Pearl-Knight

by niemals_etwas

Summary:

"Resdaynia is fallen ill, and I have no time for one more imaginary analogy of an unknown incident. Here, take this."

-- from the Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec, Sermon Thirty

Chapter 1: house of troubles

Revyn Sadri -- a Dunmer merchant of modest reputation outside of the Grey Quarter -- was a scrupulous and pious member of his race, and in most things fairly orthodox. Those meeting him for the first time found him difficult to parse, for while he was well-spoken and diplomatic, he seemed ill at ease when talking to anyone longer than it took to conclude a deal or negotiate a good price. Those who had known him longer and better would usually remark that he'd mellowed with time, and attributed this to his marriage and leaving Windhelm behind. 

The ranks of the Dunmer in that city were close, but a result of this closeness was how the great loss was felt more acutely: the bitterness of the refugee, the ache in the hearts of those made outlanders. It might have killed Sadri, as it had so many of his kith and kin, but then a sharp-eyed stick-thin Wood Elf of no consequence or standing began slinking into his shop with trinkets and odds and ends of surprising quality, and one day slunk into his bed, and now he was very nearly respectable and almost whole, if any Dunmer could be said to be whole after the Red Year.

No little thing to be married to the Last Dragonborn, though marriage outside of the ranks of his people was dicey, especially to a Bosmer, and especially considering the singularly-perplexing entity known as Vanthis. In the early days of their courtship -- before Sadri figured out why she kept buying kettles and used boots from him while clad in gilded armor and armed with a Daedric bow -- she had nearly caused him to grind his teeth to powder with her nonsensical suppositions and wretched grasp of exchange rates. Lately acquitted of the Valenwood, in some kind of unspecified trouble with the Thalmor and barely cognizant of Imperial mores, much less Nord traditions, even less of Dunmer sensibilities, she would talk his ear off with wordplay and speculation and half-truths while grinning in a disconcerting, slightly feral manner. Sadri often opined in the New Gnisis Cornerclub that Vanthis must've been the result of a bet made between Hircine, Sanguine, and Sheogorath that Mephala had somehow scuttled through a skooma bender. 

Mephala's web was a strange one, to be sure, as Sadri eventually found his pulse quickened with anticipation rather than dread at the sound of those sharp knuckles rapping a chipper tattoo on his doorpost, unable to resist a smile at the idiot outpourings of Vanthis's perfect (if slightly fanged) mouth. His venerable ancestors must have screamed the ash loose from their tombs when he leant to kiss her over the countertop one bitter cold morning, and possibly those screams were enough to unearth Vivec City after what she'd promptly done to him on a pile of wolf skins, wooden ladles, and dogeared copies of the Charwich-Koniinge Letters (Volumes Two and Four).

These same holy and excellent forebears must have given up entirely by the time they wed at the Temple of Mara in Nord custom, and subsequently had little to say of Lucia, an orphan of Cyrodilic stock plucked from the streets of Whiterun -- more was the pity, as she clung to her adoptive father as tightly as to life itself. Despite his great and confusing love for his wife, Sadri was relieved that she did not intend to raise the child in the Valenwood tradition, and he had no interest in passing along any customs of the races of Man that claimed Skyrim.  So -- being orthodox at heart, this current massive deviation from norms notwithstanding -- he had continued to venerate the Good Daedra, and to call for the intercession of the Saints, and to leave offerings for his sullen ancestors, and to sing Lucia to sleep with the old, lilting lullaby that his mother had crooned to him back in Balmora, when the world still made sense: Nerevar, Moon-And-Star . . .

And somehow this culminated in her asking Teldryn Sero if he was the Nerevarine.

 

His wife's tendency to acquire followers was nothing new. Vanthis had (somehow) (how) become a landowner and Thane in several Holds, and subsequently had housecarls that Revyn was forced to deal with on a regular basis, tramping about the place with their obtuse Nord manners when not following her out on her frequent mad errands. She also had some ambiguous connection to the College of Winterhold that occasionally meant students cluttering up their parlor and drinking the barrels dry. An Argonian miner with impeccable manners who nonetheless made Revyn uncomfortable infrequently passed through, a fellow Bosmer who seemed comparatively normal sometimes followed her in from Riverwood, and now and then an old priest of Mara showed up with unasked-for blessings. Towards these persons, Sadri kept a civil tongue in his head, but Teldryn Sero was his breaking point.

Back in Windhelm, the mercenary had been a fixture of the New Gnisis Cornerclub for several nonconsecutive years. Exactly why was anyone's guess, as he clearly did not regard himself as a member of the community and didn't seem to have any friends or relations among the refugees there. Revyn had suspected the perpetually-masked Dunmer might've been Morag Tong, or possibly a freelance assassin, and was more than a little unnerved by his presence. Nonetheless, that younger version of himself -- newly inherited of his father's store, and wishing to seem hospitable towards a prospective customer -- had approached his table with a smile and an introduction, as well as offering a bottle of Ambarys's least-appalling flin.

"I don't drink flin," was Teldryn Sero's response. "Especially not with sniveling Imperial lickspittles."

As a merchant whose family had Hlaalu affiliations, Sadri was acutely aware of his low standing in the homeland, but in Skyrim no one much cared -- indeed, the Grey Quarter's ranks skewed Dres and Hlaalu, and the hostility of the Nords papered over most differences. But Sero, bastard that he was, clearly didn't subscribe to any notions of pan-Dunmeri solidarity, or solidarity with much of anything for that matter, and would only ever make snide remarks and caustic conversation towards any unfortunate soul forced to share his corner table, if he bothered to talk to them at all. Ambarys seemed to tolerate him because of their shared misanthropy, until it came out that the barkeep had been a Legionnaire in his younger days, and then Sero had been merciless in his ridicule. Needless to say, the spellsword had never bothered to visit Sadri's Used Wares.

Periodically, the mercenary disappeared for months at a time, and it was hard not to wish he'd simply stay gone. He'd been absent a few years before the dragons returned -- Malthyr said he'd heard him talking about going back to Morrowind, and Sadri had largely forgotten about it all by the time he and Vanthis and their new daughter were living in Whiterun.  Naturally, when Revyn's wife sent word to him that she was returning from Solstheim with a surprise, he assumed it would be a crate of prize sujamma from the homeland.

There was a crate, but Teldryn Sero had drunk more than half of it. "My, haven't you done well for yourself," he drawled, slipping a flask under the crimson cloth about his neck. 

 

Vanthis's grasp on interpersonal relations was as tenuous as her grasp of common sense, meaning that she blithely assumed everything would work itself out for the best if enough cheese and alcohol were involved. She seemed cheerfully oblivious to the fact that her new companion from Raven Rock and her husband were not friends despite their shared history in Windhelm, and regarded Teldryn's barbed remarks and Sadri's strained rebuttals as quaint instances of Dunmer camaraderie instead of barely-disguised loathing.

"When's he going back to Solstheim?" Revyn asked several times that week, which Vanthis clearly thought was a joke.

"Oh, you," she'd finally said. "Let me get this house finished, first."

"The house is finished, dearest. What are you -- "

"No, the house in Hjaalmarch."

"The -- what?"

Thus it was that Revyn learned that she was building a manor in the wilds outside Morthal, despite having never worked with wood before. Thus he also learned that she had requisitioned Lydia to show her how to use lumber, meaning that Teldryn was being left behind in Whiterun in case those cultists showed up at again. To her credit, she probably did believe that she had told him all this already, but that was scant consolation to her husband. 

It would prove to be a long and dismal month. Their new bodyguard made the city guards anxious, and somehow managed to get himself banned from the Drunken Huntsman within a week, meaning that he spent most of his evenings drinking by Revyn's fire while Lucia peeked wonderingly at him from the stairs. The spellsword derived obvious pleasure in recounting the long-hidden treachery of the Ulens of Raven Rock to the girl, forcing Revyn to explain his House's unfortunate relationship with the Empire which had seen their fortunes wither. He'd managed to make a series of subtle ripostes against House Redoran in the process, but the blows didn't seem to hit the fetcher.

"He's not Redoran, I think," Vanthis said, after the manor was complete and Sero had departed. "At least, they don't treat him like one over there. Though that might just be on account of how he's a mercenary. He did say he's from Blacklight, for what it's worth . . ."

Revyn did not trust her ability to parse the manifold subtleties of Dunmer social strata but wasn't in the mood to argue. "Whatever his affiliation, I've never cared for him. He's full of himself, and I can't trust anyone who won't show his face to his own kind."

"I've never seen it either, you know," she remarked thoughtfully. "Asked him, once or twice. Always has some clever remark. Says he's worn a helmet for most of his life and he doesn't see the point in doing otherwise."

"He must be a hideous mass of scars underneath it all."

"Probably," conceded Vanthis. "He's old, anyway; likely has skin like worn boots. Not that you'd know it from how he moves."

"Hmmph." Revyn was not particularly worried on this account -- his wife, for all her quirks, had a faithful heart, and it seemed evident to everyone but her that Sero only barely tolerated her company. "I can't say I particularly enjoyed watching that s'wit skulking about, but as long as you're happy . . ."

Vanthis cackled at that, knocking back some of the Black-Briar Reserve she'd obtained under unclear circumstances and fixed him with a fond look. "Oh, don't be sore. Lydia's my good right arm before the Jarl, but she can't move quiet to save her life -- or mine. Mages are always bleeding out or getting winded. A fast, canny sort who knows his way around a spell and a blade was just what I needed, but that's all I needed from him ." Vanthis topped off her drink again, spilling wine on the otherwise-clean tablecloths that Sadri had spent the morning laundering. "Besides, I don't know what he got up to back in your time, but near as I can tell he's more celibate than a Moth Priest. Probably on account of the aforementioned age."

"He can't be older than me," protested Revyn, who had been born middle-aged. "Surely -- "

"Said he met Saint Jiub? Puts him back a bit, doesn't it?"

"He's still saying that? Oh, what a fetcher's lie."

"What, meeting Jiub or being that old?"

"Yes."

 

Vanthis's assessment of the mercenary's skills wasn't wrong, and that was what grew to torment her husband the most. Far too often in the grimmer days, Revyn's beloved had limped into his store accompanied by fresh scars and a friend or sworn companion who clearly thought the world of her but also had raised their bow or shield just a little too late, gotten lost or distracted at the worst possible moment. 

But as Solstheim kept finding ways of dragging Vanthis back east, it became evident that five hundred Septims really did buy one peace of mind. Bastard though Sero was, he proved his worthiness as a bodyguard again and again. He was fast, light on his feet, able to smell an ambush from a mile off, and more than capable of matching her relentless pace. He was scrupulous about fulfilling his contract and keeping her alive, even if he didn't seem to espouse any particularly deep loyalty or respond to claims of friendship. Fame or honor clearly bored him; a good fight and ample coin were sufficient. 

And unfortunately, even though dragons did not darken the skies the way that they had a few years ago, there was no shortage of hateful work that Vanthis seemed to get herself pulled into back in Skyrim, which meant that Sero had largely forgone waiting for work on Solstheim and began hovering around Riverwood of all places, anticipating a courier every few weeks. And that meant putting the s'wit up whenever he rolled through Hjaalmarch, and putting up with him as well. If only Sero were willing to sheathe his tongue around him, Revyn would've been fine, but the spellsword had opinions, and no particular regard for Revyn's attempts at maintaining normalcy in the home.

For as the years passed, and Runa Fair-Shield became another daughter over whom Revyn would sing the old songs, and after Vanthis to their surprise and delight bore them a son, Sadri learned how to compensate -- just -- for the eccentricities of his wife, to be the wheel's axle and hold steady as the world whirled about them, to keep the hearth and the faith and be the voice that spoke comforting things in the night. He could all too clearly remember the wailing of his own father as their ship pulled out of port and Morrowind slowly disappeared behind clouds of ash, their house forever lost, their fortunes ruined, their tombs buried under lava. Barely a teenager, Revyn had been more terrified of this loss of composure than he was of the volcano erupting, and hope seemed dead.

But his mother had rallied, and became her family's pillar of strength. Nightly, she told them the stories of the Prophet Veloth, of the great changes and upheavals of the Chimer and Dunmer peoples, and how the memory and lore they carried within them were a living link to all Morrowind. Tribulation is in our blood, she would say, and Resadyn in our hearts. We reside in fire; our Hearth is always with us. These words were still comfort, and Revyn used them to build as safe a haven as he could for his own children.

To this end, he made sure that their homes had excellent reputations and reliable folk about them. Ghorbash Iron-Hand, if an unlikely steward, was a sober-minded sort who espoused the merits of common sense. The housecarl Valdimar was as tolerable as a Nord could be, and loved the little ones as if they were his own. The worst thing Lydia ever taught them was endurance, the best thing Derkeethus showed them was foresight, the Khajiit caravans repaid hospitality with grace, and any Dunmer relations or friends passing west through Hjaalmarch swore vows of protection and kinship to all Sadri's children -- all except Sero, in spite of Vanthis's insistence on referring to him as 'your Uncle Teldryn'.

Lucia in particular trailed behind the mercenary whenever he was following Vanthis, and despite Teldryn Sero's stated disinterest in the care or education of children, the s'wit clearly derived some kind of sadistic pleasure in filling the girl's hungry ears with stories from Morrowind that her father would have to challenge. No, Balmora was not the poorest city on Vvardenfell; no, Blacklight's streets were not paved in ebony; no, guar were not capable of doing backflips; no, Saint Vivec -- that is -- the thing about Vivec -- the story about him and Molag Bal is an allegory for -- well --

"But is Muatra a real spear, or just a made-up one?" Lucia protested. "Why are you being all spluttery about this?"

"Yes, why is your dear old Papa going so red in the face?" drawled Sero, voice fairly crackling with murderous delight.  "Perhaps you ought to thump him on the back; must be choking on allegory." At which point, the otherwise-couth Revyn Sadri broke forth with such obscenities that the icon of Saint Rilms by the door fell off its hook; his punishment was remembering that Lucia was fluent in Dunmeris and would be required to unlearn many new phrases. 

Another time, the mercenary dropped in with a message from Vanthis that she'd return in a few weeks, and here were some things for Sadri to sort and sell, and oh, children, we found this in a Dwemer ruin? Yes, a mechanical spider. She wanted so very badly for you to have it, for she misses you all so damn much. Told me how important it was you all had a pet. Mother's love and all that. Yes, she said your Papa wouldn't mind. Tame? Probably. And of course the children had cried when Revyn had threatened to destroy the scuttling menace with a hammer, so now there was a clanking artifact of a vanished civilization walking into walls at all hours, trying to enact esoteric maintenances upon the manor foundations and knocking over chairs. A month later, Vanthis's first words upon returning were "That thing's here? Teldryn said he was going to flog it to Calcelmo for drinking money. Dibella's tits, why did you let it in the house?"

 

Although nominal obeisance was made to certain members of the Imperial pantheon out of deference to their adopted homeland -- Akatosh, Kynareth and Mara had pride of place on the shrine, with some Bosmeri deities that Vanthis couldn't describe to Revyn's satisfaction ringed below -- the Good Daedra held court by the hearth, surrounded by the saints appropriate to Sadri's profession and station in life. He charged himself with his brood's religious instruction, since Vanthis's ambiguous relationship to godhood meant that she was either the world's most devout atheist or its most appalling intercessor.

Runa was his little soldier, and Nord enough that she preferred Shor and Stendarr to Boethiah; he didn't take it personally. Talen, as his son by blood, should have had a better appreciation for ancestors, but their youngest child was equally as indifferent to Aedra or Daedra as the nuances of the Green Pact. His worship was of books, and the only instruction he desired was in magic.

Lucia -- who was not his favorite, because a good father did not play favorites -- hung on his every word concerning the customs and observances of Morrowind. She had memorized his father's line of descent, and his mother's, and their ties to both the Tribunal and New Temples, and where they'd come from, and when Sadri's sister Idessa had passed through for a visit, she'd been stunned and charmed to be greeted as 'Auntie' in Dunmeris by a human child whose Balmoran accent was impeccable. And Lucia was always clamoring to help her father with the duties involved with maintaining the Waiting Door, and narrated all her comings and goings to Sadri's dead in between prayers to the Saints and hymns to Azura.

Teldryn Sero had never been impressed by the child's piety, and said as much one night when Vanthis was dead asleep and the two of them were sampling some matze brought over from Raven Rock (substandard, by Revyn's lights). "It's a farce, Sadri. She's a damned human, a twice-damned Imperial by the look of her, and here you are dumping our religion between those round ears as though it's her birthright."

Revyn's eyes narrowed to slits. "Her right by adoption and name, and I charge ancestors and Azura with her safety." He gripped his tankard so tightly that his knuckles paled. "And she calls you Uncle, though I'd claim a Khajiit as a brother before you." The Damned Contraption took this opportunity to walk into the side of the table, spilling the flask of matze.

"Oh no, denied kinship underneath the Hlaalu banner! How shall my pride survive?" A noise of disgust issued from underneath the cowl. "Was there ever so brave a man as he who raises another man's bastards?"

At which point, Revyn boiled over with curses and might well have gotten himself killed, except that the giant which had been eyeing the homestead's cow for the past few weeks decided this was the time to make its move. Valdimar raised the alarm, Sero charged outside wreathed in flame and oaths, and Sadri soothed the children back to sleep -- or tried, since children are inherently murderous, and all wanted to see their protectors in action from the vantage point the balcony afforded. Their housecarl was nothing to discount, but his ice spells did little against the brute; it was Teldryn's expertly-timed fire and vicious swordplay that ended the fight in just over a minute, dodging its massive blows, closing the gap, slashing a mighty gash through the flesh of the giant and backfilling it in blood while he cursed with the ruthless gusto of a dremora.

Runa cheered the gleam of the blade, Talen insisted he be taught combat magic right that instant, but their older sister just looked as though she'd seen a ghost. "I know who he really is," Revyn heard her whispering to them as he herded the children back downstairs. 

 

 

It was only because of Lucia that any of them saw Teldryn Sero's face.

The mercenary never removed his chitin helmet, or even the goggles, and the cloth over his mouth obscured whatever underneath moved to speak or take in food and drink. It was singularly rude, as Revyn made a point of stressing to Runa when she started to do the same thing, since no less than the Dragonborn could be bothered to remove her armor (sometimes) when she sat to eat. This only made the children more eager to know what he looked like, but Sero's temperament was not geared towards humoring children -- merely entertaining them at others' expense -- so he flatly denied their requests to peek at him, and cursed them whenever they tried to catch him sleeping.

But the next evening at dinner -- family, housecarl, steward, bard, mercenary, all elbow to elbow at the long table in the dining hall, Vanthis griping about the Imperial summons that had dragged her to Solitude the previous morning -- Lucia turned to her mother's follower and said with utmost certainty, "I know why you don't take it off."

Sero, as was frequently his wont when children tried to talk to him, ignored her and poured himself more sujamma -- spilling some on Revyn's favorite tablecloth in the process -- and interjected an opinion countering Ghorbash on the likelihood of the nearby Stormcloak encampment moving any closer.

"It's so no one recognizes you," Lucia pressed. "Because they wouldn't leave you alone. They'd make you come back."

This, at least, seemed to get his attention. "I don't leave debts unpaid, whatever Mogrul says to the contrary." He slipped his cup underneath his scarf. "No outstanding warrants. And anyone calling me 'Papa' has been sorely misinformed."

"It's because you're him."

"Who," responded Sero, clearly annoyed.

Revyn began to suspect he had an obligation to steer the conversation elsewhere, but his daughter's next words outran him.  "Lord Indoril Nerevar. You're the Nerevarine."

Teldryn Sero choked on his sujamma, thrashing backwards on the bench and falling sideways into Valdimar. All conversation ceased as the Dunmer writhed on the ground like an upturned beetle, wheezing and spluttering. "The -- the -- you utter child! --" He swatted the Nord's concerned hands away, kneeling on the flagstone and emitting a sound that was disconcertingly akin to giggling, if punctuated by phlegmy coughs. "Sheogorath's beard! Well, this is disgusting -- " 

And without ceremony, as though there were nothing to it and never had been, Sero removed his spittle-fogged goggles and let down his scarf, wringing the sujamma out of the cloth and then taking his helmet off as it snagged on the edge. "The Nerevarine? Ah, Sadri, you missed your calling! Could have been a Dissident Priest, promulgating heresy the way you do." A single stripe of black hair, lustrous as an eagle's crest, was now visible, as were the long knife-tips of his ears, and the deep brows and high cheekbones of their race. He had no scars, no burns, barely a wrinkle - the only marks on his face a set of violet tattoos that curved back around his crimson eyes and down his cheeks in the cliff racer malar style, with a corresponding line bisecting his lips and leading to a sparse but well-groomed beard. It was all a bit anticlimactic, Revyn thought, and yet he felt dazed. Next to him, Vanthis dropped her fork.

"But you are," Lucia insisted. "Your sword, I saw it. It's Trueflame!"

"This?" Teldryn tapped the holstered weapon.  "Your mother found it in a Dwemer ruin, tossed it my way. Ask her."

"You bastard," clarified Vanthis in a way that clarified nothing.

"But Trueflame was made by the Dwemer! And this is a fire sword, too! Papa, you believe me, right?" Lucia turned her desperate eyes on Revyn, who suddenly felt as though all his skills with speech would never suffice to dig him out of this pit. "Papa?"

"Dear heart, I think your . . . uncle . . . is just a bit more impressive with a weapon than you're used to seeing," Sadri said weakly, aware how Teldryn's face was smirking just as insufferably as he always suspected it would. "But there's more to the legend of the Incarnate than being good with swords. If you remember -- "

"Did you know there are graves on the moon?" drawled Sero, re-wrapping his scarf under the netch leather; Revyn saw the glint of a pendant he thought he might recognize. "Ask me how I reached Heaven by violence!" He deftly picked his helmet back up, and within seconds was re-enveloped in the chitin that seemed to be his true skin. 

"You bastard," Vanthis repeated.

 

 

"That utter bastard," swore Vanthis. "Never in all our years, thick and thin -- Ius's balls, Revyn, when I had to  -- when -- when it was time to go to Sovengarde, I named him a Hunt-Brother and kinsman before all the green gods in farewell, and he didn't even take his goddamned helmet off! I thought, hah, at least he'll give me that, but instead he just says 'Thanks and good luck, and will Sadri reimburse me for the horse?'"

"He doesn't look a day over a merish eighty," Revyn said weakly. "So much for that supposed great age of his; no one's that well-preserved."

"Bastard never met Jiub, unless he'd been hitting the skooma." She tossed a pillow at the wall. "Faugh! All this time, the only thing I had to do to get the fetcher's face out from under that bug leather was to make him drink with the wrong side of his throat?" That seemed to amuse her, as she began laughing. "Funny if he really was the Nerevarine, eh?"

"He isn't. It would be blasphemy of the worst order, not to mention bad taste." Revyn buried his face in his own pillow. "Azura forgive me, how I've led my darling girl astray if she thinks that . . . n'wah could be the reincarnation of Saint Nerevar the Captain."

"Maybe he is. Doesn't look a day over eighty; said it yourself."

"Yes, dearest," responded Sadri through gritted teeth. "The inference being, your idiot companion lies about his age as well as about meeting saints."

"Probably why he wasn't impressed when I went to the realm of the dead. After you've killed gods, the afterlife must seem -- "

But this line of discussion always led to nightmares of him waking in an empty bed, so Revyn interrupted with,  "Love. Please. Sero's a cagey s'wit; nothing more than a talented thug who enjoys cultivating an air of underserved mystery."

"Can't recall seeing any Dunmer with those features. Affiliated with any of your Houses? Ashlander stock?"

"Dres, or I'm a horker's wife. Lucia got one thing right; he doesn't want to be recognized." Part of him wondered if he might've seen someone like Sero once, but it was a vague and indistinct suspicion. "Probably had some venerable ancestor who was notorious for their whip hand." 

"Shame to hide those looks," murmured Vanthis. 

"Oh, for the love of -- "

"Wonder what Sero's whip hand is like?"

"I'm sleeping in the nursery," responded Sadri, which his wife, laughing, would not allow.

 

 

The joke, as it turned out, was on Teldryn Sero, for Lucia's unshakable conviction that he must be the Incarnate spread to her younger siblings and persisted for years. At first he'd treated it as a punchline whenever he did something that amazed the children: hitting a spider with a firebolt through the mists at a thousand paces, throwing his sword through a cellar skeever without bothering to turn around, or beating Valdimar at dice.  It was bleakly hysterical if one considered that an actual demigod was wandering about their house asking if anyone had seen where she'd last put down her mug. Revyn also thought it ironic that someone with as light a step as the mercenary still ended up in so terrible a trap as the imagination of children, because while Sero soon abandoned the gag, his adoring fans did not.

Runa had questions upon questions about the wars the Chimer and Dwemer waged against her blood ancestors, wanting to know how Nerevar convinced Dumac to fight with him. Talen, who was probably going to come to a bad end if his father didn't pray for the intercession of the Saints at every waking hour, wanted to know what Sero had done with Wraithguard, and could he borrow it? And Keening? And how big had the Heart of Lorkhan been, and was the metal god of Dagoth Ur really destroyed completely, or could someone maybe dig it up again? And if they did --

But the thing that seemed to irk the spellsword most was the rapt wonder that Lucia exhibited in his presence, almost like a girl in love (she wasn't that age yet, Sadri repeated to himself endlessly, not his little girl, fourteen years is still a little girl). She kept shooting him furtive looks, shadowing his footsteps, and clearly treating the mercenary's every action as though it had some secret, mystic relevance to the chain of prophecy. And so Lucia whispered and wondered aloud to her siblings and put-upon father: the Nerevarine had met Jiub, the Nerevarine couldn't age, the Nerevarine helped found Raven Rock . . .

Teldryn was not one to bear things with good humor, and as the years dragged on he had grown notably more irritated with Lucia's fascination with him. "Why did you bother, Sadri? The boy, fine: at least he's half Dunmer, even if that half is Hlaalu. But you've no business teaching that girl our stories; they weren't meant to amuse outlanders."

Revyn sneered at that. "'Outlanders'? We're the outlanders here, s'wit, whatever airs you affected when you were jammed against the walls in Windhelm with the rest of us." He returned his attention to seasoning the soup for the evening meal. "And of course she knows Velothi ways -- was I supposed to abandon the Psijic Endeavor and start swearing by Ysmir just because my girls are human?"

"Knowing your House's gift for capitulating, I'm surprised you didn't."

Sadri hit the ladle against the side of the kettle with more force than strictly necessary and shoved the Damned Contraption away from the fireplace; it had a tendency to get stuck there. "I learned the stories of the Nerevarine at my mother's breast. They comforted me when the world fell to pieces, which is every five minutes these days. We are our ancestors' tombs." He turned to fix Teldryn, or rather, Teldryn's goggles, with a severe look. "And years back, you yourself told Lucia quite a few awkward and inappropriate stories of our homeland for your own amusement, so don't you pretend you didn't help build this fire."

"If you're saying someone should put it out . . ."

It was not for lack of trying on Revyn's part. Lucia was getting too old for these fancies -- although he still preferred dealing with this phase more than the prospect of her discovering boys -- and it wasn't dignified to ascribe mythic status to an unaffiliated nobody who was probably wanted for crimes committed back East.

"But the Nerevarine was a criminal when he was sent to Seyda Neen," Lucia protested.

"Yes, but that's not -- "

"Also, Mama was a criminal," Lucia added. "And you married her."

"Well, originally yes, but -- "

"And she's the Dragonborn."

"Yes, but -- "

 

 

Things finally boiled over one day at the beginning of Spring. The rising pressure of an early storm was giving everyone headaches. Runa and Talen had -- in defiance of multiple elders' orders -- gone mucking for clams in the freezing lake, and now were both running fevers. Ghorbash was late in returning from Morthal with fresh alchemical supplies, and Vanthis was in Dawnstar at the summons of Skald the Elder. Teldryn Sero had been left behind at Windstad, having just been paid for one job and doubtless required for another once she returned from the audience. 

The mercenary, never domestic at the best of times, was chafing to be off on the next excursion and clearly not in the mood to do anything besides depleting Revyn's special reserve of sujamma or stalking about the grounds. Lucia was nearly a reliable substitute for another adult when it came to helping Sadri manage the household, but unfortunately still enough of a child that her fancies couldn't be suppressed. She'd snuck off to watch Sero repairing one of his chitin gauntlets at the armorer's bench in the cellar when she should have been getting potatoes out of the bins, and came up giddy, insisting to the bard Sonir that she'd seen a ring on his bare finger. "I think it was Moon-and-Star!"

Sonir -- who Revyn paid handsomely to sing songs about everything but the Nerevarine, or better yet, not to sing -- had tried to distract the girl with a lesson in lute-playing, but Sero had emerged from the cellar in a foul temper, complaining that the gauntlet would have to be fixed on Solstheim. Lucia ignored her father's warning glances and giggled as though she knew a secret; the building storm-tension made this behavior that much more annoying. Revyn told her several times to stop picking at her lute and to go look after her siblings, but the process of getting dinner together proved unusually difficult, and thus the front hall was filled with some rather inept stringcraft and an amateur singer for far longer than it should have been. And then Lucia began singing a ballad of old Resdayn, twanging at the strings and warbling in a naïve fashion, and everything went to hell.

"That isn't your song. Stop pillaging and go outside," snapped Sero, gripping his flagon as fiercely as a swordhilt.

"It's pretty," she protested. "Papa taught it to me -- "

"Dearest -- " Revyn began, trying to marshal diminishing reserves of patience, but was promptly interrupted by the spellsword slamming his fist on the table.

"Who do you think stands to greet you behind the Waiting Door?" spat Teldryn in Dunmeris, the only time Sadri could ever recall him using their tongue with Lucia.  "You waste your prayers, surely as Sadri's kin wasted theirs when Cyrodiil abandoned them three times over. Not even the shades of those Imperial lapdogs are that craven, orphan." 

Lucia paled, swaying in silence before turning and running from the room, the lute clattering to the floor.

Revyn Sadri rose, blood thundering in his ears. "Teldryn Sero. Out of deference to the great aid you provide to my wife, I will not demand satisfaction for the insult you have committed in front of my ancestors' shrine. But you will apologize, and not return to this hearth without my wife present."

"Tcch." The mercenary rose sharply, grabbing the opened flask of sujamma. "Thank you for sparing me the indignity of being slapped about the face with a dishrag, merchant. When you come to your senses, you know where to find me." He brushed rudely past Valdimar, who had just come in from patrolling the grounds, and without further comment was gone.

Lucia was nearly fifteen, now, and had moved from the nursery to an alcove on the second floor. As he approached, Revyn heard stifled weeping. "Little love, don't waste your tears on the words of fetchers." He carefully maneuvered around the Damned Contraption, which was trying and failing to pick up her shoes.

"Why did you teach me all this?" Lucia glanced up from her pillow, eyes reddened in a very different way than his own. "Nerevar, Moon-And-Star . . . it's not mine, none of it, but why did you tell it all to me if it's not mine?"

Sadri sat down heavily on the chair next to her bed, remembering that long-ago night in Whiterun: a roaring as though the sky was being torn apart, townsfolk barricading the doors of the Hall of the Dead as those monstrous wings thundered outside, and a lost child -- no one's child, unlooked for and unasked for, sobbing into his tunic and clinging to him as though he were the last real thing in the world -- and his own litany against fear, whispered again and again until he was singing it as much for that child's sake as his own: Luhn-silvar, hortator, Azura'm gah'amer . . .

"It's as much yours as you are mine, my darling."  He squeezed her foot. "Dragonfire forges the strongest bonds."

"I don't even know if the ancestors listen to me," she whispered, obscuring her face back under the pillow. "Why would they. He's right. I'm no one to them." 

"Teldryn Sero has no hearth and no House and no tombs. You have me," and he grasped her foot that much tighter, "and I will always be listening for you at the Door, Sera."

A strangled sob escaped from her throat. "But I'll die before you do!"

Revyn Sadri had no answer for that; he never had.

 

 

Ghorbash arrived back at Windstad around the time that the rain started, and warning that the storm looked to be a bad one. Dinner was a decidedly muted affair, with sick or sullen children poking at their stew as their elders paced about the hall in various states of preparation. Vanthis was still absent, and Teldryn Sero had not returned to the manor. 

Revyn awoke to the screaming of the wind, and then lay motionless in bed for some time flinching as it buffeted the house. Just as he was debating whether or not to check on the children, Lucia burst into his room, exclaiming that she had been woken up by water on her face. It was fortunate that there were enough buckets in the house, since they found several other leaks, and soon Valdimar, Ghorbash, and Sonir were frantically assisting him in his attempt to head off the damage while the youngsters cowered by the fireplace.

But just as the Damned Contraption overturned another pail and the wind reached a fever pitch, a new sound reverberated throughout the foundations of the house, shaking the timbers with its all-encompassing roar. The rain quickly slackened off, the storm abating. Moments later, the door to Windstad Manor slammed open, revealing a sodden, familiar figure cloaked in dragonscale armor -- and behind her, another clad in chitin.

"Mama's home!" exclaimed Runa.

The rest of the night was punctuated by the constant sound of dripping, the occasional resurgent gust of wind, and at least two more instances of the Voice being used to quell a downpour as Vanthis perched like a crow atop the library tower, glaring down the elements. Revyn Sadri lay with his head underneath a pillow, the other half of the bed occupied by feverish children kicking the sheets loose. Teldryn Sero helped himself to another flask of sujamma and disappeared into the cellar; it could be supposed that he, at least, slept.

 

 

The damage to Windstad Manor's roof was considerable, and with the spring storms only just beginning, repairs would have to be made as swiftly as possible. The next few days were a flurry of activity: clearing the grounds, rounding up a traumatized cow, moving the broken branches and downed logs from the ground, and starting the thankless work of cutting shingles with very little lumber. Sonir was sent to the Morthal sawmill, only to return complaining that the roads were washed out, giants and thieves were taking advantage of the chaos, and also that Jorgen had already promised what he had to the Jarl.

A stratagem emerged: housecarl, steward, Dragonborn and husband would set to work with what lumber they had, Sonir would take the horse to Solitude to place orders and recruit help, Lucia would look after the meals and her siblings, and Teldryn Sero would guard the roads for the usual fee. It was a difficult undertaking for Revyn Sadri, who had no skill with a saw and a fear of heights, and after hitting his fingers with a hammer three times in one evening he reflected that Dunmer had even less business building wooden structures than Bosmer. Vanthis, for her part, was inexplicably good at carpentry for someone who had been a devout adherent of the Green Pact until late in life, but managed to drop tools off the roof with exasperating frequency. Valdimar himself fell off several times.

Lucia rose to the challenge of managing the house, but even with Revyn's preoccupations he couldn't help but notice that the Waiting Door had not been maintained to his usual standards, and that the various annals of Morrowind that always cluttered her bedside seemed to have been quietly returned to the library, and that she answered him in Nibenese rather than Dunmeris, and did not sing. None of these changes were as pressing as the roof, but they sharpened his resolve to have a word with Vanthis in regard to her favored spellsword. 

Unfortunately, Teldryn Sero was proving to be a vital component in stabilizing their homestead in the wake of the storm. Often in the middle of work, Revyn would catch the sounds of battle from the southwest area of the marshes: bellowing, explosions, hissing atronachs, mighty crashes. Yet every evening Sero would saunter back like a barn cat wanting his allotted cream, bloodied but unbeaten, sometimes tossing a giant's toe in the direction of the alchemy table. "Nothing I haven't dealt with before," he responded to Ghorbash's slightly concerned queries, pouring himself more sujamma while Lucia slunk from the room. 

And that was the rub, Sadri reflected bitterly: if he told his wife of Sero's vicious words towards himself and their daughter, she would demand an apology from him, and Sero never apologized for anything. So Vanthis would likely dismiss him permanently from service, and that in turn would mean that all the nightmare things that stalked her would find it that much easier to bring her down. The mercenary's abilities were too valuable to risk losing, but while Revyn had resigned himself to suffering indignities on behalf of his wife's safety, it felt like a betrayal to expect the same of Lucia.

 

 

But after a long week of constant work and cursing, Windstad Manor was once again watertight - perhaps more so than it was before, since Vanthis's initial construction had been less informed on the placement of shingles. Everything was more or less back to normal. A celebration of sorts seemed in order, so Sadri busied himself in the kind of work he vastly preferred to home repair. He bartered for a suckling pig, broke open a cask of aged flin, and laid the best linen on a table laden with everything savory and decadent that could be made or obtained on short notice. As much as Revyn disliked cooking, he'd never been bad at it, and perhaps basked a little in the adulation of his kin and retainers as they devoured the feast (Sero said the pork was dry). 

It was a fairly upbeat affair. Ghorbash and Valdimar debated what next steps of home maintenance should be undertaken, Sonir praised Solitude's robust supply chains, Vanthis did some unflattering impersonations of the Jarl of the Pale, Talen tried to jam a fork through the Damned Contraption's dynamo core, and Teldryn Sero announced that if he wasn't needed, he was heading back to Solstheim to get his armor properly overhauled. The children demanded that he stay -- except for Lucia, who Revyn observed slinking into Ghorbash's shadow, silent.

The evening deepened and stomachs grew full. As was inevitable, Vanthis stood up after her fourth or seventh cup of ale and began speechifying, eventually managing to thank all present for their contributions to the restoration of the manor while forking over generous amounts of coin as well. "And that goes for my little loves, too -- here, for keeping the house so well and being so good while we were all busy -- wait. Where's Lucia?"

Runa shrugged, wide eyes fixed on the ebony dagger that her mother had just handed her. "I think she went to bed."

"What? This early?" Vanthis shot Revyn a look of concern, which seemed somewhat misplaced in light of her questionable gifts. "You don't think she caught their fever, do you? She's seemed out-of-sorts lately."

Her husband sighed, attempting to remove the dagger from Runa's enthralled grasp. "She's . . . she's had a lot on her mind, I think. It's a hard age." It took everything he had not to glare at Teldryn Sero, who had wandered across the hall to rummage in one of the drink barrels. 

"Well, we ought to see if she wants to hear stories. It's a night for stories, isn't it?" She raised her tankard -- spilling most of it on Revyn -- and gestured at their bard. "Sonir! Sing us a good one!"

"We've heard all those," moaned Valdimar. "Ghorbash, you must have a decent story from your time in the Legion?"

The old steward shook his head. "Excellent fighting, but I don't tell those tales to children before bedtime."

"I thought your folk don't believe in coddling the young," drawled Sero, ambling past with yet another of Sadri's prized flasks of sujamma.

"We don't, but I sleep in the nursery. Last thing I want is these bloodthirsty little skeevers keeping me up with questions all night."

"Well, I could always spin a tale or two," Vanthis said, spreading her arms unsteadily. "Did I ever tell you about how I met the Daedric Prince Sanguine?"

Her bard's brow furrowed, as did her husband's. "Er. Is that the one where you might have . . . married a Hagraven, my lady?"

"Could've done worse," chortled Teldryn Sero, and raised his tankard in ironic salute to a fuming Revyn. "Well. I'll do the honors, shall I?"

"I don't want to hear about that client of yours with the deathwish, again," Valdimar responded, ripping off a hunk of bread. "It gets old."

"Oh, this isn't a story any of you would have heard before," the mercenary countered, settling into the good chair by the fire. "At least, I'd be shocked if you had. A story of old Morrowind, in the days before Red Mountain erupted." He shot a warning glare at Runa and Talen, their mouths already opening. "No, the Nerevarine is not in it."

"Well, then we really should get Lucia down -- " began Vanthis, but Revyn quietly shook his head. She gave him something of a questioning look, but assented. "All right. A yarn of old Morrowind. Not one of the dirty ones, is it?"

"No. Approved safe for general consumption by the standards of the Tribunal Temple."

"So were the 36 Lessons of Vivec," protested Sadri. 

"Don't know why I thought it was the Orc turning the children into milk-drinkers. Rest assured, Serjo, the worst challenge to your sensibilities in this tale will be that no one mentions the Empire." Sero propped up a leg against the Damned Contraption, which was whirring quietly on the flagstones. "And possibly some light heresy, for flavor."

"Charming," sighed Revyn, and silently apologized yet again to the relics of his ancestors ringed about the fireplace. "We really get our money's worth from you, don't we."

"Worth every Septim," replied the masked Dunmer. "'In that Age, in those days, was an Ordinator . . .'"

Notes:

Revyn's own age does not sync up with the 4th Era timeline; a fact I noticed months after publication. I blame temporal instability from an undisclosed Dragon Break.

Chapter 2: the worthy man of the tower

In that Age, in those days, was an Ordinator: one of the indigo-clad House of Indoril, hailing from a city by the Dunmeth Pass. His sword arm was keen, his fire bright, he knew the Benediction of Saint Olms better than his own face, over which was worn the Hortator's visage at all times. The Ordinator's Order was that of the Watch, and he kept things holy for the city of Mournhold. The will of the Three Living Gods found perfect expression though his acts, and justice did not sleep when he was awake.

One other thing he had in common with Lord Nerevar: he was in love with the Great Lady Almalexia.

Fools use words to describe a sunset, or numbers to encircle the sky-vault's dimensions, or their voices for prayer; what can be said of Almalexia?  Exalted fury, glimmering flame, Snake-Who-Eats-The-Snake, Mother Morrowind, all-fire, all-mercy. She was the wisdom Lord Nerevar took to wife, holiest of those that reclaim their days. She had the love of all Resdayn. How could she not? She was the Lover. The Warrior-Queen unmatched in battle, Anticipation of Boethiah --

 

 

"The what of Boethiah?" Ghorbash interjected. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're familiar with our worship of the Good Daedra? The inverse of that, in the heretical Tribunal days," Revyn clarified. "I can't help but think there's rather a lot of description of sunsets in this broadside against the description of sunsets, incidentally."

"A stylistic conceit," drawled Sero. "I'm allowed?"

"Go on, then -- "

 

 

All things in the City of Light and Magic strained to watch the Lady of Mercy, much in the way the faces of flowers follow the path of the sun. If the Ordinator watched more closely than others, who can say? Certainly one who loves sees subtleties that others will not. Or is blinded to other things, but that kind of love is more profane than what the Ordinator felt in his breast.

On one holy day, the Feast Day of Saint Felms the Bold, it was known that Almalexia blessed all who passed through the Great Bazaar, and it was through Her compassion that one would be cured of any ailment. Every person within the city's walls, and many from without, filtered into that place and made obeisance before Her. The Order of the Watch were stationed at each street and plaza to direct the pilgrims and to stop those with evil in their minds. Though dedicated to his task, the Ordinator could not help but steal many glances at Mother Morrowind, who was in all things perfect. Her hair was red flame, Her lustrous golden body gleaming with divinity bright as Her armor. For the occasion of this feast day, She wore a crown of linked chains, a cloth woven from starlight, and a strand of pearls that coiled three times around the length of Her flawless neck, nacreous and glowing as the Chimer queen's own perfect skin.

Perhaps a dereliction of the Ordinator's duty to watch Her more closely than the footpads and scum that came to the Bazaar to take advantage of the throngs, though if he had not, there would be no story.

 

 

Here the mercenary paused to shift his tankard underneath his facecloth, slurping rudely. "Events, prophecy, the hero. You know. That rot."

"We really should get Lucia," remarked Vanthis, looking towards the staircase. "She'd love to hear this -- "

"Later," her husband said in an undertone, mindful of the silence upstairs. "I hope you remember this story shouldn't trend towards the obscene, Sero."

"Says the man with a full set of unexpurgated Biographies of Barenziah." Teldryn scoffed. "Have no fear, Serjo. No sex, merely violence."

"Good," said Runa, serenely. "More story, please!"

"Those are mine," muttered her mother.

 

 
For as he watched Almalexia bestow mercies on the crowd, the Ordinator became aware of a sudden scrabbling movement. He raised a cry to his brethren that the Lady was about to be infringed upon, but the scamp that had been sidling up to Her was faster than they. With its grasping talons, it lunged at Her necklace of pearls, shrieking a cowardly cry of dismay when its claws severed the string and the pearls flew loose.

But the Great Healer smiled, and blessed the scamp for its desire to see Her so closely, whispering a divine benediction to accompany the thrust of Hopesfire. And the faithful cried aloud in amazement, for the scamp was revealed to be none other than Vivec, Warrior-Poet, Anticipation of Mephala, trickster god-king and lover of Almalexia, who transfixed every pearl in mid-air and began a discourse with Her on the manifold natures of deceit and piety. Many were confused and overjoyed. At the end of the sermon, through the will of one or both of the gods, each pearl restrung itself upon the thread, and all was made perfect, and great healing was done, and all intoned the blessed name ALMSIVI.

But the Ordinator was not at peace, for he had seen a single pearl roll away.

 

 

"I thought you said Almalexia was married to Nerevar?" protested Talen.

"She was." Their narrator took another pull of his drink. "But he was dead. Eternity has some long nights, I'd reckon."

"Saints aren't supposed to kiss people," Runa complained. "Especially if they're married people, and probably double if they're married saints."

"The Tribunal weren't saints, yet; they were gods. And gods do whatever they want. Especially Vivec, but make sure you ask your dear old Papa for those stories."

"You mentioned a pearl," replied Sadri through gritted teeth.

 

 

The Ordinator did not go to the feasts that night, nor did he join with the rest of his Order in celebration, but endlessly swept the Bazaar for the missing pearl. It pained him that something that had nestled at the breast of a living god might be trodden into the dirt, or caked in mud until it dissolved, or touched by sewage, or hocked by venal merchants. It was Hers, and therefore Her, and he would see it safe. He interrogated the shopkeeps, the beggars, the footpads -- all quaked before him, but none had the gem. 

Finally, when it was past midnight and he was debating whether or not to enlist his fellow Ordinators in the search, he heard a strange sound -- the reviled sqwawk of a cliff racer. Looking up, he saw one perched on a low canopy and silhouetted against the nearly-full Masser. It was unusual to see one this far from Vvardenfell, much less as night, and the Ordinator suspected the hand of Destiny -- or wicked mischance -- was at play. The foul beast was ripping into something it had found-- a rat, by the look of it -- and eating it noisily. Just as it tossed its hateful head back to swallow the remains of its carcass, the Ordinator saw something gleaming like a second moon within the rat's mouth before the cliff racer's own throat consumed it: it had choked on a pearl.

 

 

"So much for keeping it undefiled," remarked Vanthis, kicking the Damned Contraption away from the fireplace. "I think I'd just cut my losses at that point."

Ghorbash grunted. "That reminds me -- been hearing noises in the cellar again. Might want to look into that."

 

 

The Ordinator immediately attempted to catch or slay the beast, but in defiance of everything known about cliff racers, this one was in no mood to stay and fight. It screeched and flew off, perching on a different roof. The same thing happened when he got close again -- it decamped to another roof, or spire, or buttress, or anything to get away from the Ordinator's grasp. Its left wing had a long, silver scar of a badly-healed injury; small wonder it was reduced to eating carrion and could not fly far -- but it could fly far enough to elude him. Eventually, it led him out of the Bazaar, and through Plaza Brindisi Dorom, and then outward past the inner walls of Mournhold, through the lower wards and slums, and finally to the very edge of the city, where it turned towards him one last time, shrieked a curse, and flew off to the north, towards the coast.

Cursing and raging, the Ordinator followed on foot for an entire day, always attempting to keep the cliff racer in sight. He followed the road where he could, but often was led across fields and streams as the beast tried to escape into the wild. Finally, it outpaced him and was flying over the Inner Sea while he was still miles from the shoreline.

 

 

"I thought Saint Jiub killed all the cliff racers," protested Talen.

"On Vvardenfell, sure. But that was much later." Sero leaned forward to put a poker in the fireplace. "This story is set well before that."

"So why weren't they all over Mournhold, then?"

"Didn't like the cities on the mainland."

"Why not?"

"Who knows?" scoffed Teldryn Sero. "Nothing vermin do ever makes sense."

 

 

With the creature going home to roost in Vvardenfell, it would become impossible for the Ordinator to catch up in time. Boats were too slow, and magical intervention would only take him to a shrine or town -- useless, when one was tracking prey upon the wing. It was already approaching sunset, and cover of night would allow the silver-scarred beast to disappear. This meant drastic action, and thus he set his path towards Tel Druhn, an outpost of House Telvanni.

 

 

Teldryn Sero paused, tapping a log with the poker. "I assume you all know who House Telvanni are?"

"Wizards!" Runa exclaimed.

"A passel of vindictive taskmasters with too much time on their hands," growled her mother.

"Both right," Sero allowed. "The great Mage-Lords of Morrowind -- bunch of fractious lunatics and perverts. Excellent architects, but no regard for the practical uses of magic." He set the poker back down. 

Revyn sniffed. "As opposed to exactly two uses, both involving fire?"

The goggles leveled their unblinking stare on the other Dunmer. "Two more than you know, merchant."

"I'm going to join House Telvanni when I grow up," announced Talen, and was promptly informed otherwise by all adults present.

 

 

Tel Druhn was an ancient Velothi tower whose inhabitants were rarely seen and who offered few services. But the Ordinator reckoned that if anyone could get him to overtake the cliff racer, it would be a wizard. He approached Tel Druhn's slanting tower with caution, however, for while the Telvanni would respect the station of a servant of the One True Faith, it would be dangerous to disclose the reason for his pursuit -- a god-touched jewel would present a tempting prize for unscrupulous sorcerers. And the closer he came, the more it seemed like a ruin, with only a few ragged banners of the House crest fluttering by the wayposts, and a stale air pervading in spite of the sea breeze. There was a red glow in the top of the tower, but no stairs or conveyance to that level.

"In the name of the Tribunal, I request audience with the master of this tower," bellowed the Ordinator, and was met with silence. He tried again, and debated whether or not he should attempt the hundred-foot climb or just find a harbor town. But then the last of the sunset disappeared beneath the horizon, and suddenly the red glow moved away from the topmost window. Shortly, there was a door where none had been before, and a beautiful woman.

 

 

"A Dunmer woman?" asked Vanthis.

"I said beautiful, didn't I?"

She cackled.

 

 

"It has been many years since I laid eyes upon an Ordinator," the woman said in a voice low and sweet, but strangely hollow. "How is it that a servant of the Living Gods finds his way to my doorstep?"

"My mission is holy, but time is of the essence. My quarry makes for Vvardenfell over the Inner Sea. If you are Telvanni, you have the means for me to overtake it."

She threw back her head and laughed. "Once I was of that great House, but I keep my own counsel and follow my own charter." The woman moved closer to the Ordinator, looking him up and down. "Yet I possess those things which would be helpful to you. What will you give me for them?"

"Gratitude, as befits those who act in concord with the Divine Will."

She laughed again; it was a beautiful sound, but somehow dry in the middle. "Divinity fails to impress me." She was standing very close to him, now; he smelt strong perfume, sickly-sweet and resinous. Though of the same race as the Ordinator, her ashen skin had a sheen of paleness to it that gleamed oddly in Azura's twilight. "But mystery intrigues me. I have never seen the face of one such as you."

The Ordinator unsheathed his sword. "And I had never seen one of your kind, but I know what you are, blood-eater."

The woman bared her teeth in a smile. "How delicious! One who must do an errand for his gods, forced to accept help from one whom his faith reviles. Come, put away your sword; I do not desire your blood." She took a step back. "Though you clearly desire mine."

This was true, for the Ordinator -- like all true Dunmer, and all just folk -- reviled the undead, and those who subjugated the will of others, and that which was unclean. But the thought of Almalexia's pearl dissolving in the gut of a cliff racer tormented him more than the vermin in front of him, and he lowered his weapon.

 

 

"Did she look like the vampires in Morthal?" asked Talen of his mother.

"Love, I wouldn't know. I wasn't in this story." She glanced at Teldryn. "I assume I'm not, anyway? Feels as though I get pulled into a lot of stories, lately, even things I wasn't alive for  --"

"Do all vampires look the same?"

"I haven't seen all vampires."

Revyn thought he might have heard a floorboard creak somewhere directly overhead, and not wishing to draw attention to the sound said,  "Well? Faced with this conflict of morals, what does our heroic Ordinator do?"

 

 

"I have many spells at my disposal," the woman continued, tossing back her blood-red hair. "But gold means little to me, and in any case I doubt you have enough. Will you show me your face, Ordinator?"

At this he hesitated, for he knew that the gaze of her kind had power to compel. Behind the Golden Mask of Devotion, he was protected. "There is nothing to see."

"Take care that this is not prophecy. Well, will you tell me your name?"

But a vampire can do all sorts of damage with a name, thus he said, "I am Mother Morrowind's loving son: no more, no less."

She bared her teeth at the mention of Her, and asked, "Give me an accounting of yourself, then."

A history is as dangerous as a name, even if unmarred by incident. "I was born on the northern mainland and I serve the Order of the Watch in Mournhold; that is all."

The woman spat. "Very clever, my shining friend. You will give me nothing of power, so nothing of power will I give you."

 

 

Runa turned to look at her mother, concerned. "Mama, did you have to be this careful when you met the vampires?"

Vanthis paused in the act of trying to keep the Damned Contraption from digging a hole in the floor. "I think I mostly just shot them from a distance, really. Not much talking. Some screaming."

"Speaking of vampires," Valdimar remarked, "I've heard tell they're reforming the Dawnguard -- "

"Oh, this sounds like an interesting story," Sero rasped, pouring himself more drink. "Maybe we should conclude my tale here; listen to some rumors for a bit?" The amiable Nord shook his head, and the mercenary continued.

 

 

"Nothing of power, though I have something of value," responded the Ordinator. "My blood. You say you do not desire it; I doubt you will pass it up. I will give you what I can spare, but you will not lap at me like a fly on a wound. Bring me a chalice, and I will bleed myself."

The woman seemed surprised, but the offer must have appealed to her, for she disappeared and returned with an ebony goblet and a knife. The Ordinator refused to touch the weapon, instead setting his own sanctified blade against his skin. In time, there was enough to fill the chalice, and the woman -- no longer lovely, quite hideous -- drank it whole. It was revolting to see, and even though the Ordinator had managed to avoid the worse impurity of vampirism, there was much about this that was foul. Still, a vested Ordinator is considered a faultless Hand of the Three while wearing the Hortator's visage, and he recalled the words of Vivec from the previous day's sermon in the Bazaar, where the god stated that any sacrifice made in the name of ALMSIVI was free of stain, and took comfort.

"Ah, nothing so sweet as the nectar of a thwarted saint," gasped the creature, licking the last of his blood from the cup. "Very well, tell me of your quarry and I will give you the means to bring it down."

The Ordinator -- slightly light-headed -- described the cliff racer with the silver scar, though he did not mention the pearl, and refused to explain why it was so important to catch the beast.

 

 

"All this wasn't a . . . a metaphor for anything, right?" Vanthis asked.

Somehow Teldryn's masked expression managed to convey annoyance. "No."

"Still, you've got to admit that it sounds -- "

"No, I don't."

Vanthis sighed, then leant in towards her husband. "On the subject of nectar-drinking, you're not still too sore from the shingling, are you?" she enquired in an undertone.

Revyn choked on his flin. 

 

 

"This spell will let you find the beast," the woman explained, presenting him with a scroll. "And here is another, which will allow you catch up with it in the air. It is not dissimilar to how the Telvanni reach their homes. And last, a ring: a little thing, perhaps, but you will have need of it later." She passed him a simple onyx band with Daedric script upon it. "Good hunting, holy man. Perhaps I'll be seeing more of you?"

"Pray that you do not," the Ordinator responded, and quit Tel Druhn with utmost haste. He ran to the shoreline, spoke the words to find his prey, and suddenly knew with utmost certainty where it was, as though it were his right hand or left foot. He beat a path north and east, and upon reaching a long stretch of sandbar read the words of flight. 

He was unprepared for the weightless ascent, to say nothing of the sudden acceleration. As he hurtled through the air, the Inner Sea gleaming in moonlight, he caught sight of his quarry, flying far lower than he was and much slower. Although he tried to angle himself towards the creature, his speed and trajectory would not allow him to close the gap. Now Vvardenfell was rapidly approaching, and the Ordinator realized with some concern that he was not slowing as much as he should for a safe landing --

 

 

"The ring!" exclaimed Talen. "He should put on the ring!"

Runa disagreed. "No, he should say the words of the scroll backwards."

"That's not how magic works," scoffed her younger brother.

"You don't know!"

"Were Ordinators permitted to use magic?" Revyn asked skeptically. "I honestly don't recall."

"Well, this one was using it. Not much story if he didn't," the mercenary responded. "But I can dump him in the sea if it offends Serjo's sensibilities."

"Azura forefend."

 

 

-- so, realizing that he could determine the direction of the cliff racer's flight, the Ordinator aimed for a thatched roof cottage on the outskirts of a little town in the Bitter Coast. It was a very rough landing, and the householders screamed as though a judgement was upon them.

When he returned to his senses, the bruised Ordinator demanded to know if there were any cliff racer rookeries nearby. The netchiman whose home it was begged his pardon, but explained that the beasts were rarely seen in the salt marshes. "Were I one of the vermin, Serjo, I would make for the West Gash Highlands. There's a silt strider in the nearby town that can take you to Balmora -- "

But the Ordinator had no interest in that dismal pit of avarice, and commandeered the netchiman's guar. He would continue his pursuit off of the usual roads.

 

 

"Balmora was a beautiful city," Revyn seethed.

"It certainly looks better these days -- "

"Enough." Vanthis's tone was deceptively light, but edged with steel. "Revyn says it was a beautiful city, and it doesn't figure in the story in any case. Back to the hunt." She quietly laced her fingers through her husband's under the table. "I love a good hunt."

 

 

Having requisitioned the guar and enough scrib jerky to replenish himself, the Ordinator now beat a path through the swamp. Inexorably and mysteriously, he could sense the movement of the cliff racer, arcing slowly towards the north. The sun rose and set, and still the Ordinator urged the guar onward, until they were in the highlands of the West Gash region. Finally, he sensed his prey directly above him, but the scroll of flight had disintegrated upon use and he knew of no way to bring the beast down.

There was, of course, the ring that the woman had given him. But he did not wish to put it on, for an Ordinator vests himself in the appropriate fashion with prayer and observances, and he did not trust her in any case. Then an inspiration struck him, and he strung the ring on the same chain of the ghartok pendant he always wore under his armor.

 

 

"That's some kind of bug, right?" Valdimar asked.

Teldryn Sero shot him a decidedly flat glare. "Anyone else want to hazard a guess?"

"What?" protested the Nord. "Everything you lot do is with bugs anyway -- "

"It means 'hand'," Lucia said, from just above the stairway. Revyn strained to catch a glimpse of her, but then heard her moving back towards her room. He sighed again.

"Just so," acknowledged the mercenary. "The Hand of the Tribunal."

 

 

The instant the ring touched the ghartok, it hissed furiously, black tendrils of smoke rising from its surface. After the holy symbol had done its work, there was only a silver ring in its place, with the Daedric script now in black. Before, the word had said SERVANT; now it said MASTER. The Ordinator placed it on his shield hand, over a gauntleted finger. Suddenly -- just as he had come to know where the cliff racer was -- he knew how to summon an atronach of fire, and pulled one from Oblivion to do his bidding. 

 

 

"What would have happened if he'd put it on when it was black?" Talen asked.

Sero shook his head. "Are you sure you're cut out to be a wizard?" 

 

 

The flame-wreathed atronach flung firebolt after firebolt into the night sky as the Ordinator sensed his quarry panicking above him. Suddenly, there was an agonized screech, and he knew the beast had been killed. Yet, where would the body land? He spurred the guar onward, scanning the sky for the sign of a falling corpse. So intent was he on this, he did not notice that something was wrong until his steed wailed in pain and he was thrown from the saddle. Arrows embedded themselves in his armor, and the faithfully-trailing atronach dissipated in smoke.

The Ordinator quickly came to his wits and took stock of the situation. He had stumbled across one of the ancient abandoned strongholds of the Dunmer people, which are often overrun with bandits; this one was in a pocket of desert ringed by the highlands, and infested with the fetchers. The Ordinator realized that they had the advantage of numbers, so he slunk off and hid nearby as they came to inspect the dead guar.

Their leader -- a scoundrel clad head-to-toe in leather and chitin -- kicked the poor beast's corpse. "Spread out and find the n'wah who rode this. Be careful; he might be a mage." The thief turned and began walking back to the fortress. "I want a closer look at that fried cliff racer that caved in old Revyn's head."

 

 

"Oh, really now," protested Sadri. "Of all the names you could have given a bandit -- "

Teldryn held up his gloved hands. "That was his name. A fairly standard one in the West Gash Region, I'm told."

"You're insufferable, you really are." Revyn sat back irritably in his chair and glowered at his wife, who was not succeeding in suppressing a smile. "Both of you."

 

 

Though his armor was heavy and glinted under the stars, still the Ordinator managed to trail the bandit leader undetected all the way back to the high steps of the great fortress. Sure enough, it looked as though his charred quarry had fallen from the sky with enough force that it had pulped the skull of a hapless brigand, whose pockets were being turned out by his leader. Just as the Ordinator was preparing to rush the bandit, he heard the other man grunt in surprise, and reach into the corpse of the sliver-scarred cliff racer. "Well, well; don't this look pretty in the moonlight!" 

He lifted up something between leather-clad fingers; it was Almalexia's pearl.

 

 

"There should still be a rat around the pearl, if I'm remembering right," Ghorbash remarked. His employer took exception to this.

"More than three days on, there wouldn't be." Vanthis tore off another strip of pork from the remains of the piglet with no apparent unease. "Stripped clean."

"You're not seriously telling us that this thing voided the rat but kept the pearl -- "

"Magic," Talen interjected solemnly.

"My Da used to hunt cliff racers on the border," Valdimar said thoughtfully. "Said their guts were horrible; full of all sorts of nasty things. Reckon it could have gotten stuck in one of its stomachs -- "

Sonir rose in irritation at this conjecture. "I don't think fairytales are improved by trying to determine the real-life mechanics of bird digestion. The important thing is that which the Hero pursues is still in play." She helped herself to more of the flin. "Allegory doesn't include autopsies."

Valdimar snorted. "They teach you nothing but fancy words at that Bards College, girl?" Whatever she might have said in response was lost in a sudden hissing, as Teldryn Sero dipped the tip of the hot poker into his goblet, drink within foaming to the top. 

"You don't mull sujamma," Revyn said, reproachfully.

The spellsword replaced the poker with obvious satisfaction and took a sip of his beverage. "Just did." The helmet turned in Sonir's direction. "And who said anything about fairytales?"

 

 

The sight of the pearl caused a cry to issue the lips of the Ordinator, and the startled bandit had his sword drawn within seconds. For a moment, the two masked figures stared each other down, and then the Ordinator charged. 

Though he was highly-trained in swordplay, and a formidable and righteous man brought up for holy war, his armor was heavier and less flexible than his opponent's gear. When the Ordinator's weapon did manage to land a blow, it bit deeply, but the chitin and netch leather allowed the bandit to dodge and dance away from the blade more often than not; it would have almost have been admirable, if not worn by the impious. His own cuirass and pauldron stopped many of the fetcher's swings, but his felassani were cloth and easily ripped. The wound which the villain managed to inflict there stung and burned, and the Ordinator knew himself to be poisoned. 

In spite of this, the just rage of Nerevar was with him, and the panting bandit soon retreated further back and back again to an enclosure at the top of the ziggurat. Furious, the Ordinator pushed aside his many pains and burst into the building -- only to stare in disbelief and amazement at what was on the inside.

 

 

Revyn felt a tug at his sleeve and looked down into Runa's concerned face. "Is he gonna die?"

"I'm sure our good Ordinator will survive the poison," he assured her, painfully reminded that her birth mother had passed away from eating the wrong kind of mushrooms. "Come here, love. Your Uncle Teldryn won't let anything bad happen to him."

"Haven't you been listening, Sadri?" scoffed the mercenary in response. "As with most things, the worst is yet to come."

 

 

The inside of the chamber was lined with barrels, crates, and chests full of plunder. But most amazing were the huge stone pillars with magical red light arcing between them: the ancient propylon of the Velothi, used to travel instantly between settlements in older times. 

So astounded was the Ordinator by this revelation, he was almost impaled by the bandit leader, who had been lurking behind a pile of treasure waiting to strike. But the Order of the Watch had vigilance in their blood, and the Ordinator deflected his enemy's thrust, sending the poisoned blade clattering across the room.

" Give me the pearl or perish, scum," he hissed, summoning the Tribunal's wrath into his voice.

The bandit backed away, towards one of the structures. The Ordinator noticed something odd in his hand: a strange, nacreous crystal that seemed to echo the thrumming of the propylon structures. Intuition told him to rush the bandit, and he tackled the fetcher just as he staggered through one of the gates.

 

 

"So, these things were real?" Vanthis said in amazement. "Actually real?"

"Oh yes -- well, the strongholds were, at any rate." Revyn gently shifted Runa to sit between them. "There was a circuit of them around Vvardenfell. One of them -- Hlormaren? -- wasn't too far from Balmora. Probably destroyed now," he added, and was suddenly depressed. He thought he heard a creak of the floorboard directly above him.

"And you could just hop from one stronghold to another?"

"You'd need some sort of attunement key," Talen said, fidgeting with the pommel of his mother's questionable gift. "Obviously."

 

 

The Ordinator's world exploded in streaking light; he held onto the bandit that much more tightly. Whatever was happening seemed to be instantaneous and yet horrifically slow, and his senses blurred and revolted. Were they moving or was the world moving around them? Then, suddenly he was rolling across a stone floor, kicked in the ribs by the fleeing brigand. Panting, disorientated, it took the Ordinator many moments to realize that he was not where this journey had begun. 

The fetcher had fled outside the chamber, and thus the Ordinator attempted to follow, though he was immensely sore and beginning to feel the effects of the poison. Staggering outside, he was struck by how the air was much drier and more sulfurous than before, and also how the red glow of lava could be seen here and there in the distance. This was either Hell or Molag Amur, in the Ashlands of Vvardenfell. 

 

 

Valdimar chuckled. "From everything I've heard about Morrowind, how could you ever hope to tell them apart?"

"Morrowind has better drinks," replied Teldryn Sero, taking another sip of mulled sujamma. "Hell is more welcoming."

 

 

It was with a sinking heart that the Ordinator surveyed this new landscape, for the Ashlands are treacherous to navigate even at the best of times, and this night there were already signs of a storm brewing. The stronghold seemed dead, with no signs that anyone had lived there recently, other than faint trails of dragged boxes made in the dust on the floor. A single pair of footprints in the ash indicated the direction that his foe had fled.

Thus did the Ordinator grimly set out after him. It was no easy thing, as the air was oppressive and the light of the moons obscured by clouds. Once or twice, he thought he saw the campfires of the heretical Ashlanders, but it might have been just exposed magma. The vegetation was either long-dead or dying. Everything had a strange colorless quality in the dim light, and there were no sounds other than the rising wind echoing in the foyadas.

Judging from the straightforward motion of his footprints, it seemed as though the bandit had an idea of where he was headed. But after a while, the spacing of his marks grew erratic, and then changed direction completely, as though he had seen something that terrified him and was forced to flee. It disturbed the Ordinator that whatever had this effect on the other man had not left footprints of its own.

As the wind began to pick up, the ash blew into the hollows left by the brigand's passage and the ground began to reclaim them. It was growing difficult to pick out the path, and with the storm rising, the Ordinator resigned himself to overtaking his enemy as soon as possible. He broke into a run, desperate to follow the trail while it still existed, and promptly tripped over a heap of wet bones. 

It was a Dunmer man, naked.  The flesh and skin and bowels had been flensed from him, leaving only his hands and face. His expression was one of horror itself. The footprints ended in scuffled ash made muddy by blood. There was no sign of the crystal or the pearl.

Just as the Ordinator was tempted to give in to despair, he saw the faint glimmering of light not far away, and realized that there was some kind of built structure housing it. With the storm picking up and no other alternatives, he set off in that direction, mind racing with possibilities. He liked none of them. The Ashlands had the barbaric heretics as residents, but even they would not kill a man in this brutal a fashion. The other probable occupants of this hellscape were witches and warlocks, who practiced all manner of foul arts where they thought the Temple would not see, and vampires, who are drawn to lonely places. But he hadn't seen their work upon the corpse.

Approaching the structure, the Ordinator recognized it to be a decaying ruin of a shrine, but not one frequented by any pilgrims of his faith. He followed the light into a domed building. Three figures were sitting around a small fire. One was a hulking beast with blood on its long snout, and one was a slender, long-fingered beast with blood on its talons, and one was a mass of rags and tentacles that was all the more terrifying for having no blood upon it whatsoever. They turned to watch him approach as one.

 

 

Talen leant forward over the table just as Runa melted into her mother's side; it was with this in mind that Revyn murmured, "Perhaps we ought to revisit this story in the daytime -- "

"Go on," insisted Ghorbash. "We've come this far."

 

 

"Why do you Daedra haunt this place unlawfully?" demanded the Ordinator, attempting to remain upright. "The Father of Mysteries has proscribed you from this realm. Return to Oblivion from whence you came."

The Daedroth bared its bloody fangs. "Our Lords swore to set no foot here, but their servants may come and go as we are summoned." It gestured to bones left in piles of the ruin; doubtless the remains of hapless conjurers who were overconfident of their abilities.

The Scamp wriggled its bloody claws. "And some Lords did not swear to that Compact, and thus we do as we please." It giggled and held up a cracked pair of goggles; the Ordinator noticed that it was sitting on a pile of stained netch leather and chitin.

The Seeker turned its baleful gaze upon the Ordinator; it did not speak aloud, but a voice like frozen whispers raked across his mind. "And our Lords charge us to bring Them that which pleases Them, and thus we obey." It passed something from misshapen hand to misshapen hand: the strange crystal.

It is a dangerous thing to converse with Daedra, even lesser ones, but the Ordinator suspected that these at least were no longer hungry. "Then what is your business here?"

"We serve the Princes of Compound Names," responded the Seeker. "They are exacting and hungry masters. We must bring Them proof of our labors before returning to Oblivion."

The Scamp indicated the walls of the great hall that they were in, pointing at masses of weapons, strange armors, old tomes. "Mortal avarice is so amusing. All we had to do was provide the fools with a key, and they did all the work of collecting for us." It giggled. "Your bandit arrived to find his stolen treasures stolen again; ah, what excellent folly!"

"We sowed and reaped," the Daedroth growled. "And now, we divide the harvest." In its claws was a dice cup. "But where is the one who rolls?" It looked about in irritation.

"On the outs with his Prince, again," spat the Scamp. "A lost dog who would not be summoned."

The Seeker rotated to regard the Ordinator. "We require a neutral party to roll for us. You will suffice."

 

 

"There aren't any Daedra in the marshes, Mama?" whispered Runa.

"No. Well, probably not. Actually, I don't know what Falion -- " Revyn quickly caught his wife's eye and shook his head. "-- no. No, love. No Daedra."

She looked up in sudden indignation. "So why can't I play outside when it gets dark?" 

"Still wolves out there, you little menace." 

 

 

The Ordinator considered this development. "Very well. I will shoot for you -- but on one condition. I sought the sinner whom you devoured. He had something precious to me." 

"This?" The Seeker held up the propylon crystal.

"This?" The Scamp drummed its claws upon a chitin helmet.

"This?" rumbled the Daedroth, and produced Almalexia's pearl.

"That," responded the Ordinator. "Give it to me, and I will do this thing you ask."

The Daedroth and the Scamp laughed awful laughs, and the Seeker did something in the Ordinator's mind that ached. "You would demand this thing for nothing more than rolling for us? No, holy man. You will be given the chance to play for it when we are done divvying the spoils."

  And thus passed a wretched night, agony to one already in mortal distress, for the Daedra were fearsome, and also prone to fighting amongst themselves and leveraging bets against bets within bets while outside the ash storm howled. Only by forcing himself to think of the pearl, so close, finally found, did the Ordinator maintain any sort of strength. His journey had led him here; he would not lose his nerve now.

Finally, after what must have been an eternity of this interminable gambling, the Seeker turned to its brethren. "All treasures from Telasero Stronghold are now claimed. This one must be allowed to play for his reward." It took the dice cup from the Ordinator and the pearl from the Daedroth. "You still desire this little thing?"

"Yes," the Ordinator replied, attempting to remain upright. He leant on a pile of old tomes and scrolls piled to the left of the Scamp, which were its winnings. "I will play."

"It would displease our Lords to know that we allowed one such as you to gamble without penalty," growled the Daedroth. "You must put up a wager of your own."

"You are changing the rules."

"We said that you would be permitted to play," giggled the Scamp, unpleasantly. "We did not specify, nor did you confirm, the nature of the game."

 

 

There was a silence as Teldryn Sero paused to take an unusually-long pull from his flagon. No one moved, though Revyn thought he heard a creak upon the stair behind him.

"Gambling's a tricky business," the mercenary finally said, setting down his empty cup. "Before you sit down at the table, make sure you know what's at stake."

 

 

"I have a ring," responded the Ordinator, but the Daedra all made noises of derision; the summoning of an atronach meant nothing to them. "I have my sword. I have -- "

"You have nothing that we could not obtain easily, save for your fancy armor," responded the Scamp, poking at his pauldron with interest. "Will you wager it?"

But revulsion surged through the Ordinator at this suggestion. "Never. The armor of the Tribunal and the visage of Nerevar must never be given to the uninitiated." 

The Seeker leant towards him, its voiceless voice like icicles in his heart. "What, then, will you wager me?"

The Ordinator's mind and heart raced to think of what a servant of Hermaeus Mora would consider a worthy prize. "Knowledge. An accounting of myself." 

"It is agreed." The Seeker began to shake the cup. "Place your bet."

The Ordinator did, and lost.

 

 

"That . . . doesn't seem like the worst outcome," Valdimar said slowly. "Just because he has to tell them his history -- "

 

 

The Seeker's tentacled hands snaked through the mind and soul of the Ordinator and suddenly, parts of himself were forever occluded. The city he had been born and raised in, the path to his father's house, the names and faces of his kin, the voices of his ancestors -- lost, the barest whisper of recognition remaining. Only his time in service to the the Temple had been spared, for Daedra have a distaste for these things. As he retched and wept behind his helmet, the Seeker radiated satisfaction. "My Lord will be able to do much with this." It passed the cup and dice and the pearl to the Scamp.

"Will you try again?"

"Yes," gasped the Ordinator through his tears. 

The Scamp giggled obscenely. "And what will I be offered?"

"A weapon," responded the Ordinator. "A thing of power, to please Mehrunes Dagon. My name."

"Acceptable," leered the Scamp. "Place your bet."

He did not win.

 

 

At his side, Revyn heard the Last Dragonborn murmur, "Names are dangerous things."

"But we never heard what the Ordinator's name was," protested Talen, who had stopped fidgeting with his knife.

"And now you know why," Sero responded.

 

 

The nameless man scrabbled to hold onto the core of himself, but now the faint impressions of his hearth and home left in the wake of the Seeker's collecting were completely gone. There was nothing, and he was adrift in a sea of dead memory. Only his rank and Order still remained.

The Scamp twined the letters of a word the man could no longer recognize between its long talons, passing the dice and pearl back to the Daedroth.

"One last chance," that Daedra hissed. "Or is there nothing left of you to lose?"

The Ordinator -- for he was still an Ordinator, that much he knew -- reached up behind the Golden Mask of Devotion and buried his face in his hands, silent for many moments. When he finally spoke, it took every ounce of discipline to keep his voice level. "What collateral does Molag Bal -- "

The Daedroth bared its fangs again. "Pain."

"I will give you that." The Ordinator chose his next words carefully, slowly withdrawing his hands from underneath his mask. "I wear two faces. I will offer the lesser one, should I lose."

He did.

 

 

Runa whimpered slightly, and Revyn himself felt uncomfortable, perhaps because of how Sero's voice had lost much of its sardonic tone, which had not been replaced by the theatrical gruesomeness one might expect. 

"There, there," he said, quietly, and reached for a subdued Talen just in case. "It was done with magic, I'm sure. It . . ." He swallowed. "It's only a story."

 

 

With no eyelids, the Ordinator was forced to watch as the Daedroth folded his bloody skin in its claws as though it were a delicate cloth. "Much evil can be done with this, holy man. We thank you." It laughed hatefully and slammed the faceplate of his helmet back down, Nerevar's visage now imposed over naked bone and muscle. 

"It is finished, comrades. To Coldharbour, to the Deadlands, to Apocrypha -- "

But the Ordinator interrupted the Seeker, though his lipless mouth was wet agony. "No. I will roll against you all one last time. Give me the dice and the prize." He gestured for both, which the Daedroth, amused, provided. "I have one final thing to barter with."

The Scamp's face was even more hideous when seen through bloody tears. "Your life, mortal?"

"My life." It no longer seemed like such a precious thing, except in the way a tool may be precious. "Place your bets." 

"Three against one?" The Daedroth gnashed its teeth. "You cannot hope to win."

"I place all my hope in Three," responded the Ordinator, and began to shake the cup. "Your bets, Muthserai?"

 

 

Teldryn Sero abruptly stood up, and walked to the barrel where Revyn kept the sujamma, only to make a sound of disgust after rummaging about for several moments. He stalked to the back room, and they all heard the sound of the cellar door being opened.

In the ensuing silence, Lucia softly descended to the last step of the staircase, and tapped Sadri upon the shoulder. "Papa. Do you think he loses?" she whispered.

"He doesn't seem to have had much luck, my love." Revyn glanced back at her, managing a smile in spite of some odd misgivings that nipped at the back of his thoughts. "Are you placing a bet, yourself?"

If Lucia meant to respond, the sound of Sero's ascent curtailed it and she quickly sat down behind her father's chair, out of sight. The spellsword re-entered the room with several jars of Revyn's particularly-good Gnaar Mok Reserve under his arms, refilled his flagon, and then said nothing for several moments.

"Well?" Talen finally asked. "Does he win?"

"Of course not," scoffed Teldryn Sero. "You'd have to be an idiot to accept those odds."

 

 

The second that the Ordinator threw the dice, he called for his atronach; it materialized in the middle of the fire in a gout of flame. With his right hand, he grabbed the scroll of flight that he had recognized amongst the Scamp's winnings, with the left, he slammed his fist into the Seeker's wretched excuse for a face. In the ensuing noise and confusion, he lurched towards the exit, falling and stumbling several times. Behind him came shrieks of dismay and curses, but also the sound of the Daedroth snarling in fury, and heavy footfalls right behind him.

His vision was blurred from pain and terror, but by now he knew the words of the scroll. He launched himself into the sky, the Daedroth's claws raking nothing but air.

 

 

"He did it!" Runa yelled. "I knew he would!"

"I wouldn't start cheering just yet," Sero replied.

 

 

The Ordinator ascended with dizzying speed, but the raging storm plucked him away from any planned trajectory. Ashen winds battered him and whipped him about, until he could not ascertain where he was in relation to the ground, if he were rising or falling. He could not remain conscious -- the only thing he could keep a firm grip upon was the pearl.

He was jolted awake by the impact of his body against something hard and cold, and the instinctual realization that he was drowning. But in his full armor, dazed and thrashing and barely awake, there was no hope of him reaching the surface. He began to drown, and the dark world became darker.

Then, unexpectedly, his foot brushed against something. Weak unto the point of paralysis that he was, the Ordinator managed to push off against it, bobbing haphazardly and blindly following the slope underneath his feet until it led upwards and he screamed into air.

For the longest time, the Ordinator floated on his knees, the waves pushing him faintly towards the shore. Moving was terrible, as was remaining immobile. Slowly, like a mudcrab, he inched his body forward until he lay entirely upon the beach. His face and eyes, unprotected from the salt water, stung and could not be soothed; if there was light or darkness in the world, he did not know it. The poison was in every part of his body now, spread through his limbs, destroying his nerves and dulling his wits. He had no way of knowing if he was on another part of Vvardenfell, or the mainland, or somewhere completely different.

It was then that the Ordinator realized that he would die.

 

 

Revyn felt Lucia move closer behind his chair just as Vanthis shifted in her own. Flicking his eyes to the left, he caught his wife's expression and wished that he had not; it had a sense of recognition within it. He knew himself too tenderhearted -- or cowardly -- to ever ask how.

 

 

There was no hope, and no chance for rescue. In this place, far from his unremembered home, his bones would lie unmourned and unshriven, his flesh ripped apart by scavengers, his nameless soul dragged to Oblivion to be the plaything of Daedra, never to find the grace of his now-forgotten ancestors. All he had wanted to retrieve was the least of things for the sake of the greatest of beings, and now he would pay with all he had.

And then it occurred to him: he still had Almalexia's pearl clasped fast in his glove. Though he would die here, he would not allow it to be lost under the shifting waters, picked at by beasts or trodden on by filthy feet. There was no place safer for it than the ruin of his body, where for a time it could find shelter from the destroying elements. Reverently, he cupped his hands around the golden pearl, placed it upon his tongue, and swallowed it whole. 

Then he spoke the blessed name ALMSIVI, crossed his arms over his chest, and waited for death.

And then rose again, in fury at his mortal weakness. For Boethiah is nothing less the noble Daedra of striving and violence, They-Who-Conquers, and therefore an aspect of the greater divine mystery of Almalexia, whose sphere is triumph and bloodsong. He would honor Her with the destruction of his flesh in pursuit of victory. All he had done, even if futile, had been in the name of love, and that was the one thing left within him.

"Use me," he croaked, wondering if the pearl was an investiture of the Lady's Grace. "I will deliver you to the hand of God."

 

 

"That thing had been inside a rat," Valdimar said, "inside of a cliff racer."

"Shut up," responded Ghorbash, leaning forward. "Go on."

 

 

Every step was torment. Every breath broke his insides. Every bone and nerve and fiber of his being begged for the release of death. Still, one foot at a time, inexorably, blindly, the Ordinator moved forward. He did not bother with counting the number of times he fell; he could barely stand upright. His lidless eyes swam with color and motion he could not interpret, so he looked inwardly, beseeching the pearl in some way to guide him.

Without a name, without the ancestors, without any way of marking time, without sense, he nonetheless found himself moving in a certain direction, as though pulled by an invisible thread. His legs gave out, so he crawled upon his knees like a pilgrim, the blue retheles around his neck and shoulders tangling with his arms as though it were a serpent. The world diminished until there was nothing but the next inch of earth, the next labored breath, the next convulsion, the next movement. Something was trying to find a hook in him; he marked its grappling as he continued this violence upon himself. His eyes thought they saw words behind their darkness, lines that broke and blurred and constrained and defied the shape of knowable world, AE ALTADOON GHARTOK PADHOME --

There was a Tower.

 

 

A log in the fire snapped; Revyn started in alarm.

"There was a tower," repeated the mercenary, face turned towards the flames. 

 

There was a tower.

The numbed remnants of his mind and his dying eyes corroborated the evidence of his hands: it was stone, reaching up high above him. Something had called him here, and now he could move no more.

There was the sound of low laughter, beautiful and hollow and wicked. He felt a foot upon his back, forcing him to lower his face to the dirt. "And thus you return to Tel Druhn, Serjo?"

 

"The thing about blood," Sero said in an undertone, "is that it's a thing of power, after all."

 

"Does Mother Morrowind care so little for her loving son?" The woman laughed again, and he felt cold hands brush his neck as his retheles was removed, careful to avoid touching the ghartok pendant. "I would have treated you better as my slave, but look at you now!" He felt his helmet being lifted from his head; heard her gasp and then cackle. "Ah, more's the pity. Were you handsome, holy man?" 

There was breath upon the skin of his neck. "Whatever your divine errand, it broke you. I would have broken you much more pleasurably. Still. I think there is one last thing you have to offer me." 

There were teeth upon his throat.

 

 

"No," said Runa in a small voice, pressed against her mother's side. Sadri became aware that Talen was completely still, and that Lucia was no longer sitting behind him.

"Yes, actually." Teldryn remarked. "And a good thing, too."

 

There was a scream of agony directly in his ear, and then woman could be heard gasping and weeping and cursing. 

Perhaps the pearl had infused his body with some of its divinity. Perhaps a ghartok wards without touch. Perhaps the poison from the bandit's blade was just as lethal to vampires as to the living. Either way, the beast recoiled from his blood, the garbled sounds made by her mouth terrible to hear. 

And then, a Divine Word. The screaming stopped.

There was a hand upon his throat. It was not cold. It was glimmering flame.

"How is it," said a new voice, "that one of the Order of the Watch is so far from his duty? Give me an accounting of yourself, child."

He could scarcely speak around the swelling of his heart. "I was born on the northern mainland and I served the Order of the Watch in Mournhold; that is all I know."

The hand of fire gently but firmly turned him over. "And what was your name?"

"I was Mother Morrowind's loving son," he croaked. "No more, no less."

The hand touched its fingertips to his flayed skin; he could barely feel it, now. "And will you show Me your face?"

"My helmet," he whispered. "The Hortator's visage was my face, without it there is nothing to see . . ."

 

 

And then his breath failed him.

 

 

Teldryn Sero poured himself more sujamma, still looking into the fire. 

After an uncomfortably long pause, Sonir cleared her throat. "So . . . what did the Ordinator see that took his breath away?"

"Oh, he didn't see anything," Sero responded. "He just stopped breathing. He died." Another log in the fire popped.

"No," Lucia said, the sharpness of her voice surprising Revyn. She was standing beside him, now, leaning forward on the table. "He can't die -- "

"Well, he did." The mercenary looked up, meeting her gaze with his own inscrutable stare. 

"But that isn't how the story ends," Lucia pressed.

"How would you know?"

"How would you?"

"Lucia --" began her father, not exactly sure what he was saying, or why.

The spellsword, eternally occluded, firelight gleaming on chitin and casting dark furrows on the folds of his leather, stared at the girl for a long moment and then -- ever so faintly -- chuckled. "Well done." He turned back to the fire. "But he did die." He folded his arms across his legs. "He did die."

 

 

"And there were voices in the dark," said Teldryn Sero.

 

 

"Truly, there are no ruling kings," said a voice beside the other voice. "I had hopes for this one; he heard my sermon. But his feet are set on the lesser path."

"Does the world need more ruling kings," replied the first voice, "when devotion is in such short supply?"

"And you have embraced the lesser path as well."

"And you have embraced me." Somewhere, the sound of clinking metal. "Anyway, what was that you said about 'a ruling king that sees in another his equivalent rules nothing'?"

"You listen to my words," the other voice said, "but you hear nothing. Neither of you. None of you."

"I hear my children," the first voice responded. "I hear love. I did not take what I took to rule for my own sake. I grasped it for theirs."

"Your greatest virtue," sighed the other, "is that you are a storyteller, beloved, but your scope is limited to the boundless expanse of yourself. Take care that these words do not constrain you; it will be all darkness when you hold yourself to that truth."

"Everything you have just said applies to you as well as to me." Another sound; something scraping against metal. "Look at the glory written here. Shall I leave it to be nothing but dead words in this dust?" 

"A ghost just barely affixed to a sea-jewel," remarked the other. "He won our wager for you, though he could have won a greater victory for himself -- "

"He already had what he wanted." Perhaps fingers moved across a dead face. "There would have been no story, but for this faith."

"If you are truly merciful," warned the second voice, "you will remove that which he retrieved for you. It is not a kindness."

"Shame, beloved," said the first in reproach. "He who steals faith from a child is the most contemptible of beings. I will not profane this reliquary. As long as my grace endures, so shall he; so long as he endures, so shall my grace." Perhaps there was metal placed upon the surface of a corpse's face. 

"As a shell will grow around a pearl, forever calcifying." A faint chuckle, somewhere above. "A blessing and a curse share the same mother."

"And that mother is love," the first voice said.  "Arise, worthy man -- "

 

 

When the Ordinator awoke, he was standing to attention in the High Chapel of Almalexia, with no recollection of how he had come to be there. His body was without pain, his mind clear. A name had been set in the place of his lost one, and with it the glory of his deeds to keep himself accounted for. But when he dared to remove his helmet, it was Nerevar's face he beheld in its spotless surface.

Thus he who had been the Ordinator knew himself blessed, and having been elevated to the ranks of the Hands of Almalexia -- Her most fearsome and trusted of bodyguards -- he would serve his beloved Lady all the days of his life, which were long, and illuminated from light from within, bright as a golden pearl.

 

 

Notes:

A certain description of Almalexia at the beginning of Sero's yarn is cribbed from the Seventh Sermon of Vivec; credit where it is due.

Chapter 3: mightiest of my children

 

It was Lucia who finally broke the silence. "Then what?"

"'Then what?' Pfft." Sero's acid-etched tones resurfaced in his voice. "Nothing more to it. That's where the story ends."

"Nuh-uh," Talen interjected, eternally precocious and tone-deaf. "Because later the Nerevarine -- "

"Oh, yes. The Incarnate appears from behind a bush, the Devil Dagoth Ur and the Sixth House are redeemed through death, and with them, the Tribunal." Teldryn's affect was now suffused with the deliberate theatricality of the cynic; his voice the same as ever. "And then the world goes to hell, or to paraphrase the Thalmor, continues to be hell."

"A hard thing for the Ordinator," Ghorbash said unexpectedly, gruff demeanor betraying no emotion. "If he survived those years, anyway."

"Pity him if he did. It would be a hard thing to outlive one's gods." The masked face turned towards the fire, its light reflecting off the goggles and giving Sero an otherworldly look, as though the sun shone behind his eyes. "Then again, pity those gods. I suspect sainthood's only worth aspiring to if you were only ever mortal."

Sadri found his lips oddly dry, and quickly wetted them with flin.

"Besides," the spellsword continued, "Indoril fallen, Oblivion loosed, the slaves revenged, the Mountain broken -- can't think anyone would bother to go on living after all that; I wouldn't. Better if our brave Ordinator died doing something doomed and noble, don't you think? Or better that we don't know. Stories are interesting -- histories, well." He jerked his head in Sonir's direction. "Who'd be a historian when you could be a bard?" 

"I'm going to be a bard," declared Runa. "I can sing really loud!"

"That's most of it," Teldryn said drily, rising from his seat by the fire. "That, and knowing how to treat venereal diseases. Well, I'm turning in. Good night, Muthserai. The ending of the words is ALMSIVI."

 

 

"It was a story," Revyn repeated. "Just that. A bit of nonsense to keep the children from accusing him of being the Nerevarine."

Vanthis -- half-asleep -- turned from the wall to face him in bed. "Just what I said. A story. He loves keeping people on their toes; he fitted what we knew of him to a joke. A good gift to puzzle over, anyway."

"Because -- "

"It couldn't be." She yawned. "Trust me, I've heard him swear on the Good Daedra every time he draws sword; it's no more likely than him being the Nerevarine after all."

"Not an Ordinator. Never." He shifted under the covers. "I mean, a Buoyant Armiger, if anything; he has the look -- actually, now that I think about it -- Vanthis, what if -- "

"It's nothing." Silence prevailed for a time, and then he heard her laugh quietly. "Just remembered something he said, years ago. Barmaid was throwing herself at him; he turned her down. Said he was doomed to pine after a married woman who already had a lover." Her familiar cackle subsided. "Silly wench thought he was talking about me."

 

 

Revyn followed the sound of his mother's voice back out to the waking world, aware of a bright shaft of light falling across their bed. He lay there for a long moment, letting his dreams settle back into ash before glancing over at Vanthis, still asleep. This was a rare enough sight that he remained where he was for some time longer, until he heard someone moving downstairs.

Valdimar was still snoring in the hall chair, and Ghorbash was building the morning fire. "Thought I might start on dishes," he explained, gesturing to the remnants of the previous night's meal. "He left, by the way. Lucia saw him out."

"Really?" Sadri glanced about, hit by the suspicion that something else was missing.

Ghorbash nodded. "Told her to turn back before Ustengrav." He disappeared into the back room. 

There were staves in the entryway that were just as useful for walking as for personal defense, and Revyn grabbed the one imbued with ice magic that was light and sat well in the hand. The day outside was bright, with a promise of warmer days in the air. Unhurriedly, he followed the path that led through the woods, noting how mud still remained in broad patches of the trail and how two sets of footprints -- and a series of other strange marks -- dotted their surface. Green shoots pushed up through the last remnants of snow, and little birds sang fiercely at each other while flitting between the budding trees.

Morrowind had never been like this, he reflected, nor had Windhelm. Worlds apart from anything he would have imagined, and yet somehow, home. He fell into deep thought, roused only by the faint emergence of a different kind of song.

"Luhn-silvar, hortator, Azura'm gah'amer . . ." the voice warbled, light and childlike, though perhaps on the cusp of something else. Lucia came into sight around a bend in the road, her face made bright by the sun, and thoughtful.

"Osuhn almese sut ohm yalif sul devahr . . . hello, little love." Revyn shifted the staff to his other hand so that she could walk beside him more easily. "Where's the Damned Contraption?"

Lucia shrugged. "I sent it off with Uncle Sero so he wouldn't have to walk alone. He says he'll leave it in the shop, for the next time you're in Windhelm?" She was toying with something around her neck, which her father recognized after a moment of scrutiny.

"There aren't many of those left, anymore," he said of the ghartok pendant. 

"I know."

"You should take good care of it."

"I will."

 

 

 

 

Notes:

Dunmeris words are taken from the lyrics of this song, written by Dragomir and Smitehammer and performed by Liz Katrin: https://youtu.be/QbR1o33M7Rs

Notes:

A certain description of Almalexia at the beginning of Sero's yarn is cribbed from the Seventh Sermon of Vivec; credit where it is due.