It was bitterly cold along the northern slopes of the Jeralls, partly cloudy with a breeze. And Sayma hated being cold. The roadway south from Helgen to Cyrodiil was in part laid through deep cuts in the mountainside, the rock walls casting deep shadows even during the height of the day. She huddled in close to Shadowmere’s neck, grateful for his warmth even as his breath left puffs of frost as he moved along.
“I’m sure we must be almost there, my friend. Then you can go where you like for a time,” she told him.
She turned Shadowmere onto a narrow path that branched back toward the west and higher up into the mountainside, doing so in part to avoid a skirmish that had broken out near the road’s fork. Sayma didn’t feel like dealing with any part of the civil war right then, and was grateful that the path seemed to be going in the direction they needed to go. A few minutes later, the top of a tower came into view just beyond the trees.
She frowned, and looked at her map.
Only one place that can be, and that’s Bloodlet Throne. I hope we can steer clear of it.
It was, to all appearances, just another broken-down Imperial fortress from years gone by, albeit in somewhat better condition than those in more populated areas. Like a great many of the old forts, it was a magnet for unsavory groups to set up headquarters. Even the ruins of Helgen Keep had attracted multiple groups of bandits in the scant couple of years since the great dragon Alduin had destroyed it and the town around it; and it was only the newest location to do so. Bloodlet Throne, being higher up in the mountains and farther off the beaten track, was rumored to have attracted something worse.
Vampires. I’m glad we’re here during the day. They’re likely all sleeping right now. Sayma chewed the corner of her mouth, thinking. Thralls might be outside, though, serving as guards. We’d best be quiet.
“Move soft, Shadowmere,” she whispered to him as they moved down the trail toward the tower. “We don’t want to wake what’s in there.”
Shadowmere slowed to a walk that was nearly as silent as she herself could have been on foot. The shadows were even deeper here, beneath the canopy of the pine forest, and it struck her that vampires could likely move about even at this time of day with this much cover. After all, Andante had often come to visit her in Dawnstar during the height of day, even though he’d always been happy to get inside as quickly as possible.
A shudder ran up her back. She remembered the shock of seeing Brynjolf for the first time in two years, his face looking younger than she remembered ever seeing it but his eyes having become bottomless pools of glowing amber. She remembered the look in them as he had advanced on her, step by step, exerting his will on her mind as he insisted she tell him where Dagnell had gone. And she vividly remembered the matched set of glistening white fangs, upper and lower, that had threatened as he snarled his demands.
I still can’t imagine what it was like for him. How must it feel, to live on human blood? What would make a person want to…?
She watched the base of the keep as they moved quietly around it to the left. And then she shook her head.
Well what am I saying, of all people? Do I not taste the essence of all my kills? Take a little of them into myself, the same way Dardeh takes the dragon’s life force?
Some assassins took trophies from their victims, personal items or in some extreme cases pieces of the victims themselves. Some instead left behind some kind of distinctive calling card. It was always a small indulgence of vanity, some quiet proof of conquest that might not ever be noticed by another being. Sayma tasted their blood, dipping one finger into that which she had spilled by virtue of her superior skills.
The fact that I am not reliant on that to live doesn’t mean I don’t get my own little thrill out of the experience. I even told Andante that I enjoy the color.
For a moment, Sayma imagined what it might have been like if Brynjolf had not been interrupted that day. He might have approached her, frozen as she was by his compulsion; he might have taken her by the shoulders and brought those massive fangs down into her throat…
Gods, what is the matter with me? He isn’t a vampire anymore, and I’m damned glad nothing of the sort happened. It’s not as though I would have wanted that.
She sighed.
It’s just that I want his touch again. That’s all it is.
But he’d taken hundreds of other throats. She knew that. And hard as she might, she could not picture the man she knew doing such a thing.
“And so was I,” he had said when she guessed that Andante had been a Nightlord vampire. She shuddered remembering the sound of his voice.
I guess that means I don’t know him anymore, doesn’t it. I chose to walk away. She frowned at herself. No, I can’t have him again. But what I can have, maybe, if I’m lucky, will be his thanks for helping to free Dynjyl from the Soul Cairn. That will have to be enough.
She looked uphill, to her left, and saw an enormously tall tower rising from the peak not far beyond them. It was not a building she’d ever seen before, and its make was distinctive, curiously different from the old fortresses, and yet definitely Imperial from some era or other.
That must be the place. What did she call it? The Eye of Cyrodiil.
A small spur of cobbled roadway led past Bloodlet Throne and up to the pass where the structure stood. Once they got there it was clear that this was not just one, but two towers, massive structures nestled against the mountainside. From each extended a great buttress of sorts, a series of columns connected at the top ending at a smaller tower next to the road. It would doubtless give a commanding view of the approach from both sides of the Jeralls, if a person could just get to the top.
Sayma slid off Shadowmere and patted his neck.
“Thank you, my friend,” she said. “Go where you must. I’ll be fine from here.”
Shadowmere bobbed his head and turned back down the path, no doubt headed for his home base in Falkreath. Sayma smiled after him and then walked up the hill a bit, to the front of the structure.
What caught her attention first was a staircase in the central area, with an iron gate barring the way a few steps up. She looked it over carefully but could see no obvious mechanism to raise the gate, and no way to use the key Seviana had given her. She left that gate and walked farther uphill to the base of one of the stone columns. The iron doors on the uphill side of this column did yield to Seviana’s key; Sayma drew one of her swords and carefully pushed them open.
To her surprise, there was nothing on the other side of the doors but a small room with a second set of iron doors. These opened onto the long path she’d seen from below atop the buttress’ columns. She trotted toward the mountain, assuming there would be access to the large tower; but instead of a door she found only a lever mounted on the tower’s wall. Sayma stepped back a few paces and frowned, looking out over the area. There was definitely some sort of path, or landing, or covered walkway nestled up against the mountain, extending between the two towers but not quite connecting them, and no way to get to it from where she was. There was nothing to do but throw the lever and hope for the best. She ran back out and down to the roadway, and realized that in her eagerness to examine the central gate she’d run right past a very long staircase up to a matching column with doors leading to the first of the two great towers.
How in the world did I miss that?
The key worked on the iron doors in this pillar, as well as the additional set of doors set into the base of the huge tower beyond them. The second set of doors, though, only gave access to the very top of the structure. Sayma stood there, shivering uncontrollably in spite of the sun that had broken through the clouds, able to see well down the far side of the mountains into Cyrodiil and back toward Skyrim.
No wonder they call it the Eye of Cyrodiil. You’d never be able to move any kind of force past this place unseen.
Unless maybe I was the person on guard duty, since I’ve clearly not figured out how to get where I’m going. So. What did I miss this time?
She climbed back down the tower and out the iron doors, to discover that she had run right past a second lever mounted on the floor of the walkway. She shook her head at herself and threw the lever.
The only place left to enter was the gate she’d first examined. This time, when she approached it, she saw a pull chain mounted on the right side.
I swear that wasn’t there the first time. I checked the whole thing. Carefully. How…?
She tugged on the pull and the gate rose without complaint.
I guess it doesn’t matter. At least I’m in now. But I’m obviously out of practice. Chain pulleys don’t just appear out of thin air. I’d better be careful.
Past the gate and at the top of yet more stairs was a set of massive iron doors that reminded her of those outside Windhelm. She shivered, and pushed them open.
Before her stretched a dark passageway, clearly a man-made hall rather than a natural tunnel. A single brazier shed what little light there was at the near end. Two levels of stone blocks flanked a long, straight passage with stairs at the far end, and as far as she could tell there was nothing else at all in the space.
I’ll believe that when I see it.
Sayma drew her swords and crept forward a painfully slow bit at a time. The path underfoot was just short of treacherous; its huge stone slabs had settled over time, leaving gaps between them and uneven lips that might trip a person up. It reminded her of the huge, haphazard stone blocks of Windhelm’s streets. She tested each step carefully before shifting her weight onto it and moved forward, bit by bit, expecting the floor to collapse, or a trap to spring, or some other danger to erupt. But nothing happened, and she heard nothing other than the faint flapping of wings, perhaps bats, as she entered the darkness. She got to the stairwell and found that at the top of it was a circular stone structure, something that might have held water for a pool.
She straightened and stared at it. Neither it, nor anything around her, gave any indication of an exit. There were no mechanisms, no chains to pull or levers to throw.
“Huh. What did I miss this time?”
She turned around to check behind her and almost jumped. In the center of the passage she had just crossed rested a tall, cylindrical object with spikes on its uppermost edge. Next to it, a slender stand held two burning candles. They most definitely hadn’t been there earlier. She walked slowly back down the passage, and around to the far side of the object.
It was a concave display case of sorts, atop a tapered base. Resting in it was a bust of the Gray Fox, identical to the one she had retrieved from Mercer Frey’s lair so long before.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” she murmured, stepping closer to it. “How in the world did you get here?” She reached out to examine it.
As her hand contacted the bust, its eyes flared, glowing an eerie blue-green. That was strange enough by itself, but at the far end of the room the stone circle exploded with the unmistakable sound of magic activating. A bright pillar of light burst toward the ceiling, surrounded by a column of an almost raspberry-hued energy, with swirling red power revolving about it and humming.
“Shor’s bones,” Sayma breathed as she walked back toward the pillar of light. The closer she got to it, the louder the humming seemed. With the additional light she could see that the stones behind it were the same make as those of the towers outside.
“It has to be a portal of some kind…”
And before she had a chance to step back from it, Sayma’s world went black.
She had only a moment to be terrified and disoriented. Then the light returned; or, more accurately, the twilight. She was definitely outside, in the cold, in the wind, between the two gigantic towers of the Eye of Cyrodiil. She was standing on a round platform from which a stone pathway led toward the mountainside.
This must be the area I saw before, that I couldn’t get to. Interesting way to put a person out here. I wonder whether the Gray Fox would have appeared to someone who wasn’t a thief? Maybe that’s what Seviana was talking about. It certainly would keep the place safe from random bandits and such.
The path before her was of a familiar style, a rocky depression that might serve as a waterway or a walkway depending on the occasion. It led to the mountainside and then turned at a right angle, hugging the edge of the land, and into an opening behind one of the tall stone columns. She could see dim light well ahead, but it wasn’t until she passed the carved stone column that she realized it was a natural tunnel, with uneven dirt floor and rock walls.
It led to a cave, much like any other cave; a roundish space with a crooked path leading through its center toward another opening. There were several dirt ledges that looked like a person might climb up onto them, and on one of these a brazier burned – the light she’d seen from outside.
Well, now, Sayma thought. Let’s think about this. The light means people have been here, maybe mining, and there might well be something valuable left behind. But I remember the Pilgrim’s Path, Nocturnal. I know you better than that.
Sayma grinned, and found a way to leap to the ledge on the opposite side, the one that sat in full shadow.
Give her what she wants the most.
On the darkened ledge, behind a column of dirt, was a chest nestled into the darkest part of the space. Sayma opened it and scooped out the several gems and pieces of jewelry she found inside, slipping them into one of her pouches.
“I see how it is, now. Think like a thief, and not only will I find my way, I’ll be well rewarded, eh? That’s good! That’s how we’ll do it, then.”
There was a short corridor that opened into another cave, this one with a small stone structure at the far side. It leaned to one side at an odd angle, the dull hissing of wind rushing through it coming from within. Sayma was about to enter when she looked up and to the right; there was another darkened ledge there that piqued her interest. She found a few handholds on the sloping rock surface before it and pulled herself up; and there, as she had expected, was another chest with valuables inside.
As she was putting them away, smiling, she suddenly remembered the voice she had heard when she handled Nocturnal’s Skeleton Key. “You and Brynjolf could be so very rich,” it had told her.
Her smile fell. I wish he was here with me. I’d give him all of these things.
The stone structure was actually the terminus of a very old tunnel, one that might easily have been taken from the Ratway. Only the scent told her she wasn’t in Riften. It smelled not like a damp sewer but like a dusty cave; not like fish but like dirt, and like the roots growing down through cracks in the stonework. Not too far beyond the entrance was a small room containing two chests full of riches; there was a locked door directly in front of her and a stairwell leading up to her left.
The door refused to yield to her best efforts. Lockpicks broke almost without her applying any pressure to them, as though the lock forcibly rejected any attempt to open it. She decided to head up the stairs instead, and there found a locked door of metal bars. Sayma grinned.
I almost feel like I’m home. I know how to let myself through this kind of door.
She was a bit out of practice, though, and she swore quietly as the first pick broke.
Where’s Vex when you need her?
Come on. This isn’t a difficult lock. I know these.
The door opened on the second try and swung open into a narrow opening much like those in the Ratway. The center of the floor held what had once been a stairwell down but was now blocked off, with only a few steps accessible. Sayma passed them toward the lighted space beyond, where a long trestle table held a setting of glazed Nordic serving dishes. There were some lockpicks on the table, and those she scooped up eagerly, muttering about needing practice. There were no exits from this room, at least none that she could see; but there was a key, prominently displayed on the platter in the center of the table. She stood as far to the side as she could in case of traps, and grabbed the key.
Nothing happened.
“Well I know where you need to go, my little beauty,” she murmured. The blocked stairwell had a small chest at the bottom and she opened it, happily grabbing the wealth within. Already, her bandolier pouches were starting to feel heavier, and she decided to start being a bit more particular about what she would take from what was clearly going to be an abundance of treasure along this path.
After descending back to the room with the stubborn door, she glanced around once more and saw, on the table, a book she’d missed. She picked it up and had to stifle a loud laugh. It was a copy of The Locked Room.
“I’d take it with me but I’ve already read it. Thanks, Nocturnal.”
The door practically threw itself open with the key she’d found; beyond it was a staircase downward, yet again. The room to which it led held a number of curious things; a bow and arrows, a book about archery and a spell tome for a spell Sayma had learned long ago but never used: Clairvoyance. She left all of those things behind and descended through a space that was almost identical to one she remembered vividly from the Ratway. In fact, she looked up at the ceiling to see whether there was a battering ram trap slung above her head. There wasn’t, of course, but the room gave her such a strong sense of déjà vu that a shudder ran up her spine.
What was beyond the door at its far end did not, however, give her déjà vu.
There was a short corridor opening onto a large, square chamber, at least a full story above her and possibly two below. She couldn’t tell exactly how deep it was, though, because the entire space was full of flames; roaring, leaping flames that blinded the eye and blasted the area with heat. She could see the exit, on the other side of the space, but there was no way across. There was only a narrow walkway in front of her, with what looked like the approach to a narrow stone bridge that had long since broken off.
“Well now what?”
Sayma looked around the periphery of the room. There was a ledge like the one she was on, across the way; there were one or two spots on the sides of the room that looked like the bones of what might once have been supports for similar ledges, but there was no way to reach them. She turned to the right and snorted; there, atop a stone cylinder, was another bust of the Gray Fox.
“So there you are. What do you have for me this time, hmm? Another portal?”
She touched the bust and saw words in her mind. It was eerily like suddenly knowing the words that Dardeh had Shouted out across the dead dragon’s skeleton: without effort, and without really reading them, she knew them. “Point the way, light your way, line your way, see your way, make it clair.”
“Make it… clair? What in Oblivion?” Sayma thought for a moment and then snickered. “Really. Very nice. Well at least you left a tome around for someone who didn’t know how to use the spell already.”
Sayma wasn’t much of a mage, but she did have a few spells at her disposal. She knew clairvoyance, but had never used it before. She walked to the edge of the broken stone bridge, raised her hand and focused as best she could given the flames roaring around her, and cast the spell, hoping for the best. A thin line of blue light appeared, branching off to her left and taking a convoluted path toward the wall.
And to think I probably would have cast it and just walked straight ahead. Thank you, blue light.
She took a deep breath and stepped out into what gave every impression of being thin air. Where the blue line ran, so did she. At first she moved very slowly, not quite trusting the spell to keep her suspended over the flames, but then she realized that her magic reserves were running out quickly and she had a long way to go. She scooted along the path until, about halfway across the space and well away from anything she could grab, she felt her power snuff out.
Oh no.
She closed her eyes, terrified, stopping dead in her tracks and waiting for the inevitable plunge into the flames. Even if the fire didn’t kill her, the fall would, and she screamed internally that she was going to fail, and die, and would never see either Brynjolf again, nor Roggi, nor Dardeh and their children.
But nothing happened.
She peeled her eyes open, one at a time. Absolutely nothing was happening aside from the dancing of the flames beneath her. She released the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, and waited as her magic power restored itself ever so slowly. Sayma hadn’t the ability to regenerate her power rapidly like many mages could. As a Redguard woman she could run for hours, if needs be; but she had only a few minutes’ worth of magic at her disposal. So she waited, and tried not to think about how hot it was or how dry the air she was breathing. She took a chance and looked down, once; the floor was easily two stories beneath her and glowed with the same sort of orangey-pink shades as one of the inevitable oil slicks in Skyrim’s barrows.
Yep. I would have died.
She cast the spell again and began following its trail. To her complete dismay, it turned back toward the stone bridge.
“What? You’re kidding me!”
She had no choice, though, than to follow the blue line, stay exactly atop its safety, and wait when her magicka was depleted. The third time she cast the spell it led her almost to the far wall, but not quite; it was tantalizingly near the opening and part of her screamed to just jump for it, just go. She gritted her teeth, though, and waited, as the sweat began rolling down the back of her neck. It was too far to jump and she didn’t trust the room to let her make the leap even if it had been much closer. She waited, again, to regain her magic, noticing that it was getting more and more difficult to breathe as the hot air irritated her lungs. When she could cast again she did so, eagerly, and ran down the line – and then nearly screamed as it took a right-angle turn back toward the original entrance.
“This is crazy! Come on!” she shrieked, and then wished she hadn’t as the hot air singed her throat. Coughing, she ran until her magic ended and then waited yet again.
Three more times, she had to cast her spell, run to the end, and wait the agonizing wait until she could cast it again. It seemed to go on forever. Once she got very angry, wonder what walking across a room full of flames had to do with being a thief; then it came to her. The interminable waiting, the stillness which, if broken, would result in death; those were skills that the clever thief really did need. Act impulsively, and a thief would be found out and maybe killed. Move without knowing exactly where the next step should be and a thief could fall, and die. This was exactly what a thief needed to do, and the fact that floating above a room full of flames was agonizingly stressful made it a task that only a very fine thief indeed would be capable of doing. Overcome your fear and your false confidence, or die.
The Gray Fox was exceptionally clever.
When Sayma stepped onto the ledge at the far side of the room she almost dropped to her knees. She did put her hands on her knees and double over, though, gasping for air and trying to keep the faintness in her head at bay. It had been the longest trip across a room that she’d ever taken.
She straightened up, slowly, and looked back at the flames behind her, and then laughed.
At least I’m not cold anymore.
At the end of a short passage was a room shaped exactly like the Cistern, so much so that for a moment Sayma’s gaze darted around it looking for Vipir, or Thrynn – or Brynjolf. But there were no other Guild members there, only a statue of Nocturnal, several chests which she picked through for jewels, and in the very center a humming, pulsating portal.
She took a deep breath and stepped into it.