“Her name is Sayma Sendu,” Brynjolf grumbled.
The ghost glanced up at him, seemingly unconcerned, but did not acknowledge Brynjolf’s statement. He returned his gaze to Sayma.
“You are Dagnell at-Dadarh, and you have come to me at last.”
Sayma stared. Hearing this man’s voice in her head for so long had been strange enough, but now to actually see him – or at least to see his shade – was overwhelming. It took her several long moments to find words.
“I’m Sayma. I was Dagnell, once, but I have changed.” She waved a hand at her face. “My name. My looks. Even my voice. I have changed. I began anew. I am Sayma now. And you are… my grandfather?”
The burly man smiled. “It matters not what you call yourself. Your brother Dardeh asked the same question and I will say to you as I said to him: there are many sons. We have great power. And when men stand in our way, we kill them all.”
“But I am not a son. I am a daughter.”
Jine chuckled. “Of a long line of those with power. You have the power in you as well, or you would not be here.” He waved his hand toward the canyon that led to his home, and beyond. “You would not have been given the vision, heard the call to come through the Halls of the West, if not for that power that lives within you.” He peered up at her. “You know that to be the case.”
Brynjolf was standing behind her, and chose that moment to chime in. “He’s right, lass. Didn’t you tell me they all called you Dragonborn? There’s got to be something to that.”
Sayma stared at Jine, and then turned to do the same to Brynjolf. “I’m telling you, I’m not Dragonborn. I am of the same line as Dardeh, though.” She turned back to Jine and frowned. “But what does that have to do with the here and now? We’re not in Stros M’Kai. Dar’s only been there once, looking for me. He grew up in the Reach, raised as a Nord, and never knew our father until his shade started bothering us both to kill Ulfric Stormcloak.”
Jine nodded. “And you must end it. That is why you are here. Just as the First Serpent shed its skin to create a new one, you have shed yours to begin anew. And you,” he added, glancing past her at Brynjolf. “You have your own skin to shed, as you already have shed one. You must end it, all of you.”
“I don’t understand what you’re telling me,” Sayma said, struggling to grasp his meaning. “I don’t know about the world snakes. Just a bit. Mother and Father died before I was old enough to be taught such things. I don’t really understand.”
Jine shook his head. “Speak to Dardeh. Think on it. But for now, look inside.”
I have no idea what is going on. End what? Why am I here? What has this forgotten corner of Hammerfell got to do with anything, especially my father? She wanted to argue further but Jine shook his head as though he could hear her thoughts. She sighed and pushed the door to the small house open.
Inside, the place was unremarkable. It looked like her house in Ben Erai, or the homes in the formerly cursed city outside Sadraaka’s tomb. One thing drew the eye, though. On the narrow bed near the window was an intact skeleton, lying supine as if resting comfortably. It was as though whatever person this was had simply passed quietly, a very long time ago.
Sayma crossed the small space to lean down and examine the bones. There was nothing special about the skeleton that she could see, but she was careful not to disturb it. On the far side of the bed, a chest was tucked up under the window; when she tried to lift its lid she found it locked.
“Huh.”
Brynjolf stared at it for a moment, a hand on his chin.
“Didn’t you find a key, lass? Back in that temple?”
“Oh! So I did. I wonder.” She rifled through her pockets and her pack until the heavy, oddly-shaped key was in her hand. Comparing its business end to the shape of the lock before her she thought they looked similar; and when she tried it, the mechanism clicked obediently and the chest’s lid rose. Inside was a dusty but intact set of armor, in the style of the warriors of the Alik’r. It hummed with some magic.
“Let me see that,” Brynjolf said, taking the armor from her and closing his eyes as he held it. A small smile crossed his lips. “Fire protection,” he pronounced, nodding. “It feels the same as my ring. This would have been useful back when… well, never mind. It’s yours now.” He handed the garment back to Sayma.
“I don’t understand what’s going on, Bryn. He called us here to find this armor?”
Brynjolf shook his head. “No, no. It’s more than that. You and Dardeh have something in common that has to be ended. And apparently so do I. What do you suppose he means? Unless…”
She watched as his brow furrowed and his eyes narrowed.
“Unless what?”
Brynjolf turned away from her and shook his head. “Maybe it has something to do with our fathers. Dadarh and Brunulvr. And putting things right, like we did in the city.”
Sayma peered at him for a long moment, turning the thought over in her mind. It felt right, somehow, and yet it wasn’t a complete answer. “I’m not sure. Let’s go see what he has to say.”
Jine was calmly munching on a piece of spectral bread when they returned to the porch. He rose to face her.
“We found the armor. And those bones… is that you?”
It was clear that Jine had been a powerful man. He was massive in build, and wore armor that showed his huge muscles and broad chest to their full advantage. Sayma could imagine him striking fear into all comers during his life. And yet now, standing before her as a ghost, he looked sad.
“Yes. When the city was cursed I came here, to escape the fate of the others. And yet I died as well. I have been waiting to be put to rest since that day.” He stared at her, his glowing eyes piercing. “Why are you here?”
What is this? I’m so confused. “I’m trying to find the Gray Cowl of Nocturnal. It’s supposed to be here, somewhere, and yet…”
“And yet you passed the entrance to its resting place at least three times without seeing it,” Jine answered dryly. “Well then, you must go. It is north of here, the entrance to the oasis you seek. South of the cursed city, and the dead forest. You must wear your amulet. And you must go alone.” He glanced at Brynjolf. “This man may not accompany you.”
“Wait just a moment,” Brynjolf started.
Jine shook his head. “She must go alone. And when she is done, when the Cowl is secured, when you have done what you must, bring the son of my son here to me. It is time to finish it.”
“What is it that we need to finish, Jine?” Sayma asked as she descended the short stairs to stand before the house. “I need to know.”
“You must put us… to rest…”
The voice grew thinner as he spoke. Sayma glanced at Brynjolf and then jumped; for in the brief moment in which she’d been looking at him, Jine had disappeared, leaving behind only a few wisps of cold mist.
“Where’d he go?”
“I don’t know,” Brynjolf said. “He just faded away. Now what’s this about you going alone to fetch the Cowl? I can’t let you go alone.”
Sayma thought hard. Lady Syloria had told her that she needed the Amulet to reach the oasis, and there was only one amulet. And while Brynjolf had succeeded in walking near her, at the cheetah’s lair, there was no guarantee that they would be able to keep in proximity in the unknown that was before her.
“Bryn, no. I have to go alone. If it was important enough for one of my ancestors to pull me here, to tell me that… It’s what Lady Syloria back in Ben Erai told me, too. It had to have been a fluke that you made it through the lair with me. I can’t risk it. Or you.”
“Sayma.” Brynjolf frowned, his eyes flashing. “I…”
“No, Bryn,” she cut him off, and reached for his hands. “Please. This is something I have to do. I’m doing it for you, and for Dynjyl – and for me. I have to resolve this. Whatever it is that Jine wants doesn’t change all that. Let me do this.”
Brynjolf sighed. “I don’t like it.”
“I know you don’t,” she said, squeezing his hands and smiling. “You want to take care of things. But I came all the way here by myself, before. Trust me, Bryn. I can handle it. I’m the Listener and before that I was…”
“Guildmaster. I know. And things can still go sideways.”
“They can, but they won’t. I promise.” I’m making a promise that I have no way to know whether I can keep. I hope I won’t regret that. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the key to her home in Ben Erai. “Here. Go back to Ben Erai. Wait for me at the house. I promise I’ll be back just as soon as I can. And if I’m not back, talk to Arenar Esdrecus. He can open the portal so that you can go back to Falkreath.”
He stared at her, intently. She couldn’t decipher what it was she was seeing in his eyes other than concern, but it was strong and it burned every bit as brightly as the golden light from his vampiric eyes had done.
“Be careful, lass,” he said finally, his tone quiet and calm. “I don’t want to lose anyone else. I’ll be waiting for you.”
She waited for several heartbeats, to see whether he would add anything else, do anything else; but all that he did was drop her hands and nod. She smiled back at him, weakly. I thought that maybe, after that moment in the crypt… Oh well. I can’t blame him. There’s too much water beneath the bridge for us, I fear. At least he doesn’t hate me.
“Alright. I’m off. Take care, Brynjolf.”
Without waiting for a reply she dashed down the canyon floor, back up the steep slope and into the desert. The storm was still swirling, but it was lighter, the winds not as fierce, the sand not scouring her face as she went. Her stomach clenched as she went, the combined disappointment at having to leave Brynjolf behind and anxiety over what she might find ahead churning into a toxic mix in her mind and body.
I’m going to do this. He’s waiting for me to get this Cowl, and then we’re going to go free Dynjyl. And I will have had some measure of revenge on myself for being so stupid as to have left them all in the first place.
What does Jine mean by “finish it,” I wonder? Are Dardeh and I supposed to complete Father’s last contract after all? That doesn’t seem right. And what does that have to do with Bryn? It makes no sense.
After some time running north, Sayma spotted something that she hadn’t seen the previous time they had passed this area. There was a narrow crevice in the rocky hillside, and at its entrance was a burning brazier, resting atop at least four layers of dark stone brick.
How did we not see this? No wonder Jine was a bit sarcastic about it.
She slipped into the opening beyond the brazier and found herself in a deep but narrow canyon with another stone building at its end. Its exterior looked much like Al Shedim; it was built into the canyon walls, and in its center was a wooden panel holding a metal gate. It was locked tight.
Alright, this is where I use the key we found in Al Shedim, right? Let’s try.
The gate opened obediently with a turn of the key, which Sayma found somewhat surprising. It could easily have been clogged shut by eons of blowing sand. Perhaps there was some magic at play, though, some additional trick Caio Umbranox had set up as part of his scheme to protect the Cowl.
She opened the gate and slipped through, expecting to be in some kind of large building; but the wall holding the gate was just that, a simple wall. Beyond it was another long, narrow canyon stretching out before her. More braziers marked the way forward, some on the canyon floor and others planted high above, on ledges.
After some time Sayma saw the unmistakable shapes of desert palms in the mid-distance, blowing in the sandstorm. Spears of green foliage began appearing, their roots holding fast through the drifting sands around them. It was definitely an oasis before her, a large one and likely very beautiful judging by what she could see through the sandstorm. She also sensed life around her. She panicked for a moment, hopping up onto a ridge of dark rock while she scrambled to put the Amulet of Friends of Ancestral Cheetahs on. Once secure in the knowledge that she would not be ripped to shreds by the animals she could sense but not see, she dropped back down onto the path and continued, around the lip of stone she’d climbed, under a natural archway, and along the sudden sharp descent of the path the braziers marked.
It went on for what seemed like an eternity, this path, and it narrowed and dropped further with each step until Sayma wondered whether she would ever reach the destination. Finally, at what looked like a dead end in the black rock, she turned to her right and saw the smallest passage through it, barely wide enough for two people to pass. She moved forward through it and saw what she’d come to find.
The sides of the rocks fell away and the space opened into an enormous oasis. There were blooming succulents, and palms, and green and gold ground cover in abundance – and there were in fact cheetahs. Sayma’s heart pounded; she knew to trust the Amulet, because it had worked before, but still the unknown made her fear the worst. The cheetahs were indifferent to her passage, though. She was scanning the area, and turned to the left to find herself nose-to-nose with two of them. The larger of them sniffed her and strolled away, unimpressed.
There were a great many of the cheetahs, lounging about in what was likely a beautiful setting. Too bad this damnable sandstorm won’t stop. I’d love to see what this place looks like in the sun. It would have been far too easy to get lost in this meandering place if not for the trail of braziers which led her through the floor of the oasis, around corners and under trees, and finally uphill once more to another tall, familiar structure. Its walls were so enormous that nobody could possibly scale them, or the sheer rock faces into which they were set. There was one unusual feature, though: in the center of the wall was a white panel with a relief in the shape of the Empire’s dragon symbol.
This is it. This is the gate that Syloria told me wouldn’t open without the Amulet. It has to be.
As she neared it, the panel slowly ground into motion, dropping into a slot in the rock beneath. On the other side of it was a dark, narrow, short opening into the stone, a cavern entrance like so many others she had seen before. The path through this mountain was narrow, but lanterns had been mounted to illuminate it. Still, Sayma drew her swords and crept forward carefully, not knowing what she might encounter.
She was so carefully watching her steps for hidden traps that she almost fell off the ledge, and had to windmill her arms to keep from dropping over the edge.
The path opened up into an enormous, open space, deep and dark but moist, smelling of growing things and water, with an opening to the sky above a huge, pyramidal building. A series of dirt ramps hugged the side of the cavern, leading down into its floor, and Sayma made her careful way down them to approach the building.
It was beautiful, she thought. It was as lovely as the ancient Alik’r temple they’d found on the other side of the desert, and as massive as Al Shedim, combining elements of both styles. There were flowing waterfalls, and open gazebos, and flourishing gardens; and in the center she found a fountain with a bust of the Gray Fox atop it. As she turned to glare at it, she saw beyond it another gate like the one above, with the dragon symbol embedded into its face.
It’s a crypt. A tomb. This is where the hero of Cyrodiil is actually buried. That’s what Syloria was talking about.
She approached the building and just as it had outside, the gate lowered.
Inside, the tomb was spectacular. The hallway, a narrow ramp descending into the base of the building, was tall and built of highly polished sandstone, well-lit with glimmering magical spheres, and gleaming. It was clean – pristine, almost – and silent. Sayma was glad for her light, muffled armor, for it would have seemed criminal to break the peace of this place with the squeaking of heavy arms. It was like the Halls of the West, she thought as she walked through the first room and toward a second hallway, at the end of which she could see the familiar form of a statue of Nocturnal, arms spread and beckoning her forward.
Nocturnal stood in the center of a beautiful room with paintings on either side, depicting places Sayma did not recognize. She stopped and gazed up at Nocturnal for a moment, then knelt before the statue and raised her arms.
“I’ve come as you asked,” she murmured. “I will retrieve the Cowl and bring it back to you, and I hope you will hold up your end of the bargain. For me, and for Brynjolf, who has fought as hard as I have to see this done.”
There was no reply. Not that I expected one, not here; but I want to make sure she knows I am doing what she wanted.
She continued into the structure. It was clear that there would be no mummies, no spiders, no surprises in this place. Along each wall were paintings, and as she walked she recognized an Ayleid ruin, a church somewhere in Cyrodiil, and faces that she thought might be from the time of the Hero of Cyrodiil. This was a building of honor, not of trial.
A staircase led to another long hallway. Halfway down it , the sandstone changed from the familiar beige to a pinkish hue. She broke into a trot. It’s the heart of the building. I’m getting closer. Around a corner she went and emerged into an enormous chamber, multiple stories tall, with a curved wall at its far end and a green-carpeted runway leading to it. Up a short set of stairs was a low table with a bust of the Gray Fox, and a flawless diamond in the center.
Sayma frowned at the diamond. It wanted to be taken. She turned and looked around for traps, unexpected observers, and saw nothing.
“I know you better than this. What’s the trick?” she said to the bust.
Unleash the thief in you.
“Oh I see,” she said, grinning. “I can’t just take the diamond, I have to steal it. Clever. But I know better than to argue with you at this point.” She scouted around the edges of the curved wall, to be certain there were no obvious traps, and then returned to the table and crouched before it, as she would to steal it if there were others watching. She waited until her breathing had quieted and it was utterly silent, and then reached out and plucked the gem from its resting place.
Behind the table, two sections of the curved wall raised slowly into the ceiling. Beyond them was a circular room, beautifully appointed. Rows of benches radiated out from the center of the room, as though it was a lecture hall or audience chamber. To her left was a freestanding panel with an aqua circular decoration inset; in the center a platform held a short post with a magical light atop it; and on the right was the most impressive thing of all. An enormous sarcophagus, polished and gleaming, with red banners on either end, was inscribed with the words “Champion of Cyrodiil.”
“Here he is,” she whispered.
Beneath the main inscription was a recitation of the Champion’s great deeds, and while Sayma was not well versed in the history of Cyrodiil she couldn’t help but feel a tingle of awe run up her spine. Two low tables before the sarcophagus held a katana and a shield. The thief in her said “take them” for a moment, but only for a moment; for she was here for the Cowl, not for armor.
“But where is it? And how do I get out of here?”
She turned and looked back toward the center of the room. Just before her was a platform, extending part of the way into the amphitheater; and at its end was a table holding a simple long bow. She walked to it, slowly, her brow furrowed.
“A bow? For what?”
It dawned on her as she raised her eyes and saw the bright aqua circle in the panel on the far side of the space. It was a target. And what had both Seviana and Syloria told her? The Arrow of Extrication was key to getting her out of the space she’d gotten herself into. It took Sayma a few moments to locate the arrow in amongst all the other ammunition she carried, but she pulled it out and fitted it to her bow.
This, I can do. If nothing else I am an excellent archer. Let’s hope it gets me somewhere.
She took careful aim at the target, and shot the arrow.
There was a massive explosion.
“CHEESE!” a voice boomed, filling the space. “For everyone!”
Dozens of small magical explosions filled the domed space and from them dropped full, yellow wheels of cheese, as well as large slices of cheese. They fell onto the floor, bouncing as they landed and rolling under the benches and into the aisles.
Sayma stood with her mouth open.
And her stomach growled.
While snatching up a couple of the goat cheese slices and nibbling on one, she realized that the central post had disappeared but a doorway opposite the one from which she had entered had opened onto what seemed a beautiful, blue sky. She ran toward it, stopping just short when she saw a boat hovering in midair.
This isn’t right.
There was a long, carpeted platform extending out into the air, and there were a great many more boats floating in the sky around it. The clouds were tinged the same pink as the stone structure around her, but the landscape beyond the structure was green, and lush, and looked to Sayma like what she had briefly observed in Cyrodiil once before. She moved to one of the windows and saw the Imperial City outside, its tall spire reaching toward the stars, and shook her head for there was no possibility that she was floating just above the center of Cyrodiil.
At the end of the platform, surrounded by piles of cheese, was a figure she knew from legend; a slight man, gray-haired, dressed in an absurd multicolored outfit of purple and pink and black, just slightly less ridiculous than Cicero’s jester outfit. She slowed and approached him.
“Sheogorath?”
“A mortal!” he said. “My mortal. What are ye doin’ here, mortal, when I’ve given ye things to do?”
“I’m, uh…”
“Yes? Speaking to me? I’m he. And he’s me. And others, as well. Or they were. Weren’t they?”
This is going to be a trial all its own, isn’t it? Just as well Brynjolf isn’t with me. He’d never be able to hold his tongue.
“I’m here for the Gray Cowl of Nocturnal, used by the Champion of Cyrodiil. I was told it was here and I don’t intend to leave without it.”
Sheogorath tossed his head back and laughed. “The Champion of Cyrodiil? Wonderful! Time for a celebration! Cheese for everyone!” He started dancing around in a circle. “Wait, scratch that. Cheese for no one!”
My gods. He’s worse than Cicero, and I would never have imagined such a thing was possible!
Later, when Sayma had been, and done, and returned, she decided that not a thing that transpired after the cheese had really happened. It couldn’t have. It was too strange. It involved Sheogorath, and a ghost who said he was the Champion of Cyrodiil, and she wasn’t entirely certain that there hadn’t been something strange slipped into that cheese she’d eaten. The ghost, she thought, confirmed that she was only seeing an illusion of Cyrodiil. When he offered to tell her his life’s story she cut him short and asked to be taken to the Cowl.
“It’s important. There’s someone waiting for me. More than one someone, in fact.”
“Fine. The time for talking has ended. Come.”
He led her back into the great domed amphitheater and into a yellow sandstone corridor she had not seen before. Up a ramp they walked, and into a room with a round portal at its far end.
“Go through this portal,” he said. “It will take you to a place forgotten by all, maybe even by the gods. It will take you to a place inaccessible from the rest of the world. There you will find the Gray Cowl.”
The ghost shimmered, and Sheogorath reappeared, going on about nonsense, and Haskill, and the Cowl, and Sayma had the impression that Sheogorath himself had left the Cowl in the place she was about to go to retrieve it. He said something about being the Champion himself. Then he said “Farewell, Dragonborn. May Nocturnal guide you,” and disappeared.
It had to have been the cheese. The last time her head had felt so muddled was the night Brynjolf told her about Gulum-Ei.
But the portal was shining with a green light. She walked forward and stepped through it.
Beyond the portal was a cave – deep, but open to the sky, with a single, narrow path leading away from it. She moved along its narrow, winding way and gasped as it emptied into a space unlike anything she’d seen before.
It was ancient, made of dark, chiseled stone, an enclosed courtyard full of structures that she recognized as being of Akaviri design. Vivid scarlet lanterns swung from delicate archways; stately trees with rich green foliage and pink blossoms ringed the area. Beyond, she could see steep, craggy mountains that were not those of any part of Tamriel she had ever visited. In the very center of the courtyard was a gazebo, larger and of a much different design than those she’d found in the desert but of similar importance; in its center was a pillar holding a large, ornate, egg-shaped vessel. She opened the vessel, slowly, and reached inside.
There it was. The Cowl. It was an unremarkable thing, a dingy gray hood with purple Daedric symbols in a line down its nose ridge. It did not seem a garment that should have warranted the extent to which two hundred years of effort had gone into protecting it. It did not seem a thing that Nocturnal – the Nocturnal Sayma knew – would have desired so fiercely that she would be willing to extend herself on behalf of a human spirit that was not even one of her own followers.
But there it was, in her hand, at last.
Sayma walked to the edge of the courtyard and stood quietly, looking out over the exquisite vista beyond the walls, and breathed deeply. For the first time in a very long time she felt at peace.
And then a smile broke across her face. It was time to free Dynjyl.
