Chapter 7
I go over Estormo's encrypted message once, twice, and once again. He is a much better encrypter than I, I'm grateful he taught me the system he used once we started working together. I remember it took some convincing on my part for him to agree to this assignment, but I am glad he decided to come along. The note, written before we parted ways and just before I went into Winterhold alone, detailed the plan we laid out in Solitude. Approximately five days after arriving, we were to meet at a pre-designated meeting point for intel briefing. Preferably somewhere nearby, but not within sight. With Winterhold being such a ghost town, one would think there would be a plethora of options to choose from. The problem was that everything in Winterhold's immediate outskirts is a barren, frozen wasteland. I have yet to explore the area myself, but I'm certain it contains the usual hostile wildlife among the occasional ruins, supremely adapted to the bitter cold. We decided on a spot to the northwest, just below the College itself with enough cover from the rocks that no one should see us and we should be shielded from the Sea of Ghost's arctic winds. For our sake, I hope and pray he remembers how to build a bonfire. I sit back in my chair, rubbing my face in the dark solitude of my room. It is the next morning, and I am still dazed from my near-death experience the evening before. I will have much to brief Estormo on, and it will only be about one person.
I have had many, many brushes with death. Enough to span the lifetimes I have lived on Nirn. The brief time I spent in Cyrodiil at the outbreak of the Great War showed me the fragility of life, both men and mer. At this point, I have lost count of how many times I have nearly been killed, accidentally or not. It became normalized before I could fathom it, especially after joining the Dominion. Estormo can attest to how numb I've become to nearly being killed time and time again. But the encounter I had with the Redguard felt different. Closer. She had already proven herself to be proficient enough with magic during her demonstration with Tolfdir, enough for me to spend considerable time attempting to spy on her. Grasping such advanced magical concepts as flawlessly as she did was rare for humans, even Bretons. At first, I thought she was cheating, using enchanted clothing and jewelry to make herself magically stronger. Many do not know this, but Altmer are said to have magical sight. We can physically see magic enchantments on items; they emit a certain glow relevant to the enchantment. Red was usually fire-related, deep blue and purple were shock. The lighter blues were frist and even felt cold to the touch. But nothing she's worn so far had even a hint of magical enchantment to them. Then I was beginning to think she had been a magic prodigy in her youth, although I ended up dismissing the idea as getting too ahead of myself. And of giving a human woman too much credit. An idea that was all but proven to be correct when I nearly took a lightning bolt straight to the face.
An orange lightning bolt.
The color for the standard lightning bolt spell, the one taught in Mages Guilds and other magical institutes around Tamriel, is a bright, sky blue. And for the longest time, really since its conception a millennia ago, it was considered to be the only color. Until close to a century ago now, reports from the Arcane University in Cyrodiil indicated that some elite mages had discovered a much stronger variant of the lightning bolt spell that had an orange hue. A few members of the College of Sapiarchs had traveled to Cyrodiil upon hearing the news, eager to see this discovery for themselves. They came back and shared the knowledge with the rest of their lot, and Ancoril had been among them. I remember so distinctly the way his face lit up when he cast the spell for the first time, the orange from the lightning bolt reflecting back in his eyes a glow that I have no doubt was matched by how he felt inside. To date, Ancoril is the only person I have seen successfully cast the orange lightning bolt spell, said to be three times as deadly as the original and lethal enough to kill with a single cast.
Ancoril... and the Redguard mage. Ira of Astora.
Human magic prodigies were exceptionally rare, usually once in a lifetime. They were the ones whose legacy lived on long after their deaths. Whose deeds, whether good or bad, exceeded their limited lifespan. Shalidor, Zurin Arctin, Jagar Tharn. That these were all non-Breton examples makes them all the more significant, but Redguards being magic prodigies was quite literally unheard of. They were desertwalkers, swordsmen, warriors, traders and adventurers alike. They sailed across Tamriel ever since settling Hammerfell, long after their doomed ancestral home of Yokuda sank to the sea ages ago. Some had magical propensity, and others were smart enough to become tacticians in times of war. But theirs were not a people of magical talent. It was hard to contain my surprise when I saw that orange lightning bolt zap through the vacant space where my head once was and obliterate part of the wall behind me. I can still smell and taste the metallic electricity it left in its wake. The air was super-charged in its absence, and truthfully, I hesitated for a long moment afterwards to move from where I dodged certain death. Talent of that magnitude was almost unheard of in humans.
Almost.
Normally I never get ahead of myself like this, I am not one to exaggerate or blow things out of proportion given the appropriate circumstances. But facts do not lie. The accolades these people shower her with, the respect she has from the professors and peers, the unending praise from Tolfdir and the Archmage himself. The spell she cast that nearly killed me was the final confirmation. I am in the presence of a genuine magick prodigy, the likes of which I have never seen or heard of in a Redguard. Had she been an Altmer, she would have risen within the ranks of the Dominion faster than most. We might have even been colleagues put on assignment together, or she would have been paired with the likes of Ondolemar, patrolling the streets of Markarth with other justiciars. Perhaps she would have even worked under Lady Ambassador Elenwen herself. The Dominion valued talent, magical talent more than anything. There is no doubt they would have had her torturing prisoners for interrogation purposes, or purely for fun. She would have been on the front lines of the Great War, blasting humans apart with magic far more destructive than anything they possessed. She would have-
I stop myself short upon realizing I am daydreaming of fantasies that will never come true. The Redguard is not an Altmer and she will never be part of the Aldmeri Dominion. If anything, she would be a person of interest to the Dominion, someone a higher-up would write a dossier about. Speaking of, the development she poses to my assignment must be discussed with Estormo. He may want to interrogate her about her abilities, although I don't see a point in that now. She hasn't proven herself to be... problematic, per se. I have seen no obvious affiliation with the Empire or the Imperial Legion, despite her Cyrodiilic accent. She will remain a person of interest, however, in the event more information comes to light that could be useful to us. Would that her door wasn't always locked when she was gone, I'd have found more out for myself by now. I take a deep breath, feeling like I did not sleep enough the night before. At least I didn't have any lucidly surreal dreams this time. Perhaps the one I had a few nights ago was a one-off incident. I at least hope so. It's becoming mildly alarming how many reminders, both subtle and not-so-subtle, of Ancoril I'm getting from this place. Pocketing the note from Estormo, I then reach for my journal, flipping to the very first page. It contains a map I painstakingly drew of the College grounds, copied from the missive board out in the Courtyard and includes detailed floor plans of the buildings I've explored so far.
On my first day, after my initial meeting with Archmage Savos, I explored the sublevel beneath the Hall of Elements. It was a training ground of sorts, an open area with multiple alcoves for a number of students to use simultaneously. And it was in constant use, the smell and taste of magic thick in the air and never leaving. I remember several of the occupants in this area glancing at me with varying degrees of suspicion and confusion as I walked through the area, examining each alcove. Some were empty, others had stone markers at the other end that lit up when projectiles were thrown at them. One alcove even had a spirit, an old bearded man clad in mage robes, with his hands raised up as if in prayer. A plaque outside this particular alcove that explained that the spirit was some "ancient sparring partner". Adjacent to the alcoves were shelves of magicka potions, health potions, one side had an alchemy set up with myriads of ingredients. A note on a nearby wall explained that the potions were for students to use after training, and the alchemy station was open for anyone to use in the event the potion shelf was empty. There's also a single bed for someone to sleep on, and I could not imagine who would think a training grounds appropriate sleeping quarters. Next to the bed and alchemy station is a door I simply labeled investigate later. I frown at it, not remembering anything significant about the door in question. My mind made, I sigh as I stand to leave, knowing I won't have anything else better to do with the day now that the Redguard mage has been granted space from me.
It then occurs to me that I haven't heard a sound from her room all day.
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At midday, the Hall of the Elements is sparse. Few people linger aside from the guards and the occasional student passing through to the upper and lower levels. Most of the students I did see were outside, practicing their spells with each other in the open, frigid air that I'm sure I will never get used to no matter how long I stay here. Many more are likely in the Arcaneum, studying for whatever may pass for magical exams here. As it is, there are only three people in the subterranean training grounds - J'zargo, whom I'm beginning to suspect never leaves this place unless absolutely necessary, an Argonian with scales the color of Valenwood's trees, and a Dunmer woman manning the alchemy station. J'zargo and the Argonian stand next to each other, each one casting spells in the alcove next to the other. As such, both are too busy to notice my arrival, but the Dunmer woman keeps a suspicious eye on me for longer than is comfortable. She doesn't say a word to me, but she doesn't need to. The suspicion on her face says everything I need to know from her. The wooden door is nondescript and unassuming, or at least it would be if it didn't have a wooden bar attached to it. The bar, clearly used for keeping the door locked in the crudest form of security, has been lifted up. Someone has been here, recently. And no one has made to replace the bar in its original position to block the door. A wrinkled piece of parchment next to the door explains the reason for the bar's existence:
~~~~~~~~
"This door to the Midden is to be kept locked at all times, otherwise we're going to have ice wraiths in the Arcaneum again, and you get to find out exactly what it's like to have ancient tomes dried to my liking.
-Urag"
~~~~~~~~~
My lip curls. I can almost smell the stench from that foul brute of a librarian who authored the note. Despite the unpleasantness his memory brings, there is at least useful information here. This 'Midden' must be cold enough for ice wraiths to inhabit. I've seen plenty in Skyrim's Northern regions, and they were a pain in my backside. Floating, rattling ice bones vaguely resembling a snake. Apparently the Nords deem killing them as part of some rite of passage into adulthood. They were vicious enough to pose a serious threat even by themselves, much stronger and deadlier than they looked. I almost don't see a reason why anyone would want to visit this place, but there must be a reason why someone went down here. And the Orc wouldn't have left this note if he did not expect people to follow suit. I reach out to touch the handle, and it's bitterly cold. I presume this is a basement of sorts for the College, whatever that may look like.
I roll my neck, never having been one to shy from a challenge or a forbidden entrance. If I'm not allowed to go down here, no one says a word. In fact, no one in the training area verbally objects or perhaps even notices as I push the door forward and disappear through its threshold to the otherside.
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This is an undiscovered plane of Oblivion. It must be. It has to be. No other explanation will suffice.
It feels like I've been here for days, weeks even. The corridor was dimly lit when I entered, barely lighting the stairs leading down into its depths. With the look, feel and smell of a dank cellar, I passed through one doorway after another, identical to the next and containing no shortage of macabre oddities and surprises. The first sight I was greeted with was a human skull, missing a bottom jaw, mantled on the wall in front of me. Skeletal arms and hands are positioned all around its head, forming a crown behind the skull. And that was the tamest so far. Skeletons and remains of skeletons, chained and shackled to iced-over brick walls - one even had a deer skull with gemstones in the eye sockets, hanging from its wrists - seem to be all over this place. I have to wonder if this Midden place was the College's version of our torture chambers. Amid poor lighting, unforgivingly bitter cold that somehow feels worse in here than it does outside, and dampness I can literally taste, I pass through rooms full of bones I can't identify at all. Random assortments of cooking items, errantly discarded armor and weapons, brooms and other tools, and large crates and barrels filled with Lorkhan knows what. They've been webbed over a thousand fold by the resident frostbite spiders that set upon me almost as soon as I rounded a corner. Urag's note neglected to mention they lived here alongside the ice wraiths.
Which, oddly enough, I have not see a single one of.
I've been down here for at least an hour, getting lost navigating tripwire and other traps I've since lost count of, and the only evidence of ice wraiths I've seen are the crystal blue ice piles they disintegrate into upon death. And the floor around them charred and blackened beyond belief. It's as if a dragon was down here, scorching them to Oblivion. Which isn't possible but... who or what else could be down here? And why? This place is deathly quiet, and every sound seems to echo for an eternity. The only sounds I've heard so far have been errant water droplets from sources unknown, the wind howling as things scurry and move out of my sight, and my own labored breathing as the cold threatens to consume and shrivel me alive. If someone else was down here, someone humanoid at least, I'd have heard them long ago.
I step into one room that's more open than the rest. A few paces away, s short set of stairs leads to a small, flat area littered with a few bones. Next to them is a small wooden crate, a thin tattered mat and a yellow rug. In front of them is another doorway, a wall-mounted torch lighting the way. And to the right are four small windows, showing what look to be a rock wall on the other side. All of the windows are gated, except for the bottom right. I can't imagine I'm extremely high up - I've gown down more flights of stairs than climbed - but it would help to know exactly where I am. I make my way down the stairs and I'm about to go through the opening when the bones start moving. I'm almost taken off guard when a skeleton begins wordlessly clambering towards me, ancient battleaxe in hand and eyes glowing bright blue. A quick dodge and a weak firebolt spell sends it down permanently. The brief blast of heat feels heavenly in the ice box I've foolishly decided to explore.
Once I'm sure nothing else is going to try and get the jump on me, I turn back to the open window. Stepping through it, the first thing I see is a huge rock wall. It looks like I'm inside a huge rock crevice, maybe inside of a glacier. There are floor to ceiling rock walls all around me, encased in what look to be centuries of ice and snow. I'm also a considerable distance higher than I anticipated. I happen to glance down in time to see a shadow move through the entryway of another doorway, highlighted by the faintest glow of light, all the way at the ground level of the Midden. I saw it for the briefest of moments, but it looked humanoid and made no sound to indicate otherwise as it moved out of my sight. I'm surprised someone is still down here and I haven't heard them yet, but whoever it is clearly hasn't left, and if I hurry, I can catch whoever it is. They clearly know more about this place than I do, and it's been too long since I properly interrogated someone for anything. I spin and move to the entryway behind me. I get to the threshold and come up short when something on the ground catches my eye in the low candlelight. It's lightly colored, which makes it stand out in this godsforsaken Midden that's starting to feel more like a dungeon than a basement or even a cellar. Somewhat shiny, and glittery. I squat to pick it up, examining it closer in my hands. It's a necklace. A very, very short necklace, likely a choker. The chain is a bright bronze, almost gold, with a fastening hook and loop attached to each end. But the pendant itself catches my attention.
A small triangle with an eye in its center is attached to the chain. Hanging from this is a bronze circular pendant with three small circles, formed into an inverted triangle, while a single-banded equal-sided triangle is super-imposed on top of them. Fancy filigree outlines the outskirts of the circles and the pendant itself, and there is an intricately carved detail inside each circle that is reminiscent of a stained glass window. The pendant itself is rigid where the triangles are, but the circles are smooth. Rubbing my thumb across it, I easily recognize the symbol etched onto it from the time I spent in Cyrodiil, and my visit to the Temple of Divines in Solitude.
Julianos, the Imperial's god of wisdom and logic, and the patron saint of all magic users, men and mer alike. This is an amulet of Julianos, custom-made into a choker.
I pause and feel my eyes narrow, not sure I really understand what I'm seeing. Amulets were not uncommon in Skyrim or Tamriel. While the Talos amulets were quick to disappear after the White-Gold Concordat, people wore the rest of the gods' amulets everywhere. Skyrim especially had a custom of wearing an amulet of Mara to signify their intent to marry, as ridiculous as that sounded and looked. But choker amulets like these were less common, perhaps even rare. Someone took the time to have this customized specifically for them. And it looks so, so familiar. The longer I look at it, the more I can't shake the feeling that I've seen it before. Who have I seen wearing this...?
I sharply inhale through my nose as my eyes widen, the memory hitting me as hard as the biting cold filling up my lungs. I know where I've seen this before. The last time I saw this pendant, it was fastened around a saddle-brown, slender neck. Framed by a cascading waterfall of dark braids, accenting icy-blue eyes, dark red lips, and stark-white warpaint slashed across a sharp face.
The Redguard mage. Ira of Astora.
This is her amulet, the one I saw her wearing on the first day of our shadowing in the Hall of Attainment. I wasn't able to get a good look at it then, and hadn't been since that day, but the shape and color are unmistakable. Memories of her flash in my mind unbiddingly, and seemingly at the connection I've just made of this amulet to her. Her damnable smile and laughter being the most prominent among them. Sights and sounds that are clearer in my mind than my childhood spent in Summerset and even my time training in Cyrodiil before the Great War started, as horrifying as the thought is to process. I remember the way she smiled down at me in the staircase leading to the Arcaneum, seemingly amused by my struggle to navigate the dimly-lit corridor. The way she laughed and tried to conceal it when Urag insulted me. The soft look on her face as Drevis left us alone, the day she nearly killed me. The memories are stronger than they should be, and I don't know why I'm remembering these particular aspects of the past two days, but if her amulet is here, then she must be as well.
I stand from my squat, and nearly black out from the sensation. I was in that position for longer than I should have been and stood much too quickly, an action my body was swift to punish me for. I feel lightheaded, like all the blood has rushed from my head and pooled down to my lowest extremities. The room feels like it's spinning around me and I'm willing myself not to collapse. I'm not getting that old, am I? I stand motionless for a moment, eyes closed as I regain my senses, before making my way through the corridor in front of me. Surely there are rules and regulations regarding the College's star pupil trudging through an icy dungeon by herself.
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AUTHOR'S NOTE