Harald reached Kalaman and Ulkarin and hurried them down the path to the Imperial road. His face must have looked as distressed as his mind felt, for Kalaman looked concerned.
“What is it, my friend?”
“Thalmor,” was all Harald was able to get out.
“Those damn elves!” Ulkarin burst out. Then he looked at Kalaman and grimaced. “I’m sorry, Archmage, I didn’t mean…”
“Have no concern, Ulkarin,” Kalaman said. “I am not Thalmor, and I disagree with their beliefs and methods.”
Harald told them what he’d heard, as rapidly as he could speak while still making sense. “And so,” he said, finally, “I have to go. I have to get back to Kegor, and then home. Father has warned of this very thing, as long as I’ve been alive. He needs to know that the threat is closer than we thought.”
Kalaman nodded. “I understand. But please, let us check on the encampment on the way back. A few moments will not stem the incoming tide, but they might make a difference in the young woman’s life, if in fact we’ve found her.”
Harald gritted his teeth. What Kalaman said was true. The problem, though, was that the certainty that he needed to get back to Windhelm had been growing, from a whisper to a full-throated howl – a certainty tinged with more than a little anxiety.
I have to get home. I just know it.
He was about to say something to that effect when Kalaman and Ulkarin shared a long look. Then Ulkarin nodded. Kalaman turned back to Harald and smiled.
“I know that you need to return to Skyrim as soon as possible. But please, let us find the young woman. She will recognize you. Once we’ve found her, I will gladly take care of anything that needs to be done afterward. You and Ulkarin can hasten back to Evermore.” He looked at the Reachman. “And if I’m not mistaken, then on to Skyrim.”
“Yes. And then to Skyrim,” Ulkarin agreed.
Harald’s mouth dropped open. “You want to come to Skyrim with me? Really?”
Ulkarin grinned. “I can’t let a knight of Evermore wander the roads alone, even if he is something of a berserker when provoked.” His smile faded, and his voice grew serious. “Really, Harald, after everything that has happened, and with as many people knowing you now, it just isn’t going to be safe for you until you’re home. Yes, I’ll come along. Besides,” he finished with another grin, “I’ve always wanted to see that Shrine of Azura.”
Harald laughed. “Alright. That sounds like a reasonable course of action. Let’s be on our way.” He felt as though he’d reassured his companions a bit, but the anxiety pounded in his chest and in his ears as they returned to the steep path beneath the crude arches.
At the crest of the hill they found a shelter of two levels with split log ramps providing access to each, built around the trunk of a massive dead tree. The live trees and colorful flowers at the structure’s base were flanked by animal heads on pikes, though, and a bone effigy topped the thatched roof. “Forsworn,” Harald whispered. “Or Witchman.”
They slowly ascended the ramps and found, to their left, an alchemy station flanked by a large work table and a single, pelt-covered cot. A woman wearing the scanty fur coverings favored by Witchmen bent over the alchemy table, clearly in deep concentration. “Let’s not interrupt her,” Kalaman whispered. “I see someone above.”
Furnishings on the upper deck included a second bed, large tables and simple shelves groaning with potions, ingredients, and soul gems. Harald, though, ignored all of them and walked quietly to the solitary chair where a familiar, nearly-emaciated figure sat. He cleared his throat to get her attention, and then spoke quietly.
“Denize, it’s me, from the outpost. We’ve all been very concerned about you.”
Denize’s brows rose in recognition, and then arched in an expression of pain. “Oh no. Please.” She shuddered. “I can’t go back. It makes me sick, what happened there.”
“We’re just trying to help, if we can.” Harald lowered his voice. “It’s terrible, what happened to you, but you may be in danger here with that witch.”
She shook her head vigorously, then, her face and body taking on an air of defiance and stubbornness. “More so than I am already? Death would be a welcome release. I came here with the notion of my demise at the back of my mind, and It was comforting. No, I won’t go back. If you really want to help, then you can do that by assisting the witch, Zenalata. She’s the one who can help me.”
Harald heard Kalaman’s robes rustling as he approached. “Are you certain we can’t convince you otherwise, my dear? There must be safer ways to help you past this terrible moment.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head and breaking eye contact.
Harald sighed. He thought he understood her disquiet, well enough, but there was no time to waste in arguing with someone who was so thoroughly resolute. “Very well,” he said. “Let me speak with the witch.”
Back on the lower platform, Zenalata was performing some sort of ritual, her arms raised. If there had been any doubt that she was a Witchman, the tattoos on her face erased them. Kalaman wandered past her to examine the alchemy station; Ulkarin stood guard on the ramp while Harald approached the woman.
“Greetings. I am Harald, and my companions and I came looking for Denize. She says that you might make use of our help.”
“I need deathbell to soothe the pulse, nirnroot to sear the soul, and ectoplasm to deprive that poor child of the flesh and have it be ethereal. With these the seed can be carried from its mother’s soil without too much anguish for either.”
Harald looked around and tsk’d, pointing up toward the shelves where he had seen so many bowls and jars. “You don’t have those ingredients here?”
“To have the world for harvest would solve so much. Yet magic cannot make these wishes a reality. You have offered herself in her aid, have you not? Then go yonder and fulfill her desire, to ease her mind.”
Harald opened his mouth – the woman’s manner of speech was irritating every part of him already irritated by anxiety. But Kalaman spoke first.
“It is good of you to offer your assistance. The poor girl has been through so much. But what has prompted you to do this? What do you take in return?”
Zenalata turned her attention to Kalaman, clearly evaluating him. “I desire to be a mother. Desire has willed me into helping this woman supplant her progeny unto me. And with my own child, I will have another destiny to write from my own.”
Kalaman rubbed his long chin. “You surely recognize a fellow mage. I must admit that I am confused. What sort of magic do you practice?”
The woman gave him a sly smirk. “Spells? The pretense of wonder drawn by parodies dressed in well made cloth – I indulge in the dance that melds one world to another. Through these dances, our bodies have flesh transposed with magics summoned from a raging stream of arcane noise, spilling forth from every orifice and every end of the form. You manifest desire and become a beacon of dreams, not only of your own but those of a thousand shrieking souls seeking your body as an outlet!”
Kalaman stared at her for a moment, then nodded and motioned to Harald and Ulkarin to descend. “I believe I understand. I will return with the ingredients you need as soon as I can.” With that, he strode to the ramps, ushering the others down the slope to the roadway.
Harald felt about to explode. “What on Nirn was she talking about, Kalaman? What is going on? I didn’t understand a thing she said aside from the list of ingredients, and I don’t have the patience either to figure it out or to go on some kind of scavenger hunt on her behalf!”
Ulkarin tsk’d. “Sounded like gibberish to me. But we’ve already decided what we’re going to do. We’ll go back to Kegor and then scurry along to Skyrim.”
“And I shall retrieve the ingredients and return to Zenalata,” Kalaman said. “She was speaking, I believe, about the same liminal barrier between worlds that we crossed to enter the Scuttling Void. It takes different forms in different places. I have read of a similar type of magic practiced by Sloads. It is said they can call spirits from the beyond and place them in, shall we say, ‘recently-vacated’ bodies.”
“You mean necromancy?” Ulkarin asked.
“I suppose it could be considered a form of necromancy, yes. Our Witch clearly believes she can do this. We’ve seen what an influence Namira has here, and Namira is widely thought to guide souls between the various states of existence. At any rate, Harald, I will oversee matters here. If nothing else, it should ease Denize’s mind. Without it, I fear she is lost.”
Harald grimaced. “I guess that’s a worthy goal. I know that in the state I’m in, I’m likely to explode. I can only imagine what she feels like. Let’s get back to Evermore.”
Kegor was once again in the inn when Harald found him. He approached and spoke as quietly as he could so as to be heard, but not overheard.
“I eavesdropped on the leader of that particular pod of Orcs in Umbasir. They’re getting supplies from the Thalmor.”
Kegor’s eyes widened. He blinked several times, looking almost panic-stricken.
“Woah now, don’t go making those types of accusations so soon. What was he wearing?”
Harald smirked. “He was wearing the uniform of a Thalmor Justiciar, long and black with gold trim. Trust me, I have ample reason to recognize one when I see it.”
Kegor blew out a breath. “And what did he say?”
Harald spent a few moments filling Kegor in on the details. With each sentence, Kegor seemed to grow a bit more pale, even here in the ruddy glow of the torches and fireplaces.
“This is grave news. It doesn’t surprise me that they were somehow involved. But directly giving the Orcs munitions and directives? Gods, we don’t want this news becoming public. There is enough animosity towards the Empire’s lack of action here already. You must promise me not to tell anyone else of this.”
“My companions already know. I assure you, though, that I will mention it to nobody else in High Rock.” Harald felt a bit ashamed by this assertion but it was true enough; he didn’t intend to remain in High Rock long enough to have the subject arise again.
“And thank the gods you left the agent still alive. A dead agent would severely complicate matters. I will speak to Horustair, and decide whether to inform the King about this very worrisome news. I hope this coin will persuade you to keep quiet on this matter. And if not, the consequences of your gossip will come back to haunt you.”
Harald nearly growled. He didn’t need the coin and very much disliked being bribed and threatened. But as complex as the situation was, he couldn’t risk Kegor knowing that he was returning to Skyrim – or that he was its High King’s only son. He took the coin purse without comment, nodded to Kegor, and collected Ulkarin.
They made good time back to Arnima, then onward to the Divide. The people there wandered around looking particularly anxious, and with good reason: Merosa’s murder and the subsequent events in Arnima were tales that were already taking on legendary proportions. Harald didn’t want to linger; he had no patience to spend on storytelling.
They reached the Imperial checkpoint gate at the mountain pass when the sun was low in the sky. Harald turned to Ulkarin, not quite knowing how to begin.
“Spit it out, Harald,” the big man said.
“Are you sure about this? I don’t know how either of us will be received. If you want to head back to town I wouldn’t blame you in the slightest.”
Ulkarin grinned. “You’re gonna need backup, mate,” he said. “Nobody is going to believe the whole business with the bits of Oblivion unless there’s someone else who saw it. And I did. Well, not all of it, but I did see you all pop into that gate and come out looking a little worse for wear. Besides, I’ve been wanting to travel for a long time. And how else would I get to meet a king?”
Harald chuckled. “Same way you did in Evermore?”
“Yeah,” the big man said. “By tagging along with you. Now let’s get moving.”
Harald blew out the anxious breath he’d been holding. “Thanks, Tiny. You’re a good friend.”
“Eh. I’m just some brute of a mercenary you hired.”
“And you’re still a good friend. Mind your legs. It’s steep going down.”
Kalaman once again found Zenalata deeply absorbed in some experiment at her alchemy station. It had been easy to gather what she needed. The most unusual of the ingredients was ectoplasm, and in a stroke of good fortune he had taken a few samples during their adventures in Oblivion. Oddly enough, the most difficult thing to find was nirnroot, which usually beckoned from every moist spot in Skyrim.
Perhaps it is somehow too moist here in High Rock. And now to observe and learn. I hope this goes well.
“Excuse me,” he said quietly. “I’ve brought the ingredients you require.”
Zenalata turned to him, eagerly. He had the material in his hands and had begun to reach toward her, but at the last moment inspiration struck.
I have here a unique opportunity to broaden my knowledge. It would be a shame to let it go to waste.
“But first, I hope you’ll indulge my curiosity for a moment.” The witch gave him a sour look. “Think of it as a trade: some tiny portion of your experience in exchange for my labor in retrieving what you needed.”
“Pragmatic are the civilized,” she said, frowning.
Since he couldn’t be certain what she meant, Kalaman decided she was willing to continue.”You spoke of transposing flesh and dreams. Does this involve a type of necromancy?” He held his breath, waiting for a response. I fervently hope I have not insulted her in some way.
She sneered. “If you want a change in destiny, bring me flesh – that would have some utility for those who just want results, yes? The skin of those you wish to mimic and I’ll graft it onto your shape. A new identity will be birthed. The mind is not of the same clay, so may find itself anchored to the past despite best intentions. But the deeper self? How you move and how you react – your trauma and your pleasures from the past? These will stay.”
Kalaman didn’t entirely understand, but it seemed that she described a type of magic much like that ascribed to the Sload. Like those illusionists who delve into their subjects’ minds, but somehow also use… But now is not the time. I shall ponder it later, once I have access to my library.
“Thank you. You’ve given me food for thought. Here are your ingredients.”
She took the materials from him almost hungrily, and began working with them immediately. “And so the soon to be will never be. This child will be yanked from the mothers bosom – better today than to leave it destitute and unloved tomorrow.”
“I hope you are correct. The poor young woman has only a tenuous grip on reality, I fear.”
Zenalata gave him a sideways glance, an unsettling expression on her face. “Nature does weave the saddest tales, doesn’t it?” She straightened, and moved toward the ramp up to where Denize rested. “Enough time wasted in idle thought. Time for the visceral result of our dilemma.”
A moment later, Kalaman heard her speak to the girl. “Surrender yourself Denize. Lay upon the cot, and wish for release. The torments that haunt will cease to be.”
The witch’s words had him uneasy. Maybe it was simply that her manner of speaking was so odd to begin with, he wasn’t sure; but he watched with mounting concern as the girl approached and took her place on the bedding. She looked up at Kalaman and smiled.
“I owe you my life. Forgive me for all I’ve put you through.”
He leaned down close to her and whispered. “I am increasingly unsettled by this. I’m not certain this mixture is safe for you to consume. You may be in danger.”
She shook her head. “Either way, through her getting rid of my child or my passing on, I will find peace. I just hope now, since I’ve made it this far, that it’s the former.” With that, she took the mixture the witch offered, and drank it eagerly.
Zenalata spoke again: and as she did so Kalaman’s hair nearly stood on end. Her voice had taken on an odd, almost dual quality, as though two beings spoke through her singular vocal cords. Alarmed, reflexively, he gathered magic into cupped palms.
It’s too late; the girl has consumed the potion and nothing I can do will stop its effects!
“How can few shepherd many; a blanket of illusion keeps the lambs warm at night. Life is simple, life is just. Shrink back to your hole, child. Such godly matters aren’t for you.”
Denize’s eyes widened. “Gods! I feel sick!”
The strange dual voice continued. “Want, desire, dream. Ambition unfurled. We are all pulled towards our ideal.” She raised her arms in supplication. “And may the souls be parted!”
There was a loud blast of the same red, wrong energy Kalaman had encountered so often here. Denize convulsed and then collapsed, hanging over the edge of the cot, clearly dead. A beast howled. And before Kalaman could do much more than raise his arms, Zenalata cast a shock spell at him. It stung, but his gear’s enchantments kept him largely undamaged as he ran up to the higher ground and spun to conjure a wraith. Below, Zenalata battled a large spider, attacking her seemingly out of nowhere.
I should be confused, but I’m not. That spider says that Namira is involved with this as in the Scuttling Void!
He thought he also heard movements behind him, but there was no time to investigate. As the spider, overpowered, crumpled to the floor the wraith demanded Zenalata’s attention with lightning. He slipped to the right behind a large stone painted with Witchman symbols, and cast fireballs at Zenalata’s back, trapping them behind her ward spell. She did not cry out, but he knew she was burning.
The wraith dissipated. Zenalata moved out into the open, magic at the ready. Kalaman snarled and conjured another wraith, leaping down behind the witch’s alchemy station just ahead of an ice spike. He heard the beast howling again, but couldn’t see what or where it was as he scrambled down the rocks and back to the base of the ramp. To his amazement, Zenalata was casting the same sort of dual magic that the Last King of the Ayleids had used in the Scuttling Void.
Is that what it is, some sort of dual entity in the body of this woman?
Kalaman wasn’t the most powerful of the College mages, and they weren’t the most powerful of his flame spells, but he could cast fireballs with both hands, over and over again before the target had the slightest chance to react, and without badly depleting his magicka. The wraith fought as well, her energy spells crashing against Zenalata’s strange bolts of power and negating them. And he thought – though he couldn’t look, for fear of losing his advantage – that other attacks came from above the wraith, based solely on the direction of Zenalata’s gaze.
As suddenly as she’d begun attacking, Zenalata crumpled to the floor, dead. There was another howl, another red explosion, and the place went quiet.
“I’m so very sorry, Denize,” he murmured to the poor girl’s body. “I had hoped for a far better outcome.”
“I also regret what happened,” a voice came from above.
Kalaman jumped, prickles of alert and dismay running up and down his spine. He kept his magic at the ready and moved slowly up the ramp. “Who’s there?”
And then he gasped.
There was a witch standing there. Or at least she was dressed like a witch, the slight skins and feathers favored by the Witchmen and the Forsworn barely disguising what he could only describe as a perfectly delectable body. She had light brown hair in a swept-back style that just touched her shoulders, piercing eyes of a color something between sand and unpolished bronze, and deep red lips. She had the stature of a Breton, and even as a mixed race mer he towered over her.
But her skin. That was the thing that made Kalaman’s mouth go dry. She was a hue that defied description. It wasn’t grey, exactly, nor the blueish shade some Dunmer took, nor was it the sandy color some Altmer wore. And yet it was all of them at the same time. And it shone, reflecting back the light in ways that made him want nothing more than to touch it. Kalaman couldn’t quite form the thoughts in his mind. Instead, he swallowed several times, knowing that whatever he said would likely be inappropriate.
“You’re a Witchman? Why are you not attacking me?”
She looked at him with an expression that said it would take a great deal more than a gaping mage to ruffle the feathers she wore. “I am no Witchman,” she said calmly, “but was here to study under Zenalata. She knew the magic of dreaming far better than those mages in my home. It is always wise to dress as those in your surroundings do, even when your people traditionally eschew clothing.”
Kalaman blinked, willing himself to stop picturing that. It wasn’t hard to imagine, given the extent to which her shape was on display, and yet… His mind snapped back to the issue at hand, its confusion demanding answers.
“Your people? Are you… Dunmer?”
She laughed: a pleasant sound carrying no hint of sarcasm. “No, fellow mage. I am Kothringi.”
Kalaman’s eyes widened yet again. Kothringi were extinct according to common knowledge, and had been since the sixth century of the Second Era. And yet – examining her once more he saw what his mind had been struggling to understand. Her color shifted with the light, and reflected a silvery luster not because she was Dunmer but because it was, at least partially, metallic.
“How can that be?” he said quietly. “How can you be Kothringi, when everything written about the race says that it has been extinct since the Knahaten Flu pandemic in the Second Era?” The Flu had been an enormous catastrophe for Tamriel, having arisen mysteriously in Black Marsh and wiping out most of the human slave populations there, of which the Kothringi were one.
She smiled. “Do your texts also tell of the Crimson Ship, mage?”
“Of… of course they do,” he stammered. “All aboard the ship died when they were denied entry into Hammerfell, and all who saw the ship also died.”
“That is correct. But what your books do not tell you, mage, is that a ship escaped not long before that. My grandmother – so many grandmothers ago that I cannot count them – was a wise woman. She saw signs of the impending doom and brought all who would listen to ships that sailed west, past Hammerfell, and up into the Iliac Bay just as far as they could go. Most of those perished along the way, caught by the rocks and the tides. But one, bearing a tiny number of us, made it here to the far extent of the river, to the roots of the Dragontail Mountains. So the story has been told through the ages since.”
This is incredible. But…
“But how can this be? Surely there is a population that the priests and scribes would have seen, and recorded.”
She gave him another smile, this one tinged with sadness. “Because there were so few of us, there were many who mingled with the Bretons here in High Rock. So…” She looked him over and nodded. “I am Kothringi, in the same way that you are Altmer. And I may well be the last of my kind.”
He felt himself flushing. “But I’m not… Oh. I see. You are correct; I am an Altmer and Bosmer mix. With all the drawbacks inherent to being a half-breed.”
She nodded again. “And thus, while it is a shame that Denize’s child will never be born, perhaps it is for the best. But come, tell me about yourself, mage.” She took a seat and beckoned him to have one as well.
“Kalaman,” he said. “Kalaman Jorus. And you are?”
“I am Vehza.”
Vehza, the Last Kothringi. I must learn all there is to know about this woman.
They sat, and talked of magic until at last it occurred to Kalaman that he needed to report Denize’s passing to the Imperial soldier who had, to his credit, displayed a great deal of concern and care toward the poor girl. He rose, slowly.
“It is my fondest wish to speak at far greater length with you, Vehza. But I must alleviate the worry of the man who sent me here. It is far past time that I left. And after that,” he added ruefully, “I’m afraid I must return to Skyrim. I have duties there that have been neglected for far too long, and while I left the College in eminently capable hands, I…”
Vehza’s eyebrows rose. “The College? Are you from Winterhold?”
Damn. How did I make such a mistake! I am acting like a fool in the presence of a beautiful woman, no better than my cousin Rumaril.
He took a deep breath and expelled it as he nodded. “Yes, and I should not have let that slip. Nobody here in the Reach knows who I am aside from my name.”
She smiled at him again, and he thought he caught a sparkle of excitement in her gaze. “If you left someone in charge, that must mean that you are the Archmage. Don’t look so surprised,” she added when his own eyebrows rose. “We live simply, but we are not savages. Still, I have always wished to travel to the seats of magic outside this province. I have much to learn. If you would have me, I would accompany you. There is nothing left for me here.”
Kalaman found his pulse quickening. “I would enjoy your company a great deal. Only…” He waved at her desperately minimal clothing, and blushed furiously when she laughed.
“Of course. Give me a moment.”
Kalaman turned his back, not knowing quite what he should do. It wasn’t as though he’d never been around women, but never had he known one whose every ancestor preferred to be without clothing, and he did not want to offend her lest he lose the chance to learn more about her. He heard her rustling about for a few moments, and then heard a chest’s hinges squeaking as it closed.
“Better?” he heard Vehza ask, and he turned to find her dressed in a set of armor that, while it was still revealing, was a complete set that would never have her mistaken for a witch. “And my cape – should we be in some place that prefers their women to be swathed from head to foot I can pull it around me. As I said, we are not savages and I hope not to rouse the ire of anyone we might meet.”
“It’s perfect,” Kalaman replied. “Let us be on our way.”
At Deepcrag, the officer took one look at Kalaman and frowned. “Bad news?”
“I’m afraid that the witch lived up to her reputation. I thought things were going well, but the mixture she had the poor girl consume killed her. As best I understand it the witch believed that she could transfer the child from Denize to herself. When that failed, she turned on me. Both of them are dead now.”
“I really don’t know why I got my hopes up,” the officer sighed. “Why were you so ready to trust someone who dabbles in dark magic?”
Kalaman frowned. “I am also a mage. I thought I could read her intentions. Apparently I was wrong.”
“Denize was in no state of mind to make such choices!” His shoulders drooped. “But in the end, who am I to rob someone of their agency. I just had the hope that it could turn out… differently.”
“As did I,” Kalaman said. This man had grown attached to Denize. That’s as plain as day. What a shame for all concerned; and yet for tragedy it pales in comparison with what happened in Arnima.
And so it was that, late on the following day, Kalaman Jorus, Archmage of the College at Winterhold and Vehza, the Last Kothringi, approached the city of Markarth.
“I promise,” she said. “Once I have exhausted the patience of Markarth’s court mage I will make my way east.”
“Find me at the College,” Kalaman said, finding that he was unreasonably happy about the prospect of showing her his world. “Don’t be alarmed if you’re challenged. I’ll tell them all that I am expecting a diplomatic mission from High Rock. Just let them know that you are the diplomat.”
“I will,” she said. “I look forward to seeing you again.”
Kalaman smiled for the entire duration of his carriage ride back across Skyrim.