The Mirror

The wind blew over the open plain, jostling the few trees within to move back and forth with the irritation of it. A young man in bright green turban approached the army and gave his chieftain’s terms for peace to the commander. He was refused. It was to be battle, the battle of Ain-Kolur.

So the chief Iymbez had decreed his open defiance and his horsemen were at war once again. Many times the tribe had moved into territory that was not theirs to occupy, and many times the diplomatic approach had failed. It had come to this, at long last. It was just as well with Mindothrax. His allies may win or lose, but he would always survive. Though he had occasionally been on the losing side of a war, never once in all his thirty-four years had he lost in hand-to-hand combat.

The two armies poured like dual frothing streams through the dust, and when they met a clamor rang out, echoing into the hills. Blood, the first liquor the clay had tasted in many a month, danced like powder. The high and low battle cries of the rival tribes met in harmony as the armies dug into one another’s flesh. Mindothrax was in the element he loved.

After ten hours of fighting with no ground given, both commanders called a mutual and honorable withdrawal from the field.

The camp was positioned in a high-walled garden of an old burial ground, adorned by springtide blossoms. As Mindothrax toured the grounds, he was reminded of his childhood home. It was a happy and a sad recollection, the purity of childhood ambition, all of his schooling in the ways of battle, but tinged with memories of his poor mother. A beautiful woman looking down at her son with both pride and unspoken sorrow. She never talked about what troubled her, but it came as no surprise to any when she took the walk across the moors and was found days later, her throat slit open by her own hand.

The army itself was like a colony of ants, newly shaken. Within a half hour’s time after the end of the battle, they had reorganized as if by instinct. As the medics looked to the wounded, someone remarked, with a measure of admiration and astonishment, “Look at Mindothrax. His hair isn’t even out of place.”

“He is a mighty swordsman,” said the attending physician.

“The sword is a greatly overvalued article,” said Mindothrax, nevertheless pleased with the attention. “Warriors pay too much attention to striking and not enough in defending strikes. The proper way to go into battle is to defend yourself, and to hit your opponent only when the ideal moment arises.”

“I prefer a more straight-forward approach,” smiled one of the wounded. “It is the way of the horse men.”

“If it is the way of the Bjoulsae tribes to fail, then I renounce my heritage,” said Mindothrax, making a quick sign to the spirits that he was being expressive not blasphemous. “Remember what the great blademaster Gaiden Shinji said, ‘The best techniques are passed on by the survivors.’ I have been in thirty-six battles, and I haven’t a scar to show for them. That is because I rely on my shield, and then my blade, in that order.”

“What is your secret?”

“Think of melee as a mirror. I look to my opponent’s left arm when I am striking with my right. If he is prepared to block my blow, I blow not. Why exert undue force?” Mindothrax cocked an eyebrow, “But when I see his right arm tense, my left arm goes to my shield. You see, it takes twice as much power to send force than it does to deflect it. When your eye can recognize whether your opponent is striking from above, or at angle, or in an uppercut from below, you learn to pivot and place your shield just so to protect yourself. I could block for hours if need be, but it only takes a few minutes, or even seconds, for your opponent, used to battering, to leave a space open for your own strike.”

“What was the longest you’ve ever had to defend yourself?” asked the wounded man.

“I fought a man once for an hour’s time,” said Mindothrax. “He was tireless with his bludgeoning, never giving me a moment to do aught but block his strikes. But finally, he took a moment too long in raising his cudgel and I found my mark in his chest. He struck my shield a thousand times, and I struck his heart but once. But that was enough.”

“So he was your greatest opponent?” asked the medico.

“Oh, indeed not,” said Mindothrax, turning his great shield so the silvery metal reflected his own face. “There is he.”

The next day, the battle recommenced. Chief Iymbez had brought in reinforcements from the islands to the south. To the horror and disgrace of the tribe, mercenaries, renegade horsemen and even some Reachmen witches were included in the war. As Mindothrax stared across the field at the armies assembling, putting on his helmet and readying his shield and blade, he thought again of his poor mother. What had tortured her so? Why had she never been able to look at her son without grief?

Between sunrise and sundown, the battle raged. A bright blue-sky overhead burned down on the combatants as they rushed against one another over and over again. In every melee, Mindothrax prevailed. A foe with an ax rained a series of strokes against his shield, but every one was deflected until at last Mindothrax could best the warrior. A spear maiden nearly pierced the shield with her first strike, but Mindothrax knew how to give with the blow, throwing her off balance and leaving her open for his counterstrike. Finally, he met a mercenary on the field, armed with shield and sword and a helm of golden bronze. For an hour and a half they battled.

Mindothrax tried every trick he knew. When the mercenary tensed his left arm, he held back his strike. When his opponent rose his sword, his shield rose too and expertly blocked. For the first time in his life, he was battling another defensive fighter. Stationary, reflective, with energy to battle for days if need be. Occasionally, another warrior would enter into the fray, sometimes from Mindothrax’s army, sometimes from his opponent’s. These distractions were swiftly dispatched, and the champions returned to their fight.

As they fought, circling one another, matching block for blow and blow for block, it dawned on Mindothrax that here at last he was fighting the perfect mirror.

It became more a game, almost a dance, than a battle of blood. It was not until Mindothrax missed his own step, striking too soon, throwing himself off balance, that the promenade was ended. He saw, rather than felt, the mercenary’s blade rip across him from throat to chest. A good strike. The sort he himself might have delivered.

Mindothrax fell to the ground, feeling his life passing. The mercenary stood over him, prepared to give his worthy adversary the killing blow. It was a strange, honorable deed for an outsider to do, and Mindothrax was greatly moved. Across the battlefield, he heard someone call a name, similar to his own.

“Jurrifax!”

The mercenary removed his helmet to answer the call. As he did so, Mindothrax saw through the slits of his helmet his own reflection in the man. It was his own close-set eyes, red and brown hair, thin and wide mouth, and blunt chin. For a moment he marveled at the mirror, before the stranger turned back to him and delivered the death stroke.

Jurrifax returned to his commander and was well paid for his part in the day’s victory. They retired for a hot meal under the stars in a garden by an old cairn that had previously been occupied by their foes. The mercenary was strangely quiet as he observed the land.

“Have you been here before, Jurrifax?” asked one of the tribesmen who had hired him.

“I was born a horseman just like you. My mother sold me when I was just a babe. I have always wondered how my life might have been different had I not been bartered away. I might never have been a mercenary.”

“There are many things that decide our fate,” said the witch. “It is madness to try to see how you might have taken this turn or that in the world. There are none exactly like yourself, so it is foolish to compare.”

“But there is one,” said Jurrifax, looking to the stars. “My master, before he set me free, said that my mother had twin sons when I was born. She could only afford to raise but one child, but somewhere out there, there is a man just like me. My brother. I hope to meet him.”

The witch saw the spirits before her and knew the truth that the twins had met already. She remained silent and stared into the fire, banishing the thoughts from her head, too wise to tell all.

The Marksmanship Lesson

Kelmeril Brin had very definite opinions on how things should be done. Every slave he bought on the day he bought him or her was soundly whipped in the courtyard for a period of one to three hours, depending on the individual degree of independent spirit. The whip he used – or had his castellan use – was of wet, knotted cloth, which regularly drew blood but very seldom maimed. To his great satisfaction and personal pride, few slaves ever needed to be whipped more than once. The memory of their first day, and the sight and sound of every subsequent slave’s first day, stayed with them throughout their lives.

When Brin bought his first Bosmer slave, he ordered his castellan to whip him only for an hour. The creature, which Brin had named Dob, seemed so much more delicate than the Argonians and Khajiiti and Orcs who made up the bulk of his slaves. Dob was clearly ill suited for work in the mines or in the fields, but he seemed presentable enough for domestic service.

Dob did his work quietly and tolerably well. Brin occasionally had to correct him by refusing him food, but the punishment never needed to go further. Whenever guests arrived at the plantation, the sight of the exotic and elegant addition to Brin’s household staff always impressed them.

“Here, you,” said Genethah Illoc, a minor but still noble member of the House Indoriil, as Dob presented her with a glass of wine. “Were you born a slave?”

“No, sedura,” Dob answered with a bow. “I used to rob nice ladies like you on the road.”

The company all laughed with delight, but Kelmeril Brin checked with the slave trader from whom he had bought Dob, and found that the story was true. The Bosmer had been a highwayman, though not one of any great notoriety, before he had been caught and sold into slavery as punishment. It seemed so extraordinary that a quiet fellow like Dob, who always looked respectfully downward at the sight of his superiors, could have been a criminal. Brin made up his mind to question him about it.

“You must have used some sort of weapon when you were robbing all those pilgrims and merchants,” Brin grinned as he watched Dob mop.

“Yes, sedura,” Dob replied humbly. “A bow.”

“Of course. You Bosmeri are supposed to be very handy with those,” Brin thought a moment and then asked: “A bit of a marksman, were you?”

Dob nodded humbly.

“You will tutor my son Wodilic in archery,” the master said after another moment’s pause. Wodilic was twelve years of age and had been rather sadly spoiled by his mother, Brin’s late wife. The boy was useless at swordplay, fearful of being cut. He embarrassed his father’s pride, but the personality defect seemed ideally suited to the bow. Brin had his castellan purchase a finely wrought bow, several quivers of arrows, and ordered targets to be set up in the wildflower field next to the plantation house. In a few days time, the lessons began.

For the first few days, the master watched Wodilic and Dob to be certain that the slave knew how to teach. He was pleased to see the boy learn the grips and the different stances. Business concerns, however, had to take precedence. Brin only had time to see to it that the lessons were continuing, but not how well they were progressing.

It was a month’s time before the issue was reexamined. Brin and his castellan were reviewing the plantation’s earnings and expenses, and they had come to the area of miscellaneous household costs.

“You might also check to see how many targets in the field need to be repaired.”

“I have already anticipated that, sedura,” said the castellan. “They are in pristine condition.”

“How is that possible?” Brin shook his head. “I’ve seen targets fall apart after only a few good shots. There shouldn’t be anything left after a month’s worth of lessons.”

“There are no holes of any kind in the targets, sedura. See for yourself.”

As it happened at that hour, the marksmanship lesson was underway. Brin walked across the field, watching Dob guide Wodilic’s arm as the boy took aim at the sky. The arrow flew up into an arc, over the top of the target, burying itself in the ground. Brin examined the target and found it to be, as his castellan said, in pristine condition. No arrow had touched it.

“Master Wodilic, you must pull your right arm down further,” Dob was saying. “And the follow-through is essential if you expect your arrow to gain any height.”

“Height?” Brin snarled. “What about accuracy? Unless he’s been secretly racking up a high kill ratio on birds, you haven’t taught my son a thing about marksmanship.”

Dob bowed humbly. “Sedura, first Master Wodilic must become comfortable with the weapon before he need worry about accuracy. In Valenwood, we learn by watching the bolt arc at different levels, in different winds, before we try very hard to strike targets.”

Brin’s face turned purple with fury: “I’m not a fool! I should have known not to trust a slave with my boy’s education!”

The master grabbed Dob and shoved him toward the plantation house. Dob, head down, began the humble, shuffling walk he had learned in his domestic duties. Wodilic, tears streaming down his face, tried to follow.

“You stay and practice!” roared his father. “Try aiming at the target itself, not at the sky! You are not coming back into the house until there is one hole in that damned bullseye!”

The boy tearfully returned to practice, while Brin brought Dob into the courtyard and called for his whip. Dob suddenly broke away and scrambled to hide between some barrels in the center of the yard.

“Take your punishment, slave! I should have never shown you mercy the day I bought you!” Brin bellowed, bringing the whip down on Dob’s exposed back again and again. “I have to toughen you up! There’ll be no more soft jobs as tutor and valet in your future!”

Wodilic’s plaintive yell drifted in from the meadow: “I can’t! Father, I can’t hit it!”

“Master Wodilic!” Dob cried back as loud as he could, his voice shaking with pain. “Keep your left arm straight and aim slightly east! The wind has changed!”

“Stop confusing my son!” Brin screamed. “You’ll be in the saltrice fields if I don’t beat you to death first! Like you deserve!”

“Dob!” the boy wailed, far away. “I still can’t hit it!”

“Master Wodilic! Take four steps back, aim east, and don’t be afraid of the height!” Dob tore away from the barrels, hiding under a cart near the wall. Brin pursued him, raining down blows.

The boy’s arrow sailed high over the target and kept climbing, reaching a pinnacle at the edge of the plantation house before coming down in a magnificent arc. Brin tasted the blood before he realized he’d been hit. Gingerly, he raised his hands and felt the arrowhead protruding out of the back of his neck. He looked at Dob crouching under the wagon, and thought he saw a thin smile cross the slave’s lips. Just for an instant before he died, Brin saw the face of the rogue highwayman on Dob.

“Bullseye, Master Wodilic!” Dob crowed.

Withershins

“All right,” said Kazagha. “Why don’t you want to talk?”

Zaki put down his mug of mead and just stared at his wife for a few seconds. Finally, grudgingly: “Because everything I have a conversation, darling, it flows in alphabetical order. Just like I told you. I think the only way to stop it is not to talk at all.”

“Couldn’t you just be imagining this?” said Kazagha patiently. “It wouldn’t be the first time you had an insane paranoid delusion. Remember when you thought the royal battlemage of Black Marsh was hiding behind every tree with lewd intent, intent on making you – a middle-aged, fat, balding tailor – into his personal sex slave? You don’t need to be ashamed, but it’s Sheogorath’s way to make us all a little crazy sometimes. If you go to the healer–”

“Damn it, Kazagha!” snarled Zaki and stomped out, slamming the door behind him. He nearly collided with Siyasat, his neighbor.

“Excuse me,” she said to Zaki’s back. He clamped his hands over his ears as he stormed down the street, turning the corner to his tailor shop. His first customer was waiting out front, smiling widely. Zaki tried to keep his temper under control and took out his keys, returning the customer’s smile.

“Fine day,” said the young man.

“Gods!” hollered Zaki, sending the young man flying with a well-placed punch, and dashing away.

As much as he hated to admit that Kazagha was right, it was evidently time, once again, for one of the healer’s herbal cocktails. Tarsu’s temple to health, mental and physical, was several streets north, an impressive obelisk. Halqa, the chief herbalist, met him before he came in the hall.

“How are you today, Sa’Zaki Saf?”

“I need to make an appointment with Tarsu,” said Zaki in his calmest voice.

“Just one moment, let me see how his schedule looks.” Halqa said, looking over a scroll. “Is this an emergency?”

“Kind of,” said Zaki, and slapped his head. Why couldn’t he say yes, or absolutely, or sure?

“Let’s see,” said Halqa, frowning. “The best I can do is next Middas. Would that work for you?”

“Middas!” cried Zaki. “I’ll be a complete psychotic by Middas. Isn’t there anything earlier?”

He knew what the answer would be before she said it. There was no alternative. In a way, he had forced the response. If only he had kept the conversation going until “Y.”

“No,” said Halqa. “I’m sorry. Do you want me to make the appointment–?”

Zaki walked away, gritting his teeth. He wandered the streets, his head down to avoid all conversations, until he looked up and discovered that he had walked all the way to the wharf. A sweet breeze was blowing along the water and he took several deep breaths until he felt almost normal. When his temper cooled, he could think again. What if this alphabetical conversation wasn’t a delusion at all? What if what he felt wasn’t paranoia, but acute awareness? He knew it was the classic dilemma: am I crazy or is there really something weird going on?

Across the road was a shop called ParaDocks, featuring a display of herbs, crystals, and vapors trapped in orbs . The sign in the window read “Mystical Consultation sunrise to noon.” It was worth a shot, though Zaki was dubious. The only people who generally came down the wharf for healing were stupid adventurers who didn’t know any better.

Incense burned in copious billows of pink and gold, obscuring and then revealing the clutter within. Jijjic death masks glowered down from the walls, smoking censors hung by chains from the ceiling, and the floor was a maze of bookshelves. At a wellworn table in the back a small man wearing a headress was tabulating a young lady’s purchases.

“Okay,” said the man. “Your total comes to fifty-seven gold pieces. I threw in the restorative scale conditioner for free. Just remember, the candle should be lit only after you invoke Goroflox The Unholy, and mandrake root does best in partial shade.”

The customer gave a quick, shy smile to Zaki and left the store.

“Please help me,” said Zaki. “Every conversation I hear or get involved in seems to be arranged alphabetically. I don’t know if I’m going insane or if there are some kind of bizarre forces at work. To be honest with you, I’m normally a skeptic when it comes to your type of business, but I’m at the end of my rope. Can you do anything to make this madness end?”

“Quite a common problem, actually,” said the man, patting Zaki on the arm. “When you get to the end of the alphabet, do conversations then go to reverse alphabetical order or start at the beginning of the alphabet?”

“Reverse alphabetical order,” said Zaki, and then corrected himself. “Damn it! I mean, it starts from the beginning, all over again. I’m in agony. Can you call on the spirits and tell me, am I insane?”

“Sauriki,” said the man with a reassuring smile. “I don’t have to. You’re quite sane.”

“Thank you,” said Zaki, frowning. “By the way, my name’s Zaki, not Sauriki.”

“Unusually close, eh?” said the man, patting Zaki on the back. “My name’s Octoplasm. Follow me, please. I think I have just what you need.”

Octoplasm lead Zaki down the narrow corridor behind the desk. The two men pushed past dusty cabinets filled with strange creatures in liquids, past heaps of neolithic stones, past stack after stack of moldering leather-bound books, into the dank heart of the store. There he picked up a small, squat cylindrical drum and a book, and handed them to Zaki.

“‘Vampirism, Daedric Possession, and Withershin Therapy,’” said Zaki, squinting his eyes to read the book in the gloom. “What in Oblivion does this have to do with me? I’m not a vampire, look at this tan. And what’s Withershin Therapy, and how much will it cost me?”

“Withershins, from the Old Cyrodilic withersynes, which means backwards,” said Octoplasm in a serious tone. “It’s the art of reversing the direction of things in order to gain access to the spirit world, and break curses, cure vampirism, and trigger all manners of apotropaic healing. You know the story about the guy who was told that slaughterfish live in hot water, so he said, ‘Well, let’s boil them in cold water’?”

“Xenophus,” said Zaki instinctively, his brother having taken a rather esoteric upper level course in Cyrodilic philosophy as an elective in at the Imperial College thirty-one years before, and immediately wishing he hadn’t. “And what do you do with the cylindrical thingy?”

Octoplasm lit a candle and held the object over it so Zaki could see more clearly. All along the cylinder were narrow slits and when Zaki peered within them, he saw a succession of old black and white drawings of a naked man leaping over boxes, one frame after the next.

“You spin it like so,” said Octoplasm, slowly whirling the device clockwise so the man within leapt over the boxes over and over again. “It’s called a zoetrope. Pretty neat, eh? Now, you take it and start spinning it counterclockwise, and while you’re doing it, read this incantation I’ve marked in the book.”

Zaki took the zoetrope and began spinning it counterclockwise over the candle, so the little naked man within seemed to bound backwards over the boxes. It took a little coordination and concentration to keep whirling at a steady pace, but gradually the man’s awkward and jerky backjumps became more and more fluid until Zaki could no longer see the individual frames flipping. It looked just like a little humanoid hamster on an endless reverse treadmill. While he continued to spin the zoetrope with one hand, Zaki took the book in the other and read the underlined passage.

“Zoetrope counter-spin, counter-spin, counter-spin / Pull my life from the rut that it’s in / I invoke the Goddesses Boethiah, Kynareth, and Drisis / To invert my potentially metaphysical crisis / My old life may have been rather pointless and plain / But I dislike the prospect of going insane / Make the pattern reverse by this withershin / Zoetrope, counter-spin, counter-spin, counter-spin.”

As he chanted the spell, Zaki noticed that the little naked man in the zoetrope began to look more like himself. The moustache vanished, and the hairline receded. The man’s waistline expanded, and the buttocks sagged to the shape and texture of half-inflated balloons. Scales approximating his own Argonian pattern appeared. The man began to trip as he bounded backwards over the boxes, taking bigger breaths and sweating. By the time Zaki reached the end of the incantation, his twin was clutching his chest and tumbling end-over-end over the boxes in a free-fall.

Octoplasm took the zoetrope and the book from Zaki’s hands. Nothing seemed to have changed. No thunder had rumbled. No winged serpents had sprung out of Zaki’s head. No fiery explosions. But Zaki felt that something was different. Good different. Normal.

At the counter, when Zaki pulled out his sachel of gold pieces, Octoplasm merely shook his head: “Are treatment radical such of effects term long the what sure be can’t we, naturally. Charge no.”

Feeling the first real relief he had felt in days, Zaki walked backwards out of the shop and down the road to his shop.

I want to clear out my tabs, but feel it would be spam to post these all individually, so here are other stories from Elder Scrolls that I enjoyed:

The Gold Ribbon of Merit

In that early springtime morning, pale sunlight flickered behind the morning mist floating through the trees as Templer and Stryngpool made their way to the clearing. Neither had been back in High Rock, let alone in their favorite woods for four years. The trees had changed little even if they had. Stryngpool had a handsome blond moustache now, stiffened and spiked with wax, and Templer seemed to be a completely alien creature to the young lad who searched for adventure in the ancient grove. He was much quieter, as if scarred within as well as without.

They each carried their bows and quivers with extra care as they maneuvered their way through the clusters of vine and branch.

“This is the path that used to lead to your house, isn’t it, old boy?” asked Stryngpool.

Templer glanced at the overgrowth and nodded, before continuing on.

“I thought so,” said Stryngpool and laughed: “I remember it because you used to run down it every time you got a bloody nose. I know I can’t offend you, but I have to say, it’s hard to believe that you ended up a soldier.”

“How’s your family?” asked Templer.

“The same. A bit more pompous, if that’s possible. It’s obvious they wish I’d come back from the academy, but there’s nothing much for me here. At least not until I collect my inheritance. Did you see I got a gold ribbon of merit in archery?”

“How could I miss it?” said Templer.

“Oh yes, I nearly forgot that the family’s put it in the Great Hall. Very ostentatiously. I suppose you can actually see it through the picture window. Silly, but I hope the peasants are impressed.”

The clearing opened up before them, where the mist settled on the grass, enveloping it in an opaque, chilly vapor. Burlap targets were arranged around in a semi-circle, several meters apart, like sentinels.

“You’ve been practicing,” observed Templer.

“Well, a bit. I’ve only been back in town for a few days.” said Stryngpool with a smile. “My parents said you got here a week ago?”

“That’s right. My unit’s camped a few miles east, and I thought I’d visit the old haunts. A lot’s changed, I could hardly recognize anything at all.” Templer looked down at the valley below, to the vast empty tilled ground, stretching out for miles around. “It looks like a good planting.”

“My family’s rather spread out since yours left. There was some discussion I think about keeping your old house up, but it seemed a little sentimental. Especially as there was fertile ground beneath.”

Stryngpool strung his bow carefully. It was a beautiful piece of art, darkest ebony and spun silver filigrees, hand-crafted for him in Wayrest. He looked over at Templer stringing his bow, and felt a twinge of pity. It was a sad, weathered utensil, bound together with strips of fabric.

“If that’s how they taught you to string your bow, you need some advisors from the academy in that army of yours,” said Stryngpool as gently as he could. “The untightened loop is supposed to look like an X in an O. Yours looks like a Z in a Y.”

“It works for me,” said Templer. “I should tell you, I won’t be able to make an afternoon of this. I’m supposed to join my unit this evening.”

Stryngpool began to feel annoyed by his old friend. If he was angry about his family losing their land, why couldn’t he just say it? Why did he come back to the valley at all? He watched Templer nock his first arrow, taking aim at a target, and coughed.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t in good faith send you back to the army without a little new wisdom. There are three types of draw, three-fingers, thumb and index, thumb and two fingers. Then there’s the thumb draw which I like, but you see,” Stryngpool showed Templer the small leather loop fastened on the cord of his bow, “You need to have one of these thingies or you’ll tear your thumb right off.”

“I think I like my stupid method best.”

“Don’t be pigheaded, Templer. They didn’t give me the gold ribbon of merit for nothing. I had demonstrated shooting from under a shield, standing, sitting, squatting, kneeling, and sitting on horseback. This is practical information I’m imparting for the sake of our friendship which I, at least, haven’t completely forgotten. Sweet Kynareth, I remember when you were just an oily little squirt, begging for this kind of honest guidance.”

Templer looked at Stryngpool for a moment, and lowered his bow. “Show me.”

Stryngpool relaxed, shook away the tensions that had been building. He did his exercise, drawing the bow back to his eyebrow, his moustache, his chest, his earlobe.

“There are three ways of shooting: snatching and releasing in one continuous motion, like the Bosmer do; holding with a short draw and a pause before releasing like the Khajiit; and partial draw, pause, final draw,” Stryngpool fired the arrow into the center of the target with cool precision, “And release. Which I prefer.”

“Very nice,” said Templer.

“Now you,” said Stryngpool. He helped Templer select a grip, nock his arrow correctly, and take aim. A smile grew on Templer’s face – the first time Stryngpool had seen such a childlike expression on the war-etched visage all afternoon. When Templer released the arrow, it rocketed high over the top of the target and into the valley below where it disappeared from sight.

“Not bad,” said Templer.

“No, not bad,” said Stryngpool, feeling friendly once again. “If you practice, you should be able to focus your aim a little bit.”

The two shot a few more practice bolts before parting ways. Templer began the long trek east to his unit’s camp, and Stryngpool wound his way down through the woods to the valley and his family’s mansion. He hummed a little tune he learned at the academy as he passed the great lawn and walked up to the front door, pleased with himself for helping his old friend. It entirely escaped his attention that the large picture window was broken.

But he noticed right away when he came into the Great Hall, and saw Templer’s wild-shot bolt sticking in his gold ribbon of merit.

The Black Arrow (Part I)

I was young when the Duchess of Woda hired me as an assistant footman at her summer palace. My experience with the ways of the titled aristocracy was very limited before that day. There were wealthy merchants, traders, diplomats, and officials who had large operations in Eldenroot, and ostentatious palaces for entertaining, but my relatives were all far from those social circles.

There was no family business for me to enter when I reached adulthood, but my cousin heard that an estate far from the city required servants. It was so remotely located that there were unlikely to be many applicants for the positions. I walked for five days into the jungles of Valenwood before I met a group of riders going my direction. They were three Bosmer men, one Bosmer woman, two Breton women, and a Dunmer man, adventurers from the look of them.

“Are you also going to Moliva?” asked Prolyssa, one of the Breton women, after we had made our introductions.

“I don’t know what that is,” I replied. “I’m seeking a domestic position with the Duchess of Woda.”

“We’ll take you to her gate,” said the Dunmer Missun Akin, pulling me up to his horse. “But you would be wise not to tell Her Grace that students from Moliva escorted you. Not unless you don’t really want the position in her service.”

Akin explained himself as we rode on. Moliva was the closest village to the Duchess’s estate, where a great and renowned archer had retired after a long life of military service. His name was Hiomaste, and though he was retired, he had begun to accept students who wished to learn the art of the bow. In time, when word spread of the great teacher, more and more students arrived to learn from the Master. The Breton women had come down all the way from the Western Reach of High Rock. Akin himself had journeyed across the continent from his home near the great volcano in Morrowind. He showed me the ebony arrows he had brought from his homeland. I had never seen anything so black.

“From what we’ve heard,” said Kopale, one of the Bosmer men. “The Duchess is an Imperial whose family has been here even before the Empire was formed, so you might think that she was accustomed to the common people of Valenwood. Nothing could be further from the truth. She despises the village, and the school most of all.”

“I suppose she wants to control all the traffic in her jungle,” laughed Prolyssa.

I accepted the information with gratitude, and found myself dreading more and more my first meeting with the intolerant Duchess. My first sight of the palace through the trees did nothing to assuage my fears.

It was nothing like any building I had ever seen in Valenwood. A vast edifice of stone and iron, with a jagged row of battlements like the jaws of a great beast. Most of the trees near the palace had been hewn away long ago: I could only imagine the scandal that must have caused, and what fear the Bosmer peasants must have had of the Duchy of Woda to have allowed it. In their stead was a wide gray-green moat circling in a ring around the palace, so it seemed to be on a perfect if artificial island. I had seen such sights in tapestries from High Rock and the Imperial Province, but never in my homeland.

“There’ll be a guard at the gate, so we’ll leave you here,” said Akin, stopping his horse in the road. “It’d be best for you if you weren’t damned by association with us.”

I thanked my companions, and wished them good luck with their schooling. They rode on and I followed on foot. In a few minutes’ time, I was at the front gate, which I noticed was linked to tall and ornate railings to keep the compound secure. When the gate-keeper understood that I was there to inquire about a domestic position, he allowed me past and signaled to another guard across the open lawn to extend the drawbridge and allow me to cross the moat.

There was one last security measure: the front door. An iron monstrosity with the Woda Coat of Arms across the top, reinforced by more strips of iron, and a single golden keyhole. The man standing guard unlocked the door and gave me passage into the huge gloomy gray stone palace.

Her Grace greeted me in her drawing room. She was thin and wrinkled like a reptile, cloaked in a simple red gown. It was obviously [sic] that she never smiled. Our interview consisted of a single question.

“Do you know anything about being a junior footman in the employment of an Imperial noblewoman?” Her voice was like ancient leather.

“No, Your Grace.”

“Good. No servant ever understands what needs to be done, and I particularly dislike those who think they do. You’re engaged.”

Life at the palace was joyless, but the position of junior footman was very undemanding. I had nothing to do on most days except to stay out of the Duchess’s sight. At such times, I usually walked two miles down the road to Moliva. In some ways, there was nothing special or unusual about the village - there are thousands of identical places in Valenwood. But on the hillside nearby was Master Hiomaste’s archery academy, and I would often take my luncheon and watch the practice.

Prolyssa and Akin would sometimes meet me afterwards. With Akin, the subjects of conversation very seldom strayed far from archery. Though I was very fond of him, I found Prolyssa a more enchanting companion, not only because she was pretty for a Breton, but also because she seemed to have interests outside the realm of marksmanship.

“There’s a circus in High Rock I saw when I was a little girl called the Quill Circus,” she said during one of our walks through the woods. “They’ve been around for as long as anyone can remember. You have to see them if you ever can. They have plays, and sideshows, and the most amazing acrobats and archers you’ve ever seen. That’s my dream, to join them some day when I’m good enough.”

“How will you know when you’re a good enough archer?” I asked.

She didn’t answer, and when I turned, I realized that she had disappeared. I looked around, bewildered, until I heard laughter from the tree above me. She was perched on a branch, grinning.

“I may not join as an archer, maybe I’ll join as an acrobat,” she said. “Or maybe as both. I figured that Valenwood would be the place to go to see what I could learn. You’ve got all those great teachers to imitate in the trees here. Those ape men.”

She coiled up, bracing her left leg before springing forward on her right. In a second, she had leapt across to a neighboring branch. I found it difficult to keep talking to her.

“The Imga, you mean?” I stammered. “Aren’t you nervous up at that height?”

“It’s a cliche, I know,” she said, jumping to an even higher branch, “But the secret is not to ever look down.”

“Would you mind coming down?”

“I probably should anyhow,” she said. She was a good thirty feet up now, balancing herself, arms outstretched, on a very narrow branch. She gestured toward the gate just barely visible on the other side of the road. “This tree is actually as close as I want to get to your Duchess’s palace.”

I held back a gasp as she dove off the branch, somersaulting until she landed on the ground, knees slightly bent. That was the trick, she explained. Anticipating the blow before it happened. I expressed to her my confidence that she would be a great attraction at the Quill Circus. Of course, I know now that never was to be.

On that day, as I recall, I had to return early. It was one of the rare occasions when I had work, of a sort, to do. Whenever the Duchess had guests, I was to be at the palace. That is not to say that I had any particular duties, except to be seen standing at attention in the dining room. The stewards and maids worked hard to bring in the food and clear the plates afterwards, but the footmen were purely decorative, a formality.

But at least I was an audience for the drama to come.

The Hope of Redoran

One of the few magical arts the Psijics of Artaeum have kept to themselves, away from the common spells and schools of the Mages Guild, is the gift of divination. Despite this, or perhaps because of it, omens and prophesies abound in Tamriel, some of substance, others of pure folly, and still others so ambiguous as to be unverifiable. There are still other prophesies kept secret, from the prophesies of Dro’Jizad in Elsweyr and the Nerevarine in Morrowind, to the Elder Scrolls themselves.

The Nord nobility have a tradition of having omens read for their children. In general, these readings are of the obscure variety. One of my acquaintances told me that her parents were told, for example, that their daughter would have her life rescued by a snake, and so gave her the name Serpentkin in a special ceremony. And this young lady, Eria Valkor Serpentkin, was indeed saved by a snake many years later, when an assassin creeping on her stepped on a danswyrm viper.

Occasionally, omens seem to be almost purposefully misleading, as if Boethiah had crafted them as traps. I recall one particularly. Many, many years ago, a male child was born into House Redoran. It was a very difficult birth, and the mother was delirious and near death by the time it was over. She chanted just as her son came into the world and she passed from it.

Fortune has smiled this day not frowned My child will be mighty in mind and in arm He shall bring hope to House Redoran Neither spell nor blade shall hurt the man Nor illness nor poison cause any harm His blood shall never drop on the ground

The boy, named Andas, was indeed extraordinary. He never was ill and never suffered so much as a scratch all through his childhood. He was also quite intelligent and strong, which, combined with his invulnerability, caused many to call him, after his mother’s omen, the Hope of the Redoran. Of course, any one who is called the Hope of the Redoran will eventually develop some taint of impertinence, and it wasn’t long before he had enemies.

His worst enemy was his cousin Athyn, who had borne much abuse at the hands of Andas. Primary among the grudges was that Athyn had been sent to Rihad to complete his education at Andas’s insistence. When Athyn returned from Hammerfell, it was because of the death of his father, who had also been a councilor of the House. Athyn was old enough to take his seat in the Council, but Andas claimed the seat as well, saying that his cousin had been gone too long from Morrowind and didn’t understand politics as he did. The majority of the House agreed with Andas, wanting to see the Hope of Redoran rise quickly.

Athyn exercised his right to combat his cousin for the seat. No one thought he had any chance of winning, of course, but the battle was scheduled to commence the following morn. Andas whored and dined and drank with the councilors that night, confident that his place in the House was secured and the hopeful new dawn of House Redoran was rising. Athyn retired to his castle with his friends, Andas’s enemies, and his servants he had brought from Hammerfell.

Athyn and his friends were discussing the duel morosely when one of his old teachers, a warrior called Shardie, came into the hall. She had grown quite proud of her student over the years in Hammerfell, proud enough to accompany him across the Empire to his family’s lands, and wanted to know why they had so little confidence in his odds in the battle. They explained to her Andas’s uncommon blessings and the nature of his mother’s omen.

“If he can’t be harmed by disease, poison, magicka, and his blood can never be spilled, what hope have I of ever besting him?” cried Athyn.

“Have you remembered nothing I taught you?” replied Shardie. “Is there no weapon you can think of that will slay without blood? Are swords and spears and arrows the only items in your arsenal?”

Athyn quickly realized the weapon Shardie was speaking of, but it seemed absurd. Not only absurd, but pathetic and primitive. Still, it was the only hope he had. All that night, Shardie trained him in the art and techniques, showing him the various swings and stances her people had developed in Albion-Gora; counter-attacks, feints, and blocks imported from Yokuda; the classic one and two-handed grips for the most ancient weapon in history.

The cousins faced one another the next morning, and never have two combatants looked so unevenly matched. Andas’s entrance brought a great cheer, for not only was he much beloved as the Hope of the Redoran, but as his victory was a foregone conclusion, most wanted to be in good standing with him. His shining mail and blade drew admiration and awe. By contrast, Athyn drew a gasp of surprise and only a smattering of polite applause. He appeared costumed and armed like a barbarian.

As Shardie had suggested, Athyn allowed Andas to attack first. The Hope of the Redoran was eager to finish the battle and take the power he deserved quickly. The blade pushed by Andas’s mighty arm slashed across Athyn’s chest, but shallowly, and before it could be counterswung, Athyn knocked it back with his own weapon. When Athyn attacked and wounded Andas, the Hope of the Redoran was so surprised by being hurt for the first time in his life, he dropped his sword.

The less said about the end of the battle, the better. Suffice it to say that Athyn, wielding a simple club, battered Andas to death without spilling a drop of blood.

Athyn took his father’s seat as councilor, and it was then said that the hope in the omen referred to Athyn, not Andas. After all, had Andas not tried to take the councilor seat away from his cousin, Athyn, being not very ambitious, might have never tried to get it. It can certainly be argued that way, I suppose.

The Cake and the Diamond

I was in the Rat and the Pot, a foreigner cornerclub in Ald’ruhn, talking to my fellow Rats when I first saw the woman. Now, Breton women are fairly common in the Rat and the Pot: as a breed, they seem inclined to wander far from their perches in High Rock. Old Breton women, however, are not so migratory, and the wizened old biddy drew attention to herself, wandering about the room, talking to everyone. Still, having noted her, I moved on to join my mates.

Nimloth and Oediad were at their usual places, drinking their usual stuff. Oediad was showing off a prize he had picked up in some illicit manner – a colossal diamond, large as a baby’s hand, and clear as spring water. I was admiring it when I heard the creaking of old bones behind me.

“Good day to you, friends,” said the old woman. “My name is Abelle Chriditte, and I am in need of financial assistance to facilitate my transportation to Ald Redaynia.”

“You’ll want to see the Temple for charity,” said Nimloth curtly.

“I am not looking for charity,” said Abelle. “I’m looking to barter services.”

“Don’t make me sick, old woman,” laughed Oediad.

“Did you say your name was Abelle Chriditte?” I asked, “Are you related to Abelle Chriditte, the High Rock alchemist?”

“Extremely related,” she said, with a cackle. “We are the same person. Perhaps I could prepare you a potion in exchange for gold? I noticed that you have in your possession a very fine diamond. The magical qualities of diamonds are boundless.”

“Sorry, old woman, I ain’t giving it up for magic. It was trouble enough stealing this one,” said Oediad. “I’ve got a fence who’ll trade it for gold.”

“But your fence will demand a certain percentage, will he not? What if I could give you a potion of invisibility in exchange? In return for that diamond, you could have the means to steal many more. A very fair exchange of services, I would say.”

“It would be, but I have no gold to give you,” said Oediad.

“I’ll take what remains of the diamond after I’ve made the potion,” said Abelle. “If you took it to the Mages Guild, you’d have to supply all the other ingredients and pay for it as well. But I learned my craft in the wild, where no Potion-makers existed to dissolve diamonds into dust. When you must do it all by hand, by simple skill, you are blessed with remnants those fool potion-makers at the Guild simply swallow up.”

“That sounds all very nice,” said Nimloth, “But how do we know your potion is going to work? If you make one potion, take the rest of Oediad’s diamond, and leave, we won’t know until you’ve gone whether the potion works or not.”

“Ah, trust is so rare these days,” sighed Abelle. “I suppose I could make two potions for you, and there’d still be a little bit of the diamond left for me. Not a lot, but perhaps enough to get me to Ald Redaynia. Then you could try the first potion right here and now, and see if you’re satisfied or not.”

“But,” I interjected. “You could make one potion that works and one that doesn’t, and take more of the diamond. She could even give you a slow-acting poison, and by the time she got to Ald Redaynia, you’d be dead.”

“Bleedin’ Kynareth, you Dunmer are suspicious! I will hardly have any diamond left, but I could make two potions of two doses each, so you can satisfy yourself that the potion works and has no negative effects. If you still don’t trust me, come along with me to my table and witness my craft if you’d like.”

So it was decided that I would accompany Abelle back to her table where she had all her traveling bags full of herbs and minerals, to make certain that she was not making two different potions. It took nearly an hour of preparation, but she kindly allowed me to finish her half-filled flagon of wine while I watched her work. Splintering the diamond and powdering the pieces required the bulk of the time; over and over again, she waved her gnarled hands over the gem, intoning ancient enchantments, breaking the facets of the stone into smaller and smaller pieces. Separately she made pastes of minced bittergreen, crushed red bulbs of dell’arco spae, and driblets of ciciliani oil. I finished the wine.

“Old woman,” I finally said with a sigh. “How much longer is this going to take? I’m getting tired of watching you work.”

“The Mages Guild has fooled the populace into thinking alchemy is a science,” she said. “But if you’re tired, rest your eyes.”

My eyes closed, seemingly of their own volition. But there had been something in that wine. Something that made me do what she asked.

“I think I’ll make up the potion as cakes. It’s much more potent that way. Now, tell me, young man, what will your friends do once I give them the potion?”

“Mug you in the street afterwards to retrieve the rest of the diamond,” I said simply. I didn’t want to tell the truth, but there it was.

“I thought so, but I wanted to be certain. You may open your eyes now.”

I opened my eyes. Abelle had made a small presentation on a wooden platter: two small cakes and a silver cutting knife.

“Pick up the cakes and bring them to the table,” said Abelle. “And don’t say anything, except to agree with whatever I say.”

I did as I was told. It was a curious sensation. I didn’t really mind being her puppet. Of course, in retrospect, I resent it, but it seemed perfectly natural at the time to obey without question.

Abelle handed the cakes to Oediad and I dutifully verified that both cakes were made the same way. She suggested that he cut one of the cakes in half, and she would take one piece and he’d take the other, just so he would know that they worked and weren’t poisoned. Oediad thought it was a good idea, and used Abelle’s knife to cut the cake. Abelle took the piece on the left and popped into her mouth. Oediad took the piece on the right and swallowed it more cautiously.

Abelle and all the bags she was carrying vanished from sight almost instantly. Nothing happened to Oediad.

“Why did it work for the witch and not for me?” cried Oediad.

“Because the diamond dust was only on the left-hand side of the blade,” said the old alchemist through me. I felt her control lessening as the distance grew and she hurried invisibly down the dark Ald’ruhn street away from the Rat and the Pot.

We never found Abelle Chriditte or the diamond. Whether she completed her pilgrimage to Ald Redaynia is anyone’s guess. The cakes had no effect, except to give Oediad a bad case of droops that lasted for nearly a week.

The Locked Room Yana was precisely the kind of student her mentor Arthcamu despised: the professional amateur. He enjoyed all the criminal types who were his usual pupils at the stronghold, from the common burglar to the more sophisticated blackmailers, children and young people with strong career ambitions which the art and science of lockpicking could facilitate. They were always interested in simple solutions, the easy way, but people like Yana were always looking for exceptions, possibilities, exotica. For pragmatists like Arthcamu, it was intensely vexing.

The Redguard maiden would spend hours in front of a lock, prodding at it with her wires and picks, flirting with the key pins and driver pins, exploring the hull with a sort of casual fascination that no delinquent possesses. Long after her fellow students had opened their test locks and moved on, Yana was still playing with hers. The fact that she always opened it eventually, no matter how advanced a lock it was, irked Arthcamu even further.

“You are making things much too difficult,” he would roar, boxing her ears. “Speed is of the essence, not merely technical know-how. I swear that if I put the key to the lock right in front of you, you’d still never get around to opening it.”

Yana would bear Arthcamu’s abuse philosophically. She had, after all, paid him in advance. Speed was doubtless an important factor for the picker trying to get somewhere he wasn’t supposed to go with the city guard on patrol behind him, but Yana knew it wouldn’t apply to her. She merely wanted the knowledge.

Arthcamu did everything he could think of to encourage Yana to move faster. She seemed to perversely thrive on his physical and verbal blows, spending more and more time on each lock, learning its idiosyncrasies and personality. Finally, he could bear it no longer. Very late one afternoon after Yana had dawdled over a perfectly ordinary lock, he grabbed the girl by her ear and dragged her to a room in the stronghold far from the other students, an area they had always been forbidden to visit.

The room was completely barren, except for one large crate in the center. There were no windows and no other door except for the one leading in. Arthcamu slammed his student against the crate and closed the door behind her. There was a distinct click of the lock.

“This is the test for my advanced students,” he laughed behind the door. “See if you can escape.”

Yana smiled and began her usual slow process of massaging the lock, gaining information. After a few minutes had gone by, she heard Arthcamu’s voice again call out from behind the door.

“Perhaps I should mention that this is a test of speed. You see the crate behind you? It contains a vampire ancient who has been locked in here for many months. It is absolutely ravenous. In a few minutes’ time, the sun will have completely set, and if you have not opened the door, you will be nothing but a bloodless husk.”

Yana considered only for a moment whether Arthcamu was joking or not. She knew he was an evil, horrible man, but to resort to murder to teach his pupil? The moment she heard a rustling in the crate, any doubts she had were erased. Ignoring all her usual explorations, she jammed her wire into the lock, thrust the pegs against the pressure plate, and shoved open the door.

Arthcamu stood in the hallway beyond, laughing cruelly, “So, now you’ve learned the value of fast work.”

Yana fled from Arthcamu’s stronghold, fighting back her tears. He was certain that she would never return to his tutelage, but he considered that he had taught her at last a very valuable lesson. When she did return the next morning, Arthcamu registered no surprise, but inside he was seething.

“I’ll be leaving shortly,” she explained, quietly. “But I believe I’ve developed a new type of lock, and I’d be grateful if you’d give me your opinion of it.”

Arthcamu shrugged and asked her to present her design.

“I was wondering if I might use the vampire room and install the lock. I think it would be better if I demonstrated it.”

Arthcamu was dubious, but the prospect of the tiresome girl leaving at last put him in an excellent and even indulgent mood. He agreed to give her access to the room. For all morning and most of the afternoon, she worked near the slumbering vampire, removing the old lock and adding her new prototype. Finally, she asked her old master to take a look.

He studied the lock with an expert eye, and found little to be impressed with.

“This is the first and only pick-proof lock,” Yana explained. “The only way to open it is to have the right key.”

Arthcamu scoffed and let Yana close the door, shutting him in the room. The door clicked and he began to go to work. To his dismay, the lock was much more difficult than he thought it would be. He tried all his methods to force it, and found that he had to resort to his hated student’s method of careful and thorough exploration.

“I need to leave now,” called Yana from the other side of the door. “I’m going to bring the city guard to the stronghold. I know that it’s against the rules, but I really think it’s for the welfare of the villagers not to have a hungry vampire on the loose. It’s getting dark, and even though you aren’t able to unlock the door, the vampire might be less proud about using the key to escape. Remember when you said ‘If I put the key to the lock right in front of you, you’d still never get around to opening it’?”

“Wait!” Arthcamu yelled back. “I’ll use the key! Where is it? You forgot to give it to me!”

But there was no reply, only the sound of footfall disappearing down the corridor beyond the door. Arthcamu began to work harder on the lock, but his hands were shaking with fear. With no windows, it was impossible to tell how late it was getting to be. Were minutes that were flying by or hours? He only knew that the vampire ancient would know.

The tools could not stand very much twisting and tapping from Arthcamu’s hysterical hands. The wire snapped in the keyhole. Just like a student. Arthcamu screamed and pounded on the door, but he knew that no one could possibly hear him. It was while sucking in his breath to scream again, he heard the distinct creak of the crate opening behind him.

The vampire ancient regarded the master locksmith with insane, hungry eyes, and flew at him in a frenzy. Before Arthcamu died, he saw it: on a chain that had been placed around the vampire’s neck while it had been sleeping was a key.

Surfeit of Thieves

“This looks interesting,” said Indyk, his eyes narrowing to observe the black caravan making its way to the spires of the secluded castle. A gaudy, alien coat of arms marked each carriage, the lacquer glistening in the light of the moons. “Who do you suppose they are?”

“They’re obviously well-off,” smiled his partner, Heriah. “Perhaps some new Imperial Cult dedicated to the acquisition of wealth?”

“Go into town and find out what you can about the castle,” said Indyk. “I’ll see if I can learn anything about who these strangers are. We meet on this hill tomorrow night.”

Heriah had two great skills: picking locks and picking information. By dusk of the following day, she had returned to the hill. Indyk joined her an hour later.

“The place is called Ald Olyra,” she explained. “It dates back to the second era when a collection of nobles built it to protect themselves during one of the epidemics. They didn’t want any of the diseased masses to get into their midst and spread the plague, so they built up quite a sophisticated security system for the time. Of course, it’s mostly fallen into ruin, but I have a good idea about what kind of locks and traps might still be operational. What did you find out?”

“I wasn’t nearly so successful,” frowned Indyk. “No one seemed to have any idea about the group, even that that there were here. I was about to give up, but at the charterhouse, I met a monk who said that his masters were a hermetic group called the Order of St. Eadnua. I talked to him for some time, this fellow name of Parathion, and it seems they’re having some sort of ritual feast tonight.”

“Are they wealthy?” asked Heriah impatiently.

“Embarrassingly so according to the fellow. But they’re only at the castle for tonight.”

“I have my picks on me,” winked Heriah. “Opportunity has smiled on us.”

She drew a diagram of the castle in the dirt: the main hall and kitchen were near the front gate, and the stables and secured armory were in the back. The thieves had a system that never failed. Heriah would find a way into the castle and collect as much loot as possible, while Indyk provided the distraction. He waited until his partner had scaled the wall before rapping on the gate. Perhaps this time he would be a bard, or a lost adventurer. The details were most fun to improvise.

Heriah heard Indyk talking to the woman who came to the gate, but she was too far away to hear the words exchanged. He was evidently successful: a moment later, she heard the door shut. The man had charm, she would give him that.

Only a few of the traps and locks to the armory had been set. Undoubtedly, many of the keys had been lost in time. Whatever servants had been in charge of securing the Order’s treasures had brought a few new locks to affix. It took extra time to maneuver the intricate hasps and bolts of the new traps before proceeding to the old but still working systems, but Heriah found her heart beating with anticipation. Whatever lay beyond the door, she thought, must be of sufficient value to merit such protection.

When at last the door swung quietly open, the thief found her avaricious dreams paled to reality. A mountain of golden treasure, ancient relics glimmering with untapped magicka, weaponry of matchless quality, gemstones the size of her fist, row after row of strange potions, and stacks of valuable documents and scrolls. She was so enthralled by the sight, she did not hear the man behind her approach.

“You must be Lady Tressed,” said the voice and she jumped.

It was a monk in a black, hooded robe, intricately woven with silver and gold threads. For a moment, she could not speak. This was the sort of encounter that Indyk loved, but she could think to do nothing but nod her head with what she hoped looked like certainty.

“I’m afraid I’m a little lost,” she stammered.

“I can see that,” the man laughed. “That’s the armory. I’ll show you the way to the dining hall. We were afraid you weren’t going to arrive. The feast is nearly over.”

Heriah followed the monk across the courtyard, to the double doors leading to the dining hall. A robe identical to the one he was wearing hung on a hook outside, and he handed it to her with a knowing smile. She slipped it on. She mimicked him as she lowered the hood over her head and entered the hall.

Torches illuminated the figures within around the large table. Each wore the uniform black robe that covered all features, and from the look of things, the feast was over. Empty plates, platters, and glasses filled every inch of the wood with only the faintest spots and dribbles of the food remaining. It was a breaking of a fast it seemed. For a moment, Heriah stopped to think about poor, lost Lady Tressed who had missed her opportunity for gluttony.

The only unusual item on the table was its centerpiece: a huge golden hourglass which was on its last minute’s worth of sand.

Though each person looked alike, some were sleeping, some were chatting merrily to one another, and one was playing a lute. Indyk’s lute, she noticed, and then noticed Indyk’s ring on the man’s finger. Heriah was suddenly grateful for the anonymity of the hood. Perhaps Indyk would not realize that it was she, and that she had blundered.

“Tressed,” said the young man to the assembled, who turned as one to her and burst into applause.

The conscious members of the Order arose to kiss her hand, and introduce themselves.

“Nirdla.”

“Suelec.”

“Kyler.”

The names got stranger.

“Toniop.”

“Htillyts.”

“Noihtarap.”

She could not help laughing: “I understand. It’s all backwards. Your real names are Aldrin, Celeus, Relyk, Poinot, Styllith, Parathion.”

“Of course,” said the young man. “Won’t you have a seat?”

“Sey,” giggled Heriah, getting into the spirit of the masque and taking an empty chair. “I suppose that when the hourglass runs out, the backwards names go back to normal?”

“That’s correct, Tressed,” said the woman next to her. “It’s just one of our Order’s little amusements. This castle seemed like the appropriately ironic venue for our feast, devised as it was to shun the plague victims who were, in their way, a walking dead.”

Heriah felt herself light-headed from the odor of the torches, and bumped into the sleeping man next to her. He fell face forward onto the table.

“Poor Esruoc Tsrif,” said a neighboring man, helping to prop the body up. “He’s given us so much.”

Heriah stumbled to her feet and began walking uncertainly for the front gate.

“Where are you going, Tressed?” asked one of the figures, his voice taking on an unpleasant mocking quality.

“My name isn’t Tressed,” she mumbled, gripping Indyk’s arm. “I’m sorry, partner. We need to go.”

The last crumb of sand fell in the hour glass as the man pulled back his hood. It was not Indyk. It was not even human, but a stretched grotesquerie of a man with hungry eyes and a wide mouth filled with tusk-like fangs.

Heriah fell back into the chair of the figure they called Esruoc Tsrif. His hood fell open, revealing the pallid, bloodless face of Indyk. As she began to scream, they fell on her.

In her last living moment, Heriah finally spelled “Tressed” backwards.

Immortal Blood

The moons and stars were hidden from sight, making that particular quiet night especially dark. The town guard had to carry torches to make their rounds; but the man who came to call at my chapel carried no light with him. I came to learn that Movarth Piquine could see in the dark almost as well as the light - an excellent talent, considering his interests were exclusively nocturnal.

One of my acolytes brought him to me, and from the look of him, I at first thought he was in need of healing. He was pale to the point of opalescence with a face that looked like it had once been very handsome before some unspeakable suffering. The dark circles under his eyes bespoke exhaustion, but the eyes themselves were alert, intense, almost insane.

He quickly dismissed my notion that he himself was ill, though he did want to discuss a specific disease.

“Vampirism,” he said, and then paused at my quizzical look. “I was told that you were someone I should seek out for help understanding it.”

“Who told you that?” I asked with a smile.

“Tissina Gray.”

I immediately remembered her. A brave, beautiful knight who had needed my assistance separating fact from fiction on the subject of the vampire. It had been two years, and I had never heard whether my advice had proved effective.

“You’ve spoken to her? How is her ladyship?” I asked.

“Dead,” Movarth replied coldly, and then, responding to my shock, he added to perhaps soften the blow. “She said your advice was invaluable, at least for the one vampire. When last I talked to her, she was tracking another. It killed her.”

“Then the advice I gave her was not enough,” I sighed. “Why do you think it would be enough for you?”

“I was a teacher once myself, years ago,” he said. “Not in a university. A trainer in the Fighters Guild. But I know that if a student doesn’t ask the right questions, the teacher cannot be responsible for his failure. I intend to ask you the right questions.”

And that he did. For hours, he asked questions and I answered what I could, but he never volunteered any information about himself. He never smiled. He only studied me with those intense eyes of his, commiting every word I said to memory.

Finally, I turned the questioning around. “You said you were a trainer at the Fighters Guild. Are you on an assignment for them?”

“No,” he said curtly, and finally I could detect some weariness in those feverish eyes of his. “I would like to continue this tomorrow night, if I could. I need to get some sleep and absorb this.”

“You sleep during the day,” I smiled.

To my surprise, he returned the smile, though it was more of a grimace. “When tracking your prey, you adapt their habits.”

The next day, he did return with more questions, these ones very specific. He wanted to know about the vampires of eastern Skyrim. I told him about the most powerful tribe, the Volkihar, paranoid and cruel, whose very breath could freeze their victims’ blood in the veins. I explained to him how they lived beneath the ice of remote and haunted lakes, never venturing into the world of men except to feed.

Movarth Piquine listened carefully, and asked more questions into the night, until at last he was ready to leave.

“I will not see you for a few days,” he said. “But I will return, and tell you how helpful your information has been.”

True to his word, the man returned to my chapel shortly after midnight four days later. There was a fresh scar on his cheek, but he was smiling that grim but satisfied smile of his.

“Your advice helped me very much,” he said. “But you should know that the Volkihar have an additional ability you didn’t mention. They can reach through the ice of their lakes without breaking it. It was quite a nasty surprise, being grabbed from below without any warning.”

“How remarkable,” I said with a laugh. “And terrifying. You’re lucky you survived.”

“I don’t believe in luck. I believe in knowledge and training. Your information helped me, and my skill at melee combat sealed the bloodsucker’s fate. I’ve never believed in weaponry of any kind. Too many unknowns. Even the best swordsmith has created a flawed blade, but you know what your body is capable of. I know I can land a thousand blows without losing my balance, provided I get the first strike.”

“The first strike?” I murmured. “So you must never be surprised.”

“That is why I came to you,” said Movarth. “You know more than anyone alive about these monsters, in all their cursed varieties across the land. Now you must tell me about the vampires of northern Valenwood.”

I did as he asked, and once again, his questions taxed my knowledge. There were many tribes to cover. The Bonsamu who were indistinguishable from Bosmer except when seen by candlelight. The Keerilth who could disintegrate into mist. The Yekef who swallowed men whole. The dread Telboth who preyed on children, eventually taking their place in the family, waiting patiently for years before murdering them all in their unnatural hunger.

Once again, he bade me farewell, promising to return in a few weeks, and once again, he returned as he said, just after midnight. This time, Movarth had no fresh scars, but he again had new information.

“You were wrong about the Keerilth being unable to vaporize when pushed underwater,” he said, patting my shoulder fondly. “Fortunately, they cannot travel far in their mist form, and I was able to track it down.”

“It must have surprised it fearfully. Your field knowledge is becoming impressive,” I said. “I should have had an acolyte like you decades ago.”

“Now, tell me,” he said. “Of the vampires of Cyrodiil.”

I told him what I could. There was but one tribe in Cyrodiil, a powerful clan who had ousted all other competitors, much like the Imperials themselves had done. Their true name was unknown, lost in history, but they were experts at concealment. If they kept themselves well-fed, they were indistinguishable from living persons. They were cultured, more civilized than the vampires of the provinces, preferring to feed on victims while they were asleep, unaware.

“They will be difficult to surprise,” Movarth frowned. “But I will seek one out, and tell you what I learn. And then you will tell me of the vampires of High Rock, and Hammerfell, and Elsweyr, and Black Marsh, and Morrowind, and the Sumurset Isles, yes?”

I nodded, knowing then that this was a man on an eternal quest. He wouldn’t be satisfied with but the barest hint of how things were. He needed to know it all.

He did not return for a month, and on the night that he did, I could see his frustration and despair, though there were no lights burning in my chapel.

“I failed,” he said, as I lit a candle. “You were right. I could not find a single one.”

I brought the light up to my face and smiled. He was surprised, even stunned by the pallor of my flesh, the dark hunger in my ageless eyes, and the teeth. Oh, yes, I think the teeth definitely surprised the man who could not afford to be surprised.

“I haven’t fed in seventy-two hours,” I explained, as I fell on him. He did not land the first blow or the last.