenly elf showed neither promise nor ambition, and yet he alone had cast the spell. How could this be? J’zargo tried to make sense of it. Perhaps the rat had simply exhausted its anger and calmed at the right moment, making it look as if Finwen’s spell had succeeded. Yes, this would explain much.

“Let’s try this again,” said Onmund, and rattled the cage until the rat sank its yellow teeth into his finger.

“Ow, he bit me!” Onmund clutched his bleeding finger.

Drevis tsked. “I told you not to let them bite you, didn’t I? Here, put a rag on it and we’ll continue.”

* * *

J’zargo left the classroom in a foul mood, annoyed that he had failed to calm a rat even once. He followed Onmund, Finwen trailing close behind.

“Does this look infected to you?” Onmund peeled back the bloody cloth to examine his finger.

“You should let Colette or Lenari have a look at it,” said Finwen.

“Can’t yet, I have Nirya’s destruction class next. You’re going to that one too, right J’zargo?”

“No, J’zargo is taking the scroll writing class.”

“Oh good, I’ve got that one too,” said Finwen. J’zargo suppressed a groan.

Onmund made a face. “Scrolls are for paper mages. Why would you take that one?”

J’zargo had expected such a question, but still it stung. He knew very well what mages thought of people who relied on scrolls, but all the same he had decided to take the class for Mehra’s sake. He hoped the College mages would help her cast spells, but even if they succeeded, it would take months if not years for Mehra to become a skilled magic user. That was why J’zargo made up his mind to learn how to write scrolls for her. But J’zargo did not wish to explain any of this to Onmund or Finwen. He had told Tirel, but that was different. Tirel had gone out of his way to befriend J’zargo, helping him and listening to everything he said without judgment.

Finwen answered Onmund’s question first. “The other classes I could have picked were in destruction and conjuration magic, and I’m terrible at both.”

“So you took the class because it’s easy,” said Onmund.

J’zargo wanted to sink his claws into something. “J’zargo knows that Faralda’s classes are the most challenging, and so he chose this one,” he said, glaring at them both.

Onmund did not stay long after that, and J’zargo and Finwen headed to their next class. J’zargo listened with growing irritation to Finwen’s chatter about his mother, his aunt, his friends in Solitude. J’zargo missed Elsweyr, but he did not constantly speak of home like this pathetic elf.

“At first my mother thought I should study destruction magic,” said Finwen. “But she changed her mind when I accidentally set fire to some of our fabrics. I can barely cast flame spells now because I’m always afraid I’ll lose control of it. It’s why I like illusion magic better.”

J’zargo had given up trying to keep the scowl off his face. “J’zargo is best with destruction magic. It is nothing to be feared if you have the will to control it.”

“I suppose,” said Finwen doubtfully.

* * *

Faralda had a voice for bedtime stories, low and soothing, and her lecture was lulling J’zargo to sleep. He fought to keep his eyes open, but the history of scroll-writing was not a compelling subject, and J’zargo had slept very little. Anxiety about his entrance exam had kept J’zargo awake for hours, and then he was continually disturbed by the sounds of the dormitory. Not even a pillow over his head was enough to muffle the gossip and laughter, and then Rumarin had come back and made noise getting his stupid bedroll in order. In that moment J’zargo had wanted nothing more than a door with a lock.

J’zargo’s ears twitched. Someone in the back of the classroom was snoring. Beside him, Finwen yawned and sagged against their shared table. Even the red-headed Breton girl sitting to J’zargo’s right looked bored and had stopped taking notes. J’zargo’s own notes were mixed with drawings of rats with dragon wings.

Faralda droned on. “Many people mistakenly assume that only people who lack magical ability use scrolls, but scrolls are invaluable if you wish to experiment with advanced spells that would take months or years to master, or in times when you run out of magicka…”

J’zargo’s thoughts drifted, taking him back to the moment in the Forsaken Cave when a trap had drained his magicka. J’zargo had never felt so helpless, and he knew it was thanks in part to a fire scroll that he was still alive. Perhaps he would learn to make a scroll of fire for Mehra.

“Furthermore, the demand for scrolls is on the rise,” said Faralda. “Scroll-writing has become a lucrative trade, but it requires great skill and patience to– yes, Celia?” The Altmer woman turned her attention to the red-headed Breton.

Celia lowered her hand. “Why are scrolls in demand now?”

“There is no simple answer. Of course you may have heard rumors that the Empire is stockpiling scrolls in preparation for another war with the Aldmeri Dominion. Others say that scrolls have become more affordable than an education in the arcane arts, particularly in Cyrodiil. And according to Sergius Turrianus, the Stormcloaks purchase healing scrolls to make up for their lack of healers…”

J’zargo suddenly remembered the list of restoration books Mehra had written for him and hoped she still had it. He was glad for the help, but still he wondered how Mehra knew so much about healing magic and anatomy. Now that he thought on it, she always knew what to do when someone was hurt, always remained calm and never flinched away from the sight of blood, always had bandages for dressing wounds. She must have studied long and hard to learn the healing arts, but J’zargo could not understand why. Without magic she had no hope of becoming a healer.

Faralda said, “To create a magic scroll, you need enchanted parchment and ink, a filled soul gem with which to seal the spell, and reasonable handwriting. Scrolls are useless if no one can read them.”

J’zargo brought his attention back to the class. At last Faralda had said something worth noting. The whole classroom came to life, filled with the sound of pencils and pens scratching against parchment as the students took notes. J’zargo wrote fast in a large flowing hand that resembled Ta’agra script. Once or twice he snuck a glance at Celia’s and Finwen’s notes. Celia’s handwriting was clean and tight, the letters sharp and elegant, but Finwen’s notes were an unreadable disaster. J’zargo could see that Finwen had no future as a scroll writer, perhaps no future at all as a mage.

“Now for your assignment,” continued Faralda. “You will be creating a scroll that casts a spell. It doesn’t matter which school of magic you use, but you will receive additional points if your scroll demonstrates advanced spells or techniques. The assignment is due by the next session.”

J’zargo swallowed hard. The next class session was in a few days. Other students shifted in their seats, exchanged horrified glances, murmured anxiously.

“I realize this assignment will be a challenge for many of you, so you will be working in groups.”

J’zargo avoided making eye contact with Finwen. Not him, anyone but him. He glanced to his right at Celia and was encouraged to see her looking back expectantly.

“Shall we work on this assignment together?” J’zargo asked Celia after Faralda ended the class.

“Sure, let’s get started,” said Celia. “I already have some ideas. We should try making a scroll that combines different magical effects. A scroll that casts both fire and lightning would really impress Faralda.”

“That sounds dangerous,” said Finwen.

J’zargo thought so too, but he would not dare say so. He remembered this Breton now– yesterday J’zargo had watched Celia silence another student’s jeers by calling up a lightning spell. J’zargo did not want someone of Celia’s caliber to think him unskilled or cowardly.

“It’s not so dangerous if you know what you’re doing,” answered Celia.

“What about an illusion spell? Something that casts calm?” asked Finwen.

“That’s not going to impress anyone.”

This would not do. They needed to agree on a plan so they could move forward. After giving it some thought J’zargo said, “J’zargo thinks we should use both destruction and illusion. Our scroll could make flames that are not truly flames.”

“No, that’s…” Finwen paused, letting J’zargo’s words sink in. “You mean illusion flames?”

“Like a trick scroll?” asked Celia. “It looks like it’s spitting up fire, but the flames aren’t real?”

“Fake fire does sound safer,” said Finwen.

Celia put a hand to her chin. “It’ll be tricky, but that makes it even better. Faralda will think it’s very clever. Yes, I like it.” She pulled out a blank sheet of parchment and began writing notes. When she was done she offered the parchment to J’zargo. “Something like this?”

Just looking at the diagrams and formulas made J’zargo’s head spin. He swallowed his anxiety. “Yes, J’zargo thinks this will do very well.”

Finwen scratched his head. “That looks awfully complicated, and we only have a couple of days to get it right. Maybe we should try something more basic?”

Celia’s mouth turned downward. “Well, if you don’t want to challenge yourself…”

“No, we can do this,” said J’zargo. “These are the kind of challenges J’zargo likes.”

“Great,” said Celia. “I have another class in a few minutes, and then there’s an alchemy project I have to work on. How about I leave my notes with you? You can get it started today, and then you can fill me in tomorrow and we’ll go from there.”

J’zargo’s stomach lurched. “But–”

“See you tomorrow!”

J’zargo and Finwen stared in silence at the notes. At length Finwen cleared his throat and said, “We could still do something else for the project. I mean, if she’s not going to help us…”

“Of course she will help,” said J’zargo, trying to ignore the dread gnawing at his insides. “And there is enough here to make a start.”

“Well… what would you like me to do? I’m not so good at writing, and most destruction magic is over my head, but maybe I could help with the illusion part.”

J’zargo was certain Finwen would only get in the way, but there was no polite way to say such a thing. “J’zargo must study this first to decide what must be done, and then J’zargo can tell you when he is ready for help.”

“Oh. Right, of course.” Finwen sounded hurt. “I’ll see you around then.”

Alone in the classroom, J’zargo studied Celia’s bewildering notes. The longer he stared at them the less sense they made. He pressed his hands to his face and sighed. So much to do. So very little time. It was impossible– No, J’zargo told himself, not impossible. Impossible was the sort of thing Finwen would say, and J’zargo was nothing like Finwen. J’zargo would find a way to make this work, yes.

Chapter 22: The Greenhouse

“The mages in charge of layout really should have put the infirmary in one of the towers instead,” said Tirel as they entered the service passages. “People get lost down here all the time, and that’s no good when you need to see a healer for a broken arm or something.”

“Yes,” said Mehra. She was only half listening to Tirel. Her mind spun with questions about what Sanriel had said in the dining hall. The Altmer had somehow discovered that Mehra had no magic, but Mehra had not yet revealed that to anyone at the College. How did he find out? J’zargo or Rumarin would never betray such a personal thing– would they?

“Something on your mind?” asked Tirel, summoning a magelight in a particularly dim corridor.

“It’s just… what Sanriel said…”

“About what?”

“Did you already know that I can’t cast spells?”

“Oh, that.” Tirel paused and thought a moment. “Yes, J’zargo spoke of it yesterday.”

“Did he,” said Mehra, her voice faint. She could hardly believe it.

“Maybe he shouldn’t have, but I wouldn’t be too hard on him. It’s obvious he thinks the world of you, and he respects you for traveling so far and going through so much to find a way to cast spells. I don’t think it occurred to him that other people might see it any other way.”

Tirel’s words didn’t put Mehra’s troubling thoughts to rest, but at least he wasn’t looking down on her the way Sanriel had. “It’s not something I like talking about very much,” she said. “Especially here.”

“Here?” Tirel glanced about the dark passage as they walked. “A dirty old tunnel isn’t the best place for a conversation, is it?”

Mehra couldn’t help smiling at that. “I mean here at a school where everyone is studying magic.”

“I can understand that. And I wouldn’t pay too much attention to what Sanriel says. He’s not so bad once you get to know him, but he gets a bit stuck on himself and forgets what matters most.”

“And what matters most?”

“Certainly not magic. It’s things like, well, certain qualities. Ways of living your life, facing the world.” Tirel usually spoke with an easy confidence, but now the words came out in hesitating pauses.

“Such as?”

“J’zargo told me a little about what the two of you have been through. Most of the people here would turn into blubbering messes if they had to go through any of that. You must be very brave, both of you.”

“I never felt brave. Most of the time I was terrified.”

“They say mastery of fear is bravery.”

“I’ve never mastered it. Fear, that is.”

“I find that hard to believe. Aren’t you the one who blew up a skeleton with a scroll?”

“J’zargo told you about that? I’m just glad it worked. The other scroll was supposed to summon an atronach, but all we got was a giant rat.”

Tirel laughed. “Sorry, I’m sure that wasn’t funny at all, but really, Oblivion sent you a giant rat?”

“Yes, but now I feel bad for cursing at it. The rat put up a good fight before it got sent back.”

Too soon Tirel led her to the infirmary. Mehra hesitated at the entrance. Talking with Tirel had almost allowed her to forget her purpose, but now dread rolled through her. She was not afraid of infirmaries or healers, quite the opposite. It was only that she had clung to hope for so long, and now she was about to learn whether that hope had carried her in vain.

She started to thank Tirel for escorting her, fully expecting him to take his leave, but to her surprise Tirel said, “I don’t have another class for a while. I can stay on hand until you’re done with Colette.”

“Thank you, but you don’t have to do that. I’m not even sure how long this will take…”

“Really I insist. I just wouldn’t feel right about leaving you down here to find your own way back.”

Together they entered the infirmary’s waiting area, a large room that felt more welcoming than the rest of the College. Mehra could see it was because someone kept it clean, made sure that cushions covered the chairs and that the magelights shed just the right amount of mellow light.

“Good morning Lenari,” said Tirel, drawing a sharp look from the young Altmer woman who was at the counter sorting dried herbs.

“Who is that?” called a high-pitched voice from the next room. The curtain there was flung aside by a small woman with graying hair. “Oh, Tirel, how nice to see you. I was glad to see you’re finally taking one of my classes, so good to see more students show an interest in restoration magic.”

“Yes, I’ve been looking forward to it,” said Tirel. “If more of us learned healing magic, we wouldn’t have to run to you and Lenari every time a destruction spell went wrong.”

Lenari frowned. “Perhaps if more people learned how to keep their destruction spells from going wrong, they wouldn’t need healing in the first place.”

This made Mehra think of the cavernous room in the school’s main tower, its stone walls scored and blackened by destruction magic. She could hardly believe that the students were allowed to inflict such damage, to carelessly hurl fire and lightning where they pleased. Mehra asked, “Do people here get hurt often?”

“Quite often,” said Colette with a shake of her head. “Just last week we had a student carried in because he couldn’t control his own summoned scamp. The horrible little demon tried to chew his arm off. It’s like I always say, conjuration is truly the least civilized school of magic.” Colette looked over Mehra as if seeing her for the first time. “Aren’t you Isolithi’s new girl? I hope you brought the marshmarrow samples I requested.”

Mehra felt like she had stepped into a play without knowing either her role or her lines. “Sorry, what?”

Lenari said, “No, Colette, this is–”

“That’s a fine thing,” said Colette. “How many times have I told Isolithi that I need those samples for the restoration classes? Time and again I ask for marshmarrow and cairn bolete caps, and do I ever get them? No indeed. I see how it is around here. No one has any respect for a proper education in the healing arts.”

“She hasn’t come from Isolithi, she’s–”

“Goodness Lenari, are you still sorting those herbs? I told you I’d need those today.” Colette put her hands on her hips, and though Lenari stood a head taller, the master healer gave the impression of looking down on her Altmer apprentice.

Lenari lowered her eyes and took a deep breath. “I’m quite nearly done.”

Tirel said, “Colette, may I present Mehra, the Thane of Whiterun?”

“What?” Colette looked at Mehra again. Embarrassed realization dawned in the woman’s face. “Oh my. Lenari, why didn’t you tell me who she was?”

Lenari’s fingers pinched around a bundle of herbs. “I did try.”

“You could have tried harder.” Colette turned to Mehra. “You see what I have to put up with? It’s bad enough to have my colleagues whispering behind my back and leaving insulting notes in my personal effects, simply barbaric. They have no respect for my work. But you consider restoration a valid school of magic worthy of study, don’t you?”

The effort of keeping up with the shrill flurry of words left Mehra’s head spinning. “Of course restoration is a valid school of magic. More than valid. It’s–”

“Good, good. Not that I require validation, of course. There are just some–and I shan’t name names–who would disagree. It can make life difficult when one’s colleagues fail to recognize the research one engages in.”

“It’s shameful they would even think such a thing,” said Tirel. “When it’s a matter of life and death, restoration is surely the most important school of magic.”

“It’s perfectly true. The common folk may not care for mages, but even they need the services of a healer from time to time. Take Jarl Korir, for example. Just yesterday I answered his summons to attend to the delicate problem of his–”

“Colette, doesn’t your next class start soon?” asked Lenari. Mehra heard the tension in her voice and believed the apprentice spoke less from concern about Colette being late and more from a wish to keep her from telling all about Jarl Korir’s delicate problem. The relationship between healer and patient is built on trust, and Mehra was horrified that a master healer would be so free with personal details about a patient. She was certain that whatever she told Colette would soon be known by the whole school, and she had no wish for everyone to know her as a broken magic user who heard voices in her head.

“I know perfectly well when my classes start. If you’re quite done with those herbs–” Colette broke off and returned her attention to Mehra. “Oh. But you came to see me about something, didn’t you?”

“Um… no, please, don’t let me keep you. I can always come back another time.”

“It’s quite all right, I have a little time to spare. Please go ahead.”

Mehra dug her nails into her palms. She had to say something. Tirel had taken the trouble to guide her through the tunnels and she didn’t want him to think she had wasted his time with foolishness. “It’s about…” Her mind flailed. Rumarin would know what to say, he seemed to have an answer ready for everything, but she didn’t have his quickness with words. And now the dragon in her head was waking again, making guttural sounds of annoyance. It was all enough to give her a…

“Headache,” said Mehra. “I mean, I’m having terrible headaches.”

“Headaches? Is that all?”

“Well, yes,” said Mehra, wishing she had thought of something better. She avoided looking at either Tirel or Lenari, but she could feel their eyes on her. “But they’ve been getting worse. The headaches, I mean. Do you have anything for that?”

Colette lifted her hand toward Mehra’s face, the older woman’s fingertips glowing with magicka.

Mehra leaned away. “Wait, what are you doing?”

“Don’t worry, this won’t hurt a bit. This is only a spell to see inside you and make sure everything is as it should be.”

“Yes, but…” Mehra struggled for a polite way to dissuade Colette from casting the spell. She wasn’t sure how much the healer would see if she used magic to glimpse the inner workings of Mehra’s body. A cursory scan might reveal nothing. A closer examination might uncover more than Mehra wanted Colette to know.

Lenari spoke up. “Colette, I think we have all the herbs for the tea you usually prescribe for headaches. If you want me to get them–”

“When I want you to fetch something I’ll tell you,” Colette snapped.

“Oh damn,” said Tirel. “Mehra, I completely forgot, but Master Wizard Mirabelle said she needed to see you about something urgent. So sorry to bring it up now, but it sounded important.”

“Really? I suppose I should see what she wants,” said Mehra, hoping her relief didn’t show.

Colette put her hands on her hips. “Tirel, really! The Master Wizard herself? How could you forget such a thing?”

“I know, it’s my fault entirely, I should have remembered.”

“Young people today, so many of you have the attention span of a hummingbird. In my day–”

“Yes, my generation is quite dreadful, we really ought to know better,” said Tirel, edging towards the door.

Mehra told Colette, “Thank you for seeing me, but I’d better go.”

“Of course,” said Colette. “The Master Wizard mustn’t be kept waiting. If a certain young man hadn’t been so forgetful–”

“Bye now,” said Tirel, hurrying out the door. Mehra wasted no time following him. After the glow of the infirmary’s magelights, entering into the candlelit tunnels was like venturing into a black cave.

“Do you know what the Master Wizard wanted?” asked Mehra.

“Ah, about that…” Tirel grinned.

“You made it up! But why?”

“Colette can be a little overbearing, and you looked like you wanted to be anywhere else but there.”

Mehra needed a moment to let that sink in. “I’m grateful, but now Colette is probably thinking all sorts of things about you that aren’t true.”

“Ha! No one stays in Colette’s good graces for long, so it’s a small price to pay. Anyway, you can probably get what you need from Lenari later. That’s what most of us do. She’s only an apprentice, but she’s pretty sharp.”

Mehra thought on this. She didn’t know Lenari’s abilities as a healer, but at least the apprentice seemed discreet. Lenari had advised a student to hide his Talos amulet, and she had tried to keep Colette from airing Jarl Korir’s personal problems. “Perhaps I’ll do that,” said Mehra. “And… thank you. But I’m afraid I’ve taken up your time for nothing.”

“For nothing? I don’t see it that way. Quite the opposite.” The way he looked at her made her pulse quicken. He’s only saying that to be polite, Mehra told herself, it doesn’t mean anything. But then why was he lingering here in this dark tunnel with her?

Tirel asked, “You just arrived yesterday, right? Has anyone given you a tour?”

Mehra shook her head. “Master Wizard Mirabelle was too busy to do much more than show us to our rooms.”

“How about I give you one? A tour, I mean.”

Mehra hesitated. She had probably taken too much of Tirel’s time already. “I don’t want to impose if you have to be somewhere–”

“I’ve nothing to do and I don’t have another class for a long while yet. Really, it would be my pleasure.”

“Well…”

“Have you been to the Arcaneum yet?”

“What’s the Arcaneum?”

“It’s really just a library. You know how it is, we have to give everything a fancy name so people will be impressed.”

“I’d like to visit it at some point. I meant to look for… for some reading material that would help me pass the time while I’m here.” She had almost said something about wanting to do research but thought better of it. Tirel might ask questions about that, and she did not wish to discuss dragons or the legend of the Dragonborn, nor did she trust herself to come up with a convincing lie.

“That settles it then,” said Tirel. “To the library!”

As they walked Tirel asked what sorts of things she liked to read, and they discussed their favorite stories. Mehra learned that he enjoyed many of the same books she had read when she was growing up.

“You actually own The Five Far Stars?” asked Mehra, astonished. The Five Far Stars was a collection of verses from Ashlander wise women of Morrowind. Few people knew the book, let alone read it. She had tried speaking of it to J’zargo once, but he had never even heard of the Ashlander tribes.

Tirel said, “‘Yet never shall you have your rule over me, never shall I tremble or flinch from your power, never shall I yield my home and hearth’.”

“‘And from my tears shall spring forth the flowers of grassland springs’,” said Mehra, finishing the verse she knew well. “Other than Indrisa, you’re the first person I’ve met who can quote from that book.”

“I like to read widely, and that one has many wonderful passages. But who’s Indrisa?”

“Indrisa was my… she’s an old friend. More like family, really. She used to let me read her books all the time, and Five Far Stars is one of her favorites.”

“She likes poetry?”

“I think Indrisa appreciates any literature that helps her feel connected to her people. She always wished she knew Morrowind as it was before the Red Year.”

“I’ve wondered what it must be like for the Dunmer, losing their homeland like that,” said Tirel, looking thoughtful. “From what I hear, Morrowind is still a shattered land. But perhaps one day it’ll have flowering grasslands again like the poem says.”

“Yes, perhaps it will.” But Mehra wasn’t thinking about Morrowind. Her mind had taken her hundreds of miles away to Kvatch, the home of her childhood, and she wondered what Indrisa was doing right now. Her old friend and mentor might be using her healing magic to ease the pain in an old farmer’s stiff joints, or to help a young woman bring her first child into the world. An unwelcome thought passed like a shadow through Mehra’s mind: perhaps Indrisa was teaching these things to a new apprentice.

“Everything all right?” asked Tirel.

“I was just thinking of home. I didn’t know I’d miss it so much.”

“What do you miss about it?”

“So many things. Friends. Family. My whole future ahead of me before–” Before it was all ripped away, she thought. “I think maybe it’s just that I’m still not used to being this far north. This time of year things are still green in places like Kvatch, but here it’s all snow and ice. Sometimes I think I’ll forget what flowers look like.”

Tirel’s eyes lit up with an idea. “You know, on second thought, we should save the library for another time.”

“Why?”

“Come with me. I’ll show you.”

Mehra followed Tirel through the dark and twisting tunnels. Once or twice she asked him for a hint about where they were going, but he only smiled and said, “You’ll see.” He led her into the school’s tallest tower and up the winding stairs that seemed to go on forever.

“Are we going all the way to the top?” asked Mehra, nearly out of breath.

Tirel exhaled and wiped his brow. “Yes, but it’s not much further.”

“But are we going to the roof?” Mehra glanced down at herself. Her simple cotton shirt and pants would do little to shield her from the icy winds of Winterhold.

“Yes, but don’t worry, it’s… well, you’ll see.”

They came to a dim corridor where a door waited at one end. Tirel pried at the door until it groaned on its rusting hinges. Sunlight poured through, but Mehra was surprised to feel no blast of cold air.

Tirel motioned her through. “After you.”

Mehra stepped into another world. Sunlight streamed through walls of glass and filtered through green tangles of vines, ferns, and grasses. Flowers of red, gold, and blue lent a delightful fragrance to the warm humid air.

Tirel said, “Years ago the College used magic to keep a garden in the courtyard, but they figured out that it’s more efficient to just grow everything in a greenhouse. Mostly it’s for growing ingredients for potions and alchemy classes.” After a time he asked, “What do you think?”

“It’s wonderful. I didn’t imagine there was anything like this in all of Winterhold.” Mehra knelt down to admire a cluster of golden flowers she did not recognize. “What kind are these?”

Tirel drew close for a better look. “I believe those are Dragon’s Tongue. And the little blue ones here are mountain flowers.”

“Oh.” For a moment Mehra saw not flowers but images of dragons wheeling through the sky, and of the mountain she was told to climb. She pushed these thoughts away and asked, “Do people come here often? It’s quiet.”

“Other than the alchemist and her apprentice? Not really. I don’t think many people even know it exists. I only remembered it because I once took an alchemy class. Oh, look at that.” Tirel pointed to a butterfly drinking from a flower. “I forgot the alchemist likes to raise butterflies.”

Mehra kept her eyes on the butterfly’s flashing blue wings, but she was conscious of how close Tirel was, how she sometimes felt the brush of his sleeve.

“Will you be going to the party?” asked Tirel. “The one we were talking about in the dining hall?”

Mehra averted her eyes and pulled at a loose thread on her sleeve. “I’m pretty sure I won’t.”

Tirel’s face fell. “I was rather hoping you would.”

“I can’t.”

“But why?”

“Because… because I won’t be fit to attend.” She gestured down at her roughspun shirt, her travel-stained pants and scraped boots. “What I’m wearing now is the best I have.”

Tirel brightened. “Oh, is that all?”

“I can’t show up looking like… well…” Mehra trailed off. In Whiterun J’zargo had told her she should buy something nice to wear, something befitting a thane, and now she almost wished she had taken his advice. But then there would have been less money to spend on healing potions and other things they needed to survive.

“I know someone who can whip up a dress in no time at all, and there’s a little shop in the village that sells fabric. Everything will be arranged.”

“Thank you, but I can’t ask you to go to all that trouble.”

“It won’t be any trouble at all, don’t even worry about it.”

“But it’s–”

“The thing is, you’re a thane and a guest of the College. I can tell you don’t like making a fuss about all that, but just think how people would feel if you couldn’t attend this event because our school couldn’t be bothered to find something for you to wear. And if word ever got out, it wouldn’t do much for the school’s reputation in the holds.”

Mehra shifted uncomfortably. She hated to be a burden, but the alternative sounded far more damaging. Like it or not, she was Jarl Balgruuf’s representative, and she needed to consider the political weight of her actions.

“Please, just leave it all to me. The College won’t let you down.”

“I don’t know how to thank you.” Mehra could barely look him in the eye. Making a suitable gown in time for the party would cost effort and money for someone. It could have been avoided if only she had thought ahead and anticipated a situation like this.

“No need, I’m pleased to do it.”

Mehra searched his face and found no hint of reproof or resentment. He met her gaze with a smile that sent flutters through her.

“But if you like,” said Tirel, “just promise me a dance and we’ll call it even.”

Mehra returned his smile. “I think I can promise at least that much.”

Chapter 23: Calculations

J’zargo glared at the goat head mounted above his desk. The dead goat stared back, eyes empty, mouth parted in a grin that made the hair on J’zargo’s tail stand up. J’zargo would never understand why anyone would turn such a beast into a hunting trophy, but it did not matter. He would soon be rid of the stupid thing.

After clearing away papers and books from his desk, J’zargo climbed on top to better reach the goat head. He thought it would be bolted in place, but the thing was only attached to the wall by a hook and came away easily. But where to dispose of it?

Someone on the other side of the door’s curtain called out, “J’zargo? Can I come in?”

It was Mehra. J’zargo scrambled off the desk, almost dropping the goat head. “Yes, J’zargo is here.”

Mehra entered, briefly wrestling with the heavy curtain which threatened to engulf her. Her eyes immediately went to the goat head under J’zargo’s arm. “You’re getting rid of it?” she asked.

“Yes, it is not to J’zargo’s taste.” He set the hated goat head on the floor, propping its face against a wall so he would not have to see the staring dead eyes.

“Good. I don’t think I’d like sleeping in a room with something like that staring at me. Or skulls.”

Being watched by lifeless animal eyes or grinned at by human skulls made J’zargo uneasy, but he did not care to discuss such things. Instead he said, “J’zargo is getting rid of them because they are ugly and useless. He wants to hang a map of Skyrim over his desk, and he will need room for useful things like books and soul gems.”

Mehra glanced at the books piled on the bed. “I thought you lost most of your books in–”

“In Helgen, yes.” They rarely spoke of the place where they had first met. J’zargo did not like to think too much on the fire, the blood, the screams, and he was sure Mehra did not like to remember how her life had nearly been cut short on the chopping block. J’zargo would never understand why Imperial soldiers had the galling stupidity to assume that a Breton girl from Cyrodiil was a Stormcloak rebel.

“Are all these books from the library?” asked Mehra.

“No, they are not from the Arcanaeum. Most of these belong to Tirel.”

Mehra brightened. “Do they really?”

“Yes, Tirel let J’zargo borrow these and showed him the best places to study. Tirel has been very helpful to J’zargo.”

“He’s helped me as well. He showed me around the College earlier, and…” her face colored slightly. “Thanks to him, I’ll be going to the party after all.”

“Yes, J’zargo will be going also. Many important people will be there, and J’zargo would like to meet the Arch-Mage.” J’zargo looked over Mehra’s simple travel-stained attire and grew uneasy. “J’zargo asks what you will wear?”

“Tirel said he knows someone who can make something for me to wear.”

J’zargo nodded, relieved that his friend would not shame herself by attending such an event looking like a peasant. “J’zargo is glad to hear this. Tirel is a good mage to know.”

“Yes, and he showed me several things around the school. Did you know there’s a greenhouse?”

Mehra chatted on. As J’zargo listened to Mehra speak of all that Tirel had shown her, he reflected on the change in her. Mehra often seemed distracted or concerned, but now she was smiling and animated. J’zargo’s sisters were much the same when they were struck with ja’qara’arina.

At length J’zargo could not resist saying, “J’zargo thinks you like that one.”

“Tirel? Of course.”

“Ha! J’zargo knew it.”

Mehra’s color deepened. “Oh, but I meant– what I mean is, I hardly know him–”

“Then perhaps you will stay longer so you can know him better.” J’zargo paused and realized he had no idea how long Mehra planned to stay at the College. “You will be here for some time, yes?”

Mehra ran a hand through her hair, partially hiding her face. “I’m not sure.”

“Jarl Balgruuf cannot expect you to return to Whiterun so soon. He must know it could take weeks or months for the mages to help you use magic.”

Mehra fidgeted. “I, um… I suppose. Oh, I almost forgot.” She pulled out a folded bit of parchment and gave it to J’zargo.

J’zargo was momentarily thrown off by the change of subject. A little annoyed, he began unfolding the parchment. “What is this?”

“That’s the list of restoration books I started for you. I added a few more.”

“Ah, yes, J’zargo forgot to take it with him. J’zargo thanks you.” He skimmed the list and was surprised by what he saw. “But some of these books are about illusion and alteration magic, not restoration.”

“Well, you mentioned that you had to take a remedial class on illusion magic too.”

J’zargo’s tail twitched. Why must she remind him of the remedial classes?

Mehra continued, “And healers rely on more than just restoration spells. Illusion magic is helpful, and some people say most restoration spells are really a form of alteration magic, or maybe the other way around, so it helps to–”

“J’zargo does not understand how you know all this.”

Mehra glanced away. “One of my oldest friends is a healer.”

“One of J’zargo’s oldest friends plays the flute, but J’zargo knows little of flutes.”

“I learned what I could.”

“From books?”

“Partly, yes.”

“But if you never had magic–”

“J’zargo, can… can I ask what happened with the phial? After I left the workshop?”

“Why are you–” J’zargo broke off. He had almost asked why Mehra had changed the subject yet again, but thought better of it. He collected himself and grudgingly answered her question. “We left the phial safe with Sergius. He will pay us once he confirms that it is indeed the White Phial.”

“Rumarin said something like that, but…”

“But? What else did the elf say?”

Mehra continued, low and hesitating. “Rumarin said he never agreed to it. I think he’s afraid that Sergius won’t pay a fair price, or that Sergius might not even pay us at all.”

“Of course that is what the elf thinks. He hates mages and believes they would all cheat him if they could.”

“That’s not– I’m not sure that’s quite–”

“You have heard how the elf speaks to mages. He would have said something to offend Sergius and ruined our chances of selling the phial for a good price.”

Mehra averted her eyes. J’zargo’s ears slanted back when he read the dismay in her face. He asked, “You do not approve?”

“I know you did what you thought was best, and maybe Rumarin is wrong about Sergius, but…”

“Of course it was for the best. If you had not left before Sergius came, you would have seen for yourself why J’zargo had to take control.”

J’zargo felt a tug of regret when he saw the hurt in Mehra’s eyes, but he reminded himself that he had only spoken the truth. Mehra should have stayed for the transaction, but instead she chose to leave J’zargo alone to speak with Sergius and stop the elf from bringing it all to ruin.

“I suppose it will all sort itself out in the end,” Mehra said quietly.

“Of course it will. Sergius will pay us well and you will see that J’zargo was right to act as he did.”

“Yes, I…” Mehra trailed off. “I’d better go, I have– well, I’m sure you have a lot to do.”

She was gone before J’zargo could even answer. He glared at the curtain for a while, then returned to his desk and tried to focus on his class assignments. He had two essays to write and several spells to practice, but the most important assignment was for Faralda’s class, the scroll of illusion fire. Earlier he had run into Celia again, one of his partners for the scroll project, and she had made a vague offer to come by later and help– if she had time.

J’zargo studied Celia’s notes, trying to make sense of the diagrams dictating the placement and cadence of runes. They were so intricate that at first J’zargo despaired of ever understanding them, but now he was beginning to grasp their purpose. He recognized calculations for combining spells and incantations for powering the magic. There was much about fire magic, but the details for cloaking such fire in an illusion spell were scant.

He could not stay on task for long. Over and over he caught himself doing useless things– reading the same line several times, staring into space, drawing pictures of fire-breathing rats. His thoughts circled back to Mehra and the things she had said about magic. Mehra had no magic of her own, could not have had schooling in the arcane arts, and yet she had made spurious claims about spellcasting. Restoration is a form of alteration? Illusion magic is helpful in healing? The schools of magic were separate, distinct. Mehra may have learned things of value from her healer friend, and she may have read many books, but that was not the same as being trained in the magical disciplines. J’zargo could only conclude that staying in a school of magic was making Mehra feel insecure, and now she was putting on airs, pretending to have mage knowledge so she would be respected in the College. Much like the elf wore his fake College robes and performed jester tricks to cover up his own shame.

J’zargo scowled when he remembered the elf and Mehra’s questions concerning the White Phial. Rumarin must have told a very different story about what had happened, turning Mehra against J’zargo. Why else would she question J’zargo like that and look at him with her eyes full of doubt? It was not right. The facts clearly supported J’zargo’s actions. How could Mehra side with the elf and not with J’zargo?

A muffled voice interrupted his thoughts. “J’zargo?”

J’zargo recognized Finwen’s voice. He cringed and put his head in his hands. Perhaps if he stayed silent Finwen would go away.

“Are you in there?” The doorway’s curtain rustled as Finwen poked his head through. “Oh good, I was hoping I’d find you.”

“J’zargo is very busy.”

“Yes, but I’m here to–” Finwen pushed his way through the curtain, but it snagged on one of the books he carried. J’zargo grimaced when he heard Finwen’s books tumble to the floor. With a sigh J’zargo got up to help Finwen gather the books.

“Thanks,” said Finwen, tucking the books under his arm. “I’m here to help with the scroll project. I brought my illusion books in case we’d need them.”

“J’zargo thanks you, but he does not need help.” At least not from you, thought J’zargo.

“But it’s a difficult assignment–”

“Of course it is difficult. J’zargo likes challenges. Do you doubt J’zargo?”

“Er… no, I don’t, it’s just that Faralda said it’s a group project.”

“That is true.” J’zargo could not stop the tip of his tail from twitching in annoyance.

“You said you’re good at destruction magic, right? You could work on that part and I could help with the illusion bit.”

J’zargo started to say no, but something stopped him. He looked over Finwen’s scuffed books, his untidy robes, his disheveled hair. Finwen gave every appearance of a person who stumbled from one mishap to another, a walking disaster who excelled at nothing. J’zargo could almost pity him.

“Please, just let me help,” said Finwen.

J’zargo gave a heavy sigh. “Fine. Yes. J’zargo welcomes your help.”

Finwen looked surprised. “Really? For a minute I thought… well, never mind what I thought.” He opened one of his books and pulled out a sheet of parchment covered in messy handwriting. “If you’re interested, I have some ideas for a more basic illusion spell. All we have to do is enchant the scroll with a fear spell that–”

“No, a simple illusion spell will not be enough to impress Faralda.”

“But I know how the spell works, and it’s–”

“We agreed to make a scroll of illusion fire and that is what we will do.”

Finwen dropped his gaze to the floor. “All right. Whatever you say.”

“J’zargo will begin by working on the destruction half. You can work on the illusion half, and then J’zargo will join the halves together.”

“You mean start these parts separately?”

“Yes. What is wrong?”

“The two spells are supposed to work together as one. I’m not sure I can do my half without understanding your half as well.”

“This has been started for us already.” J’zargo went to his desk to retrieve Celia’s notes. “J’zargo sees what Celia’s diagrams mean now. Look, this one shows how the spells are to be joined.”

Finwen stared at the formula and scratched his head. “Oh. Right. I guess I’ll start with this then.” He took the notes and retreated to the small table near J’zargo’s desk.

“Good. Let J’zargo know if you need more parchment or things to write with.” J’zargo was sure he would be forced to throw away most of Finwen’s work, but at least this would keep the Altmer busy and make him feel as though he had contributed something. Satisfied with his plan, J’zargo sat at his desk and began to work on his part of the scroll, drawing on what he knew of fire magic.

After a time Finwen asked, “J’zargo? I just noticed something about Celia’s formula.”

J’zargo’s ears twitched back. “What is it?”

“I don’t think it’ll work.”

“What? Why do you say this?”

Finwen tapped the blunt end his pencil against the parchment. “These calculations don’t seem quite right. This rune sequence here is pretty high for destruction magic. It could overwhelm our illusion component. I think it’ll work better if we use a lesser destruction sequence and augment the illusion sequence. Maybe something more like this.” He scribbled some notes, then got up to show J’zargo.

J’zargo squinted at the new numbers. Finwen’s terrible handwriting was almost impossible to read. “But in Celia’s formula the number for illusion magic is already very high.”

“So is the one for destruction magic, and reducing that one would be safer. The effect we want is more illusion than destruction anyway, and we don’t want the flames to be real, right?”

“Yes, but it must be a good illusion. Too little fire and it will be like a candle, which will impress no one.”

“Why is it so important to impress everyone? Are you trying to get into the Aureus Magi or something?”

“Aureus Magi? What is that?”

“It’s sort of a student society.”

“What does this society do? Who joins it?”

Finwen shrugged and fidgeted with his pencil. “It holds contests and special events, that kind of thing. But it’s pretty exclusive. They recruit the stand-outs, people who get high marks and can just about cast spells in their sleep.” Finwen added under his breath, “And it helps if you’re rich.”

J’zargo frowned. “You do not think they choose members based on skill alone?”

“Well, I mean, everyone in Aureus Magi is good at magic, no question, but most of them come from money and had lots of tutoring. It took years before my mother and aunt made a success of their clothing business, so they couldn’t afford a tutor for me.”

J’zargo looked over Finwen again. How could the son of clothiers take such little care with his appearance? The sight of the elf’s rumpled clothes compelled J’zargo to smooth out a wrinkle from his own robes. “J’zargo’s family also struggled,” he said. “But they worked hard and made their caravan a success. J’zargo knows if he works hard, he will also succeed.”

“Sometimes no matter how hard you try, things just don’t work out the way you think they will.”

“J’zargo thinks that is giving up. No one succeeds when they give up.”

“I suppose.”

J’zargo took up his pencil again, and Finwen did the same. After a time J’zargo glanced at Finwen and saw that the Altmer was wasting time drawing odd shapes. J’zargo turned his face away and scowled. No wonder Finwen had no hope of getting the attention of the Aureus Magi. Then J’zargo became conscious of his own drawings of fire-breathing rats, and he tucked them away under a book.

Finwen abruptly got to his feet and began gathering his books. “I have another class soon. I’d better go.”

“Yes, J’zargo must also prepare for another class.”

Finwen offered J’zargo a page of notes. “Here’s a copy of the most important parts I have so far.”

“Ah, yes, good.” J’zargo skimmed the notes and tried not to make a face. Finwen had made an effort to write clearly, but the letters were still badly formed and wobbled across the page.

“This part is the formula I was talking about, the one for combining the spells. It’s based on the one Celia did, but I changed the numbers a bit. Less destruction and more illusion, so it’ll be safer. I can come again later to help finish the scroll.”

“J’zargo thanks you.”

Finwen went on his way, and J’zargo bent over his desk to review the existing work for the fire scroll. Other than formulas for joining two different spells, Celia’s notes were mostly conceptual, and J’zargo had to create much of the fire components himself. J’zargo came last to Finwen’s efforts. Finwen had made additional notes in the margins that explained each component of his work. Despite the childish handwriting, the logic was surprisingly easy to follow. There were still many gaps to fill, many adjustments to make, but J’zargo was beginning to see how the scroll would take shape.

But which formula to use for merging the destruction and illusion magic? J’zargo looked first at Finwen’s, then at Celia’s. Finwen’s conservative numbers would produce hardly any flames at all. No one would be impressed by such a pitiful display, not the other students, not Faralda, certainly not the Aureus Magi. And what would J’zargo tell Celia? She would not be pleased to learn that J’zargo had taken her formula and crippled it.

This will be safer, Finwen had said. But Finwen had no ambition, always choosing the safest and easiest plans. If J’zargo followed Finwen’s advice, J’zargo would soon be known as a coward with no taste for challenge. He might as well create a scroll to summon pink magelights. J’zargo cringed, remembering how Sanriel had laughed, how Tirel had struggled to say something polite about the pink magelight.

No. That would be the last time anyone would laugh at J’zargo’s magic. They would see that J’zargo is a true mage. He was not pretending. And he was not afraid of success. The choice was clear. J’zargo pulled out a new sheet of parchment and began to work with Celia’s formula.

Chapter 24: Arcanaeum

Rumarin sat in a dimly lit corner of the Arcanaeum surrounded by stacks of musty books. By staying quiet and pretending to read or by giving the appearance of dozing off, Rumarin avoided drawing attention to himself. The students reading their books, the professors grading spellwork, even the orc librarian glaring from behind his imposing desk completely ignored the elf in shabby robes. Just now Rumarin preferred going unnoticed, especially when he was within throwing distance of a Thalmor.

Again Rumarin cursed his rotten luck. He should be on the road with his pockets heavy with gold, putting miles between himself and this moldering school with its snooty professors and pompous magelings. But he couldn’t leave. Not yet. Not when there was still a glimmering chance that something might come of the White Phial business. Sergius might not pay much for the phial, but even a little gold would be better than nothing.

And then there was the Thalmor matter. Being tasked with spying on this Thalmor was not only infuriating, it was absurd. Infuriating because Rumarin had been coerced into it by a ladder-climbing Stormcloak lieutenant, absurd because there was nothing inherently suspicious about the Aldmeri Dominion having a diplomatic presence in a renowned school of magic. It was good politics. What did that skinflint of a Stormcloak expect to learn?

Rumarin stole a glance at Justiciar Ancano. The high elf in elegant black robes was reading a book. Perhaps Ancano was researching new techniques for interrogation and torture. Or perhaps he was simply bored, lonely, and had nothing better to do. Rumarin doubted the Thalmor had volunteered for a post in the coldest and most wretched ass end corner of Skyrim.

The minutes dragged on. A professor with a head cold kept clearing his throat and snuffling over his notes. A group of students continually whispered to each other, too low to pick out the words yet too audible for Rumarin to ignore. The Thalmor kept reading, seemingly oblivious to the sounds that grated at Rumarin’s nerves and made him want to pull his own hair out.

In desperation Rumarin picked through the surrounding piles of books in search of something worth reading. He selected a book with a golden dragon on the cover and opened it to a random page. But it was hard going. The letters were up to their old tricks, blurring and drifting out of focus. It took all his concentration to get beyond the first paragraph, and then he was not quite sure what he had just read.

A movement drew Rumarin’s attention to the back of the library. The orc librarian stirred from his desk, picked up a sheaf of papers, and turned to one of the cabinets behind him. He made a subtle motion and touched glowing fingertips to the cabinet. The face of the cabinet pivoted open to reveal a dark corridor. Rumarin straightened and watched, fascinated. He had never imagined any of these cabinets might be concealing secret rooms. Given the size of the Arcanaeum and the dimensions of the tower itself, the room must be small and cramped. It was probably just the stacks, ordinary storage for books and scrolls.

Rumarin might not have given it another thought had he not glanced at Ancano. Rumarin expected to see the Thalmor looking as bored and oblivious as ever. Instead Ancano was all attention, his eyes fixed on the orc librarian. Only after the orc entered the corridor and closed the door behind him did Ancano go back to reading his book like nothing happened. Strange, thought Rumarin. An ordinary storage area would hold no interest for a Thalmor. Did Ancano know or have reason to believe there was something special tucked away in that room? If so, what was it?

A rattling noise drew Rumarin’s attention to an old Nord woman who was struggling with a broom and a bucket full of rags. Rumarin had only spoken to her twice, but he recalled that her name was Kjersti. She was the same old woman Ancano had terrorized after he had tripped over her cleaning things.

None of the students or professors so much as glanced at Kjersti. She slunk to a far corner, took out a rag and began wiping down shelves and tables. Rumarin would have lost interest if not for the fact that the old woman kept looking about fearfully like a hunted animal.

Kjersti paused and pulled something from the bucket of rags. It was a book, its black cover devoid of markings. With shaking hands she placed it on a low table. It seemed to Rumarin that she was afraid of the book, or afraid to be seen with it. The old woman made another show of dusting the furniture, but she didn’t stay long before she gathered her things and hurried away.

Rumarin stared at the black book. He was tempted to investigate but his instincts told him to stay put.

After a moment the Thalmor got up and went to where the book lay. He casually picked it up, tucked it under his arm, and strode out of the Arcanaeum.

Rumarin gaped at the Thalmor’s retreating form. Ancano’s passing interest in a hidden room might have meant nothing, but this changed everything. The Thalmor was up to something, he had to be. The old woman must have stolen the book for him, it would explain her anxious manner and the need for secrecy. This might concern the College directly, might even be connected with that secret room– Get a hold of yourself, thought Rumarin, you don’t know that. But suppose there was a connection? Suppose Ancano was planning something that the College would wish to stop? If Rumarin could discover the Thalmor’s plans, it might give him enough leverage to start turning things in his favor.

Whatever was going on, the black book was the key. But what did it contain? Spells of mass destruction? Designs for Dwemer war machines? Rumarin would never know until he saw the book for himself. But how to lay his hands on it without getting caught?

The party, thought Rumarin. Everyone was supposed to be there, including Ancano. Rumarin still had his lockpicks. If he could slip into the Thalmor’s room long enough to make a search– No, it was a mad idea. Even if Rumarin succeeded in finding the book, there still remained the problem of reading it. He could read, but slowly and with difficulty, and time would not be on his side.

Rumarin’s thoughts were brought up short when he saw Mehra enter the Arcanaeum, furtively moving toward a bookcase like she hoped to avoid notice. Rumarin was tempted to sneak away before she saw him. She might prefer to be alone, and Rumarin wasn’t exactly in the best state of mind. He had spent the last two days surrounded by mages who either ignored him or treated him with scorn, and now he was consumed with ideas on how to uncover the Thalmor’s plans.

He got up and lightly stepped around piles of books so he could make for the exit, but another glance at Mehra told him something was wrong. Her movements were faltering and she was hiding her face behind her hair. It occurred to Rumarin that she must not care for this place either. He doubted she was seeing much of J’zargo; he would be busy with his classes. As for the mages, they might respect Mehra’s titles, but they would never see her as a peer. Mehra didn’t belong here anymore than Rumarin did.

After watching Mehra strain to reach the books on the top shelf, Rumarin made up his mind. He approached her and said, “It was rather inconsiderate of these mages to make the shelves so high, wasn’t it?”

Mehra started. “I’m… I’m trying to reach the book on enchanting.”

Rumarin heard the slight break in her voice. Her face was curtained behind her hair, but he just managed to catch a glimpse of her eyes. They were red-rimmed from crying. He floundered between two conflicting instincts– one part of him wanted to flee, the other part wanted to find out what was wrong.

“Could you get it down?” asked Mehra, still not quite looking at him.

Rumarin stared at the spines of the books. The effort to quickly make sense of the titles made his mind lock up. “Er…”

Mehra pointed. “That one. The blue one.”

Rumarin pulled down the book and gave it to her. “Are you planning on doing enchantments?”

Mehra hugged the book to her chest. “I only want to know what it says about capturing souls. How it’s done, and whether it can be undone.”

“Undone?” asked Rumarin, deciding to play dumb. They had circled around this subject before. Rumarin had already decided that Mehra’s interest in souls had nothing to do with enchanting and everything to do with being the Dragonborn– or a soul vampire, as Mehra had once called herself. If she truly was carrying around the soul of a dragon, it was possible she could somehow feel or hear it in her mind. It would go a long way to explain Mehra’s peculiar bouts of distraction that she alternately blamed on headaches and mysterious hearing problems.

Mehra said, “If it’s possible to catch souls, it must be possible to free them.”

“Perhaps, but I doubt you’ll find many enchanters who specialize in catch and release. The whole point is to use the soul’s energy to power magical trinkets.”

Mehra said nothing. Rumarin struggled for something else to say. All he could manage was, “How are the headaches?”

“Better, thank you.”

“Were the healers able to help?”

Mehra shook her head. There was a catch in her voice when she said, “They can’t help me.”

Rumarin shifted uncomfortably. He was rarely at a loss for words, but whatever he said now might make her break down.

“There weren’t any answers in Cyrodiil either,” Mehra continued, very low. “About the magic, I mean. I suppose it was foolish to hope it would be any different here.”

“I don’t know about that. It can’t be any more foolish than my hope that Winterhold would have people who actually know how to cook. I’d almost rather eat the mystery meat in the bottom of my…” Rumarin trailed off when he saw Mehra wipe a hand across her face, and he wanted to kick himself for not reining in his empty jests. “You should probably ignore over half the things I say.”

Mehra glanced up at him. “Why?”

“Because I almost never say anything of consequence.”

“That’s not true.”

“Oh but it is. Talking is easy, but saying anything worth listening to, that takes effort. And as you know I’m terribly lazy.”

“You’ve said that about yourself before, but–”

“However, I do have one redeeming quality.”

“What’s that?”

“I can reach things on the top shelves. Do you need to find more books on enchanting?” Again Rumarin wanted to kick himself. Why had he made such an offer? He could barely read. Sooner or later she would notice something amiss.

Mehra hesitated. “Yes, but I also came to find books about dragons.”

“Dragons? Really?”

“I don’t know anything about dragons. It seems like something a Dragonborn should know a great deal about.”

“Does this mean you’ve decided to embrace the whole Dragonborn thing?”

Mehra let her gaze drop. “No. I mean, I don’t know. I just think I should know more. That’s all.”

Rumarin wanted to pry into the real reasons for researching dragons and soul magic, but it was obvious Mehra didn’t want to talk about it. Better to play along. “I think I saw a book about dragons earlier,” he said.

“Really? Where?”

Rumarin led her to the corner of the library where he had sat earlier. He rummaged around for a while until he found the book with the dragon on the cover and handed it to her.

Mehra stared at it. “Oh. This is actually a biography of Martin Septim.”

Rumarin kept the dismay off his face and tried to sound nonchalant. “Is it? I suppose I wasn’t paying attention.”

Mehra touched the book’s cover, her finger tracing the outline of the golden wings. “I’m not sure I would have chosen a dragon for the cover.”

“But didn’t he turn into a dragon? At least that’s what happens in all the Cyrodilic plays about the Oblivion Crisis. Granted, the theater isn’t known for historical accuracy.”

“Yes, but he was a man first. He knew nothing of his destiny until near the end.” Mehra started to lay the book aside. At the last minute she changed her mind and tucked the Martin Septim biography under her arm along with the book on enchanting.

“What about you?” asked Mehra. “Did you come to find a book as well?”

Rumarin thought fast. He couldn’t very well tell her that he came to the Arcanaeum to spy on a Thalmor. Or could he? If he were to go through with his plan to break into the Thalmor’s room, he could use help from someone who could read. And Mehra was the only person he could even begin to trust. She might be willing to help if he explained the necessity of the task.

“Actually, I came here to…” Rumarin trailed off. Mehra looked at him expectantly. This was a terrible idea. Rumarin didn’t think Mehra would betray him on purpose, but she might get flustered and accidentally say the wrong thing to the wrong person. That was partly what trapped him in this Thalmor web in the first place. And if things played out wrong, Mehra would be dragged into the mess with him. No, it was out of the question. He would have to do it alone.

“I decided to scour the halls of the Arcanaeum to find a spell tome that I can actually understand,” said Rumarin. “Which of course proved hopeless. Occasionally I get these strange optimistic fits, but I recover quickly.”

“You’re planning to learn more magic?”

Rumarin was about to deflect the question with a joke, but something stopped him. Mehra had brightened up, almost looked hopeful. It reminded him of when she had offered to help J’zargo by recommending books on restoration magic. Despite her inability to cast spells, or maybe because of it, having a chance to help someone with magic seemed to lift her spirits. Rumarin didn’t have it in him to brush her off.

“I wouldn’t mind adding a spell or two to my repertoire,” said Rumarin. He sat on the floor amongst the books. “Have you ever tried seeing your way through a dark tunnel by the glow of a conjured weapon? Obviously I should carry a lantern, that would be the sensible thing, but my lazy self would be much happier with a magelight.”

Mehra nudged away a stack of books so she also had enough room to sit down. “Do you know other spells? I mean, aside from conjuring weapons?”

“No.” That came out more abruptly than Rumarin intended. He quickly added, “I picked up weapon conjuration easily enough, but anything more complicated requires studying. And when you’re a hapless idiot like me, spell tomes are of little use.”

Mehra frowned. “I don’t understand why you keep saying things like that.”

“What things?”

“These things where you keep putting yourself down. Like calling yourself an idiot just now.”

“Because it’s perfectly true. If I were smart, I wouldn’t be out robbing graves and such. I’d be a scholar or a librarian or some other horrifyingly dull occupation. At the very least, I’d know how to cast spells.”

“But you already know several weapon conjuration spells.”

“They’re not difficult. From what I hear, they barely count as spells.”

“That’s not true,” said Mehra, her voice suddenly sharp. Rumarin stared in surprise. She ducked her head and avoided his eye. At length she quietly added, “I should explain. I’ve studied them before. Spells for conjuring a weapon, I mean.”

“You and your healer friend?” asked Rumarin. He had heard Mehra tell a different version of this story before.

Mehra’s color deepened. “I… that is, we…”

Rumarin remembered that something felt off when Mehra had described her healer friend’s struggle to learn weapon conjuration, and now all at once he understood why. It was because Mehra and the healer friend were one and the same. Somehow she had lost her magic and was trying to get it back. That was why Mehra could tell that J’zargo’s restoration textbook was lacking, why she could list several restoration books from memory, why she had known what to do when Rumarin and J’zargo had been wounded– Damn it, why hadn’t he seen it before?

Mehra was quiet for some time. Rumarin got the awful feeling she was on the verge of tears again and he didn’t know what to do about it.

“It’s not like it’s any of my business, you don’t have to explain anything,” he said.

“Maybe this time I should. What do you know about witbane?”

Rumarin hesitated. “All the usual things, I suppose. I know the disease can weaken a person’s connection to magicka. But it’s treatable, isn’t it?”

“Usually.” Mehra’s voice was constricted. “But there’s been a strain of witbane that resists treatment. The damage can’t always be undone.”

Rumarin caught the full meaning of her words and again found himself at a loss. Earlier Mehra had said the College healers couldn’t help her. She must have spoken to them and learned that they had no cure, that her magic was gone forever.

Mehra traced a fraying spot on her sleeve. Her shirt had already been mended in several places. “Many people either can’t cast spells or never learn how. That’s not so odd. But it’s different when people find out that you’re… well… broken.”

Rumarin couldn’t help thinking of his own difficulty with reading anything more complex than a children’s story. He also couldn’t help wondering why Mehra was telling him this. He asked, “Does J’zargo know?”

“I was starting to think I should tell him, but…”

“But?”

“Nothing, it’s not important. It’s just– what I’m trying to say is that even though I knew other spells, I never figured out how to do what you can do. Summon weapons, I mean. Not even a little one.”

Rumarin waited for Mehra to continue, but the silence went on. He was beginning to feel as though he were holding a bird in his hand. Make the wrong move and it would startle and take flight. He chose his next words with care. “Why was that, do you suppose?”

“I think it’s because summoning takes a mindset that I didn’t have. Maybe I still don’t.”

“What sort of mindset?”

“Most of the magic I learned acts on things you can see or touch. The things of this world. But summoning is different. Like blindly reaching through a heavy curtain and hoping you take hold of the right thing.”

“And hoping you don’t slice yourself open by grabbing the wrong end of a magic sword?” asked Rumarin. He was encouraged when this drew a smile from her. A small one but better than nothing.

“Yes, something like that,” said Mehra. “I know some mages don’t take weapon conjuration seriously, but I don’t think it’s because the spells are easy.”

“What’s the real reason?”

“Even a magic weapon isn’t much good if you don’t know how to use it, and not everyone will take the time to learn.”

“It almost sounds like you’re saying that mages are on the lazy side. Maybe I have more in common with them than I thought.”

“What I’m saying is that I know it takes time and effort to learn how to wield a weapon as well as conjure it. But you’ve done both.”

“Are you trying to tell me you don’t think I’m a hapless idiot?” Rumarin put a hand to his forehead in mock horror. “Good heavens, this must be a plot to use logic against me until I have no choice but to force my pitiful brain to learn something new. And it might have worked if not for one detail.”

“What detail?”

“I could never learn anything from blasted spell tomes like these. Here, just listen to this.” Rumarin grabbed the nearest book and pretended to read aloud. “‘To use fire, one must ignite the ethereal flint through the synchronistic channeling of–’”

“But… that’s…”

“Yes, you see what I mean, don’t you? Pure rubbish.”

“It’s just, I recognize that book, and…”

Rumarin examined the book and gradually made enough sense of the text to realize he was holding a volume on common skin diseases. He bit his lip and set the book aside.

The silence grew long and awkward. At length Mehra softly asked, “Learning magic isn’t the problem, is it?”

Rumarin couldn’t bring himself to look Mehra in the eye. “I’m pretty sure I saw a children’s story about mudcrabs lying around here somewhere. Full of pictures and everything. Unfortunately most spell tomes aren’t written with children or simpletons in mind.”

“Not being able to read doesn’t make anyone a–”

“Oh, I can read, believe it or not. It just doesn’t come as easily to me as, say, juggling knives.” Rumarin was going to leave it at that, but it didn’t sit well with him. Maybe it was because Mehra had already shared something about herself that she normally kept secret. Or maybe it was because she might understand his problem better than most. She already lived with a disability of her own.

Rumarin continued, “I think the real problem is that I don’t see letters the way everyone else does.”

“How do you mean?”

“It’s a little hard to explain. The best way to put it is that letters like to play tricks and go fuzzy on me. Otero was the only one who guessed at the real problem. He’s the reason I can read at all.”

“I don’t think I would have learned much about spells just by reading books. Spell tomes aren’t always the best way to learn magic.”

“Most mages I’ve spoken to seem to think quite the opposite.”

“But if that were true, we wouldn’t need schools or apprenticeships. If J’zargo could learn everything about magic from books, he never would have left his family to come all the way here.”

“So what you’re saying is, I don’t need to find the right spell tome. What I really need is the right magic teacher.”

“Yes.”

“Where would you start looking for one?”

Mehra glanced around as if she expected to spot the right sort of teacher wandering through the Arcanaeum. “Well, we’re already in a school of magic.”

“Yes, but Winterhold is a traditional institution, so they’ll insist on spell tomes and exorbitant tuition fees. I’d need to find a place that’s the opposite of that. Like a college built by sewer mages.”

Mehra blinked. “Sewer mages?”

“All right, maybe not. What I mean is, mages who have sort of an unorthodox view of education. Do you know anyone like that?”

“I don’t think so. At least, I don’t know of anyone in Skyrim.”

“Oh well, I’m sure that person is out there somewhere,” said Rumarin with a shrug. He wasn’t quite sure why he had even posed the question. Of course Mehra didn’t know magic teachers in Skyrim, and even if she could name one, it wasn’t the answer Rumarin wanted. He was more curious about what Mehra herself knew of magic. But he couldn’t expect Mehra to volunteer herself as a teacher, especially not when he hadn’t asked her directly.

“Tirel might know someone,” said Mehra.

“Who’s Tirel?”

“He’s a student. We met him in the service tunnels and again in the dining hall.”

Rumarin recalled a young Breton mage who was altogether too friendly and too curious about their business with Sergius. “Oh him, yes. But why would he help?”

“Tirel helped J’zargo by loaning him some books, and he showed me around the school, and he…” Mehra trailed off and her face turned pink. “He’s having a dress made for me. For the party.”

Make that too friendly, too curious, and too generous, thought Rumarin. “Did he really? And the dress will be ready in time?”

“Yes, he said the tailor does very good and fast work.”

“I suppose anyone who can recommend an excellent tailor is bound to be in touch with other people worth knowing. Maybe I can get new robes made if nothing else. What else do you know about him?”

Mehra told Rumarin what she knew. Tirel knew the ins and outs of the school and he had shown her a beautiful greenhouse. Tirel was good at magic and well-read, which was more than Rumarin cared to know, seeing as he was neither. But one thing above all else was clear: Tirel had gone out of his way to give Mehra special attention and made her happy. Maybe I’m just too cynical, thought Rumarin.

“Perhaps if I see him I’ll ask what he knows,” said Rumarin without meaning it. Partly to change the subject and partly to satisfy his curiosity on another point he asked, “Are you planning on going back to Whiterun soon?”

“I’m not sure. I guess I haven’t decided.”

“It’s nicer than most places in Skyrim, unless you happen to like freezing to death. Of course I’m biased because the Honningbrew Meadery is in Whiterun.” Rumarin paused. “But then Whiterun isn’t exactly home, is it?”

Mehra had a faraway look. “No. It’s not.”

“So why not go back home?”

“Jarl Balgruuf expects… I’m supposed to…”

Rumarin saw her growing distress and regretted bringing up Whiterun. He doubted Jarl Balgruuf’s expectations had anything to do with Mehra going to Winterhold to regain her lost magic, and Rumarin was sure the jarl wouldn’t send an inexperienced girl from Cyrodiil on diplomatic errands. Rumarin would be willing to lay down money that it had something to do with the Dragonborn business. But it’s all preposterous, thought Rumarin. How could anyone seriously think that a girl from Cyrodiil could be Skyrim’s champion?

“In hard times there are always people who expect a hero to magically appear and fix everything,” said Rumarin. “But the world doesn’t work like that.”

“You don’t believe the stories about Martin Septim or the Hero of Kvatch?”

“Well, the Oblivion Crisis happened over two hundred years ago, more than enough time to obscure what really happened with exaggerations, lies and theatrical productions. In any case, there were no magical saviors in the Great War.” Just fear and destruction and slaughter, but Rumarin kept those thoughts to himself. He was just old enough to remember something of the war in Cyrodiil.

“No, but there were no Oblivion gates either.”

“The point is if Skyrim really has a dragon crisis on its hands, the jarls can’t afford to gamble their future on a mythical folk hero. What they really need is people like Ulfric Stormcloak and General Tullius to set aside their little dispute long enough to deal with the problem. They ought to have enough trained soldiers to take care of a few flying lizards.”

“I never really thought about it like that.”

“Skyrim is full of red-blooded Nords who love bragging about their prowess on the battlefield and their ability to drink every other race under the table. If there’s any substance in what they say, I doubt Skyrim will be the worse off if you went back home.”

“Maybe so.” Mehra thought a moment. “What will you do? After everything is settled with Sergius and the phial?”

What will I do indeed, thought Rumarin. Even if Sergius coughed up some money for the White Phial, there surely wouldn’t be enough to settle Rumarin’s debt. But then he remembered the Thalmor and the book. Things might not be so hopeless for Rumarin if he could solve that mystery and work it to his advantage.

“Probably what I usually do,” said Rumarin. “Pick a direction and see where the road takes me.”

“We could travel part of the way together.”

Rumarin considered this. He was a hunted elf, and anyone he traveled with would have a share in the dangers he faced. Having Mehra around would be more of a liability than a help if bounty hunters picked up his trail again, and she wouldn’t be safe with him. And then he needed to find out what the Thalmor was planning. If Rumarin was careful and lucky, not only would he have something worthwhile to take back to the adjutant in Fort Kastav, he might even be able to work out some kind of deal with the College. But of course he could admit none of these things to Mehra.

“I suppose that depends on whether we finish our business here at the same time. We’ll see,” said Rumarin. Already his mind was spinning with ideas on how he would get his hands on the Thalmor’s black book.

“Oh.”

Rumarin got up and stretched. “Well, I’ve had my fill of this library and I’m sure you want to read your books, so I’ll leave you to it.”

“Yes, I’ll… I’ll see you later then.”

Rumarin heard the hurt in her voice and lingered a moment longer. He tried to think of something to say that would leave her in better spirits, but it was no good. Nothing came to him. He left the Arcanaeum feeling like a useless coward.

Chapter 25: Alifin

Mehra didn’t like exploring the College on her own. It wasn’t just that the candlelit halls were cold and full of shadows. It was the way students often stared at her and spoke to each other in hushed whispers when she passed. She could never forget that to them she was an object of curiosity, a thane and possibly even the Dragonborn. She didn’t want to stay hidden away in her room, but there was nothing to do except read a little, wander the halls, and wait for news about the White Phial.

The matter of the phial still troubled Mehra whenever she thought of it. Her friends had risked their lives finding it and deserved something for their efforts. She hoped Rumarin’s fears about being cheated proved unfounded and that J’zargo had made the right choice in giving the phial to Sergius.

But there was more weighing on Mehra than just the phial. Her whole future was now lost in a fog. The College had been her last hope of getting back her magic, and now–

Mehra pushed these thoughts away as she climbed the tower stairs. She would not dwell on such things, not when she was about to see Tirel again. She would not let him see her broken. Mehra knew he was taking a restoration class today, but he hadn’t said when or where. Mehra had questioned a passing student to find out what she needed to know. Now her plan was to reach his class just as it was letting out. With any luck Tirel would think running into her was a happy coincidence and not something she had planned.

Mehra knew she had found the right class when she heard the piercing voice of Colette. Careful to stay out of sight, Mehra drew near the open door of the classroom to listen.

“I would just like to remind everyone once again that restoration is indeed a valid school of magic. It is absolutely worthy of research, despite many of the notes I’ve had left in my bed. And my desk. And on occasion, my meals. Anyone suggesting that restoration is better left to the priests of the temples is forgetting a few things.” Colette began citing the benefits of spells that repelled the undead and summoned wards.

The longer Mehra listened, the more unsettled she became. Colette gave no instructions at all, no guidance to help her students understand what restoration magic truly was or how to use it, and never once mentioned healing, the very essence of restoration. But Mehra reminded herself that she hadn’t heard the whole lecture. Surely there had been much more.

The class ended with Colette directing her students to write an essay about the validity of restoration magic as a field of study. Mehra heard chairs scraping against the floor, then chatter and footsteps. She backed away from the door just as students began streaming out.

Mehra was surprised to see Tirel appear with J’zargo. She hadn’t expected to run into J’zargo. When they last parted he had seemed annoyed with her, and Mehra didn’t feel ready to talk with him again just yet.

J’zargo appeared unusually animated as he spoke with Tirel. “J’zargo will of course accept. J’zargo will be pleased to be part of a society of talented mages.”

“I’m glad to hear it. I knew you’d get their attention,” said Tirel. He brightened when he caught sight of Mehra and beckoned to her.

J’zargo turned to Mehra. “J’zargo has been invited to join the Aurius Magi.”

“Really? That’s wonderful,” said Mehra. She knew very little about the Aurius Magi, but Tirel had mentioned that he was part of the prestigious student society. “So they didn’t mind the remedial– the, um… the…”

J’zargo’s glance was withering, and Mehra grew flustered. She had practically blurted out that J’zargo was taking basic classes to catch him up in areas of magic where he lacked experience. And in front of Tirel too. How could she be so stupid? “It’s just, I’ve heard it’s hard to get into the Aurius Magi,” she said, feeling miserable.

“That is also what J’zargo has heard. But they have recognized J’zargo’s potential, and J’zargo will not let them down.” J’zargo spoke coldly, and Mehra could no longer meet his gaze.

“Yes, they snag the best as soon as they can.” Tirel’s eyes went to the book Mehra carried. “What’s that you’re reading?”

Mehra had nearly forgotten about the book. She often carried one without thinking about it. She liked having something to read, but she also found comfort in the weight of a book. “It’s about enchantments. I found it in the library.”

“It is called the Arcanaeum,” said J’zargo.

“Enchanting is a fascinating subject. I’m taking a class in it myself,” said Tirel.

J’zargo asked Mehra, “Why do you wish to study enchantments?”

“I’m just… curious about how they work.”

“But that is easy. J’zargo knows that enchantments work by catching souls and binding them to items with a spell.”

“Yes, I know. This book outlines the basics, but it doesn’t seem to explain how or why any of it works.”

Tirel said, “You’d like the volume by Agata better. She goes into more of the theory. I have my own copy I’d be glad to loan you.”

“Really? I’d like to read it, but if you need it for your class–”

Tirel shifted his armload of books. “Not at all. We can fetch it now if you like. I need to head back anyway to swap out books. Come, it won’t take but a moment.”

As they walked J’zargo asked Mehra, “You wish to create your own enchantments? This would be a good thing to learn once you can cast spells. J’zargo asks if you have spoken to the healers yet?”

“Not yet.” Mehra struggled to keep her composure. It felt wrong to lie to J’zargo, but this was the last thing she wanted to talk about.

J’zargo frowned. “But why have you not? That was the reason you came to the College, yes?”

Mehra stuttered out a word or two but could not put together an answer. To her surprise Tirel spoke for her: “Colette is very busy now that classes have started. That leaves Lenari most of the time, but she’s only an apprentice.”

“Ah. Yes, J’zargo understands the difficulty now.”

“How was the restoration class?” asked Mehra, eager to change the subject.

Tirel started to speak, but J’zargo said, “Good, very good. J’zargo wished for a more challenging assignment, but J’zargo thinks he will learn much.”

“What about you?” Mehra asked Tirel.

Tirel shrugged. “You can’t always judge a class on the first day.”

“Did Colette say anything about healing?”

“Of course she did,” said J’zargo. “But restoration magic is not only about healing. It is an important school of magic that can summon wards and frighten away hideous skeletons and draugr.”

“Very true,” said Tirel. “But this class is more of an overview. Colette thinks the other professors look down on the healing arts, so she talks about how versatile restoration magic is and focuses on other spells.”

Mehra was bewildered. “But without healing spells, there’s very little to learn about restoration magic. And some mages think ward spells really belong to the school of alteration.”

J’zargo’s ears twitched in annoyance. “Colette said wards are restoration spells. She is a master healer. She knows what she is talking about.”

“I’m sure she does, but… did she say anything about spells from other schools of magic?”

“No, because it is a class about restoration magic,” said J’zargo, exasperated.

“But healers would be very limited if they only used restoration spells. They need other schools of magic too. For example–”

“Why do you speak as if you know more about this than Colette? J’zargo knows you have read many books about restoration magic, but that does not make you a healer.”

Mehra was too stunned to speak. Why would J’zargo say such a thing? She tried to answer, tried to explain that she wasn’t pretending to be something she wasn’t, but the words got stuck in her throat.

“Come now friend J’zargo, she was only sharing what she knows,” said Tirel.

J’zargo averted his eyes. He had the look of someone who just broke one of his mother’s heirlooms and did not want to own up to it. “J’zargo apologizes, but he must be going to another class now.” He was on his way before either of them could reply.

“I’m sure he didn’t mean any harm. The College can be a little over-awing.” Tirel paused and looked closely at Mehra. “Are you all right?”

“Yes– just– headaches again,” said Mehra, barely getting the words out. Her throat ached from the effort of holding back tears.

“We can go see Lenari if you want. She may be an apprentice, but she’s very good. I’m sure she can help.”

“She can’t. No one can.”

“Perhaps someone can, if we can find the right someone. Do you want to talk about it?”

“I just…” The more Mehra tried to compose herself, the more her voice wanted to break. Now the dragon in her head was roused and muttering what could only be curses. “Sorry. I didn’t want to be like this when I ran into you.”

“You mean you came to Colette’s class to find me?”

Mehra wanted to disappear through the floor. Why did she have to keep blurting out things like that? She let her hair fall forward to hide her burning face.

“I’m glad you did. I didn’t know when I’d run into you again, and I couldn’t think of a good excuse to go knocking on your door.”

Mehra’s pulse quickened. “Really?”

“Really.” Tirel seemed to reach for her hand, but he stopped, and Mehra wondered if she had only imagined it. He said, “Tell me more about what you were saying earlier. You know, about how healers need other schools of magic.”

At first Mehra felt a rush of pleasure at this, but then she remembered J’zargo’s sour look, his exasperation when she kept talking about restoration magic. J’zargo obviously felt she had no business discussing spellcasting when she was no mage herself. What if Tirel thought the same? What if he was only asking her about magic to be nice, to humor her?

“I probably can’t tell you anything more than Colette will teach in her class. And I’m not a spellcaster,” said Mehra, dropping her gaze.

Tirel made a derisive sound. “Even if Colette knows the good of drawing from other schools of magic, she’ll never talk about it. As for not being a spellcaster, what of it? Knowledge is knowledge however you come by it.”

These words warmed Mehra and left her a little breathless. Tirel was a gifted student in a renowned school of magic. And as far as he knew she had never cast a spell in her life, let alone spent years studying to be a healer. But he still wanted her thoughts on magic?

“What other schools of magic pair well with healing?” asked Tirel.

“Well, you said you’re good at illusion magic. You can use those kinds of spells to numb pain as you heal.”

“I didn’t know that. Drevis never talks about illusion magic in the context of healing. How does that work?”

“A calming spell can be used to help the patient’s reaction to pain. Pain makes people scared and anxious, but we often learn to ignore little pains, and the illusion effects of a calm spell can help the patient ignore greater pain. It’s not much different, you just have to learn to adapt the illusion to the person’s situation.”

They paused at the ground level of the main tower. Mehra’s eyes were drawn to the entrance of the vast round chamber, illuminated by a font of glowing blue light. From where they stood she could see several robed students in the chamber talking, laughing, and casting spells.

“Some healers think it’s better to just work as fast as possible and not fuss with illusion magic,” Mehra continued, “but Indrisa says–”

A brilliant flash of light and a thunderous sound made Mehra gasp. She became conscious of Tirel’s hand on her arm. “It’s just some of the students practicing their destruction spells in there,” he said. “Makes a terrible racket though.”

Mehra felt a twinge of disappointment when Tirel drew his hand away. “But why do they do it? The walls… the scorch marks…”

“They’re supposed to hit those things, not the walls.” Tirel pointed at one of several balls of light hovering in the great chamber. “But there’s no accounting for bad aim.”

They watched the students take turns hurling magical fire and ice at the magelights. The points of light pulsed and flared as they absorbed the blasts of energy.

Mehra pointed at the column of blue light. “Tirel, what are those? The glowing wells I see around the school?”

“They’re focus points for magical energy. They’re fed in part by the spells we fire at those floating lights.”

“But what do they do exactly?”

“The professors say they’re for powering enchantments around the school. Magical locks and the like.”

Mehra studied him. Tirel was staring at the font, his expression shadowed. She asked, “Do you think maybe there’s more to it than that?”

Tirel gave an unconvincing smile. “I’ve only heard foolish rumors that nobody can prove. But come, what were you going to say earlier about Indrisa?”

“About…? Oh. It’s just that Indrisa thinks you should do everything you can to ease suffering.” Mehra continued explaining Indrisa’s philosophy on magical healing. Although Tirel appeared to be listening intently, Mehra began to wonder if she was talking too much, if she sounded like she was putting on airs, if she was taking too much of Tirel’s time.

“I’m not keeping you from a class or anything, am I?” asked Mehra.

“No, I’m in no hurry,” said Tirel. After a particularly loud blast of magic he added, “But let’s move on before they make us deaf.”

As they walked Tirel asked more questions. How much anatomy should you know before you begin healing? Do healing spells work on plants as well as people? Is it more difficult to heal wounds inflicted by magical means? Mehra answered as best she could, surprised and happy that he considered her opinions on restoration worth knowing.

When they approached the door to Tirel’s room it dawned on Mehra that he might invite her inside. That they would be alone together. They had been alone in the greenhouse, but this was somehow different.

“After you.” Tirel held the door open for her. Mehra went in, unsure if her heart was racing more from nervousness or anticipation.

Unlike the cramped doorless spaces set aside for the first-year students, Tirel’s room was spacious and bright, with daylight streaming through a window overlooking the courtyard.

Tirel went to the bookcase. “Let me just swap out my books, then I’ll find the one about enchantments I was telling you about.”

Mehra stared at the bookcase, tall and grand, every shelf full of books about everything from magic to history to natural science to poetry. “You have so many.”

“I like having plenty to read, and it takes forever to find anything in the library. Oh, I mean the Arcanaeum.” Tirel sent Mehra a quick impish wink. He began placing his books back on the shelves. “Let me know if you see anything you’d like to borrow. And have a seat if you like.”

Mehra took a long look around. She saw fine furniture and books and walls hung with maps of far-off lands. There was even a cabinet filled with goblets and decanters of mead and wine. It reminded her of a room in a Cyrodilic inn. Clean, beautifully appointed, nothing out of place.

But that wasn’t entirely true. On the windowside table were several books– mostly magical theory, but Mehra recognized a volume of The Real Barenziah. Here also was a half-written essay, scattered ink bottles, and a board game of playing stones. Mehra had the feeling that Tirel spent a lot of time sitting here, looking through the window at the world beyond. Mehra settled into a chair at this table.

“Here, I found it. Agata’s Art of Enchanting.” Tirel offered her the book.

Mehra thanked him and began paging through the book. It was full of detailed yet clear explanations about the principles governing enchantments. “This looks very good. Do you know if it says anything about how to free souls?”

“I’ve never read anything like that. I think most mages are more interested in using the soul than releasing it into the wild.”

“That’s what Rumarin said too.” Mehra closed the book and pressed a hand to her head. Though the dragon had been quieter lately, she could never forget that he was still living in her mind. Would they be forced to exist like this forever? After a while Mehra glanced up and saw Tirel looking at her with concern.

“You could ask Sergius,” said Tirel. “If anyone would have answers about enchantments and soul magic, he would.”

“Sergius? Oh. Yes. I’ve heard he’s an expert on enchantments.”

“He’s not just an expert. He’s the expert. Sergius designed more than half the enchantments and magical locks in the school, and it’s his enchanting services that keep the College’s coffers full of gold.”

“Maybe I should talk to him. If he’ll see me.” It occurred to Mehra that she might also ask Sergius about the phial, but she kept this to herself.

“I have an enchantments class tomorrow. Sergius is teaching it. You could sit in on it with me and talk to him when it’s over.”

“You don’t think he’ll mind? I mean, I’m not a student.”

“Mind the Thane of Whiterun attending one of his classes?” Tirel laughed. “Trust me, he won’t mind at all.”

Hearing Tirel invoke one of her titles made Mehra feel suddenly strange and guilty. She didn’t feel like a thane, she hadn’t done what Jarl Balgruuf had asked of her, and she was accepting the College’s hospitality without offering anything in return.

“I’ve also had word that your dress will be ready soon. Birna always does fast work.”

“Oh. That’s good. I’m looking forward to seeing it,” said Mehra, trying and failing to sound pleased. Tirel had never mentioned costs, but Mehra guessed he was covering the expense of the dress himself. And now he was loaning her books from his personal library, offering to arrange a meeting with Sergius– it was all too much.

“Something on your mind?” asked Tirel.

“No– I mean, I was thinking I should probably go now.”

Tirel’s face fell. “Must you?”

“I don’t want to take up your time if you need to study for your next class, or if–”

“Nothing of the sort. My next class doesn’t start for a while yet, and I’m caught up on everything else. Most everything,” he added with a grin as he glanced at the half-written essay. “Do stay. Otherwise I’ll just sit here and play Alifin by myself again. That gets boring.”

“Alifin?”

Tirel pointed to the game board and piles of small polished stones. “Have you ever played?”

“I never learned. Is it difficult?” Now that they were on a different subject, Mehra found that she didn’t want to leave just yet.

“It’s easy to learn. See this grid of holes on the board? Two people take turns placing a stone.” Tirel placed a black stone in one of the shallow holes. “The idea is to capture your opponent’s stones.” He surrounded the black stone with four white ones, then removed the black one. “When no one can make any more moves, the person with the most territory wins. Care to play?”

“All right.”

Tirel gathered all the white stones and pushed them towards her. “My family believes knowing how to play Alifin is one of the keys to mastering politics, maybe even life itself.”

“Your family is involved politics?”

“They’re merchants, but you have to be political to survive in Markarth, whatever your trade.”

“I don’t know much about Markarth. I’ve heard it’s beautiful.”

“Have you also heard it’s a city flowing with blood and silver? You can get assassinated just for looking at someone wrong. Luckily my family knows how to play Markarth’s games, but it’s no life for me.”

Mehra wanted to ask another question about Markarth, but Tirel’s darkening expression made her think better of it. She placed another stone and was startled when the dragon roared in her head, Niid! Ruth mey! Too late Mehra saw that her play had left several stones vulnerable to capture.

Tirel didn’t let the opportunity pass and took the unprotected stones. Mehra winced when the dragon cursed and raged.

“What sort of life do you want instead?” Mehra started to place another stone, pausing when the dragon said, Niid! Folaas! She hesitated, then selected a different spot. The dragon made a pleased sound. Geh, pruzah.

Tirel stared at the board, considering his next move. “I used to think I wanted to travel. I was going to study with the Vagus Medices in Cyrodiil.”

“Really? You wanted to be a healer?” Mehra knew of the Vagus Medices, traveling healers who gave their services to anyone in need.

“It was a chance to do some good with my magic, but mostly I wanted to get out and see the world. But my family was convinced I’d have a better future in Winterhold. Besides, they have connections here.”

“I’ve heard it can be hard. Being part of the Vagus Medices, I mean. They often risk their lives to help people.” Mehra paused, recalling something she usually tried to forget. “And sometimes you can get in trouble just for helping someone at the wrong place and time.”

“That sounds like the voice of experience.”

Mehra heard the implied question but couldn’t bring herself to answer it. She turned her head toward the window. A haze of clouds promised more snow, and she wondered if Winterhold ever saw blue skies. “Do you ever miss home?”

“Markarth? No, I was glad to put it behind me. This is home now.”

Mehra glanced at the too-neat desk, the perfectly made bed, the hanging maps, the grille covering the window like the bars of a cage. Was Tirel truly at home here?

“Besides, I can make a difference here,” said Tirel.

“In what way?”

“In the way magic is taught. What you were saying earlier about combining illusion with restoration? You’ll never hear Colette or Drevis talk about anything like that, because that would be like saying their fields aren’t good enough on their own. The professors are protective of their territories, and they draw rigid lines between the different schools of magic.”

“But that’s so limiting.”

“It’s also misleading, because the schools of magic aren’t even real.”

“They’re not?”

“You said ward spells could be considered alteration magic, and that reminded me of something I’ve been reading. Did you know there used to be a school of mysticism?”

“No. What happened to it?”

“Nothing really. Mages just recategorized the spells and pretend there never was a school of mysticism. Telekinesis became an alteration spell. Spells that absorb magic and life energy are now in the school of restoration.”

“The school of mysticism is gone, but the spells themselves never changed?”

“Right. Or at least the principles of the spells never changed, let’s put it that way.”

“I think I understand. The schools of magic are like a… a system for organizing books. You can sort the books any way you like, and some could fit into more than one group, but it doesn’t change what they are.”

“Exactly. It’s a helpful system, but most people take it too far and treat the schools of magic like they’re written into the laws of Mundus. Then we end up with professors who teach rote spellcasting when they should be helping us understand the nature of magic itself. But I’m planning to change that.”

“I hope you do. Indrisa taught me that it’s important for healers to learn about any magic that can help with healing, not just restoration, and she–” Mehra stopped when she saw the curious way Tirel was looking at her. She had said too much again. She dropped her gaze to the board and tried to focus on her next move.

“Indrisa sounds like she knows her craft well,” said Tirel. “Did she train with the Vagus Medices?”

Mehra shook her head. “No, Indrisa apprenticed with a master healer in Kvatch. She rarely travels.”

“You said that helping someone at the wrong place and time can get you into trouble. I thought you might be referring to something Indrisa experienced.”

There was the unspoken question again, the one Mehra didn’t want to answer. It would mean talking about things she had been trying hard to forget. Mehra fidgeted with a loose thread hanging from her sleeve and waited for Tirel to say something more, but he appeared to be considering where to place his next stone. They continued playing the game in silence, slowly expanding their territories, neither attempting to steal more stones just yet.

In a small voice Mehra asked, “Did J’zargo tell you about Helgen?”

“Some, yes.”

“What did he say?”

“He said that’s where you met each other. You both escaped after a dragon set the town on fire.”

“Did he say anything about the executions?”

“No, he didn’t.”

Mehra considered this. J’zargo had told Tirel about her lack of magic but said nothing about how she had been sentenced to die? Did J’zargo think it deserved more privacy, or did he decide it was too shameful to mention?

“There was a battle near Helgen,” said Mehra. “The Imperial Legion won and took the captured Stormcloak soldiers to Helgen. To be executed.” After some hesitation she added, “Including me.”

Tirel was about to place a stone. At her words he stopped and looked up with astonishment. “But you’re not a Stormcloak. You’re not even from Skyrim.”

“No. But I stopped to help a Stormcloak soldier lying in his own blood. He was barely alive. That’s when the Imperial Legion found us.”

“The wrong place at the wrong time.” Tirel’s voice was strangely soft. Mehra glanced up from the board to find him looking at her with an odd expression. “And so they decided to execute you. For helping a man who was bleeding to death?”

“Yes. Because I was helping the enemy. I don’t think it would have made a difference if I’d been part of the Vagus Medices.” Mehra rubbed the back of her neck, which tingled at the memory of an axe blade wet with blood.

“They obviously didn’t go through with it, thank the Divines. The dragon attack stopped it?”

“Yes. I escaped with J’zargo in all the… the confusion.” Mehra did not want to speak of the fires, and especially not of the great black dragon that had set the town ablaze.

“From what J’zargo told me, coming to Skyrim made things complicated for you. I’m beginning to understand just how complicated.”

“Is that was J’zargo said?” In her mind the dragon grumbled, Laat tinvaak, kod golz.

Tirel laughed. “No. J’zargo always sounds pleased when he talks about how you got your title.”

Mehra kept turning a stone over in her fingers, ignoring the dragon’s snarls of impatience. “I still don’t understand why he did it– Jarl Balgruuf, I mean. I don’t have the experience a thane needs. I don’t know the problems facing Whiterun. I can’t offer him anything.”

“Jarl Balgruuf had to make you his thane. He would have been a fool not to.”

“Why?”

“Jarl Balgruuf hasn’t picked a side in the war yet, but he can’t stay neutral forever. Everyone has been waiting for Jarl Ulfric to send Whiterun an ultimatum. By making you his thane, Jarl Balgruuf bought more time.”

“I still don’t understand. How does me being a thane change anything?”

“I’ve grown up in Skyrim, so I know how important the legend of the Dragonborn is to people. Especially to Nords. The Stormcloaks might hate the Empire, but they look up to the Dragonborn.”

Vosaraan! shouted the dragon, making Mehra flinch. She placed her stone far from all the others. “Are you saying that because I’m– because the Dragonborn is Whiterun’s thane, Jarl Ulfric won’t attack now? Because of how his people would feel about it?”

“It’ll make him think twice. For now, anyway.”

Mehra sighed. “I wish Jarl Balgruuf had told me. Or that I’d figured it out by now. I’m starting to think I was wrong to come here. To Winterhold.”

“Wrong?”

Mehra wondered to herself if it wiser to tell him about the mountain or wiser to keep it to herself. She had spent weeks pushing it out of her mind. It was easier to forget about Jarl Balgruuf’s request when she was on the road, but here it was gnawing at her. It would be a relief to tell someone she could trust. Not J’zargo. He would only see the task as another honor, and he would be angry that she had kept it from him. Not Rumarin– not after he made it clear that he was eager to part ways.

“I’m– I’m supposed to be somewhere else,” said Mehra.

Tirel said nothing, but his face was open and attentive. Mehra continued, “Jarl Balgruuf asked me to climb a mountain and speak with the monks there. The Greybeards.” She quickly added, “J’zargo doesn’t know.”

“High Hrothgar. The Greybeards are masters of the Thu’um. Even Jarl Ulfric trained with them. It makes sense that Jarl Balgruuf would send you to them to learn more about your gift.”

“My gift? What sort of gift rips souls away from–” Mehra stopped. She had almost said too much, and she hadn’t meant to speak so sharply. “I’ve no right to any of it.”

But Tirel didn’t seem put off. “The Nords say going to High Hrothgar is a special pilgrimage, a personal thing. I’m sure Jarl Balgruuf would understand if you told him why you came to the College first.”

“I hope so. I learned that the Dragonborn is supposed to be some sort of Skyrim hero, but I don’t see how learning these Shouts will help solve anything. And I don’t think I can help anyone now without my– without a way to at least cast spells.”

Tirel was silent. When Mehra looked at him he appeared troubled. After a moment he asked, “At Helgen– why did they stop your execution?”

“That’s when the dragon came.”

“Just at that moment, when it was your turn? Or before?”

Mehra didn’t want to think about that time. Tirel reached out and lightly touched her hand. Something in his expression compelled her to remember. A man had died before her. She was pressed down, the looming shadow of the axe fell over her– “Yes. Just then. It was big and black and there was fire and everyone ran and I didn’t know what to do and J’zargo came and pulled me away and we ran.”

“And you kept going after all that? Most people would have fled back home.”

“I suppose they would.” Mehra saw that Tirel was looking straight at her. His eyes were different somehow. “You must think me very foolish.”

“No, that is not what I think. What will you do now?”

“I don’t know. J’zargo thinks everything about being the Dragonborn is a great honor, so he would tell me to go to the Greybeards. And I don’t think Rumarin takes any of it very seriously. He said I should just go home and forget any of it ever happened. But I’m not sure I can do that either.”

“You don’t have to decide anything yet. At least wait until you’ve talked to Sergius and we’ve had a good time at the party.”

“I suppose you’re right.” It wasn’t quite the answer Mehra was hoping for. She thought Tirel might offer some new insight, some new direction, but he seemed to be pulling away from her, more distant than he was just a few minutes earlier. But perhaps he was right. She wasn’t eager to make a decision. What was another few days?

Tirel suddenly got up. “Sorry, I lost track of time. I have to run to my next class. No need to get up, you can stay here if you like.”

Mehra stared in dismay. Tirel was rushing to gather his books, clearly eager to be away. “Oh. But… I–”

“Can’t be helped.” Tirel started to turn away, but he paused. “I’ll be going to the greenhouse afterward. I agreed to collect some cuttings for the alchemist and see to her plants this week. Would you care to meet me there?”

“Oh, yes, yes of course,” said Mehra, brightening. Her thoughts had often returned to the greenhouse and its flowering plants, and she was glad for an excuse to go back.

“When you come, would you bring this with you?” Tirel produced another book and handed it to her. It was a volume on alchemy. “It’ll be helpful for identifying what we need. Right, I have to go now or I’ll be late. See you soon.” He was out the door before Mehra could even reply.

Mehra stared at the closed door, confused by what had just happened. She heard the dragon grumble something about golzze. “I know you wanted to finish the game,” she said aloud. The dragon couldn’t understand her, but she hoped he at least recognized her efforts to communicate with him. “We’ll just have to play again another time.”

Chapter 26: The Prank

J’zargo would never forget the moment when as a kitten he learned how to coax a spark of magic into becoming a flame. His mother had told him it was a sign that he was destined for greatness. But his father had only said, “Now he can light the campfires and be useful for a change.” For years J’zargo used his gift to light his family’s cooking fires, torches and lanterns. These chores brought no fame or glory, but it was better than pitching the caravan tents.

Now J’zargo was attending one of the most famous schools of magic in Tamriel. His first class on destruction magic was about to begin. Soon he would learn how to bend fire and lightning to his will, and never again would his magic be consigned to menial tasks.

Another student sat next to J’zargo. He looked up from his textbook and recognized Brelyna, a Dunmer girl he had spoken to briefly. He remembered that she was of House Telvanni, famous for its powerful wizards.

Brelyna looked at him with anxious eyes and asked, “You know Faralda is teaching this section, right?”

“Yes, J’zargo knows. He also has Faralda for his scroll-writing class.”

“I’ve heard she’s a hard teacher. What do you think of her?”

J’zargo thought on his assignment for Faralda’s other class and grew uneasy. The fire scroll would soon be due, and although he had worked on it for hours, the project was not yet finished. He said, “Faralda gives challenging assignments, but this is good, yes? Too easy would be boring.”

Brelyna shook her head. “Maybe for you. My family expects a lot from me, and I can’t afford to fail.”

Fail. It was a word J’zargo knew only too well. He had heard it almost every day at home. Always you fail, his father would say. “J’zargo will not fail,” he told Brelyna, putting more force into his words than he felt. “J’zargo has great skill in destruction magic and will be successful.”

“Good for you.” Brelyna opened her book on destruction magic and began to study.

J’zargo glanced around. The class was filling up with students from all over Tamriel, but J’zargo was the only Khajiit among them. He listened to their talk, the friendly and easy way they bantered, and he began to feel alone. But J’zargo knew he should not waste time feeling sorry for himself. He had his future to think of, a glorious future as a scholar of magic. He had even been invited to join the school’s most prestigious society of gifted students, the Aurius Magi. Just thinking on this set his tail quivering with anticipation. And fear. Suppose he did not meet their expectations? No, J’zargo must not have doubts. He would impress the Aurius Magi and all would be well.

The class fell silent when Faralda took her place at the front and began the lecture. J’zargo leaned forward, eager to hear every word.

“Fire is not a single element or substance as the mages of old once thought,” said Faralda. “We now know that fire is a process, a dance of matter and energy. We can explain this in part with Galerion’s Triangle.”

J’zargo took up his pencil and copied all that Faralda scrawled on the chalkboard. At first everything made sense: ordinary fire could not live without fuel and air and heat. “However,” Faralda continued, “Galerion’s Triangle does not adequately explain fire born of magic. A more complex model is needed.” She drew a labyrinth of shapes and symbols and runes so bewildering that J’zargo was soon lost.

“Of course the actual numbers depend on the intensity of the spell.” Faralda began changing the equations. J’zargo labored to copy everything exactly, but his notes no longer held any meaning. By the end of the lecture J’zargo’s mind was numb with panic.

Faralda turned back to the class. “Are there any questions?”

J’zargo slunk down in his chair. Even if he could begin to form the right questions, he dared not raise his hand and reveal himself to be the only ignorant person in the whole room.

“Very good. You will be reading the first five chapters of your text. There will be a short test each week, so come prepared. You will also write an essay explaining the Vedis formula.”

“That wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be,” said Brelyna as she began gathering her things.

J’zargo almost dropped his book. He hid his dismay under a mask of nonchalance. “Ah, yes, J’zargo agrees. It could have been worse.”

“I’m relieved, really. Keeping up with the work will be a little challenging, but it’s nothing compared to what my tutors expected of me.”

“You had tutors?”

“Oh yes, all my life. Didn’t you?”

J’zargo saw no good way to answer this question. He did not want to lie to Brelyna, but neither did he wish to admit that tutors were a luxury beyond his family’s means, that such an expense would have drained the money put aside for his future at the College. “J’zargo did not need tutors. He learned magic through his own talents.”

Brelyna gaped at him. “Don’t tell me your family expected you to learn everything on your own. Even my family was never that bad.”

“No, of course not. They gave J’zargo many books to study.”

“Books? But that’s hardly– oh. Do you mean that was all they could afford?”

J’zargo saw the pity in Brelyna’s eyes and recoiled inside. The school was full of students like Brelyna, people who came from rich and powerful families. But J’zargo’s family had no wealth, no ancestry steeped in magic. They were only traders. Brelyna and others like her would look down on J’zargo if they knew the truth. He drew himself up and said, “J’zargo had no tutors because there was no need. He already possessed a strong will and great skill in magic.”

Brelyna’s face hardened. “Well, I have a lot of studying to do, so I’ll see you later.”

J’zargo watched Brelyna go, wondering if he had offended her. Perhaps she was so afraid of failure that she could not abide confidence in others. Yes, that would explain much. But there was no time to dwell on such things. J’zargo had an appointment to keep with a member of the Aurius Magi, someone who would explain what he must do to be officially recognized as a member. He would need his cloak– the appointed place was outside in the courtyard.

J’zargo was making a detour to his dormitory when he spotted a red-headed Breton student exiting one of the classrooms. It was Celia, one of his partners on the fire scroll project. J’zargo hurried to catch up with her and called out a greeting.

Celia paused. “Hello J’zargo. Sorry I can’t stay and talk, but I have another class starting.”

“Yes, J’zargo understands and will be brief. J’zargo asks if you would look over the fire scroll later today?”

Celia gave a heavy sigh. “I’m really busy. Besides, you have my notes. That was most of the work right there. The rest should be easy.”

J’zargo stared at her. Celia had scribbled those bewildering calculations in only a few minutes, but J’zargo had spent hours deciphering, correcting, adjusting, and carefully joining them to his and Finwen’s work. With an effort J’zargo swallowed his anger and replied, “Faralda said it is a group project. We should all review the scroll before it is due.”

“I’m sure you have it under control.” Celia’s voice turned lofty. “It should be a breeze for anyone who’s about to join the Aurius Magi.”

“You already know of this?”

“Oh, I’ve heard lots of things. I haven’t been invited to join the Aurius Magi myself, but then I suppose I don’t have the right sort of friends or donate the right sort of things to the College.”

J’zargo almost said something scathing, but the word “donate” made him pause. “J’zargo asks what you mean?”

“Isn’t it true that you and the Thane of Whiterun donated a magical artifact to the school?”

“What? No, that is–” J’zargo sputtered and struggled to wrap his mind around what he just heard. Celia thought J’zargo and his companions had gifted the White Phial to the College?

“Are you saying the rumors aren’t true?” asked Celia.

What could J’zargo say now? He could not admit that he had not in fact made a generous donation to the College. How had Celia even heard such a thing? People must have been spreading rumors and getting all the details wrong. “No, J’zargo meant to say that he was invited to the Aurius Magi for the same reason all others are invited. They recognized J’zargo’s talents.”

Celia smiled, but her eyes were full of disdain. “Then you obviously don’t need any help with a little thing like a fire scroll.”

J’zargo spat out, “Yes, you are right, J’zargo has no need of your help. J’zargo has been working hard to stand out as a mage, and already he has been chosen to join the Aurius Magi. This proves J’zargo will go far. He may even become Arch-Mage someday.”

Celia laughed. “When skeevers fly.”

J’zargo glared at Celia’s departing form, his fury trying to manifest as flames in his hands. No, this would not do, he could not let his temper get the better of him. Celia was obviously jealous and beneath his contempt. He took deep breaths, crushed the impulse to set something on fire, and hurried on so that he would not be late.

No one was waiting for J’zargo in the courtyard. There was only the statue of Shalidor with his arms thrust out, his robes illuminated by the eerie blue glow of the magical font. A bitter wind made J’zargo pull his cloak around his arms and shiver. He tilted his head up to regard the statue. There was something familiar in the hard and disapproving lines of Shalidor’s face. J’zargo’s father gave him that same look almost every day.

J’zargo’s thoughts went back to a particular day years ago. His father had sent him to a nearby village to sell fabric to a tailor known for his fine work. The silks and brocades were sure to fetch a good price. But the village had fallen on hard times and no one could afford to buy such luxuries, at least not with gold. Rather than admit defeat and leave empty-handed, J’zargo negotiated what he thought a very good trade. Among the things J’zargo brought back was a food-laden basket and a milking goat.

His father had not been pleased. “Thjiz ja’qara!” he had said. “Can you do nothing right? If the old tailor was too poor or cheap, you should have gone to the other shopkeepers.”

“But they did not have enough gold either,” J’zargo had told him. “They all said–”

“Excuses, always you make excuses. What need do we have for a goat? You fail the simplest tasks. You are a failure and you will always be a failure.”

Footsteps in the snow brought J’zargo back to the present moment. His insides constricted when he saw Sanriel, Tirel’s friend. J’zargo had been trying to forget his pitiful attempt to impress Tirel and Sanriel with a pink magelight. Most of all he had been trying to forget how Sanriel had laughed at him.

But at least Sanriel was not laughing now. The high elf looked almost grim. “Did you bring your invitation?”

“J’zargo left it in his room to keep it safe.”

“No invitation? Then I’m afraid we can’t let you into the Aurius Magi after all.”

“But– but– if you will wait, J’zargo can–”

“Only joking,” said Sanriel. J’zargo could not tell if the Altmer was smiling or grimacing. Sanriel continued, “But we can’t dispense with all the formalities. Do you know what comes next?”

“Yes, J’zargo knows. All new members must pass a test to prove their skill and cleverness with magic.” He swallowed down his fear and said, “J’zargo is ready to prove himself.”

Sanriel pointed at the glowing well at Shalidor’s feet. “I presume you know what these are?”

“Yes, the focus points of pure magicka. They feed powerful enchantments in the College.”

“Indeed. They also require maintenance and cleaning.”

J’zargo felt his heart sink. “Is this what J’zargo must do to prove himself? Clean the focus points?”

“Certainly not. Drevis is responsible for that. Not that he ever sees to it personally.”

“Who cleans them if not Drevis?”

“Students who want to curry favor and get good marks in his illusion class. Drevis has already picked a bootlicker for the job, some Nord fellow. Your job is to play a little joke on him.”

“A joke?”

“We want you to give this student a good scare when he cleans the focus points.”

“But why must J’zargo do this?”

“You said it yourself. It’s a test of skill and cleverness. Your job is to pull off a good prank without getting caught.”

“Must J’zargo use powerful spells?”

“Powerful spells, easy spells, no spells at all, your choice. He’s only a rube from Falkreath, so I’m sure you’ll think of something.” The high elf smirked and added, “Who knows, maybe he’s afraid of the color pink.”

J’zargo felt a hot rush of shame and rage. He wanted to fire back an insult, but how could he? J’zargo could not afford to anger Sanriel and ruin his chance to become part of something great.

“I’ll leave you to it,” said Sanriel. “Have fun.”

When J’zargo was alone he stared into the depths of the font. The magical energy was like blue water swirling and reflecting sunlight. J’zargo wondered how these focus points worked, how they gave power to the enchantments throughout the school. But mostly he wondered how he would scare the student tasked with cleaning them. J’zargo and his siblings had sometimes played tricks on each other with toy snakes and scary masks, but that was too simple, too childish. J’zargo must do something to stand out, to prove beyond any doubt that he had earned his place among the Aurius Magi. But what?

J’zargo thought back to a time when he had used magic to frighten a bully who tormented smaller and weaker Khajiit. The spell J’zargo chose had been exhausting to practice, but he soon learned how to make it work, and the bully was so shaken that he never dared cross J’zargo or his friends again. He could take that same spell and improve on it using techniques he was learning in his classes. And then everyone would know that J’zargo is a worthy addition to the College. No one would think him a failure. Not even you, J’zargo thought as he glared up at the statue, seeing not Shalidor but his father staring at him with contempt. Yes, even you will respect J’zargo at last.

Chapter 27: Enchantments

Mehra watched Tirel place a soul gem on the workbench. Deep within the gem a light pulsed like a heartbeat.

“What soul is in there?” asked Mehra, leaning closer for a better look. They were alone in the workshop, with at least half an hour to spare before the enchanting class would begin. Tirel had asked her to come early so he could show her something.

“Probably a rat soul.”

“You can tell?”

“No, but I got this gem from Sanriel. He supervises the students who set traps in the service tunnels to catch rats for this very purpose.” Tirel paused and gave a short laugh.

“What?”

“I just remembered something. Lately instead of rats, people are finding ash in the traps.”

“Ash? I don’t understand.”

“No one else understands it either. The traps are enchanted, but they aren’t supposed to burn up the rats. Someone asked the alchemist to examine the stuff, and she said it’s not ordinary ash at all. It’s vampire dust.”

“Vampire dust? But wouldn’t that mean…”

Tirel grinned. “Vampire rats.”

“Is that even possible?”

“I don’t know about that, but I’ll tell you one thing. The school has loads of vampire dust stashed away if you know where to look.”

“You mean it’s probably a joke?”

“That’s where I’d put my money.”

Mehra reddened, embarrassed that she had begun to think there might be undead rats lurking in the College. Of course the idea was absurd.

“But I got off track,” said Tirel. “I was thinking about what you said about illusion magic, and I’ve worked something out for an enchantment. Watch.”

Tirel pulled out a brass ring and touched it to the soul gem. The ring began to shine, draining all the brilliance from the gem. The light inside the gem fluttered and died like a flame blown out.

“There we go.” Tirel offered her the ring.

Mehra couldn’t pull her eyes away from the gem, darkened and split by an ugly crack. She knew soul gems could be used only once, but she never understood why until now. “Do they always break like that?”

“Yes, unfortunately. Enchantments are brutal on the gems.”

Mehra traced her finger over the crack. “Can soul gems be repaired or used for anything else?”

“Not so far as I know.”

Mehra drew her hand away from the broken gem. “What does the ring do?”

“I put a calm effect on it.” Tirel pressed the ring into her hand. “Try it.”

Mehra slipped the ring on and immediately felt soothed, like slipping cold hands into warm water.

Tirel said, “It’s meant to take the edge off pain. Not very strong, but you can always improve it.”

“That’s wonderful. It’s–” Mehra stopped and flinched. In her mind the dragon bellowed and cursed. What was he so angry about this time?

“What is it?” asked Tirel.

“It’s just…” Mehra wondered if the dragon felt the spell too. Perhaps unlike her he had no wish to be calmed and was fighting it. She loosened the ring from her finger. The shouts subsided into grumbling. She pushed the ring back on. Again the dragon raged at her.

“Is it the headaches again?”

“Yes.” Mehra removed the ring. She wanted to shout back at the dragon, make him feel her own frustration. You’re not the only one who’s trapped, she wanted to tell him, I never asked for you to live in my head.

“I thought the enchantment would help.” Tirel frowned and picked up the ring to examine it. “The spell must be too weak.”

Mehra hung her head. “There’s nothing wrong with the spell.”

Tirel looked at her closely. “No?”

Mehra hesitated. Part of her wanted to go on hiding the truth, but another part wished she could talk frankly about the dragon soul with someone who wouldn’t turn away from her in fear. To many people, hearing voices was the mark of a broken mind. It meant you were slipping into madness, maybe even touched by Sheogorath himself. But Tirel was different. He wasn’t given to superstitions or wild theories. And so far he had never judged her, never looked down on her for her lack of magic. Perhaps he would understand.

“The headaches,” said Mehra. “They aren’t normal. They’re not even headaches exactly, not really. They…”

Mehra realized they were no longer alone. Students were filing in, sitting down, shuffling through books and notes. No one joined Mehra and Tirel at their workbench, but several students whispered and glanced curiously at them until Mehra began to feel self-conscious.

Tirel covered her hand with his. “It’s all right. I think I’m beginning to understand.”

“You do?” asked Mehra, doing her best not to look or sound like everything inside was fluttering.

Tirel looked around at the students settling in around them. He withdrew his hand. “We can talk about that later.”

The class grew quiet. Mehra noticed the students sitting straighter and fixing their attention on a man who now stood before them. She hadn’t even noticed him slip in. Though nearly bald and not very tall, the man had the air of someone used to being in charge. It was the master enchanter himself, Sergius.

Mehra fidgeted when Sergius’ eyes lingered on her. She had no idea if Sergius knew who she was, but certainly he could see she didn’t belong there. She was the only person in the room who wasn’t wearing College robes.

“We’ll continue our study of objects suited for enchantments,” said Sergius. “Open your books to page twenty-seven.”

Tirel placed his book between them so Mehra could follow along, and also shared his writing materials so she could take notes if she wished.

Sergius began, “Enchanting services are one of the few things that keep us in touch with the rest of Skyrim. The local Nords may not like us very much, but they don’t mind having access to enchanted weapons and armor.

“Some enchantments enhance the properties of the items to which they’re bound. Magical effects that make a cloak warmer, a jewel brighter, a blade sharper. But if you’ve assisted with the enchanting services before–as I know many of you have–you’re already aware that most people want enchantments of another kind. Enhancements that make you faster, stronger, or more skilled in some way. For instance, an effect that sharpens not your sword but your vision so you can see your enemy in the dead of night.”

A student turned to his companion and sniggered. “I know what weapon I’d want to enhance.”

Sergius overheard the remark and said, “As a matter of fact the College receives hundreds of orders for rings that enhance virility. You can learn all about it by assisting in the workshop this week.”

The young man sputtered. “I– but– yessir.”

Sergius went to a corner of the workshop to retrieve a box, brought it to the student’s workbench, and poured out dozens of rings. The student looked as if he might faint.

“Don’t worry,” Sergius told the rest of the class. “I have something for all of you. Let’s move onto the practical segment, shall we?”

Everyone started getting up and moving to the shelves and storage areas, pulling out soul gems and items of all sorts– amulets, rings, gauntlets, boots, knives. Mehra was sure she even saw a doll.

Tirel leaned over to Mehra and whispered, “Everyone who takes these classes is expected to help fill the orders for enchantments. Wait here, I’ll grab something.”

Mehra watched Tirel rummage for something to enchant and didn’t notice when Sergius came up beside her. She was startled when the master enchanter said, “The Thane of Whiterun, I presume?”

“I– yes,” said Mehra.

“Not every day I have a thane in my class. Come to learn the art of enchanting?” His tone was friendly but his eyes were penetrating.

“Yes, I’m learning a little.” Mehra didn’t know what else to say. Now wasn’t the time to ask questions about releasing souls, and his unblinking gaze unnerved her.

Tirel returned with a feathered hat under his arm. “Hello Sergius. I see you’ve already met Mehra? She’s interested in how enchanting works. I’ve started showing her the basics, but I told her no one knows the subject better than you.”

“Excellent, always good to see more people take up enchanting,” said Sergius. He moved on to give his attention to the other students.

Mehra turned back to Tirel and was surprised to see him wearing the hat, a gaudy thing plumed with peacock feathers.

“What do you think, does it suit me?” asked Tirel.

“I’m not sure it would suit anyone,” said Mehra with a laugh.

Tirel tossed the hat on the workbench. “The order slip says it’s to be enchanted with nighteye. To think a rat gave up his soul for this. Would you take notes while I begin the enchantment?”

Mehra took careful notes as Tirel explained everything he was doing to bind a nighteye effect to the hat. When he was nearly done Tirel said, “The effect will need replenishing from time to time, but fortunately the hat’s owner can do that for himself.”

“Does that mean he can cast spells?” asked Mehra.

“All he needs is a filled soul gem. The gem does all the heavy lifting.” Tirel continued without looking up from his work. “The thing about enchanting is that you don’t use your own magicka.”

Mehra looked up from her notes. “Don’t you?”

Tirel held up a soul gem, glittering and lit from within. “It’s all in here. The soul is the magicka.”

Mehra gazed at the gem but Tirel’s eyes were fixed on her. She was about to ask a question when she was distracted by a sudden rise in the noise level in the workshop. The class was over and Sergius had retired to his desk. A passing student bumped into Tirel. The moment was broken. Tirel began putting his work away. A few students were still carrying on with enchanting, including the young Imperial who was miserably working his way through the pile of rings.

Tirel noticed Mehra watching the students. “Everyone who takes these classes is expected to help fill the orders for enchantments. Trinket duty, we call it. Fortunately I’ve already met my quota for the week, so there’s no need to stay if you don’t want to.”

Mehra started to answer but was distracted when she overheard Sergius berating a Bosmer student.

“Are you daft?” asked Sergius. “A greater soul for a mild charm effect?”

The Bosmer wilted under his intense stare. “The lesser souls are too small, and we’re nearly out of commons.”

“You should have come to me first. Put that gem away at once. If I see you using oversized souls for petty enchantments again, I’ll remove you from my class. The College has too many damned fools like you.”

“Sorry, so sorry, I swear it won’t happen again.” The terrified student scurried away.

Mehra watched Sergius return to his desk and tried to make up her mind to approach him. But now she was afraid to draw attention to herself, let alone tell him about things like dragons shouting in her head.

She felt Tirel’s hand on her shoulder. “We can always come back another time,” he said. “Shall we go to the greenhouse again? The alchemist can always use more cuttings.”

Mehra wanted to say yes, wanted to return to the one place in the school that was filled with greenery and warmth. She had spent much of the previous evening there, alone with Tirel, helping him take cuttings from the plants, learning how to dry and prepare the herbs and flowers for storage. Tirel had patiently shown her how to make a simple potion using instructions from his alchemy textbook. The quiet serenity of the greenhouse, filled with living things basking in the glow of setting sun, gave Mehra a feeling of contentment that she had not experienced since her days with Indrisa.

The dragon growled again and Mehra remembered what she came to do. She couldn’t put it off any longer. “I’d like to go. But I need to talk to Sergius first.”

Something in Tirel’s expression hardened at the sound of the instructor’s name. Mehra was afraid he might argue, but instead he nodded.

Together they approached Sergius at his desk, Mehra’s heart beating wildly the whole time. Tirel had not offered to leave and Mehra could not bring herself to send him away. While she was afraid for Tirel to know that she heard voices, she was more afraid of facing Sergius alone.

Sergius was writing figures in an accounting book and did not seem to notice them. He looked up when Tirel greeted him and asked, “Might we have a moment?”

“Ah, Tirel. Certainly.” Sergius closed the book and gestured at the two chairs facing his desk, inviting them to sit.

Mehra sat in one of the small and uncomfortable chairs. Tirel remained standing, choosing instead to lean against the back of the other chair.

“Sanriel tells me the Magi are putting together a grand spectacle for the party. I look forward to seeing it,” said Sergius.

“Yes, Mirabelle asked us to do something special to honor the school’s guests. Sanriel deserves most of the credit for seeing to the details,” said Tirel. “By the way, Mehra has some questions about soul magic that none of my enchanting books could answer, so we’ve come to you.”

“Intriguing.” Sergius turned his attention to Mehra. “What questions do you have for me?”

“A soul. After it’s captured.” Mehra shifted nervously under the man’s scrutiny. She looked at the shelves by the desk and saw the cage she remembered from her first visit here. It still held the remains of a dead lizard. “Can it be freed? The soul, I mean.”

“Freed?”

“Yes, released. Without being used.”

“To what end?”

“To…” Mehra’s eyes were drawn to the dead lizard again, all dry skin and bones. She knew she shouldn’t stare but she couldn’t help it. Why had the lizard died? And why had Sergius never cleared away the remains?

Sergius cleared his throat. “Yes?”

Mehra tried to answer but nothing came to her. To her surprise Tirel answered for her: “To send the soul on its way. To where it would have gone if it hadn’t been trapped where it didn’t belong in the first place.”

The way Tirel said this sent a rush of shock and hope through Mehra. Had he already guessed? Is that what he meant when he said he was beginning to understand? Tirel returned her gaze steadily. He knows. He knows!

“Hm.” Sergius eyed Tirel for a moment before turning back to Mehra. “Did you have a particular soul in mind?”

Mehra’s eyes went to Tirel again. She was less afraid to speak of the dragon soul now that she was sure Tirel already knew, but Tirel didn’t look easy in his mind. She saw tension in his face and in the way his hands gripped the back of the chair.

“Well?” asked Sergius.

“A dragon soul,” said Mehra.

Sergius leaned forward, his eyes intense. “A dragon, you say?”

“Yes. Somehow I absorbed the soul of a dragon when it died. Near Whiterun.”

Tirel asked hopefully, “Was it the black dragon? The one that burned Helgen?”

“No. This was a different dragon.”

“Ah.”

Sergius asked, “What convinces you that you’re still carrying the dragon’s soul? It may well have been destroyed when you took it.”

“His soul wasn’t destroyed,” said Mehra.

“How do you know this?”

Mehra’s courage buckled under the man’s unblinking gaze. “I just… I just know.”

Sergius rose from his chair. “I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do for you.”

“But–”

“Unless you give me precise details.”

Tirel said, “Sir, perhaps–”

“At the moment I’m addressing the Thane of Whiterun.” Sergius turned back to Mehra. “Do you require this young man’s presence?”

Mehra hesitated. Tirel gave her a look that was both determined and imploring.

“I know the dragon’s soul wasn’t destroyed, because sometimes I hear him,” she said.

Sergius sank back into his chair. “What do you mean, you hear him?”

Mehra swallowed hard. “In my head. He speaks sometimes.”

Sergius said nothing. Without thinking Mehra let more words tumble out, filling the awkward silence. “Sometimes he shouts. Only I don’t understand him. He speaks a language different from ours. His soul never should have been trapped like this, and that’s why I came to ask if… if it’s possible to release him.”

Sergius steepled his fingers and was quiet for a long time. “I’m afraid that what you’re asking has never been done.”

“So it’s not possible.” Mehra had been preparing herself for this, but she didn’t know how to feel. Perhaps the sorrow of learning that there was no way to restore her magic had left her too spent to feel anything now.

Mehra suddenly became aware of Tirel reaching out to her. The gentle pressure of his hand in hers steadied her, and she squeezed back.

“I didn’t say it was impossible. I said it’s never been done.” Sergius stared hard at Mehra. “I’ll look into the matter. I make no promises, but I’ll let you know if I discover anything of value.”

“I’m grateful. Thank you.” Seeing that he was about to get up, Mehra quickly added, “Please, there’s just one more thing.”

“And what is that?”

“The item my companions left with you. The White Phial. Are you any closer to…” Mehra left the question unfinished. She didn’t know if Sergius was awaiting an expert’s appraisal on the phial, or determining whether it could be repaired, or both.

“Hm, difficult to say. Such things aren’t so simple to analyze.”

“Oh. It’s just that we were wondering–”

“All in good time. If you’ll excuse me, I have much to do.”

Mehra almost asked another question, but it was clear Sergius was no longer giving her attention. She felt dismissed. With a sinking spirit she left the workshop with Tirel.

In the dark service tunnels Tirel summoned a magelight. He was changed somehow, more reserved and distant. “Shall we go to the greenhouse? Or would you rather we do something else?”

“The– the greenhouse, I think.”

“All right.”

They were barely out of the tunnels when Tirel said, “I just remembered something I need to do.”

“Another class?” Mehra struggled not to let her despair show, fearing that she had deceived herself into believing Tirel had known about the dragon soul, that he was now making up an excuse to be away from her.

“Just a favor I promised Faralda.” Tirel studied her face. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Everything.

“I don’t know how you do it.”

“How I do what?”

“How you hold up as well as you do. Between Helgen, having a dragon in your head, and the rest– it would break a lot of people.”

Mehra stared at the ground. “Now that you know about that… the dragon, I mean. You don’t think I’m…”

“Going mad?”

“Yes.”

Tirel moved closer and to Mehra’s astonishment pulled her into an embrace. She relaxed against him and found herself wishing she could stop time.

“No. That’s not what I think.” Tirel pulled away. “I’ll meet you in the greenhouse, all right? I promise I won’t be long.”

Mehra watched him go. The dragon was stirring in her mind again, grumbling about something or other, but she was too happy to care. In that moment it was easy to believe that everything would be all right.

Chapter 28: The Party

“I still can’t believe I was playing Alifin with a dragon,” said Tirel, highly amused. “And telling you where to place your stones no less!”

“Yes, he’d yell whenever I’d make a wrong move,” said Mehra.

“He doesn’t do that all the time, does he? Gods, I hope not.”

“He’s been quieter lately. I don’t know why, unless he’s finally getting used to being in my head.”

They were walking to the dining hall, Tirel in his gold-trimmed Aurius Magi robes, Mehra in her new dress, her arm resting in the curve of Tirel’s arm. Mehra was awed by the jewel-green gown when she first laid eyes on it, but wearing it made her feel strange and conspicuous. Her fear of staining or snagging the delicate material compelled her to walk carefully and to keep well away from the rough stone walls.

“Do you ever understand what he’s saying?” asked Tirel.

“No, although I’ve starting picking up a few words. I’m pretty sure niid means ‘no’ and that his word for ‘stone’ is golz.” Mehra stopped when she heard the dragon say, Golze? Kolos? She told Tirel, “He just spoke. I think he’d like to play Alifin again. He sounded disappointed when you left in the middle of our game last time.”

Tirel laughed. “Then we must indulge him. After the party.”

“The party– everyone will be there?”

“Nearly everyone. Most of the students, all the professors, Arch-Mage Savos, and the Thalmor Justiciar who’s staying as a long-term guest. And of course the bards that Mirabelle sent for. I hear they’re very good.”

Mehra tried to keep her stomach from knotting up. “I haven’t been to anything like this in a long time. Maybe never. We have festivals in Kvatch, but that’s different.”

Tirel squeezed her hand. “Don’t worry. It’s not like a party at the Blue Palace or the Thalmor Embassy. It’s just a gathering of people you’ve mostly seen before, only they’ll be dressed up and strutting more than usual. Besides,” he added with a wink, “you’ll be the best-looking one there.”

Mehra glanced down at herself. “Birna did wonderful work like you said she would. It’s a beautiful dress.”

“Yes, but I didn’t mean the dress.”

Mehra went red and couldn’t find the words to reply. In her head the dragon made a sound of contempt.

They paused outside the entrance of the dining hall, and Mehra heard strains of music and lively talk. She thought they would go in at once, but Tirel hesitated.

“What is it?” asked Mehra.

Tirel took both of her hands in his. “There’s something important I need to talk to you about.”

Mehra waited, heart racing as she tried to read Tirel’s face. His expression was intense yet conflicted, like he was gathering his courage. He was about to speak when a group of students passed them, all laughing and talking boisterously. The moment was broken.

“It can wait until after the party,” said Tirel, drawing her into the dining hall.

The hall was brightened by floating points of light and colorful streamers, and on each table was a vase of flowers. At the center of the room, people in their finest robes joined hands and danced to a song that Mehra knew well, a lively melody that was played in taverns across Cyrodiil.

“I haven’t heard that one in so long. I thought the bards would play more…” Mehra struggled to come up with the words she wanted.

“Nord music?” Tirel grinned. “I’m sure we’ll hear plenty about Ragnar the Red soon enough. But most of the students are from all over Tamriel. Whenever we have an event like this, Mirabelle always makes sure there’s music to satisfy everyone. Same with the food.”

Tirel pointed at a long table covered in platters of food– here students and instructors alike were gathered to sample seared and roasted meats, hard and soft cheeses, pies and tarts of all sorts and, most surprising of all, fresh greens and fruits. Winterhold was miles away from good farmland, and Mehra could not imagine how the school brought in so much fresh produce without bruising or frost damage.

“This must have taken a lot of effort,” said Mehra.

“Yes, Mirabelle sees to the details, and the gold from Sergius’ enchanting services takes care of the rest. The school would be in a bad way without those two.”

“Do you think…” Mehra glanced about to see if anyone was close enough to overhear them. “Do you think Sergius will find an answer?”

Tirel turned his face away, brow furrowed. “Part of me hopes not.”

“But why? It would be a good thing to free the– to free him, wouldn’t it?”

“That’s another conversation for later.”

“Another one for later? Tirel, much more of this and I’ll burst.” Mehra did her best to speak lightly, to sound as if she didn’t mean it, but inside she really did feel she might burst from suspense. What had Tirel tried to tell her moments earlier, and why did he have qualms about freeing the dragon soul?

“If you really want to, we can leave now and find a place to talk.”

“Truly?”

“You just give the word.” Tirel was already angling towards the door.

Mehra hesitated. She took in the lights, the flowers, the crowds of people talking and laughing. “It would be a shame to leave so soon.”

Tirel smiled and took her arm again. “If we’re going to stay, I say we enjoy ourselves. How about a drink?”

They were making their way to one of the banquet tables when Mirabelle, the small and stern-faced Master Wizard, came up and greeted them. She was dressed in elegant robes and her manner was polite, even friendly, but Mehra noticed the fatigue in her eyes.

“Hello Mirabelle,” said Tirel. “You’ve really outdone yourself. How do you always find the best food and entertainment?”

Mirabelle looked weary, but she seemed pleased that someone appreciated her efforts. “I have my sources. Kynesgrove had good crops this season, and the bards just came from Whiterun.”

“But it looks like one of them is student,” said Mehra, noticing for the first time that one of the lute players was a young Altmer man in College robes.

Mirabelle nodded. “Yes, his name is Finwen. I understand he wanted to attend the Bards College at one time. He has some talent. The bards had no objection to letting him play with them.” To Tirel she said, “Sanriel has been looking for you. It seems he needs your help with something.”

“Does he? Did he say what it was about?” asked Tirel.

“He mentioned something about the Aurius Magi presentation.”

“Ah. I’d better go see what he wants then.” Tirel looked at Mehra, and she could see the annoyance he was trying to mask with a strained smile. “I’m sorry to up and leave like this, but I’ll hurry back as soon as I can.”

Mehra watched him go, doing her best to ignore a pang of anxiety about being left alone at a party full of mages she didn’t know.

Mirabelle asked her, “Are you enjoying your stay here?”

Mehra started to reply, but she didn’t get far when an aging Dunmer broke away from a group of guests and approached. Mehra saw his jeweled amulet, his circlet, his magnificent fur-trimmed robes and realized this must be the Arch-Mage himself.

“Mirabelle,” said the Arch-Mage, “Do you know about the vampire rats?”

Mehra covered her mouth to keep from laughing.

The Master Wizard said, “Yes Arch-Mage, but I believe it’s only a rumor. We’ve found no vampire rats.”

“You’re certain? Tolfdir said he’s positive they’re infesting the service tunnels.”

“It’s all under control. Arch-Mage, may I present the Thane of Whiterun?”

The Arch-Mage’s eyes clouded in confusion. “The Thane of…? Ah, one of our honored guests, how nice. Welcome to the College of Winterhold. Your Jarl is well, I trust?”

Mehra said, “Yes, when I last saw him he was–”

“Excellent, excellent.” The Arch-Mage turned back to the Master Wizard. “But about the other matter, would you come help me put Tolfdir’s mind at ease?”

“Very well,” said the Master Wizard. To Mehra she said, “Do enjoy yourself.”

They went to join a group of elderly guests, and Mehra stood there feeling awkward and not knowing what to do with herself. Behind her she heard a familiar voice say, “Did I just overhear something about vampire rats?”

Mehra turned around to face Rumarin. She said, “It has something to do with rat traps in the tunnels. Tirel told me people are finding vampire dust in them instead of rats, and now there’s a rumor about vampire rats.”

Rumarin broke out laughing. “That turned out better than I thought.”

“Better than what?”

“Nothing, I just thought ‘vampire rats’ might be a quaint expression of some sort,” said Rumarin, clearing his throat. He looked Mehra up and down. “That’s quite the get-up.”

Mehra looked down at her gown. “I’m still not used to it. I almost feel like it’s wearing me and not the other way around.”

“Naturally I’m jealous and want one of my own. As you can see, I’m not fit to attend an event like this.” Rumarin examined an old stain on his shabby robes. “I’m not sure if that was blood or tomato soup.”

“I didn’t think you would come,” said Mehra. Realizing how that must sound she added with a stammer, “It’s just that I remember you said you wouldn’t. I’m glad you did.”

“Well, you know how it is. I may dislike mages as a general rule, but not nearly as much as I dislike missing out on free food. Speaking of which…”

Mehra followed Rumarin to the nearest banquet table, where two servants were replenishing large crocks with steaming hot soup. Mehra picked up a plate, but Rumarin decided to take his chances with two plates and heaped them with food, much of it slices of pie and tarts.

“So where’s your escort?” Rumarin asked after they settled at one of the unoccupied tables.

“Tirel is helping the Aurius Magi prepare for some sort of presentation. I don’t think he’ll be long.”

Rumarin mumbled something about golden mages.

“Sorry?”

“Nothing, I just realized I won’t be able to finish all this food in one go. Do you suppose this place has any good hidey-holes?”

“Any what?”

“No matter, I can improvise.” Rumarin stuffed a dinner roll into one of his pockets.

For some minutes they ate without saying anything. Rumarin seemed tense, his eyes continuously glancing about. Mehra was at first curious, then concerned. Was Rumarin watching for someone? Was he expecting trouble? She couldn’t bring herself to ask. It wasn’t her business, and Rumarin probably wouldn’t give her a real answer.

Mehra watched the center of the room where couples danced and spun each other round. The bards sang about a Khajiit who ran away from his caravan to become a villager and learn a new trade, but he went on to fail at everything from farming to cheese-making. It was a popular song in Cyrodiil, but Mehra knew J’zargo despised it and she hoped he wasn’t around to hear it.

Rumarin said, “I tried running away once. But it was from a circus, not a caravan, and I never wanted to be a villager. Too boring.”

“What did you want to be instead?”

“Filthy rich. Then I could live a boring life in style.”

“Nothing else?” The question slipped out before Mehra could stop herself. She didn’t wish to sound disparaging, yet almost everyone she knew had ambitions of some sort, whether that meant owning a shop, managing a farm, or starting a family.

“Well, that and the horker ranch. Apropos of nothing, I see they put flowers on all the tables. Where in the frozen wastes of Winterhold do you suppose they’ve been hiding these things?”

Mehra was unsettled by the abrupt change of subject, but she took it as an opportunity to talk about something she enjoyed. “These are all Dragon’s Tongue and Queen Ayrenn’s Lace, I recognize them from the greenhouse. It’s beautiful, you really should see it. We– Tirel and I went there again today. He’s been showing me how to make simple potions.”

“He knows alchemy too?”

“Yes, some. He’s taken classes on alchemy and most kinds of magic, though he mostly focuses on illusion and destruction. And enchanting. I sat in an enchanting class with him, and Tirel showed me how you create and bind magical effects to–”

“I suppose he knows how to turn water into wine too.”

“I– what?”

Rumarin used his fork to shred duck meat from a bone. “But I’m sure any mage worth their salt can do that. I imagine Tirel has moved onto much more impressive feats, like summoning his own personal Dremora butler. I’ve always wanted one of those.”

Mehra sat quietly, her confusion giving way to mortification as she realized this must be Rumarin’s way of saying he was growing tired of her chatter about Tirel.

Rumarin set down his fork and sighed. “I know, you don’t have to say it. I’m an insufferable lout.”

“That’s not what I was thinking.”

“No?”

“I was wondering if… am I bothering you? Should I go?”

“What? No, I never meant…” Rumarin averted his eyes and shifted uncomfortably. “Do I often give that impression?”

“Sometimes. Yes.”

“Why would you pay any mind to a–” Rumarin stopped and reconsidered what he was about to say. “What I’m trying to say is, you’re dealing with an elf who’s rather bad at behaving like a normal person. It’s no reflection on you. But if it helps, the next time I misbehave, just throw something at me. But nothing too hard, I bruise easily. Maybe a dinner roll.”

Mehra managed a small smile. “Not a pie?”

“It’s a sin to waste perfectly good pie, so just make sure you aim for my face.” Rumarin paused and thought a moment. “Didn’t you say something about an enchanting class? Sergius teaches those, doesn’t he?”

“Oh. Yes.” Mehra’s spirits sank as she remembered her brief and fruitless conversation with Sergius.

“Learn anything interesting?”

“I asked him about the White Phial. Or tried to.” Mehra waited, but Rumarin said nothing. She continued, “I… I asked Sergius if he’d come to any decision about it yet. But he put me off and gave no answer. I’m starting to think you were right. That he doesn’t mean to pay us anything.”

Rumarin turned his head so that his hood hid most of his face. “That seems likely.”

“Do you suppose it would do any good to ask Mirabelle or the Arch-Mage to–”

Rumarin gave a bitter laugh. “Yes, I’m sure they’d take our side.”

“But I don’t know what else we can do.”

“Neither do I, but we’re nobody to these mages. Besides, they’d never cross Sergius. He may not be the Arch-Mage, but from everything I’ve heard, he’s the real power behind the College.”

“I’m sorry,” said Mehra, feeling miserable.

“You weren’t the one who gave away our phial.” Rumarin made a scornful sound. “Speak of the devil.”

Mehra followed Rumarin’s gaze and saw J’zargo approaching from a group of fellow students. He was clad in robes accented in shining gold, the official mark of the Aurius Magi. Mehra started to greet J’zargo, but the hardness in his eyes stopped her cold.

“What are you doing here?” J’zargo looked at Rumarin as though the elf were a disgusting insect.

Rumarin replied, “Hello to you too. Did you try the Black-Briar mead? I’m assuming that’s why you’re making that face, because it’s the same one I make when I’m forced to drink that vile concoction.”

“This party is for the people of the College, and for honored guests. You are neither. Why are you here? You said you would not come.”

“I didn’t want to come either, but my stomach made very persuasive arguments.” Rumarin crammed the last of his pie into his mouth.

J’zargo turned to Mehra. “You are the Thane of Whiterun. You are the Dragonborn. You should know better.”

Mehra stared up at him. “I don’t– I– what do you mean?”

“You should be with the Arch-Mage, or Master Wizard Mirabelle, or one of the professors. Why are you letting yourself be seen at an important event with this elf?”

“Because he traveled with us. Because he’s my friend like you are. J’zargo, I don’t understand, why are you so upset?”

Rumarin spoke up. “I believe J’zargo is saying that all these important mages will start looking down on you for hanging around a pariah like me. He may have a point.” He paused to pop a candied nut into his mouth. “On the other hand, we’re talking about the mages who took our phial.”

J’zargo raised his voice. “For the last time, these are honorable mages, not thieves, and you–” he broke off when he realized people were beginning to turn and stare. The Khajiit winced and lowered his voice. “J’zargo told you, we will be paid when Sergius knows more of the phial and whether the damage can be repaired.”

“I’m not so sure about that anymore,” said Mehra.

J’zargo narrowed his eyes. “Why do you say this?”

Rumarin said, “She’s had a word with Sergius, but apparently getting anything out of him is like trying to pry open an oyster.”

Mehra briefly described her conversation with Sergius, leaving out the parts that had to do with freeing the dragon soul from her head.

J’zargo’s tail lashed with impatience. “That is simple. This means Sergius needs more time to study the phial. He said it would take time.”

“But I’ve heard he handles offers like this all the time, and usually it’s all done very quickly,” said Mehra. Earlier Tirel had told her he thought it very strange that Sergius had not yet made an offer. “It just seems like we should have heard something by now.”

J’zargo’s scowl deepened. “Is this truly what you think? No, J’zargo sees what is happening. You have been listening to this elf and now you take his side.”

“Why J’zargo, I had no idea you had such faith in my powers of persuasion,” said Rumarin. “Of course it’s far more likely that Mehra has her own mind in the matter, but my ego likes your view of the situation better.”

Mehra asked J’zargo, “Why does this have to be about taking sides? I only know that you– that we all deserve something for the phial. And I’m worried that won’t happen now.”

J’zargo said, “You do not see what is happening, what this elf is doing. You make it easy for anyone to deceive you, to take you for a fool. That dress you wear now, do you know why it was made for you? Or why your plans for tonight are known to all?”

Mehra stared, too shocked to feel anything but confusion. “My plans? J’zargo, what do you mean?”

“It is not J’zargo’s fault if you refuse to see a thing so obvious.” J’zargo turned and walked away, tail thrashing.

Shaken and distressed, Mehra turned to Rumarin. “Do you know what he meant?”

Rumarin avoided her eye. “Should I? Being half a halfwit, I never know what’s going on more than half the time anyway.”

“Calling yourself a halfwit won’t work because you’ll never make me believe that. What did J’zargo mean?”

Rumarin turned his face away and adjusted his hood. “J’zargo is just letting this whole place go to his head. He’d probably outlaw fun if he could.”

“But–”

“I wouldn’t worry about it, better to just enjoy the evening. After all, who knows when we’ll get decent food and music again?”

Mehra had the feeling Rumarin was holding something back, but then again he frequently gave her that impression. Rumarin turned his attention to what was left of his meal. Mehra picked at the food on her plate. The awkward silence dragged on. She was about to make an excuse to leave when to her relief she saw Tirel shouldering his way through a group of students. She waved to draw Tirel’s attention, and he broke away from the crowd and came over at once.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t expect that to take so long,” said Tirel. “Did I miss anything interesting?”

Mehra hesitated, finding that there was no good way to truthfully answer his question.

Rumarin stabbed his fork into a slice of roast. “If me eating an entire snowberry pie counts as interesting, then yes.”

Tirel leaned against one of the chairs. “We’ve met before. Rumarin, isn’t it? Mehra has been telling me about your adventures together. It must be exciting to travel from place to place. I’ve never been beyond the Jerall Mountains myself.”

Rumarin shrugged. “It has its moments, but people tend to romanticize life on the road. The stories you hear always leave out the parts about pulling bugs out of your hair and wiping yourself with leaves.”

Tirel laughed. “Everything has a downside. But is it true that you can juggle and conjure daggers at the same time?”

“She mentioned it?” Rumarin glanced at Mehra.

“More than mentioned it. Going by everything Mehra’s told me, you can do things with sleight of hand that most illusionists can’t even begin to do with spells.”

“That comes from growing up with traveling entertainers. You learn how to play with knives, make money disappear…” Rumarin trailed off. Something on the other side of the room had caught his eye. Mehra looked, but all she saw was the Arch-Mage talking to the Thalmor Justiciar.

Tirel didn’t seem to notice anything amiss. “Most mages here don’t know the first thing about knives or other weapons. We have our flame spells, but–”

Rumarin abruptly got up. “Excuse me, it seems I made a mistake eating all that pie and now I need to go find the little elf’s room.” He was wading deep through a crowd of people before either Mehra or Tirel could reply.

Tirel said to Mehra, “Your friends are interesting people.”

“Yes. They are.” Mehra looked down at her gown, remembering the strange things J’zargo had said. What had he meant by those remarks about her dress and her plans for the night? What plans?

“Is something troubling you?”

Mehra heard the bards play a new song she had never heard before, a tune lovely yet wistful. “It’s just something J’zargo said. I think I keep disappointing him.”

“J’zargo strikes me as someone who sets high expectations for himself and everyone around him, particularly those he has any regard for.” Tirel spoke in his usual friendly way, but Mehra noticed something hard in his expression.

“Yes, that’s true, he does. I think he’s hardest of all on himself.” Mehra watched several couples circle each other in an elaborate dance, sometimes drawing near and touching hands only to suddenly pull away again.

“What J’zargo said earlier, is it something you want to talk about?” asked Tirel.

Mehra looked up at him. “Tirel, just before we came to the party– what were you going to tell me?”

Tirel pulled in a deep breath, a new light in his eyes. “Not here. Do you want to leave?”

Mehra wanted to say yes, wanted to slip away to the greenhouse or anywhere else to be alone with him, but a glance at her dress made her think again. Tirel had gone to considerable effort and expense to make sure she had something nice to wear tonight. And it would reflect badly on him if he abandoned the party so soon, before the Aurius Magi even had a chance to give their presentation. Asking him to leave now would be selfish.

“Yes, but we can’t just yet,” said Mehra.

“We can’t?”

She got up and took his hand. “No, because I remember you promised me a dance.”

“I did, didn’t I?” Tirel grinned and let her draw him toward the dancing couples.

Chapter 29: The Armoire

All was quiet in the College’s east tower. Everyone who lived or worked here was at the party– or at least Rumarin hoped so, because right now the last thing he wanted was someone catching him in the middle of breaking into the Thalmor Justiciar’s room.

Rumarin worked at the lock, probing and nudging with the pick, feeling for changes in tension. His heart raced and his palms were slick with sweat, making it difficult to keep a firm grip. I must be out of my mind, he thought. You don’t go snooping into a Thalmor’s room unless you’re stupid or desperate or both. Damn that Stormcloak officer anyway. Rumarin would have blown off the adjutant’s threat if it weren’t for his debt and his need to elude the people who were looking for him.

The light began to dim. Rumarin froze and looked over his shoulder, fearing someone had entered the tower. He heard nothing, yet the pillar of blue light shining through an opening from the floor below waned and fluttered. Rumarin had never before seen the magic wells behave like this. Probably the mages were doing something special for the party. Maybe their little magic performance needed dramatic lighting.

The light steadied and grew bright again. Rumarin watched it a little longer. When nothing more happened he let out a sigh and returned to his lockpicking. At last he heard a click and felt the lock give way. He slipped into the Thalmor’s room and closed the door behind him.

Moonlight streamed through an open window, allowing Rumarin to make out dark shapes. As his eyes adjusted, he picked out the shapes of furniture– a desk, a bed, a bookcase, an armoire. Needing more light for his search, he conjured a dagger and saw a woman seated across from him, her profile silhouetted against the moonlight. Rumarin fell back against the door, his free hand scrabbling for the handle, but the door refused to open.

Rumarin fought down his panic, realized he was pushing against a door that opened inward. The room remained silent. The woman never moved, never turned toward him. Rumarin took a deep breath, dared to step forward and draw his light toward the silent figure. He saw nothing more than a stone bust resting on a table.

Sagging in relief and feeling more than a little stupid, Rumarin turned his attention to the rest of the room. He had to find the black book, and find it quickly. If the Thalmor was up to anything worth knowing, it had to be connected to that book. The Thalmor had obviously gotten the old servant woman to steal it for him. Why else would she give it to him covertly? Why else had her manner betrayed so much fear?

Rumarin started with the desk first, shuffling through papers covered in spidery writing he could never hope to read even in good light. No book to be found there. He was about make a search of the bookcase when he heard a sound that filled him with dread: footsteps drawing close to the door.

He cast about for a place to hide. Behind a tapestry? No, it was so tattered and moth-eaten you could practically see through it. In the armoire? No good, it was locked. Under the bed?

Rumarin struggled to stuff himself under the bed, but it was slung too low. He thought, that’s it, I’m dead. That Thalmor is going to find me and shoot me with lightning and toss my charred body off the bridge and no one in this rotten school will ever notice or care– no, Mehra will notice eventually, but it won’t matter because I’ll be dead.

The footsteps paused. Rumarin crouched beside the bed, heart pounding, hardly daring to breathe. Any second now the door would open.

The footsteps withdrew, fading until Rumarin heard them no more. When he was sure the danger was past he got up, shaken and thoroughly annoyed with himself. Why was he jumping at every little shadow and noise like a terrified skeever? There was nothing to fear. Rumarin had left the Thalmor settling in at the party, enjoying a glass of wine and talking with a woman who kept batting her eyes at him. Rumarin could take his time.

He went to the bookcase, shining the light of his summoned dagger over the books. He looked them over twice, thrice even, but the only black book he found proved to be nothing more than an illustrated copy of the Lusty Argonian Maid.

On an impulse, Rumarin reached behind the books and felt around until his hand brushed against a box. He pulled it out, found that it was locked, and drew out his picks again. As he worked his mind wandered, taking him back to the day when Otero first showed him the art of opening a lock without a key. Rumarin was still a child then, eager to learn anything Otero cared to teach him, especially when it meant helping out with a performance. Otero had sometimes worked escape acts into his routines, one of which involved handcuffs. The old jester had demonstrated how to pick open the cuffs and said, “I only have one key to these, and you can’t trust a key not to wander off.” Lockpicking wasn’t a common skill, and as Rumarin got older he began to suspect that his mentor had gotten up to other mischief besides jestering.

Rumarin heard more footsteps and nearly dropped the box. Whoever it was soon passed by, and then all was quiet again. Rumarin breathed easier and brought his attention back to the box, but when he got it open and looked inside he found only a brooch. Rumarin grimaced when he realized the thing was made from woven hair.

Next Rumarin searched a chest at the foot of the bed. Tucked away under extra blankets and pillows was a length of rope, tools for cutting and prying, fine metal instruments that might be used for embalming– Rumarin swallowed hard and closed the chest, trying not to dwell on how a Thalmor might put such things to use.

That left the armoire. Rumarin doubted there was anything of value in there, just robes and uniforms, but he was growing frustrated and running out of places to search. He began picking the lock, a surprisingly good one for safeguarding clothes. Maybe the Thalmor secretly collected floral-print dressing gowns.

Rumarin coaxed open the lock and unlatched the doors of the armoire. What he saw inside made him gape in astonishment. He had no name for what he was staring at. Instead of clothes the armoire held a thing made of rods and gears. Most of it was bright burnished metal, but other parts shone like glass or crystal. Rumarin had seen devices like this in a Dwemer ruin once, ancient decaying machines of brass and steel, but he could not begin to guess the purpose of this one. What in Oblivion was it, and what was the Thalmor doing with it?

He was so consumed by the mystery of the device that he paid little heed to the sound of yet more footsteps.

Then he heard a key turn in the lock.

Rumarin looked around wildly, but he knew there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. He watched in dread as the door slowly opened.

Chapter 30: Wondrous College of Winterhold

At one end of the dining hall a group of students gathered, each clad in robes edged in shining gold. Some chattered amongst themselves, others practiced sending their magelights in perfect circles, and a few studied sheets of parchment in a last-minute effort to memorize the words of the song they were about to sing.

J’zargo felt a thrill of pride to be standing among them in his own gold-trimmed robes that marked him as a peer. He could hardly wait to take part in the coming performance. During an earlier rehearsal Tirel had explained that there is always a celebration each year after the start of classes, and the Aurius Magi sing the school song and conclude with a dazzling display of magic. The time it took to practice for the performance and stay on top of his studies had cost J’zargo hours of sleep, but it was a small price to pay.

“Is it nearly time?” asked Gwinis, a curly-haired Bosmer girl.

“Almost,” said Sanriel. “Does everyone have a copy of the lyrics?” He thrust one at J’zargo and added, “Everyone who needs one, that is?”

J’zargo looked at him coldly. “J’zargo already knows the words.”

“Then you’d better not bungle it like you did in the rehearsal. ‘Wrought’ and ‘wrung’ don’t mean the same thing. Shalidor never wrung out the school like an old dish rag,” said Sanriel. A few students who were close enough to overhear began snickering and looking sideways at J’zargo.

J’zargo bit down on a vicious reply. During the rehearsal Sanriel had paid little attention when others made mistakes, but when J’zargo was less than perfect, Sanriel never hesitated to lash into him.

“Ugh, this song. I should have grabbed another bottle of mead first,” said Vilonos, a lean-faced Dunmer who smelled like he already had plenty of mead in him. “Why couldn’t we sing something else?”

Sanriel replied, “You know perfectly well why. It’s a tradition.”

J’zargo spoke up. “It also reminds us why we all came to the College. We are here to learn the secrets of magic and become the best mages in Tamriel.”

Vilonos snorted. “It makes us sound like we’d worship a fart if it came out of Shalidor’s arse.”

Several students laughed, and J’zargo choked. He could not find the words to express his disgust. J’zargo looked for Sanriel to reprimand Vilonos and restore order, but the Altmer only rolled his eyes. J’zargo was certain Tirel would not have permitted such disrespectful levity, but Tirel had left Sanriel in charge of the Aurius Magi presentation. Since Sanriel was remiss in his duty, J’zargo took it upon himself to tell Vilonos, “You should not say such things.”

“I shouldn’t, huh? And why not?” asked Vilonos.

“You are one of the Aurius Magi. That means you were chosen to represent the College and uphold its traditions, to lead and set an example to others.”

Vilonos chortled. “We should get you to write the College’s promotional materials.”

J’zargo clenched his jaw and lashed his tail. This Vilonos was nearly as infuriating as Rumarin. Perhaps worse, because unlike Rumarin, Vilonos was here to stay. The Dunmer might well be a competent spellcaster, but he was completely unworthy of his Aurius Magi robes.

“We might as well start the song and get it over with quickly,” said Vilonos.

Sanriel shook his head. “No, we’re to wait for the gong to sound the half hour.” He disdainfully added, “And for a certain mage to pry himself away from a certain thane.”

J’zargo followed Sanriel’s contemptuous gaze. Through the crowds of people talking and laughing J’zargo caught a glimpse of Tirel leading Mehra through another dance, the skirt of her green dress twirling.

“Is she really a thane?” asked Gwinis.

“Of course she is the Thane of Whiterun,” said J’zargo. “Why do you doubt this?”

“Well, she never dressed or acted like a thane. We all had our doubts.”

“Mehra has traveled a long way, and travel is hard on clothes.” J’zargo’s mood was growing sour. In Whiterun he had told Mehra she should buy something nice to wear, something befitting a thane, but she would not spare the coin for new clothes. If Mehra would only listen to prudent advice, she would not make such a poor impression on people.

“Is it true she’s Dragonborn as well?” asked Gwinis.

“Yes, that is why Jarl Balgruuf made her his thane,” said J’zargo.

“Ah,” said Gwinis. Behind her, Vilonos and some of the others exchanged knowing looks and snickered.

J’zargo folded his arms. “Do you not believe J’zargo?”

Gwinis shrugged. “It’s just that Theo was guarding the gate the day you arrived, and he said she refused to call up a Shout.”

“A shout? What are you talking about?” asked Sanriel.

“You know, the Thu’um,” said Gwinis. “The kind of Shout Ulfric Stormcloak used to kill the High King.”

Sanriel made a face. “What does that have to do with being ‘dragon-born’, whatever that is?”

“It’s a Nord thing,” said Vilonos.

“That much I gathered, but in Alinor we don’t concern ourselves with the traditions and folklore of barbaric peoples.”

Though Sanriel was speaking of Nords, J’zargo bridled at these sneering words. There was no doubt in J’zargo’s mind that this elf considered Khajiit one of the barbaric peoples. With an effort J’zargo kept his voice level and said, “The Dragonborn is a great hero called on by the Gods to defend Skyrim in her time of need.”

Sanriel smirked. “Great hero of Skyrim. Oh, certainly.”

“It is true,” said J’zargo, beginning to feel weary. Mehra never did anything to uphold her reputation as Thane of Whiterun and Dragonborn. Why should it always fall on J’zargo to defend her?

“What’s true?” This time it was Tirel who spoke, sounding a little out of breath as he came up beside J’zargo. The others fell silent and exchanged uneasy glances.

“That it’s almost time to get started,” said Sanriel.

Tirel nodded. “I trust everything is ready?”

“Yes, as long as everyone remembers their part,” said Sanriel. J’zargo knew that comment was meant for him and it raised his hackles.

“I’m sure everyone will give it their all.” Tirel began smoothing down his robes. “All right, after the gong sounds I’ll go give the opening speech.”

Sanriel said, “Actually, I was hoping you’d reconsider letting me handle that tonight.” Tirel regarded him with a frown, and Sanriel hastened to add, “I have it all written down if you want to look it over first–”

“We’ve been over this before.”

“I know, but I thought–”

“We can’t go making changes at the last minute for something this important. We’ll stick to the plan.”

Sanriel fell silent and looked as though he had chewed on something bitter. J’zargo thought back to the day before, how Sanriel had badgered Tirel to let him give the speech. Tirel had relented and tried to coach Sanriel, but it soon became clear that Sanriel was not taking the matter seriously.

During the rehearsal Tirel had told Sanriel, “That’s not how the speech goes, and bringing up the conjured apple incident won’t make a good impression on our guests. They’ll think we’re undisciplined.”

Sanriel had replied, “No one really pays attention to these speeches anyway. What does it matter?” That caused Tirel to change his mind and declare that he would give the speech himself. As head of the Aurius Magi it was his right, but J’zargo would not soon forget Sanriel’s look of indignation.

The gong sounded. The music ceased and the bards drew away from the raised platform to make way for Tirel. J’zargo admired the way the Breton strode up the platform and faced them all with such ease, like he was about to greet a friend rather than give an important speech. The crowds gradually went quiet and turned their attention to Tirel, who began by welcoming them all and giving thanks to Mirabelle, Sergius, and others who made the festivities possible.

“Generations have come to the College of Winterhold to learn the noble arts of the mage. Each has left their mark here, and many have added to the collective wisdom of these chambers. The halls around us echo yet with their voices and deeds.

“We have arrived in their footsteps to continue the mission they began. We strive to learn, to do justice to their achievements, and to add our own voices to the echoes in these halls.

“Each year we come together to celebrate our continuing journey at the College. We celebrate our instructors who make it all possible, the colleagues who make the experience enjoyable, and the servants who make our life here bearable. You are the College of Winterhold, and we thank you.

“We, the Aurius Magi, are pledged to recall and uphold the traditions and the honor of the College. At this time we select from our colleagues those we feel best suited to keep and honor our traditions. I am happy to announce the new members for this year. Please welcome Gwinis, Tilmus, and J’zargo, our first Khajiit member in many years.”

The guests applauded politely. J’zargo knew he should be delighted, but instead he was troubled by the way Tirel had singled him out. J’zargo wished to stand out, yes, but as a mage known for great deeds, not as the only Khajiit in a school full of men and elves.

Tirel beckoned to his fellow Aurius Magi, inviting them to come up. J’zargo swallowed hard as he ascended the platform with the others. J’zargo looked out at a sea of staring faces. Most were students like him, but among them were important guests– mages from the Synod and the College of Whispers, delegates from the Thalmor embassy, diplomats from Cyrodiil and other lands. These and their entourages of servants were formidable enough, but there was also Sergius Turrianus and the other professors, Master Wizard Mirabelle, and the Arch-Mage himself, Savos Aren, severe yet regal in fur-trimmed robes. Fearing he would lose his nerve if he stared at them all too long, J’zargo’s eyes sought out Mehra. He found her near the front, her face bright and encouraging, and J’zargo felt some of his fear leave him.

The lights dimmed, their cue to begin singing:

High above the ghostly sea
Stands our school of wizardry
Wrought by the hand of Shalidor
Home of wisdom and elder lore
Your shining glory we behold
Noble College of Winterhold

Come Elf and Man their skills to test
Here we only accept the best
Far and wide they all pursue
Answers deep and secrets true
Your legend grows, your fame foretold
Enduring College of Winterhold

Spells and runes are our domain
Lesser callings we all disdain
Watchful Eye our troth observe
We pledge forever your halls to serve
Proud we stand as students in gold
Wondrous College of Winterhold

Upon singing the words “forever your halls to serve”, J’zargo summoned a magelight and held it glimmering in his hand, readying it for the finale. Some of the others were too slow or else too quick with their lights, but J’zargo’s timing was perfect. When the song ended they sent their magelights flying, tracing intricate patterns in the air. To summon a magelight was simple, but to control it perfectly took much concentration and practice. A few lights drifted out of formation or darted the wrong way, but J’zargo never lost focus. His magelight flew true to the very end, when all their lights drew together into a shining sphere of brilliance before flying apart like fireworks.

The dining hall rang with applause. J’zargo stared at the crowd like one coming out of a trance. He had done it. He had performed his part perfectly, and now even the Arch-Mage was applauding.

After taking their bows the Aurius Magi began rejoining the party. The bards took up their instruments and plucked out a cheerful song for dancing. J’zargo had barely stepped off the platform when he saw Mehra break away from the crowd and approach, no doubt to congratulate J’zargo and praise his performance, but Tirel intercepted and drew Mehra into another dance.

J’zargo had eaten nothing all evening and realized he was famished. He made for one of the banquet tables, grabbed a plate and tried to ignore his rumbling stomach while waiting for his turn at the chafing dishes. Several people were vying for the best pieces of poached salmon, seared slaughterfish, and steamed mudcrab legs.

J’zargo had nearly filled his plate when someone in dark shabby robes came up beside him. “Don’t mind me, I just realized I hadn’t tried the creampuffs yet,” said Rumarin. J’zargo cursed and almost dropped his plate.

“You! J’zargo thought you left.”

“I did indeed. I had to go see a man about a horker.”

“You should have stayed away. Why have you returned?”

“I wasn’t done celebrating,” said Rumarin, experimentally poking some tongs at a gelatin mold.

“Celebrating what?”

“Being alive. I do prefer being alive as opposed to that other thing, don’t you?” Rumarin kept probing at the green gelatin as though it were a specimen for dissection. “Is this edible? I’m not sure I trust food that wiggles.”

“Stop that, you are making a mess!” J’zargo tried to snatch the tongs away, but Rumarin would not yield them. Their struggle ended when the tongs splashed into a punch bowl, spotting J’zargo’s sleeve.

“Well that’s a shame,” said Rumarin.

J’zargo stared at the red stain on his sleeve. His beautiful gold-trimmed sleeve.

“Not to worry, you can hide it easily. Just keep your arms folded at all times and no one will ever know.”

“You… you…”

“Oh don’t get your tail in a knot, I’m sure it’ll wash out.” Rumarin set down his plate and dunked a corner of a napkin into a pitcher of water. “If you’ll just hold still–”

J’zargo slammed his plate on the table, scattering bits of fish and drawing startled looks from nearby party guests. “Thjiziit, mor kha’jay trajir jer!”

“Are you telling me to do something indecent with farm animals again?”

J’zargo wanted to scratch that look of smug indifference from Rumarin’s face. How dare the wretched elf make a joke of everything. He almost shouted again, but from the corner of his eye he noticed some students watching them eagerly, clearly hoping to see a fight break out. J’zargo took a deep breath. He was a College mage and a member of the Aurius Magi. He could and would exercise restraint.

“You need to leave,” J’zargo told Rumarin. “You are not a guest of the College, and you dishonor us all by coming here in those dirty robes.”

Rumarin tossed the wet napkin on the table. “All excellent points. Or at least they would be if you were talking to someone who cares a jot about the sensibilities of mages.”

“Master Wizard Mirabelle told you to stay at the inn. You did not listen to her, yet she has not had you thrown out. Why do you think this is?”

Rumarin shrugged and added another creampuff to his plate. “I’m sure it hasn’t been worth her while to bother with me, especially as I’m only staying in the servant quarters.”

“You are a fool if you think that is the true reason.”

Rumarin seemed to catch J’zargo’s meaning, because he glanced about until his eyes found and lingered on Mehra. She was talking animatedly with Tirel and Lenari, the school’s apprentice healer.

“Don’t give it another thought,” Rumarin told him. “I won’t be overstaying my welcome much longer. But after the night I’ve been having, you can’t expect me to banish myself before I’ve had my fill of creampuffs.” Rumarin tossed one of these into his mouth and took the rest of his spoils to a quiet corner of the dining hall. J’zargo was highly annoyed that the elf had returned, but at least he was keeping out of the way for the moment.

J’zargo’s attention was briefly drawn to a group of professors who were joking and laughing with each other. Among them was Faralda, the instructor of J’zargo’s scroll-writing class. J’zargo longed to join them and tell Faralda of his progress with the scroll assignment, but he was deeply conscious of his stained sleeve.

In desperation J’zargo took the wet napkin Rumarin had left behind and dabbed at the soiled spot. He was so preoccupied that he did not notice when someone approached and said, “You are new here, are you not? We have not spoken.”

J’zargo nearly dropped his napkin when he realized he was facing the Arch-Mage himself, Savos Aren, magnificent in robes embroidered with silver. Immediately J’zargo put his hands behind his back to hide his stained sleeve and blurted out, “Yes, this one is called J’zargo. J’zargo is honored to meet the Arch-Mage.”

“I see you are to be congratulated,” said the Arch-Mage, eyeing the gold trim of J’zargo’s robes. “Always good to meet a new Aurius Magi member. What you learn here will last you a lifetime. Several, if you’re talented.”

“Yes,” said J’zargo, keeping his sleeve hidden and struggling for the proper words. “That is why J’zargo chose to study at the College of Winterhold. J’zargo wishes to learn magic from the best mages.”

“Very good, yes. I am quite content to see nearly any aspect of magic explored and investigated here. As long as no one causes purposeful harm to fellow members of the College, of course.”

The Master Wizard Mirabelle quickly approached them, her normally calm demeanor betraying a sense of urgency. “Arch-Mage,” she said. “Your pardon, but I need you to come with me.”

The Arch-Mage heaved a sigh. “Please don’t tell me that another one of the apprentices has been incinerated. We have enough to deal with right now.”

“Nothing like that, but this is a delicate matter that needs your attention.”

“Oh very well,” said the Arch-Mage, who had clearly forgotten all about J’zargo. He went with the Master Wizard without so much as a parting remark.

J’zargo was in a daze. The Arch-Mage himself had spoken to him. The Arch-Mage! Days earlier J’zargo had been nothing more than a common traveler, a son of humble merchants with neither title nor reputation. His own father had reminded J’zargo every day that he had no future as a trader, that he was a disgrace and a failure. But that was all past. Today J’zargo was a promising scholar at Tamriel’s greatest school of magic. He had just been congratulated by the Arch-Mage himself. J’zargo dearly wished his family could be there to see him now, especially his father. See, he would tell his father, all this time you were wrong about J’zargo. Your son is not a failure.

His reverie was broken by raucous singing. Vilonos was waving around a tankard and shouting mightily, “Drink mead! Drink mead! Drink mead, Gods damn, drink mead!”

The music stopped, the dancing ceased, and conversations trailed off as people turned their heads to stare at Vilonos. The Dunmer paid them no mind and belted out, “I won’t drink mead with any man who won’t drink mead with a College man!”

Sanriel hurried over and told Vilonos to shut up, but Vilonos only sang louder. Several other students began joining in, clapping their hands and stamping their feet. J’zargo was horrified to see that many of them were Aurius Magi.

At this Sanriel made a motion with his hands, working a spell. Vilonos suddenly went strangely quiet, his mouth still working but no sound coming out. Enraged, Vilonos raised his fist to strike Sanriel when Tirel thrust his way between them.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Tirel shouted at them.

J’zargo had never seen Tirel angry before, and it was a startling thing to behold. Vilonos and Sanriel were cowed and silent before him. Tirel spoke again, too low for J’zargo to hear. Sanriel started to interject but Tirel cut him off. Whatever Tirel said left Sanriel staring shame-faced at the ground and sent Vilonos slinking off to the nearest exit, evidently banished for the night.

J’zargo glared at the departing form of Vilonos. That one was unworthy of his Aurius Magi robes. If J’zargo had his way, Vilonos would be sent away from the school in disgrace. There were obviously people here who did not belong, people who took neither their obligations nor the school’s traditions seriously. Yes, things would be very different if J’zargo were Arch-Mage.

If he were Arch-Mage. J’zargo was surprised to catch himself entertaining such an audacious thought. But then why not? Every great mage began as a student once, and Savos Aren would not be Arch-Mage forever. Instructor positions opened up from time to time– Tirel himself would begin teaching destruction classes next year. If J’zargo worked hard and excelled as a student, he too might follow this path. And if he worked hard and excelled as a teacher, then perhaps someday the College of Winterhold would have its first Khajiit Arch-Mage.

The bards had stopped playing. It was unclear if they were done for the night or taking another break, but while the party was by no means over, the crowds had begun thinning out. The servants cleared away empty chafing dishes and dirty plates. Across the way Mehra talked happily to an Altmer student. J’zargo was appalled to see that it was Finwen. Of all the students Mehra could have chosen to speak with, why did it have to be Finwen? That elf had no ambition, no pride in his appearance, struggled in his classes– surely Tirel would have steered Mehra away from Finwen. But Tirel was nowhere to be seen, and J’zargo realized it must befall him to yet again save Mehra from her own bad judgment.

J’zargo marched toward them, and Mehra looked at him and smiled. “J’zargo,” she said, “I was hoping we’d talk again before the party was over. The performance was beautiful. You did everything perfectly.”

These words left J’zargo feeling so pleased that he forgot to be annoyed with her. “J’zargo thanks you. J’zargo practiced many hours to do his part.”

“Congratulations on being accepted into the Aurius Magi,” said Finwen.

“Yes, J’zargo earned his rightful place,” said J’zargo, staring at one of the many ink stains on Finwen’s robes. J’zargo remembered the red stain on his own sleeve and tucked his arm behind him.

Mehra said, “We were talking about illusion magic earlier. Finwen was telling me about the fire scroll project.”

“Oh, right,” said Finwen, brightening. “I was saying how you’ve been plowing through that and every other assignment they throw at you. I don’t think I know anyone who works as hard as you do.”

“J’zargo must work hard. He does not come from a family of mages, and so there is much for him to learn and do if he is to stand out.”

“That must be why the Aurius Magi picked you. I wish I had your drive,” said Finwen, fingering the strap of his lute. The instrument he cradled was an immaculate thing of beauty, a contrast to his disheveled robes.

Wishing to repay these compliments in some way, J’zargo said, “But you play the lute very well, and that takes much practice. J’zargo does not know how to play any instrument.”

“Yes, I would have believed you were a bard if your College robes hadn’t given you away,” said Mehra.

Finwen blushed. “My mother and aunt didn’t want to send me to the Bards College–no real future in that, they said–but at least they let me take music lessons. But sometimes I think my prospects would have been better there than they are here.”

“That is not true,” said J’zargo. “You are becoming good at illusion magic, yes?”

“It’s easier for me than some things,” said Finwen. “Oh, that reminds me, Mehra had some ideas for the illusion part of the fire scroll we could try. If you haven’t already finished it, that is.”

“The scroll is finished,” said J’zargo, his annoyance returning. Mehra could not work a single spell, yet she was developing an unseemly habit of speaking as though she were an authority on magic.

“So Celia actually helped?” asked Finwen.

“No, J’zargo did not need her help.” J’zargo decided there was no need to add that he had asked Celia for her assistance and she had refused to give it.

Finwen’s eyes widened slightly. “Ah. I don’t suppose you want me to look it over before the next class, do you?”

J’zargo snapped at him, “The scroll is finished and J’zargo read it carefully. Do you doubt J’zargo?”

Finwen rubbed the back of his neck. “No, I don’t doubt you, of course not.”

“But it’s always a good idea to have other people look over your work,” said Mehra. “We all miss things sometimes.”

“J’zargo does not need to be told how to write scrolls, especially not by one who knows nothing of such things.” J’zargo saw the hurt in Mehra’s eyes but he was too angry to care. He had slaved over the scroll, writing and rewriting formulas long into the night until he saw fire runes in his sleep. Yet he had kept up with his other studies, practiced his spells, and secured his future as one of the Aurius Magi. Meanwhile Mehra did nothing but read a few books, pick flowers in the greenhouse, and latch onto Tirel whenever he had a free hour, all the while pretending she had no responsibilities as the Thane of Whiterun. She had no business telling J’zargo how to do his work.

“I didn’t mean…” Mehra left the sentence unfinished when someone approached. It was one of the bards, a Nord man whose skin was rough and tanned from years of hard travel. At the sight of him Finwen perked up immediately.

The bard told Finwen, “We’re ready to start again. How about joining us for another song, friend?”

“Of course Talsgar, I’d love to,” said Finwen.

“Excellent.” Talsgar’s eyes went to Mehra, and his face lit up. “Dragonborn! How are you?”

“I’m well,” said Mehra.

“You don’t recognize me, do you?”

“I remember. It’s nice to see you again.” There was a nervous edge in Mehra’s voice.

“Yes, a day I’ll never forget,” said Talsgar, grinning broadly. “How often does a bard get to meet one of the very legends he sings of? I tell you, you’ve brought hope back to Skyrim.”

“Thank you,” said Mehra, very low.

J’zargo folded his arms, careful to keep his stain concealed. He remembered how he and Mehra had briefly met Talsgar in Whiterun. He also remembered how the bard had ignored J’zargo as much then as he did now.

“Oh, so she really is the Dragonborn?” Finwen immediately looked ashamed and added, “Not that I ever doubted, but people have been talking and not everyone is sure what to believe.”

Talsgar laughed. “We all expected the Dragonborn to be a Nord, but we’ll not hold that against her.” Turning to Mehra he said, “But I confess I’m surprised to see you here. Have you already made your pilgrimage?”

“Not yet,” said Mehra, barely audible.

“Pilgrimage?” asked J’zargo.

“Why, the journey up to High Hrothgar of course. The Greybeards called her to them. Or didn’t you know?”

J’zargo looked hard at Mehra. She would not meet his eye. “No,” he said. “J’zargo did not know of this.”

Talsgar cleared his throat. “Well, in our case the music calls, and we must answer. Come Finwen, let’s not keep our fellow minstrels waiting.”

When they were gone J’zargo asked Mehra, “What did Talsgar mean about High Hrothgar and the Greybeards?”

Mehra gazed at the ground, seeming to shrink into herself. “It’s something Jarl Balgruuf asked me to do.”

“What did he ask of you?”

The bards began to play, coaxing somber notes from their instruments. Mehra winced when Talsgar started to sing, Our hero, our hero claims a warrior’s heart, I tell you, I tell you the Dragonborn comes…

Mehra said, “Jarl Balgruuf told me the Greybeards had summoned me. From the mountain. That was the thundering sound we heard after the dragon died.”

“Yes, this J’zargo remembers. Why did the Greybeards summon you?”

Mehra hesitated. J’zargo stared hard at her until she fidgeted and said, “Jarl Balgruuf told me that they’re masters of the Thu’um. That they can teach me what it means to be the Dragonborn. It must be why they called me.”

“And all this time you kept this from J’zargo?”

“Yes, but… only because I didn’t feel ready to–”

“There can be no excuse for this. You did not do as Jarl Balgruuf asked.”

“I didn’t know what else to do. We were both bound for the College. The Greybeards live on the highest mountain in Skyrim, and I was afraid to even–”

“Your excuses change nothing. You still should not have run from this or kept it hidden from J’zargo.” He looked at her sharply as a new thought came to him. “Have you spoken of this with the elf?”

Mehra shook her head. “Rumarin doesn’t know.”

“No one else knows?”

She chewed her lip and said in a small voice, “Only Tirel.”

J’zargo tensed, feeling cold anger take hold of him. “You chose to share this with one you barely know, but not with J’zargo? One who helped you and fought by your side? One you called friend?”

“Please understand,” said Mehra. “I didn’t set out to tell him, but I– I know I can’t stay here, I’ve had to think about what I must do next, and I–”

“Yes, J’zargo understands perfectly. You do not think J’zargo worthy of trust.”

“That’s not true.”

“You should have told J’zargo of the Greybeards, but instead you told Tirel. When we spoke of the phial, you sided with the elf against J’zargo. You think a zevamaviit like Tirel and a fool who paints his face are more deserving of your trust? Thjiz ja’qara! You see only what you wish to see. You do not even see when you are being used.”

The color was draining from Mehra’s face. “What do you mean?”

J’zargo pointed at the lovely green dress Mehra wore. “This, why do you think Tirel has such a thing made for you? Why do you think he spends so much of his time with you?”

Mehra gazed down at her dress. “I thought it was because he…”

J’zargo’s voice turned mocking. “Because he falls in love so easily? If your eyes and ears were open, you would already know that Tirel never stays long with any woman. He fawns over you now only because of a wager.”

“A wager?” Mehra asked faintly.

“Yes, one that concerns you, Tirel, and a bed. Many students in the enchanting class have a stake in this. If Tirel wins, he and those on his side will have no trinket duty for a long time.” J’zargo coldly added, “Many think you will be easily won.”

“You mean if we… if I had…”

“Must J’zargo make it more clear to you? J’zargo tires of saying the obvious.”

Mehra stared at J’zargo as if he had struck her, her composure crumbling. She tried to speak but only managed a small choked sound before she fled from him, pushing her way through a crowd of students toward the exit.

J’zargo watched Mehra go and began to feel uneasy in his mind. Why had he told her of the wager? Tirel would not be pleased with J’zargo for destroying his chances. Mehra would not have Tirel now. But Mehra could have easily learned the truth for herself if she were not so trusting and willfully blind. Most students were free with gossip and Tirel’s many dalliances were no secret.

It is for the best, J’zargo told himself. Better she open her eyes and learn caution now before others try to work their influence on her. She will thank J’zargo later.

J’zargo considered his spotted sleeve again and sighed. He must have his robes cleaned before the stain set. He had almost made up his mind to take his leave when began to notice something odd. Gathered at one end of the dining hall and speaking to each other in low anxious tones were Arch-Mage Savos, Master Wizard Mirabelle, and several of the professors. Drevis Neloren looked most distressed and kept running his hands through his white hair as though he would tear it. Tirel was among them, his face grave as he listened intently to what Drevis had to say.

Tirel broke away from them and went to Sanriel, who seemed displeased at being interrupted while he was enjoying a drink with some of the senior students. Tirel took Sanriel aside and spoke at length, and Sanriel’s expression changed from annoyed to confused to terrified. Tirel rejoined the professors, leaving Sanriel standing in dumbfounded silence.

Drevis hurried out of the dining hall, and Tirel and the Arch-Mage and the other professors followed him. Sanriel went another way, making as if to leave through a different exit, but at the last minute he made a sharp turn and headed straight for J’zargo.

J’zargo puzzled over this. Why was Sanriel coming to speak with him? Something was wrong, or Drevis and the others would not have left in such haste. Was Sanriel coming to J’zargo for help? J’zargo thought it might be so, and this pleased him, but the dark look in Sanriel’s eyes changed J’zargo’s mind. No, whatever had happened, Sanriel must have come to place blame on J’zargo.

As Sanriel approached J’zargo drew himself up and folded his arms, hoping both to appear lordly and to hide his stained sleeve. “What do you seek from J’zargo?”

“Shut up and follow me.”

J’zargo wanted to flash his claws and make Sanriel sorry for addressing him in this way, but something made J’zargo pause. Although the Altmer used his full height to loom and appear menacing, J’zargo smelled fear on him. “This one asks again, what do you want?”

“We don’t have time for this. You have to come with me right now.”

“J’zargo is very busy and is about to–”

“Oh no, J’zargo isn’t about to anything, J’zargo is coming with Sanriel right now,” said Sanriel, taking him by the wrist and dragging him out of the dining hall.

“This one will follow you,” said J’zargo, pulling his wrist free. “But do not lay hands on J’zargo again unless you wish to learn of Khajiit claws.”

“Whatever, just shut up, stay close and don’t do anything stupid.”

They walked in silence down the stairs until they reached the main floor of the tower, where Sanriel whispered, “Keep quiet.”

As J’zargo followed Sanriel he caught a glimpse of the cavernous room where students often practiced their destruction spells. But something was amiss with the glowing font, the shaft of blue light pulsing and flickering as it never had before. Several people were clustered around the font, and J’zargo thought he heard Drevis giving frantic orders.

Sanriel eased open the door to the service tunnels and motioned J’zargo through. They descended into the passages without attracting notice, and Sanriel summoned a little magelight to help them see their way. J’zargo noticed the elf’s hands were shaking.

“What has happened?” asked J’zargo.

“The less you know the better,” Sanriel snapped, turning down a tunnel that would take them to J’zargo’s dormitory. The tall elf walked fast, almost at a run, and J’zargo hurried to keep up.

“How can J’zargo help if you do not tell him what is happening?”

“Help? You want to help after what you’ve done? That’s a laugh, ha.”

“J’zargo has done nothing but prove himself a worthy mage. J’zargo passed your test and he played his part perfectly for the Aurius Magi performance.”

Sanriel covered his face with his hands and mumbled to himself, “By the Eight, I should have listened to Tirel. Should have paid closer attention. But how was I to know? It’s not my fault. You shouldn’t have known enough to cause any real harm. You’re taking remedial classes for Gods’ sake.”

“J’zargo does not understand you. What does J’zargo have to do with what is happening? What is happening?” He paused, an alarming thought occurring to him. “It is the wells of magicka? The focus points? Did J’zargo’s enchantment do something to them?”

They were almost at the door to the Hall of Attainment, J’zargo’s dormitory. Sanriel stopped, took J’zargo by the shoulders and said, “You listen to me. If anyone asks, you don’t know a damn thing about the wells. You’re not to breathe a word of this to anyone.”

“But–”

“Not a word,” said Sanriel, giving J’zargo a little shake. He let go and took a deep breath, composing himself. “All right. I’m going to take care of this. You just go to your room and lay low for a few days.”

“You do not wish for J’zargo’s help?”

“You can help by keeping your mouth shut and not doing anything, and I mean anything until I say so. Got it?”

J’zargo was too rattled to argue. “Yes, J’zargo understands.”

Sanriel opened the door for him. J’zargo stepped through and winced when the door slammed close, barely missing his tail. All was quiet in the dormitory; most of the students who lived here had not yet returned from the party. To J’zargo’s great relief the font was still sending up its steady shaft of blue light. Perhaps all was well. Perhaps Sanriel had exaggerated the danger.

In truth J’zargo did not understand how anything he did could have hurt the focus points. He had only dropped a few human skulls into one of the wells. The skulls bore an enchantment, yes, but only a modest one that made them float if anyone came near. Onmund had triggered the enchantment when he started cleaning the font, and the sight of flying skulls scared the young man witless. J’zargo had not been entirely happy about it–playing such a trick on a classmate felt somehow beneath him–but he had been pleased the enchantment worked, and doubly pleased to have proven himself worthy of the Aurius Magi.

The font’s column of light began flashing and dimming, and J’zargo felt his heart seize. The light steadied. J’zargo held his breath and waited. Nothing happened. He retreated into his room and sank into the chair at his desk, his mind turning over a hundred questions. What was wrong with the focus points? Had J’zargo truly hurt them? Would the Arch-Mage learn the truth and have J’zargo cast out?

That J’zargo might be banished from the school was almost more than he could bear, but in his heart was a darker fear he could not yet name. J’zargo remembered the terror in Sanriel’s face, the way the professors had rushed from the dining hall as if their lives depended on it– something terrible must have happened, or was about to happen. And J’zargo was to blame.

J’zargo glanced down at his sleeve. In the dim light he could just make out the dark stain, but it no longer seemed to matter. For a long time he sat motionless at his desk, paralyzed with dread.

Chapter 31: The Phial and the Scroll

J’zargo dreamed of a cave filled with great treasures: shining amulets, gleaming scepters, tapestries threaded with gold and silver, books of forgotten lore and spells. The jewel-encrusted treasures dazzled, but what J’zargo wanted above all else was the knowledge within the books, the secrets that would make him a powerful mage. He reached for the tomes, but at his touch each one turned to dust and bones. The bones stirred and came together, joining to form a monstrous thing that resembled nothing that had ever lived. J’zargo fled, but the shambling thing of bones pursued and cornered him in a dead-end tunnel. J’zargo wheeled around to defend himself with flames, but all he could summon were pink magelights. The bone creature laughed Sanriel’s laugh and shouted with the voice of J’zargo’s father, “You fail again.”

J’zargo was falling endlessly through darkness when he heard another voice calling to him. He jerked awake and saw Tirel staring down at him.

“Doing all right, J’zargo?” asked Tirel.

“Yes,” said J’zargo, struggling to remember where he was. He was not at home in Elsweyr with his family. He was not in his bedroll with Mehra and Rumarin somewhere nearby. Instead he was slumped over a desk in his own room at the College. Then he saw the ugly stain on the beautiful Aurius Magi robes he still wore and remembered everything. He laid his head down on his desk and groaned.

“Sounds like you didn’t have an easy night either,” said Tirel, stifling a yawn.

J’zargo glanced up at Tirel. The Breton looked tired and bleary-eyed, but otherwise he seemed his usual friendly self. Still J’zargo was uneasy. By rights Tirel should be angry with him. Unless somehow Tirel was not aware of the part J’zargo had played in destroying Tirel’s chances of winning his wager.

“What is the time?” asked J’zargo, deciding to tread carefully.

“About mid-morning.”

J’zargo sighed. He had missed the illusion class with Drevis. He must have slept through the gong. Not that he would have been able to go, he reminded himself. Sanriel had told him to stay in his room.

Tirel pulled a chair close and sat down. “I understand your initiation went very well. Some of the senior Aurius Magi members saw what you did. They said it was very funny, those skulls floating around.”

J’zargo swallowed hard. “Yes. It was simple magic J’zargo learned in Elsweyr.”

“Simple? J’zargo, I don’t think there’s anyone in the whole school who knows the enchantment you put together. Did someone teach it to you?”

“No, J’zargo had no one to teach him magic, but his mother found books about such things for him. J’zargo studied hard and learned what he could.”

Tirel nodded and looked thoughtful. “I’ll be honest. We need to understand what happened with the focus points. Drevis and Sergius are supposed to give a report to the Arch-Mage, but they’re still scratching their heads over what happened.”

J’zargo felt his heart beat wildly. “J’zargo swears he did not mean to hurt the focus points. He did not think such a foolish trick would do any harm.”

“Of course you didn’t. There’s no way you could have known. Those wells were built to resist all sorts of mischief. Over the years people have cast spells at them, thrown rubbish in them… occasionally someone even throws up in them. Whatever you did was unusual. Once we understand it, we’ll be able to guard against other incidents in the future.” Tirel spoke reassuringly, but his words did little to relieve J’zargo’s fears about being exiled from the school.

“Was the damage very bad?” asked J’zargo.

Tirel did not answer right away. He stared at the mounted goat head that was propped against the wall on the floor. J’zargo’s prank with the focus points had given him an opportunity to dispose of the skulls, but he had not yet found time to deal with the hated goat head.

“We brought them back into balance. The focus points didn’t suffer permanent damage,” said Tirel. The way he said this suggested there was more he was not saying, but J’zargo could not find the courage to ask what that might be.

“Can you tell me about the enchantment?” asked Tirel.

Slowly J’zargo explained, “This is magic J’zargo studied years ago, spells of levitation. It takes much focus and J’zargo has never been able to lift anything very heavy. But small things he can manage for small amounts of time. He bound such magic to a skull.”

“Only one? I thought you used several skulls?”

“Yes, but J’zargo did not have many soul gems to spare. He made the enchantment reach beyond the first skull. So when that skull rises, the others follow, yes?”

Tirel’s eyes lit up with understanding. “An area of effect? Right, I follow you. So that means your enchantment works on any small things that happen to be nearby.”

“Yes, that is so.”

“That’s brilliant. I knew we were right to bring you into the Aurius Magi.” Tirel paused and thought for a moment. “That might mean the enchantment was pulling at the rays of magicka, which weigh practically nothing. If that’s the case, it must have unbalanced the well and clogged it up like a pipe.”

“That was not supposed to happen! J’zargo did not mean it, J’zargo did not–”

“I know you didn’t. And now that I understand what happened, I can tell Drevis and Sergius what they need to know without having to drag your name into it. It’s going to be fine.”

J’zargo began to feel better, but only a little. He wanted to believe Tirel, but new worries kept entering his head. Suppose Tirel were forced to reveal that it was indeed J’zargo who unbalanced the focus points? Suppose Drevis or Sergius learned the truth through other means?

And then there was the darker, deeper fear that J’zargo could not yet put into words. Gathering his nerve he asked, “If the focus points had failed and you could not restore them, what would have happened?”

“Sergius and Drevis won’t say.” Tirel’s expression became shadowed, almost angry. “All the secrecy is to blame for what happened.”

“But it was not secrets that put the skulls in the well,” said J’zargo. With some hesitation he added, “It was J’zargo who did this.”

“But you wouldn’t have done anything of the kind if you knew it might be dangerous. That’s the point.”

J’zargo remained silent. It was true, he would not have done such a thing if he had suspected danger. It would never have occurred to him to play tricks with the wells if Sanriel had not set him to the task of scaring Onmund. But in his heart J’zargo felt he was to blame.

“But that doesn’t answer your question,” said Tirel. “I know that they’re afraid. Drevis, Sergius, the Arch-Mage– I’ve never seen them so afraid.”

“But afraid of what?”

“Afraid for the school. Or their lives. Probably both.” Tirel leaned closer, his voice soft but grim. “Have you ever considered the structure of the school? Not the institution, but the building, the firmament itself?”

All at once J’zargo remembered the school’s decaying bridge, the College itself balanced precariously on a slender column of rock that looked like it would give way at any moment. Was it the focus points that kept them all from falling into the sea?

Tirel looked at J’zargo and nodded. “Yes. That is what I think. That is the function of our lovely blue wells.”

“This is bad, very, very bad.” J’zargo put his head in his hands and felt sick inside. He could not unsee the image of the school collapsing, of great stones crushing terrified mages, their bodies lost forever in the Sea of Ghosts. And Mehra would have been among the dead.

“Don’t worry about it. Whatever was wrong, we’ve put it right. I’m sure Drevis and Sergius will pay greater attention to the focus points from now on.” Tirel got up, stretched and yawned. “Gods but it was a long night.”

J’zargo looked up at Tirel. This was the same mage who had shouted at Sanriel and Vilonos for making a disgraceful scene at the party. Why was he not doing the same now? Was it possible that Tirel did not know what J’zargo said to Mehra? Was he so occupied with the wells that he had not yet spoken with Mehra? Perhaps Tirel did not yet know that he had lost his wager. Even so, it was thanks to J’zargo that Tirel had spent the night cleaning and rebalancing the wells. Worse, J’zargo may have nearly killed them all. He could not understand why Tirel was not angry with him. J’zargo knew his father would be shouting at him now, telling him what a fool he was.

“Should J’zargo stay in his room today?” asked J’zargo, deciding it was better to let go of his other questions. “Sanriel told J’zargo to do nothing.”

“Certainly not. You just go on to your classes like usual. I’ll take care of the rest, don’t worry.”

J’zargo did his best to keep his voice from shaking. “This one is grateful. J’zargo thanks you.”

“I’d best be getting back to Sergius now, so we can put this little incident to bed. And then maybe put me to bed for an hour or two.”

When Tirel was gone J’zargo began getting ready for the day. He had missed the illusion class, but in a way he was glad. J’zargo did not think he could summon the courage to be in the same room with Drevis right now, let alone take instruction from him.

J’zargo finished changing into his novice robes and cast a look of regret at his Aurius Magi garments. He still needed to clean the stain, but now there was no time. He would have to hurry if he wanted to be in time for Faralda’s scroll-writing class.

On his way to class J’zargo’s mind kept tumbling with questions and fears. Suppose Tirel was forced to tell of J’zargo’s role in hurting the focus points? Suppose Tirel was only hiding his anger from J’zargo? What if Tirel meant to tell Drevis and Sergius everything? By the time J’zargo reached the class he had worried himself into a stomach ache.

J’zargo sank into a chair next to Finwen, who greeted him happily. “Glad to see you’re all right,” said Finwen.

“Yes, yes, J’zargo is fine, why should he not be fine?”

“It’s just that when you weren’t at the illusion class this morning, Onmund and I thought maybe you were sick. You’re never even late.”

J’zargo mumbled something about being very busy. He broke off eye contact and reached into his bag for his book and writing materials.

Finwen said, “Drevis ended the class early today, which was surprising. He seemed a little out of sorts. Maybe the party wore him out?”

J’zargo fumbled and dropped his book, which flopped open and scattered sheets of notes. A few students laughed at the sight, including Celia, who sat not far away. J’zargo scowled as he bent to gather his book and notes.

Finwen helped him collect the scattered papers. “I can lend you my notes for the illusion class if you want them, though everyone says my writing is impossible to read. Hey, these are good,” said Finwen, admiring one of the drawings he picked up. “That’s a dragon, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said J’zargo, snatching it back. A day or two ago Tirel had approached J’zargo and asked him to describe the dragon that burned Helgen. J’zargo found it easiest to simply draw what he remembered. Though J’zargo did not consider it a very good sketch, Tirel had seemed both impressed and unsettled by the image of the terrible black dragon.

By now the class was full of chatter, but everyone fell silent when Faralda arrived and took her place before them. Normally serene and unhurried, the Altmer did not seem herself today– there was agitation in the way she moved, and her eyes were puffy from want of sleep.

“Your projects are due today,” said Faralda. “We’ll have each of you demonstrate your scrolls shortly.”

At this the room was filled with anxious whispers and the sound of rustling papers as students began retrieving their scrolls. J’zargo swallowed hard as he produced the fire scroll.

“Did you know we’d have to give a demonstration?” Finwen whispered to J’zargo.

“It will work,” J’zargo whispered back, trying to appear nonchalant as he laid the scroll on the table before them. In truth he had not known, or else he had forgotten. He had reviewed the scroll many times, but he never thought to make a copy to test.

The door creaked open and a young Imperial woman entered the classroom. J’zargo vaguely recognized her as a senior apprentice under Sergius, though he could not remember her name.

“My apologies for the interruption,” said the woman to Faralda. “Sergius would like to speak with J’zargo right away.”

J’zargo almost fell out of his chair. Sergius knows. He must know about the skulls. Why else would he wish to speak with J’zargo?

“Very well,” said Faralda.

“Do you want me to turn in the scroll if you aren’t back in time?” Finwen whispered to J’zargo.

J’zargo barely registered Finwen’s question and struggled to make his mind work. “Yes, yes, whatever you want,” he whispered back, pushing the scroll into Finwen’s hands. With an effort J’zargo got to his feet and followed the woman out of the classroom, feeling certain he was being led to his doom.

After they had descended into the darkness of the service tunnels J’zargo dared to speak. “May J’zargo ask why Sergius wishes to speak with this one?”

“I’m afraid I can’t say.”

J’zargo went silent after that. He wondered if he would be banished. What would he do then? Where would he go? All he knew for certain was that he could not go back home to Elsweyr. How could J’zargo face his family after such disgrace, to look them in the eye and admit he had failed them all?

J’zargo was shaking as he entered the enchanting workshop. He felt exposed and vulnerable under the bright harsh lights. The woman led him to the desk where Sergius sat writing figures into a logbook.

“I’ve brought J’zargo,” said the woman.

Sergius laid down his pen and regarded her with a frown. “And what of the other two? The Thane of Whiterun and the elf who’s been holing up with the servants?”

“Thane Mehra was not in her room or anywhere else I looked,” said the assistant, her tone uneasy. “But I spoke to the Altmer called Rumarin, and he said he would bring her.”

“Why didn’t you go with him?”

“He insisted on going alone.”

“You should have insisted on accompanying him. Now you’ve lost track of them both.”

At any other time J’zargo would have felt insulted at being ignored, but instead he was confused. Why did Sergius wish to speak with Mehra and Rumarin? What did either of them have to do with the wells of magicka? It dawned on J’zargo that this was not about the focus points at all, it was about the White Phial. Tirel had been true to his word. J’zargo let out a sigh of relief. Finally after days of waiting they were about to get an answer from Sergius. No doubt Sergius had carefully studied the artifact, recognized the White Phial for what it was, and determined a fair price that would make everyone happy. J’zargo was ready for good news.

At that moment Rumarin called out, “We’re here,” and J’zargo saw him enter the workshop with Mehra.

“So I see,” said Sergius, dismissing his assistant with a wave of his hand. “Have a seat.”

J’zargo, Rumarin, and Mehra all sat in the rickety chairs set before the imposing desk. At first J’zargo felt a bit better now that Mehra and Rumarin were here, until he noticed something amiss. Neither Rumarin nor Mehra would look at him.

Sergius spoke first. “I have news regarding the White Phial.”

“Good or bad news?” asked Rumarin, not sounding hopeful.

“I have a letter from Quintus.” Sergius held up a sheet of paper covered in fine writing. “Does that name mean anything to you?”

J’zargo was certain the name should mean something to him but it was lost somewhere in all his other worries. It obviously meant something to Mehra because she looked up and almost spoke, then thought better of it and looked to Rumarin.

“I believe the name of the alchemist’s apprentice in Windhelm starts with a ‘Q’,” said Rumarin.

“Indeed. Your Khajiit friend here said that Nurelion hired you to retrieve the White Phial. Nurelion is not unknown to us. In years past he used to visit the College to conduct his research. Naturally I was obliged to send a messenger to Windhelm to follow up on the matter and ask Nurelion for his side of the story.”

“Really.” Rumarin flashed a brief yet hostile look at J’zargo.

Mehra spoke quietly. “But you said the letter is from Quintus? Not Nurelion?”

“Yes. Sadly, Nurelion is in no condition to write to me or anyone else.”

“Is he ill?” asked Mehra.

“I’ll let Quintus give his account.” Sergius began reading the letter aloud. “‘My master has long known the location of the White Phial, but he couldn’t retrieve it because he had no key. He said the phial was sealed away behind a door that could only be unlocked with a magical elixir of Curalmil’s devising. After many years my master finally learned how to make this elixir. But his failing health prevented him from going after the phial himself, so–’”

“So he hired me to do it,” said Rumarin. “We agreed on a price, I asked Mehra and J’zargo to help me, and we all found the thing and brought it back after being stabbed and hacked at by a bunch angry skeletons and draugr. I assume our stories agree so far?”

J’zargo spoke up. “Sergius was not finished speaking. You should not interrupt him.” Rumarin and Sergius ignored him.

“This is where your stories begin to diverge,” said Sergius, his eyes never leaving Rumarin. “Quintus says you brought the White Phial back, but it was badly damaged.”

“Yes, it was cracked when we found it,” said Rumarin. “We all would have wished otherwise, but unfortunately we were fresh out of magic glue.”

“Quintus thinks you tried to deflect the blame from yourselves so you could negotiate for a higher price.”

“But it’s true, the phial was already broken when we found it,” said Mehra.

“You’re certain of this?” Sergius turned his penetrating gaze on her. “You saw the state of the phial before one of your companions laid hands on it?”

“I… not exactly, but…” Mehra stuttered and fell silent when Rumarin heaved a sigh. Mehra stared at the ground, her face flushed and unreadable.

Sergius took up the letter again. “Quintus goes on to say that the sight of the broken phial filled his master with unspeakable grief. He was in no state to negotiate, and Quintus said you left before his master had recovered from the shock.”

Rumarin replied, “We were all rather shocked when Nurelion offered to pay the grand total of five septims. We risked our lives to get the phial for him–I have a dashing scar from that adventure if you want to see–and we happen to think our lives are worth a bit more than five septims. Besides, have you ever tried dividing five coins between three people?”

“But you could have managed with five hundred septims,” said Sergius. “Quintus says he personally offered to take the broken artifact off your hands for such a price. Why didn’t you take his offer?”

“It was still less than a tenth of the original price. Besides, we had an agreement with the master alchemist, not his apprentice.”

“Yet you broke your contract with Nurelion.”

“No, we fulfilled our end. Nurelion broke the contract when he refused to pay us for our labors.”

“You could not reasonably expect him to pay the agreed price when you presented him with a broken artifact that was useless to him.”

“We could reasonably expect more than pocket change. Given our traveling expenses, the loss of our scrolls and potions, the peril we put ourselves in–”

Sergius waved a hand dismissively. “Be that as it may, you might have negotiated with him for a fairer price, but now you’ll never have the chance.”

“Why?”

“Because Nurelion is dead.”

Mehra made a dismayed sound. J’zargo choked and asked, “He is dead? How?”

“Nurelion spent nearly his whole life searching for the White Phial, and losing it was a crushing blow to him. Quintus says his poor master died of a broken heart.”

“And I assume the apprentice has asked you to honor the memory of his dead master by sending him the phial?” asked Rumarin.

Sergius steepled his fingers. “Something of that nature, yes.”

“So what do you intend to do?”

“As you say, you had an agreement with the master, not the apprentice. But now the man is dead. Your right to sell the White Phial is in question. The College cannot agree to anything until we’ve looked further into the matter.”

“Let me get this straight. You plan to keep this one-of-a-kind magic bottle on a dusty shelf somewhere until you finish ‘looking into the matter’, by which time I’ll probably have a beard down to my knees?”

“There’s no telling how long these things will take,” said Sergius, sounding almost amused.

Rumarin abruptly got up. “That’s it, I’ve heard enough. I’m heading over to the dining hall before they run out of breakfast jellies.”

J’zargo gaped in astonishment. Rumarin wanted payment more than any of them, yet already he had given up and walked away from the whole business. Was it truly hopeless? J’zargo looked to Mehra. Though her eyes were downcast, she did not seem surprised. Without a single glance at J’zargo, she rose and followed Rumarin out to the service tunnels.

Sergius returned to his figures, ignoring J’zargo completely. J’zargo opened his mouth to ask a question, but a sharp look from Sergius made him lose his nerve. J’zargo sprang up and hurried out of the workshop.

For a moment the three of them stood in the dimly lit passage. J’zargo felt he should say something, or at least summon a magelight, but he wanted to run away and hide his face in shame. Rumarin was right from the beginning. J’zargo had been a fool to give away the White Phial and put all his trust in Sergius.

“I’m so sorry,” said Mehra, looking up at Rumarin.

Rumarin shrugged, his face shadowed by his hood. “It’s not your fault.”

J’zargo winced. He heard what Rumarin left unspoken, that the fault was his.

Mehra said, “But when Sergius asked about whether I saw the phial before anyone could have broken it, I… I made it worse, didn’t I?”

Rumarin gave a short laugh, but there was no humor in it. “Not that you couldn’t use lessons in bluffing, but it doesn’t matter. Sergius had already made up his mind. Probably from the very moment he got his hands on the phial. He’s no fool.”

J’zargo forced himself to speak. “J’zargo thought everything would turn out for the best if we were honest and held nothing back from Sergius. This one thought…” he fell silent. Rumarin and Mehra acted as though they had not heard him.

“What will you do now?” Mehra asked Rumarin.

“I don’t know.”

J’zargo tried again. “J’zargo did not mean for this to happen. This one thought Sergius could be trusted.”

Rumarin turned his face away and made a scornful sound. Mehra still would not look at J’zargo, and he was reminded all too much of M’iahni. His little sister would avoid looking at him when he said or did something that cut her deeply.

Mehra said to Rumarin, “I have to go. I’ll be at…” she stopped.

“I know,” said Rumarin.

“Wait,” said J’zargo. “You are staying a little longer, yes? You are not leaving the College yet?”

Mehra turned away from him. She went down one of the dark tunnels and was soon lost from sight.

“She is not leaving, is she?” J’zargo asked Rumarin.

“Mehra is laying low so she doesn’t have to talk to certain golden-boy mages,” said Rumarin, still refusing to look at him.

“She told you of Tirel’s wager?”

“Among other things.”

J’zargo let his eyes drop. “Perhaps it is better if she leaves the College soon.”

“Really? You of all people think Mehra would be better off leaving the wondrous College of Winterhold? The world must be coming to an end.”

J’zargo sighed. He no longer had the energy to feel anger at anything Rumarin might say.

“So why do you say it’s better for her to leave?”

“J’zargo thought coming to Winterhold would be good for Mehra, but now he thinks it was a mistake. She has responsibilities elsewhere. Now Mehra feels she must impress these mages by pretending to know the ways of magic. J’zargo has tried to explain to her that this only makes her look foolish.”

After a time J’zargo looked up. Rumarin was shaking his head in exasperation.

“J’zargo, has anyone ever told you you’re a rock?” asked Rumarin.

“J’zargo does not understand you. What do you mean, a rock?”

“Your head might as well be a rock. At least that would explain why after all this time you never noticed that Mehra understands magic as well or better than most of these mages. And if you were actually paying attention, you would have guessed why.”

J’zargo tried to make sense of this, but he felt slow and lost, like he was stumbling through a fog. “J’zargo asks what you mean?”

“Here’s a riddle for you. What’s a painter when he goes blind? What’s a dancer when she’s lamed? What’s the one disease a mage hopes never to catch?”

Now J’zargo understood, and the realization struck him like a blow. “You are saying she was a mage?”

“Bravo. I’d give you a prize, but all I’ve got is a stale dinner roll and some pocket lint. Thanks to you I don’t even have the coin to buy you a little counterfeit trophy.”

“But… but… she was a mage?” J’zargo’s mind called up all the times he had talked down to Mehra, all the times he had said it was not her place to speak on magic, all the looks of hurt she had given him. His insides lurched. What had he done?

Rumarin continued, “It seems Mehra and I wasted our time coming here. But at least you get to strut around in golden robes and sing about how wonderful this place is. Who knows, maybe they’ll make a Sergius out of you yet.” With that Rumarin turned and walked away.

J’zargo stood alone in the dark passage, listening to distant footsteps and the sounds of a rat scurrying in the shadows. Why had Mehra never told J’zargo she had been a mage, that her magicka had been taken by disease? Now J’zargo understood. Because this one never deserved to know. No wonder Mehra had never told him of the mountain. No wonder she would not look at him. Soon she would leave the College, and J’zargo doubted she would even tell him goodbye. Why would she? J’zargo deserved far worse.

What would J’zargo do when Mehra and Rumarin were gone? He stared at one of the passage’s flickering candles and tried to see the shape of his future. Yesterday the path of his life was stretched out before him, clear and bright, his future as a great mage assured. Now the path was all bewildering twists and turns leading into darkness, much like these tunnels.

J’zargo began walking, paying little attention to where he was going. How could his family ever be proud of him now? Was he even fit to wear the robes of a College mage? What had he ever done to deserve anyone’s respect and admiration? Like a foolish kitten J’zargo had given the White Phial to Sergius and trusted him to look out for their interests, and now neither J’zargo nor Mehra nor Rumarin would be compensated for risking their lives in the crypt. J’zargo had been blind to the fact that his best friend in this land was once a mage. J’zargo had tampered with the school’s glowing wells and almost destroyed everyone and everything– this last thought sent a shudder through him.

Climbing the stairs in the main tower, J’zargo realized his footsteps were leading him back to Faralda’s class. He had no heart for listening to a scroll-writing lecture now, but he did not know what else to do with himself, so on he went.

J’zargo had barely reached the right floor when he sensed something was wrong. Crowded around the door to Faralda’s class were many students, all fidgeting and murmuring. A rank smell hung heavy in the air. Smoke and the unmistakable odor of burned hair.

“What is happening?” J’zargo asked the nearest student, which proved to be Celia.

The red-headed Breton turned unfriendly eyes on J’zargo. “Your damned scroll blew up.”

“What?” J’zargo thought he must have heard wrong, that he only imagined what Celia had just said.

“You heard me. Faralda had everyone demonstrate their scrolls. You weren’t around, so Finwen volunteered to read the fire scroll. What in Oblivion did you do? I’m sure this wouldn’t have happened if you’d followed my notes exactly–”

“Where is Finwen? Is he all right?”

“Everyone stay back,” said Faralda, waving away students crowding to help or merely to see. Behind her J’zargo saw two servants emerge from the classroom carrying a stretcher between them, closely attended by Lenari, the apprentice healer. On the stretcher was Finwen, covering his face with blistered hands, his robes scorched and his hair burned, his breath coming out in gasps.

Celia told J’zargo, “There’s your answer. I’m going to make sure Faralda knows I had nothing to do with this. You obviously did something wrong with my formulas.”

J’zargo trembled and braced himself against the wall. His scroll had done this. Finwen had faith in J’zargo, he trusted that the fire scroll was ready, and this was the result. J’zargo had hurt Finwen as surely as if he had cast the flames with his own hands.

The crowd parted to make way for the servants carrying Finwen to the infirmary. J’zargo wanted to follow, wanted to ask Lenari if Finwen would be all right, but his insides turned to water and his legs failed him. J’zargo sagged to the floor and watched them go. His father had been right all along. J’zargo was a failure.

Chapter 32: Saying Goodbye

Mehra wandered the College tunnels, her mind lingering on J’zargo’s question: You are not leaving the College yet, are you? He had sounded so uncertain, almost frightened, and yet she had turned from him without a word. She wished now that she had said something. But the things J’zargo had said last night still pained her, and retreating into silence felt like the safest thing to do.

The dragon soul rumbled something that sounded like a question. It was times like this that Mehra was convinced he could sense her moods. He sometimes stirred in her mind when she was distressed.

“It’s time we left Winterhold,” said Mehra. Normally she would have hesitated to speak out loud to the dragon, but there was no one who might overhear. The dark passage was still and empty.

Ni mindoraan, said the dragon.

“I’m going home. I can’t do anything for Skyrim. I never should have come.”

The dragon sighed and grumbled words Mehra didn’t understand. He sounded weary, like one who has given up a long fight.

“I know it’s not right for you to stay trapped like this, but I don’t think anyone is going to help us,” said Mehra. The dragon went silent.

“I should speak to them one last time,” said Mehra. “J’zargo and Rumarin and Lenari, I mean.” But not Tirel, she thought. She couldn’t face him, let alone speak to him. She had no more words for him.

After gaining her bearings in the passages, Mehra started making her way to the infirmary. She would say goodbye to Lenari first. After learning the truth about Tirel, Mehra had turned to Lenari. She couldn’t bear to remain in the College and could think of no one else who might help her find another place to stay. The inn was out of the question. When Lenari suggested staying with Birna, Mehra at first declined. While Mehra knew the woman to be kindly enough, Birna had also made the party dress at Tirel’s request, which suggested a connection with Tirel. But Lenari assured her that Birna was discreet. “She won’t give you away,” Lenari had said.

Mehra approached the infirmary to find it in an uproar. Several students were filing out, some looking over their shoulders and others grumbling.

“Has something happened?” Mehra asked one of the passing students.

“Finwen got set on fire,” said the young Redguard man.

“Finwen?” Her mind flashed to the awkward but friendly Altmer who played the lute so beautifully at the party. With growing alarm, Mehra remembered Finwen speaking of a fire scroll he and J’zargo were working on.

“How did it happen? Is Finwen all right?” asked Mehra.

“Don’t know. Lenari sent us all away.” With that he turned to follow the others.

Mehra watched them go. It didn’t surprise her that Lenari had sent them away. A healer with a patient to care for didn’t need the distraction of people gawking and asking questions. Mehra knew it would be better to come back later. But the longer she remained at the College, the greater her chances of running into Tirel. And she wanted to know whether Finwen would be all right.

Finally Mehra slipped into the infirmary. The main room was quiet and empty, but she heard movement in the next room. Mehra sat in one of the cushioned chairs and waited tensely, her mind jumping from one question to another. Was Finwen badly hurt? Had the scroll burned him? She didn’t want to think so, but it made too much sense.

Lenari soon came out, looking tired and grim. She paused when she saw Mehra and made an effort to smile.

“I came to talk to you,” said Mehra. “Should I come back later?”

Lenari shook her head. “I have a patient, but I’ve done all I can for him. He’s resting now.”

“Will Finwen be all right?”

Lenari’s face hardened. “Thankfully the burns weren’t deep. With time and rest he’ll be fine.”

“Was it…” Mehra hesitated to say it. “Was it the fire scroll?”

Lenari had no time to answer before Colette swept into the infirmary. “I came as soon as I heard,” said Colette. “Where is he?”

“He’s in the back,” said Lenari. “I’ve seen to him and now he’s asleep.”

“That’s the second one this month,” said Colette, sounding exasperated. “As if flinging around fire bolts wasn’t enough, now they have to make scrolls blow up. If you ask me, this school has an obsession with destruction magic.” Colette paused and took notice of Mehra. “Ah, hello my dear, how are your headaches?”

“Better, thank you,” said Mehra. To her relief Colette immediately returned her attention to Lenari.

“Your mother is going to have a field day with this,” Colette told her apprentice. “Nirya wants nothing more than to take Faralda’s place as head instructor of destruction magic, and I’m sure she’ll do everything she can to turn this little incident to her advantage.”

“I’m sure she will,” said Lenari. “But I can’t feel sorry for Faralda this time. She shouldn’t give students assignments they aren’t ready for.”

“It’s the way of things here. I keep telling the Arch-Mage that restoration is an important school of magic that deserves greater attention, but of course he never listens to me.

“Well, I’m going to look in on the boy.” With that Colette stepped into the back room.

When they were alone Lenari turned to Mehra and said, “Yes, it was a fire scroll. I understand it was an assignment for Faralda’s class, and it went badly wrong when she asked Finwen to demonstrate it. How did you know?”

“Finwen was telling me about the scroll last night.” Mehra knew the fire scroll was a joint project, but Finwen had also said J’zargo did most of the work himself. She recalled how J’zargo had taken offense and snapped at Finwen for offering to review the scroll. Remembering this woke a spark of anger in her. So much grief could have been avoided if only J’zargo had set aside his pride and let others help him. If he had, Finwen might never have been hurt, and Rumarin might not be forced to leave Winterhold empty-handed.

It’s this school, Mehra realized. The College had worked a terrible change in J’zargo, and now her friend was turning into someone she no longer recognized. And there’s nothing I can do about it, she thought. J’zargo never listens to me now. I’ll never make him see.

Mehra held back tears. “I’m leaving Winterhold today. I’m going home.”

“To Kvatch?” asked Lenari.

“Yes. I don’t know what I’ll do with myself once I get there, but at least I’ll be with Indrisa and my family.”

Lenari regarded her sadly. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t help you.”

“But you did. I’m grateful you helped me find another place to stay.”

“I meant about your magic.”

Mehra tried to smile. “Indrisa didn’t think I’d find a cure anywhere. It was a foolish hope. I just wasn’t ready to give it up yet.”

At that moment a dark-haired Imperial woman hurried in. “If you please,” she told Mehra, catching her breath, “Sergius would like to speak with you.”

“Again?” asked Mehra, surprised. “About the phial?”

“I don’t know, but he said it was important and that he wishes to speak with you alone.”

“All right, I’ll come.”

“Mehra, wait.” Lenari offered Mehra a sealed envelope. Mehra saw her name written in Tirel’s elegant yet bold hand.

“He asked me to give it to you,” said Lenari. There was a tightness in her face that Mehra had observed before, always when Tirel was either present or the topic of conversation. Mehra wondered why she never paid more attention to that before.

“I didn’t tell him anything, don’t worry,” Lenari added.

Mehra took the envelope. Her impulse was to throw it away unopened, but she couldn’t very well do such a thing in front of Lenari. Instead she tucked it in her pocket and said, “Thank you. For everything.”

Lenari looked away. “In a way, I’m glad you’re leaving. This place…” She stared at a space on an empty wall then shook her head and turned back to Mehra. “Take care of yourself Mehra. I shall miss you.”

Mehra followed the messenger out, wondering why Sergius wished to speak with her again. They had already discussed the White Phial, and Sergius had made his decision clear. There could be nothing more to say on the matter. Then Mehra thought of the dragon soul. Perhaps Sergius had discovered a way to free it. She couldn’t decide whether to feel hope or dread.

Entering the workshop, Mehra saw that Sergius had not moved from his place at the desk. He looked to be writing a letter, but at Mehra’s approach he set aside his work and invited her to sit.

“I’ve had an opportunity to look into your unique problem,” said Sergius.

“You mean with the dragon soul?” asked Mehra.

“Yes. I’ve devised a process for removing it.”

“You can really do it?”

Sergius nodded. “I’m certain I can, yes.”

Mehra considered this. The last few days had stripped her of one hope after another, and now it was overwhelming to think she and the dragon soul might soon be free of each other. Could it really be true?

Sergius continued, “We can start today if you wish.”

Mehra hesitated. “I’m not sure I can pay you. I have very little money left.”

“There’s no need. The procedure has never been attempted before, and it promises great academic value. It will most certainly advance our knowledge of souls, particularly dragon souls.”

Mehra thought she should feel reassured, but instead she grew anxious. His words made her remember an earlier conversation with Rumarin. In his indirect way Rumarin had warned her that the College mages might want to use her as part of a study or experiment.

Sergius waited, clearly expecting a response. Mehra was unable to meet his sharp gaze for long and quickly looked away. After a long pause Sergius said, “The College is prepared to pay you for your trouble.”

“Pay me?”

“Of course. We can cover any conveniences you might need for your travels.”

That was tempting. Mehra had almost no money left, and she didn’t like traveling far without good healing potions. She only had a few weak ones that Tirel had shown her how to make. She twisted her hands together and tried not to let her mind stray back to those moments with Tirel in the greenhouse, back to when she thought he cared for her.

Sergius added, “Perhaps even enough to share with your friends and help recompense them for the loss of the phial.”

Mehra felt she should accept the terms before Sergius changed his mind. Her answer was on the tip of her tongue when she was distracted by something. She stared at the cage on its shelf above Sergius’ desk. The dead lizard was still in there, dried up and skeletal.

“What will happen to the dragon?” asked Mehra.

Sergius regarded her with a closed expression. “Difficult to say. Unlike you, the dragon no longer has a mortal form, nothing to anchor him to this world.”

“You’re saying his soul might not survive?”

“It’s possible, but I will do everything I can to preserve him.”

Mehra made herself look Sergius in the eye. “I don’t want him harmed.”

Sergius seemed to see straight right through her, and she had to look away again. “I can’t make any promises. But I must tell you that if he stays inside you, he may already be doomed. He could also be a danger to you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“A mortal body is meant to contain only one soul. Greater scholars than myself have posited that if two or more souls are forced to exist in the same vessel for long, the results could be dire.”

“Dire? How?”

Sergius picked up a soul gem and held it glittering in the light. “Curious things, soul gems. The greatest of them can’t hold more than one soul at a time, even feeble rat souls. Most of them break if you try.”

Mehra straightened. “I didn’t break.”

“True,” Sergius agreed, setting down the gem. “You didn’t. But that doesn’t mean you can carry multiple souls without ill effects.”

“What ill effects? He only shouts at me sometimes.”

“I foresee two possibilities. One is that this dragon may come to test his will against yours and try to overpower you.”

Mehra sat quiet and tense, waiting for Sergius to go on, but the silence dragged on until she was forced to ask, “You’re saying he might try to drive my soul out, or control it somehow?”

“It’s one possibility.”

“And the other?”

“The other is that your two spirits will simply coalesce into one, giving rise to a new soul. A new identity, so to speak.”

Mehra let that sink in. She often wondered if the dragon could read her thoughts. He was in her head, after all. But she had never before considered the things Sergius was suggesting. She wanted to deny these theories of his, dismiss them as impossible, but she couldn’t.

“You’re sure you can draw out his soul?” asked Mehra.

“Yes. I’m confident I can bring him out.”

Again Mehra’s eyes went to the lizard that lay dead in its cage. She thought on something Rumarin said, how he refused to trust anyone who kept such a thing as a pet. She also remembered the way Tirel became more careful and guarded with his words when speaking of Sergius– and how Tirel had behaved when they met Sergius together. Tirel had hovered close, seeming almost protective of her. In light of what Mehra knew about Tirel now, the memory left her feeling lost and confused. All she knew for certain was that she didn’t trust Sergius.

“I need some time to think about it,” said Mehra.

“Of course you do,” said Sergius, leaning back and smiling as though he had all the time in the world. “Talk it over with your Khajiit friend. J’zargo, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Mehra, wondering why he was bringing up J’zargo. Sergius had all but ignored J’zargo when they came to discuss the White Phial.

“J’zargo has done well for himself, joining the Aurius Magi his first year. He shows promise.”

“He works hard and doesn’t give up easily,” said Mehra, growing uneasy without quite knowing why.

“I’m sure he’ll go far at the College.” Then his voice turned grim. “Assuming he doesn’t send any more innocent students to the infirmary.”

“You– you heard about the fire scroll?” Mehra immediately felt foolish for asking such a question. Of course Sergius had heard.

“You should know the College takes a dim view of mages who harm their classmates,” said Sergius, sounding like a judge who was about to pass sentence.

Instantly Mehra saw what Sergius was trying to do, but seeing the trap wasn’t the same as knowing what to do about it. The best she could do was speak up for J’zargo. “Please, it was an accident. J’zargo thought the scroll was ready. I know him, and he never would let such a thing happen if he thought–”

“Oh certainly, accidents happen,” said Sergius with a wave of his hand. “But an accident with a faulty scroll is one thing. Sabotage and attacks against the school itself are quite another.”

Mehra gaped at him. Sabotage? Attacks? What was he talking about?

“Last night there was an incident with the focus points,” Sergius continued. Seeing Mehra’s confusion he explained, “The glowing wells that power certain important enchantments in the school. Someone used peculiar magic to unbalance them, and I have reason to believe J’zargo was behind it.”

“I don’t know anything about the focus points, but J’zargo loves the school. He would never do anything to hurt the College on purpose– I mean– what I mean is–” Mehra broke off, appalled at herself. Why couldn’t she stay calm and stop herself from saying things that only made matters worse?

Sergius gave a hard smile. “I’m sure you’re right. J’zargo is only a new student who made mistakes. Perhaps Master Wizard Mirabelle and the Arch-Mage can be persuaded to see it in that light.”

“You think they might not?”

“I’m sure I could persuade them, Thane Mehra.”

Mehra took his meaning only too well. She was backed into a corner and saw no way out.

“Do think over my offer,” said Sergius, sounding almost cheerful.

Mehra was shaking when she left workshop. She paused and listened for the dragon in her head. He was quiet now, but she could never forget he was always with her, listening and watching. Would the dragon really try to work his will against her? Or would his spirit eventually merge with hers, altering her forever? Were such things possible?

Part of her was tempted to let Sergius take the dragon soul, but the thought of submitting herself to whatever he had in mind filled her with cold dread. She feared Sergius would keep the dragon soul trapped forever, or else use it for his own ends.

But Mehra couldn’t simply refuse, not when J’zargo’s future was at stake. She believed Rumarin when he observed that Sergius was the true power behind the College. If Sergius wanted any student expelled, it would be done, and not even the Arch-Mage would stand in his way.

There’s still time, Mehra reminded herself. She didn’t have to make up her mind immediately. She would just have to talk about it with J’zargo.

Mehra started down the tunnel that would take her to J’zargo’s dormitory, but then she paused. She thought back to when J’zargo learned she had kept the Greybeards’ summons a secret from him. Vividly she recalled the anger in his words, the accusation in his eyes. What would J’zargo say when he learned that she had never told him of the dragon soul either?

For a moment Mehra considered looking for Rumarin first. He might have some idea for dealing with Sergius that hadn’t occurred to her. If nothing else it would help to have someone with her when she talked to J’zargo. But even this struck Mehra as somehow wrong. J’zargo’s future hung in the balance because of the master enchanter’s interest in the dragon soul. J’zargo needed to know, and it was only right that Mehra tell him before anyone else.

On her way to the first-year dormitory Mehra passed students and professors coming and going. She timidly glanced at everyone she passed, looking to see if Tirel was among them. Yesterday she did the same in hopes of finding him, but now she looked in dread. What would she say if she saw him? Every time she considered it her mind went blank. She would probably just cry and make a fool of herself.

J’zargo wasn’t in his room. Mehra wanted to believe he was in a class, but she knew at once that something was wrong. Last time she was here his room was full of books and notes and drawings. Now the desk was clear, the bed made. Even the mounted goat head hung from its old place on the wall. Save for a bin of discarded papers, there was no sign that J’zargo had ever lived here. Mehra opened the chest and the armoire. The chest was empty and the armoire contained two neatly folded College robes, one of them edged in gold. J’zargo’s travel robes were gone.

Shoving her way through the doorway’s curtain, Mehra looked around the dormitory and called out to the nearest passing student.

“Please,” said Mehra, “do you know where J’zargo is? Has he moved?”

“He just packed up and left,” said a Bosmer girl. Another student added, “I saw him heading to town.”

Mehra stood there, dumbstruck. Sergius wouldn’t have had J’zargo banished, not when he was using J’zargo’s future at the College as leverage. Had J’zargo left on his own? There was no time to wonder about it. Mehra had to find J’zargo before he left Winterhold and was lost to her. She could still make things right.

The town wasn’t far, but Mehra ran almost the whole distance, pausing only at the bridge. It seemed impossible that a stone bridge so badly damaged had never collapsed under its own weight. She remembered J’zargo’s terror when they had first crossed it together, how he had needed her help. For a moment she stared at the span of stone and felt her anger spark back to life. If the Winterhold mages truly took pride in their school and cared for the well-being of their students, they would have made repairs long ago.

Upon reaching the town Mehra checked the inn first. She had only been to the Frozen Hearth once with Tirel, but Dagur the innkeeper recognized her and greeted her cheerfully.

“Glad to have you back,” said Dagur, his face tired but friendly. “We need all the business we can get.”

Mehra looked around. The place was nearly empty, the only customer a bleary-eyed man drinking his way through several bottles of mead. Even the Altmer mage who lived here was nowhere to be seen, though Mehra knew he was around when she heard rattling and clanking from his room.

“Was J’zargo here?” Mehra asked the innkeeper.

“J’zargo?”

“He’s a Khajiit. A student at the College.”

“Why yes, a Khajiit did stop by a while go. Looked terrible too,” said Dagur with a sad shake of his head. “Poor fellow about cried when I asked if he was here for the College. Kept saying ‘This one is not fit to be a mage.’”

Mehra couldn’t speak. Her mind called up the last time she saw J’zargo, how he had tried to speak to her, how instead of answering she had turned away from him.

From one of the rooms came a crash and the sound of breaking glass. Dagur shouted, “Nelacar, I trust you’re not doing anything I should be worried about?”

“No, certainly not,” came the muffled reply. “A small experiment may have gone awry, but– ah, I may need a mop.”

Dagur sighed. Turning back to Mehra he said, “He pays well for that room, but sometimes I think he’ll burn the place down. Yesterday whatever Nelacar was working on stunk like a–”

“Please, can you tell me where J’zargo went?” said Mehra, starting to feel desperate.

“He asked about the Khajiit caravans. I told him traders often stop in Dawnstar.”

“Dawnstar?”

“He asked for directions, so I expect he’s on his way there now. I told him the safest way is to stick to the highways, though it’s also the slowest. You can also get to Dawnstar by following the coast, but the route is steep and rocky, and you’re likely to meet touchy horkers and hungry saber cats along the way.

“Then there’s the foothills path that goes through the mountains. Quickest way, so long as you don’t meet with bad weather or find trouble when you pass the Dwemer ruins. Wait, are you leaving already? Won’t you at least stop for a drink?”

“Sorry, I– I have to go.” Mehra turned and hurried out of the inn. She had to find J’zargo. She couldn’t let him go like this, not with all his hopes and dreams broken, not when he must be thinking she despised him.

Mehra ran to the College gateway, but instead of crossing it she went around. Shivering from the wind and pulling her cloak around her, she carefully approached the edge of the cliff. From here was a sharp and fatal fall to the rocks below, but if she were to go a little ways west, she could travel down a steep incline to the edge of the sea. Mehra tried to see if she could spot J’zargo in the distance, but she saw only waves spraying against the rocks.

Slowly Mehra backed away to safer ground. She doubted J’zargo followed the coast; her instincts told her he would favor the most direct route to Dawnstar. Mehra considered her options. Her gear was in a spare room at Birna’s shop. She could grab it and go after J’zargo at once, but she was frightened by the prospect of traveling alone in this hard and bitter land. She felt safest on the well-traveled highways where signs pointed the way to towns and cities. In the lonely peaks of Skyrim she might soon be lost in a winter storm, or hunted by wolves, or taken by bandits. Anything might happen.

Yet she couldn’t bring herself to give up on J’zargo. He didn’t know these lands any more than she did. How could she live with herself if she went home without learning what became of him, without trying to set things right? Then she thought of Rumarin. He might still be at the College. Perhaps if she asked him he would be willing to go with her. She could only hope.

Mehra had no wish to return to the College, but she had little choice. Reluctantly she approached the gateway. The mage guarding the way recognized her as a returning guest and let her pass.

To her great relief she saw Rumarin crossing the bridge, taking it at a run as he had the first day. She rushed to meet him.

“Hello, I think you’re going the wrong way,” Rumarin told her. He was back in his fake College robes and carrying all his gear. “I don’t know about you, but I’ve had my fill of College wonders.”

“J’zargo is gone,” Mehra blurted out.

“What?”

“He’s on his way to Dawnstar. I think he’s going to join a Khajiit caravan, and he…”

“Hold on. This is J’zargo we’re talking about? J’zargo the newly-minted golden mage left his beloved College to join a caravan?”

“Yes, and I have to find him.”

“I’m a little slow, so you’ll have to catch me up. Why would J’zargo leave?” Rumarin shivered and drew his tattered cloak about him. “And can we go somewhere warm? I fear I’ll turn into an elf-cicle out here.”

Mehra went with him to the inn, her thoughts racing. She wanted to follow J’zargo before he got too far, but she couldn’t very well expect Rumarin to rush off with her before he had heard the whole story. Even then she couldn’t expect Rumarin to come. She knew he wasn’t fond of J’zargo, and he probably had other plans that didn’t involve going to Dawnstar. The more she thought about it, the more her spirits sank.

The innkeeper greeted them and tried to press food and drink on them, but Rumarin waved him off.

“So what’s happened?” asked Rumarin as they settled near the fire.

Mehra told him about Finwen and the scroll, about Sergius’ offer to remove the dragon soul, about finding J’zargo’s room empty. She almost revealed that Sergius had offered money if she agreed to let him take the dragon soul, but at the last minute she held it back. It felt wrong, but some part of her was afraid this information might sway Rumarin in favor of giving Sergius what he wanted.

Rumarin sometimes asked a question but otherwise said little. Mehra tried to read him, but his expression was closed. He didn’t even seem surprised when she told him of the dragon soul living in her head.

When Mehra was done Rumarin said, “The College has a laid-back attitude about students setting each other on fire, or so I’ve heard. And Sergius was using J’zargo as a bargaining chip for your dragon soul, so there’s that. It does sound like J’zargo left on his own, although I’m still having trouble wrapping my mind around it.”

Mehra put her head in her hands. “He didn’t even say goodbye or leave a note. The last time I saw him, I– I shouldn’t have turned from him the way I did. He must think I want nothing to do with him.”

Rumarin started to say something, but he seemed to think better of it. He turned his eyes to the fire. “So you mean to go after him? Even after everything he said and did?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“J’zargo didn’t abandon me in Helgen or in Whiterun when we faced the dragons. Even in the crypt when the skeletons were coming for us and his magic was gone, he stayed right with me. He believed in me and trusted me all that time. I won’t abandon him, especially not now.”

Rumarin kept staring into the fire and said nothing.

Mehra watched him anxiously. She wasn’t sure the best way to put the question, and it came out in a rush: “Would you come with me?”

Rumarin raised his brows. “Off to Dawnstar, is it? The second most miserable frozen wasteland in Skyrim?”

Mehra felt close to despair. “I’m sorry, I know I have no right to expect–”

“I didn’t say no.”

Mehra looked at him, her hopes rising.

“I just feel it’s my duty to whine about it first,” said Rumarin with a grin. “Though why you want to take an insufferable elf along is beyond me.”

“Does that mean you’ll come?”

Rumarin stood and made a sweeping bow. “My invisible magic sword is yours.”

Mehra could have hugged him then, but when she rose he seemed to shy away from her, so she held back. “I can’t thank you enough.”

“You lead, I’ll follow. Let’s go find our lost Khajiit.”

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