VIII - The Thalmor Embassy

A chilly afternoon several days later found Merill perched on a stone along the Karth River, holding her bow in her lap and staring up at the great cliff on which Solitude was built. She stared along its stone walls, absentmindedly whittling her way down the arms of her bow with her skinning dagger. It was too big and bulky to carve properly and she was nowhere near as skilled as Brelin had been, but the motions gave her comfort. For her thirteenth birthday he had given her a beautiful, pale-wooded longbow, its arms crisscrossed with carvings of lilies and vines that entwined one another. She felt a pang as she remembered that bow, stuck in the mud as she scrambled away from their burning cabin. Long gone by now, she figured.

Merill looked up at the wintry, cloud-shrouded sun, trying to guess the time. Delphine had told her that the contact would meet her in The Winking Skeever just after four. It was nearly time. She slid off the rock, tucked her bow away, and started downstream, toward the bridge that formed a path over the Karth to Solitude’s docks.

“I’m not doing it,” she had said at once when Delphine proposed the plan to her in Riverwood. “No way in hell. I’ve never been to a party, I can’t even act like I’d know what I was doing there.”

“I can’t do it,” Delphine had told her curtly. “They’d recognize me. But the Thalmor don’t know you yet. And you only have to be at the party long enough to cause a distraction and slip away to get into Elenwen’s files.”

“I’ve got one white eye!” Merill had insisted. “You think they’re going to forget me? Why can’t this contact of yours do it?” Delphine shook her head.

“He’s not cut out for this kind of high-risk mission. But he can help you. He’ll meet you tomorrow in the Winking Skeever in Solitude, just before four. You know it?”

“There’s nowhere else he can meet me?”

“Solitude’s the nearest city to the Embassy. Meeting anywhere else makes it more of a risk of having one of you followed. While you meet with Malborn, I’ll get you an invitation to Elenwen’s party. Any questions?”

Merill pulled her hood low over her face as she made her way through the docks. She had never seen a port city, but Kiseen had told stories of Anvil, a warm, permanently sunny bay with shiny white buildings and bright orange rooftops with sand along its shores. Solitude’s bay was very different – tall-masted ships looming in the icy waters and an overbearing stench of dead fish. The shipyards were loud and noisy, sailors calling to one another over the creaking of hulls and the crates being lifted off decks to be lowered onto the walkways. A single hooded traveler was nothing to the salt-scarred sailors.

Merill reached the end of the dock and started the climb up a cobbled path that curled around a hill and up to Solitude. It was late afternoon, the sky overhead starting to deepen into a heavy blue, a few low clouds drifting near the horizon. The marshes looked solemn and quiet in the distance.

The city gates were open already, and Merill quickly stepped through the passage, starting to make a beeline for the inn when something stopped her. Solitude’s visitors were greeted by a raised block where public executions used to be held, but in Markarth they’d always said that it was a generally peaceful city, the kind King Torygg quick to put any worries of an execution to rest. But a crowd was gathered before the block, a jeering, seething crowd that called out insults and threats. Merill slowly raised her eyes, standing at the back of the assembled, and saw a ragged man there, his hands bound and his eyes hollow with exhaustion.

She watched in silence as the captain read the charges, disappointment in his face. The accused kept his head down even as a stone was thrown, striking his sallow cheek.

“There was no murder!” the condemned man shouted over the calls against him. “Ulfric challenged Torygg. He beat the High King in fair combat!”

Merill turned away, memories of the block in Helgen clouding her mind, and pushed her way into the inn. The Winking Skeever was a pleasant bar, bright stone lined with mounted wolf and sabre-cat heads, thick rugs offering warmth from the chill stone floors. Merill glanced around, cautiously pulling down her hood. There weren’t many people inside – it seemed most were crowded in the town square for the execution. She saw only a single Bosmer in the Skeever, sitting in a shadowy corner behind the great stone oven in the bar.

“Malborn?” she asked quietly, and he looked up.

“Can I help you?” he said shortly, peering at her over the rim of his cup. His face was long and angular, his dark hair short and spiked straight up from his forehead. A hot feeling, like shame, slid through her at the sight of him. He looked so much like Nalimir.

“Our mutual friend sent me,” Merill told him, sliding into the seat across from him. Malborn’s expression changed.

“Really? You’re who she picked? I hope she knows what she’s doing.”

“I know what I’m doing,” Merill snapped, glancing around to be sure no one was watching, and Malborn raised a thin eyebrow.

“Well, here’s the deal. I can smuggle some equipment into the Embassy for you. Don’t plan on bringing anything else in with you. The Thalmor take security very seriously. Give me what you absolutely need and I’ll make sure it gets inside. The rest is up to you.” Merill unbuckled her quiver and slid her bow off her back, pushing them both across the table.

“That’s all I need,” she said at once. She reached into a pocket and pulled out a handful of lockpicks, setting them beside the quiver.

“That’s it?” Malborn asked skeptically, and Merill nodded. The Bosmer glanced around before pulling the bow and quiver off the table and pulling them over his own shoulders. He dropped the lockpicks into a bag on his hip. “Hurry up and get down to Delphine at the stables. I’ll see you in there,” he muttered, and quickly rose from the table and started toward the door as it was flung open and a large group that must have come from the execution filtered in, their chatter filling the vaulted ceilings. Merill rose quickly and followed Malborn, anxious to get in and out of the Embassy before the night was over.

* * *

Delphine was waiting outside the stables, speaking to the driver of a heavy-looking wooden carriage, inlaid with ivory scrolling and boasting tiny glass windows covered with lacy curtains. Merill had only ever seen the Thalmor travel in so grand a confection.

“This looks ridiculous,” she said sourly as she approached Delphine, who appeared quite pleased with herself.

“Did you think you were going to walk into the Thalmor Embassy?” Delphine demanded, turning to face Merill.

“No, but…is this your carriage?”

“Korst owed me a favour,” Delphine explained simply, gesturing to the driver, who gave Merill a nod. “And you’re late. Did you give Malborn everything you need?” Merill nodded. It was growing darker outside, thick clouds rolling in to cover the stars. “Good.” Delphine reached into a bag at her feet, pulling out a thick, folded piece of parchment painted with swirls of gold. “Here’s your invitation,” she said, handing it to Merill and reaching down into the bag again to draw out a slim, pale wood box. “And here’s your outfit.”

“Delphine,” Merill said reluctantly, taking the box. “Are you sure there’s no one else…?”

“Look, Merill,” the woman muttered, stepping close, using her name for the first time since they’d met. “I’m not an idiot. I know you’re not the most…elegant person.” Merill narrowed her eyes. “But you can do this. It’s a big party, just flit around and don’t talk to anyone for too long until you have a chance to slip away. Oh,” she added, leaning down to the bag again and drawing out a pair of fur clogs embroidered in gold. “Don’t forget these.” Merill snatched up the clogs and cast Delphine a sour look, balancing them on top of the box. “Just make sure you get back out of there alive with the information we need.”

“For someone who’s supposed to be dedicated to protecting me, you don’t seem too concerned about the protecting bit.”

“Because I know you can handle yourself. Just lay low until you can get to Malborn and sneak out. Good luck.” Delphine pulled open the carriage door and dropped down the stairs into it, standing back and making an overzealous gesture in mockery of a coachman. Merill cast her one last dirty look before she climbed inside.

She sat down on one of the cushioned benches and put the box on the one across from her, lifting lid as Delphine shut the door and the carriage lurched into motion. The dress wasn’t as bad as she was expecting – a simple design of gold silk embroidered with green vines and a long-sleeved, deep-green over-gown, paired with an intricate gold belt and matching earrings, all topped with a sleek black fur cloak. Still, it was far more intricate than anything she’d ever worn, let along touched. “Gods, you’ve got to be kidding me,” she murmured, tossing the gown over her arm. There was a gold-embroidered leather eyepatch at the bottom of the box.

When she had laced herself into the gown and slid her feet into the clogs, Merill was nudging her cloth armour to a corner of the carriage when she noticed a curious lump in the cloth. She pulled the cloak aside and discovered the book she’d slipped from Delphine’s basement, The Book of the Dragonborn. It was a small, short book, dark and tattered, but Merill opened to the first pages anyway, her eyes scanning the lines of text spidered out before her.

The Book of the Dragonborn

By Prior Emelene Madrine

Order of Talos

Weynon Priory

A treatise on the Dragonborn

Year 360 of the Third Era, Twenty-First of the Reign of His Majesty Pelagius IV

Many people have heard the term “Dragonborn” – we are of course ruled by the “Dragonborn Emperors” – but the true meaning of the term is not commonly understood. For those of us in the Order of Talos, this is a subject near and dear to our hearts, and in this book I will attempt to illuminate the history and significance of those known as Dragonborn down through the ages.

Most scholars agree that the term as first used in the connection with the Covenant of Akatosh, when the blessed St. Alessia was given the Amulet of Kings and the Dragonfires in the Temple of the One were first lit. “Akatosh, looking with pity upon the plight of men, drew precious blood from his own heart, and blessed St. Alessia with this blood of Dragons, and made a Covenant that so long as Alessia’s generations were true to dragon blood, Akatosh would endeavor to seal tight the Gates of Oblivion, and to deny the armies of Daedra and undead to their enemies, the Daedra-loving Ayleids.” Those blessed by AKatosh with “the dragon blood” became known more simply as Dragonborn.

The connection with the rulers of the Empire was thus there from the beginning – only those of the dragon blood were able to wear the Amulet of Kings and light the Dragonfires. All the legitimate rulers of the Empire have been Dragonborn – the Emperors and Empresses of the first Cyrodilic Empire founded by Alessia; Reman Cyrodiil and his heirs; and of course Tiber Septim and his heirs, down to our current Emperor, His Majesty Pelagius Septim IV.

Because of this connection with the Emperors, however, the other significance of the Dragonborn has been obscured and largely forgotten by all but scholars and those of us dedicated to the service of the blessed Talos, Who Was Tiber Septim. Very few realise that being Dragonborn is not a simple matter of heredity – being the blessing of Akatosh Himself, it is beyond our understanding exactly how and why it is bestowed. Those who become Emperor and light the Dragonfires are surely Dragonborn – the proof is in the wearing of the Amulet and the lighting of the Fires. But were they Dragonborn and thus able to do these things – or was the doing the sign of the blessing of Akatosh descending upon them? All we can say is that it is both and neither – a divine mystery.

The line of Septims have all been Dragonborn, of course, which is one reason the simplistic notion of it being hereditary has become so commonplace. But we know for certain that the early Cyrodilic rulers were not all related. There is also no evidence that Reman Cyrodiil was descended from Alessia, although there are many legends that would make it so, most of them dating from the time of Reman and likely attempts to legitimize his rule. We know that the Blades, usually thought of us the Emperor’s bodyguards, originated in Akaviri crusaders who invaded Tamriel for obscure reasons in the late First Era. They appear to have been searching for a Dragonborn – the events at Pale Pass bear this out – and the Akaviri were the first to proclaim Reman Cyrodiil as Dragonborn. In fact it was the Akaviri who did the most to promote his standing as Emperor (although Reman himself never took that title in his lifetime). And of course there is no known hereditary connection between Tiber Septim and any of the previous Dragonborn rulers of Tamriel.

Whether there can be more than one Dragonborn at any time is another mystery. The Emperors have done their best to dismiss this notion, but of course the Imperial succession itself means that at the very least there are two or more potential Dragonborn at any time: the current ruler and his or her heirs. The history of the Blades also hints at this – although little is known of their activities during the Interregnum between Reman’s Empire and the rise of Tiber Septim, many believe that the Blades continued to search out and guard those they believed were (or might be) Dragonborn during this time.

Lastly, we come to the question of the true meaning of being Dragonborn. The connection with dragons is so obvious that it has almost been forgotten – in these days when dragons are a distant memory, we forget that in the early days being Dragonborn meant having “the dragon blood.” Some scholars believe that was meant quite literally, although the exact significance is not known. The Nords tell tales of Dragonborn heroes who were great dragonslayers, able to steal the power of the dragons they killed. Indeed, it is well known that the Akaviri sought out and killed many dragons during their invasion, and there is some evidence that this continued after they became Reman Cyrodiil’s Dragonguard (again, the connection to dragons) – the direct predecessor to the Blades of today.

I leave you with what is known as “The Prophecy of the Dragonborn.” It is often said to originate in an Elder Scroll, although it is sometimes also attributed to the ancient Akaviri. Many have attempted to decipher it, and many have also believed that its omens have been fulfilled and that the advent of the “Last Dragonborn” was at hand. I make no claims as an interpreter of prophecy, but it does suggest that the true significance of Akatosh’s gift to mortalkind has yet to be fully understood.

When misrule takes its place at the eight corners of the world

When the Brass Tower walks and Time is reshaped

When the thrice-blessed fail and the Red Tower trembles

When the Dragonborn Ruler loses his throne, and the White Tower falls

When the Snow Tower lies sundered, kingless, bleeding

The World-Eater wakes, and the Wheel turns upon the Last Dragonborn

Merill lowered the book, leaning back to peer outside beyond the lacy curtains. Snow had begun to fall, thickly, and there seemed to be little other traffic on the darkening road. She looked back to the book in her hands, turning to the prophecy inked in at the very end. It had to be the prophecy Arngeir had mentioned. The World-Eater, she thought, looking to the end of the prophecy, and the words awakened a strange feeling in her chest. Alduin.

When the carriage finally shuddered to a halt, Merill’s head jerked up, and she realized she had been dozing against back wall, The Book of the Dragonborn fallen from her hands onto the carpeted floor. Merill pulled aside the lace curtain with one finger to look outside. It had grown dark, and the carriage was stopped in the walled outer courtyard of a grand manor in the Solitude fashion. Merill quickly hid the book and glanced inside Delphine’s box one more time to be sure she hadn’t missed anything. She found a few pins inside which she used to quickly pull half her hair up in a braid before pulling the patch up and securing it over her blind eye, hoping it concealed most of the scar as well. There was a knock on the carriage door, and Merill knocked back to let the driver know she was ready.

The door opened and the driver offered her a gloved hand, which she seized to keep herself from stumbling as she wobbled down the carriage steps in her fur-lined clogs. The courtyard was quiet, a number of other carriages already parked nearby, but she could hear the sounds of music and laughter from within the lighted windows of the Embassy.

“Ah! A fellow latecomer to Elenwen’s little soiree.” Merill looked up as she stepped into the snow to see a Redguard lowering his hood and shaking snow off his shoulders as he approached. He staggered slightly as he approached, and Merill’s driver steadied him. “And arriving by carriage, no less! I salute you, good lady!” He shook his head, trying to clear the snow from his beard. “My lateness is due more to getting lost on the way up this gods-forsaken mountain than to any desire to actually arrive late.”

“Good evening, madam,” someone said, and Merill turned to see a Thalmor guard beside the stairs, giving a slightly affronted look to the drunken Redguard. “Welcome to the Thalmor Embassy. Your invitation, please.” Merill drew the invitation from the pocket of her gown and handed it over, holding her breath. The guard glanced briefly at the parchment before handing it back to her. “Thank you, madam. Do you have an escort this evening?” I don’t need a damn escort to walk in the building, Merill thought, annoyed.

“Right here,” she said, smiling dryly at the guard as she took the Redguard’s arm. He handed his own invitation over with a flourish, saluting the Thalmor with a grin. The guard gave him a tired look before stepping aside and waving them up.

“Go right in,” he said, sounding resigned. “And have a pleasant evening.”

“You’d think I’d had enough elves by now,” the Redguard hiccoughed as they passed another guard onto the porch. “Ah well, they’ve got damn good drinks.” The Redguard, who introduced himself as Razelan, held open the door for her as they reached the top of the stairs, and Merill took a deep breath before stepping into the Embassy.

It was mercifully warm inside as they stepped into a small entryway. A servant took their cloaks as they stepped together into the ballroom, where the bustle of the party hit them full-on. A small dais at the back of the hall held three bards playing bright tunes on flute, violin, and tambourine while the guests twirled, colourful fabrics swishing in and out as they performed a court dance, lines of women and men weaving in and out and swirling about each other to touch palms briefly with their partners before pirouetting away again beneath flickering candle chandeliers hung with bright cloth banners. The elaborate splendor of it all was dizzying.

The dance ended, and the partygoers broke apart, clapping and laughing as they did so. One of them, a tall Altmer woman in an extravagant navy gown embroidered with the Tamrielic constellations in silver thread, swept toward them, her eyes lined in charcoal and her walnut-coloured hair braided up in an intricate pile.

“Well,” she drawled as she swept over to them, an overbearing stench of perfume making Merill cough. The woman’s eyes narrowed. “It’s a bit hazy in here, but…I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Oh,” Merill said stupidly, and Elenwen waited for her to speak. Merill felt her neck growing hot. She could feel Elenwen’s eyes on the eyepatch. And she hadn’t bothered to think of a story.

“Ah, excuse me, dear, radiant Elenwen!” Razelan said suddenly, appearing at Merill’s shoulder. “Allow me to introduce my darling cousin!”

“Cousin?” Elenwen asked, and Merill could hear the suspicion creeping into her voice.

“Excuse me, Ambassador,” someone called from behind Elenwen, and the Altmer turned, looking irritated.

“Yes, Malborn, what is it?” she said, going over to the bar against the adjacent wall.

“It’s just that we’ve run out of the Alto wine,” Merill heard Malborn say, and she took the opportunity to hastily duck out of Elenwen’s way and into the main area of the party, following Razelan.

“Watch out for that one, friend,” he told her, tipping an imaginary hat and vanishing into the party. Feeling dreadfully awkward, Merill skirted the edge of the dance floor, carefully scanning the faces of the partygoers. She was no good at this sort of thing – every instinct told her to flee, to find a window to climb out of or a dark corner to hide in. But she forced herself to stay, moving with her head down to keep from attracting anyone’s attention.

When Merill noticed that Elenewen had drifted away from the bar, she crossed the room toward Malborn, trying to keep her step light and carefree.

“What can I get for you?” Malborn asked as she approached the bar. One of the guards nearby turned to speak to a complaining guest, and Malborn leaned forward. “As soon as you distract the guards, I’ll open this door and we can get you on your way,” he whispered. Malborn reached under the counter, drawing out a clean goblet and filling it with wine from an uncorked bottle “Let’s hope we both live through this day.” He slid the goblet across the counter to her and Merill took it, turning to face the ballroom once more. A new dance had started, the partygoers forming two circles as they spun in and out of the chains they made. Merill drifted around the edges of the party, listening to snatches of conversation for something that might lead to a distraction.

“I don’t recall seeing you at one of these before,” a smooth voice behind her intoned, and when Merill turned her heart leapt into her throat. It was him – the tall, slender Altmer man who’d cut out her eye all those years ago as their cabin burned, his pale hair in a single long braid down his back and his Thalmor uniform traded for a flowing crimson robe. The snide smirk on his lips promised her that he knew. Merill made to turn hastily away, but he stepped fluidly in front of her, hands behind his back. “I wouldn’t walk away from me, if I were you,” he told her in an undertone, smoothly lifting her goblet and setting on a nearby table before taking up her hands in his own.

“What do you want?” she snarled, struggling to keep her voice calm, fighting the fear that roiled inside her as he pulled her toward the dance floor. She was painfully aware of how rough her hands felt in his silk gloves.

“I want to know why you’ve come back to bother me five years later when you should be dead,” he murmured as Merill stepped clumsily after him, flustered by the swirl of satin skirts around her.

“Why did you kill them?” she hissed. “My family never did anything to the Thalmor.”

“They did more than you know,” he responded softly, his narrow golden eyes boring down into hers. “Watch yourself,” he added as Merill nearly stumbled into an affronted-looking Breton lady. “That’s a clever patch you’ve got,” he went on. “If only I’d finished the job, then we could just blindfold you.”

Merill yanked her hands out of his in the center of the ballroom, balling them into fists.

“Don’t you fucking dare –” He reached up, toward her eyepatch, and her hand shot up, catching his wrist and forcing it away. Other dancers were looking now, slowing curiously to watch the scene before them.

“Is there a problem here?” Merill turned to see a severe-looking black-haired woman before them, her lined face skeptical and one claw-like hand curled around a drink. The Altmer man stepped back.

“Maven,” he said simply, offering her a curt bow. He gave Merill a long, dark look before he swept his robes around, vanishing into the folds of skirts.

“Let’s have a talk,” the woman said then, looping her free arm around Merill’s elbow and pulling her off the court.

“I don’t need your help,” Merill snapped, pulling her arm free, and the woman seized her elbow with surprising force, wheeling her around behind a pillar.

“You listen closely to me, girl,” she said darkly. “I don’t know why Armion was sniffing around you, and honestly, I don’t much care. It’s clear to me and anyone else here who has a brain that you don’t belong at this party, and if you want to survive, I’d conduct your business and do it quickly, before Elenwen’s idiocy melts away and she realizes you’re not some scuffed-up dignitary.” The woman gave Merill a long, severe look. “Now get the hell out of here. And don’t come near me again or I’ll tell Elenwen myself.” The woman gave her a curt nod, and Merill slunk away from her, forcing herself not to glance back and rubbing her arm where the woman had grabbed it. Her heart was pounding in her chest as she pushed through the party-goers. Armion. The man who’d taken her eye and killed Brelin and Nalimir. But why?

She found her way to the outskirts of the party, where Razelan sat at the end of a bench, calling over a Dunmer serving girl.

“Having a good time?” she asked, trying to still her nerves as she took a seat beside him, quickly glancing around for Elenwen. The ambassador was nowhere in sight.

“These elves are too damn stodgy,” Razelan complained loudly, taking a drink from the serving girl and waving her off. “With their dances and carrying on. But I like you, pissing off that guard. Anything I can do for you, miss, you just say the word.” He raised his goblet to her in a mock toast before taking a hearty drink.

“Actually, there is something you can do for me,” Merill whispered, glancing around again.

“Wonderful!” Razelan exclaimed, sloshing wine down his front. “Say on, friend!”

“I need you to cause a scene,” Merill told him quickly. “Get everyone’s attention for a few minutes.”

“Is that all?” Razelan slurred, smiling and jabbing a thumb into his chest. “My lady, you’ve come to the right man. You could say that causing a scene is somewhat a specialty of mine.” As he spoke, the current dance finished and the partygoers broke apart, clapping and laughing and moving to the sides of the room to talk. “Stand back and behold my handiwork,” Razelan told her, thrusting his goblet into her hands and standing up to stagger to the back of the hall where the bards were playing a cheerful interlude between dances. Merill stood up and went back to the bar, leaning against one of its pillars and setting down Razelan’s drink.

“Attention, everyone!” Razelan called, shoving up onto the bard’s stage. “Could I have your attention, please! I have an announcement to make!” The chatter in the room died down and the attendants turned to look at him. Merill saw someone nudge Elenwen and a furious look came over her face. “I propose a toast to Elenwen! Our mistress!”

“Come on,” she heard Malborn hiss from behind the bar, and Merill slowly started moving back behind the bar as Elenwen gestured furiously at the guards.

“I speak figuratively, of course. Nothing could be more unlikely than that someone would actually want her in their bed!” The guards left their posts, hurrying toward the stage to subdue Razelan, and Merill slipped behind the bar as Malborn held open the door there. She stepped inside a small pantry and Malborn joined her, quickly closing the door behind them as Razelan shouting at the guards overtook the titters of the onlookers in the ballroom.

 “Let me do the talking,” he said, pulling open the door at the back of the pantry and leading the way into a spacious stone kitchen. The fire at the back was manned by a tired-looking Khajiiti woman whose ears flickered when they entered.

“Who comes, Malborn?” she hissed, swishing her tail against the stones as she set down the tray of raw meat she’d been holding. “You know I don’t like strange smells in my kitchen.”

“A guest, feeling ill,” Malborn told her offhandedly, leading the way into the larder at the end of the dark kitchen.

“A guest? In the kitchens? You know this is against the rules –”

“Rules, is it, Tsavani?” Malborn said sharply, turning to face her with one hand on the larder handle. “I didn’t realise that eating Moon Sugar in the kitchens was permitted.”

“Get out of here!” the cook hissed, furiously snatching up her tray of meat and bustling over to one of the ovens. “I saw nothing!” Malborn put a hand on Merill’s arm and she followed him into the larder, where he quickly swung the door shut.

“Your bow’s in that chest,” he told her, pressing an ear to the door to be sure they weren’t being listened in on. Merill pulled up the chest’s lid to find her bow and quiver there alongside a handful of lockpicks tied with twine. She buckled the quiver around her waist and slung the bow over her back, dropping the lockpicks in a pocket of her gown. “I’ll lock the door behind you,” Malborn told her, pulling a key from his pocket. “Don’t screw this up.” Merill nodded, carefully pulling open the door at the back of the larder into a dark, quiet hallway lit with a single candle at the end, one door hanging open. She drew her bow and nocked an arrow as Malborn silently closed the door behind her. She heard the key clicking in the lock and his footsteps leaving.

“Did you see those Robes march this morning?” someone was saying through the open door. Merill crept closer, listening. “More of the Emissary’s treaty enforcers?”

“No, they’re high mages, just in from Alinor. I guess Herself is finally getting worried about all the dragon attacks.” Worried?

“Good. I’ve been wondering how we were supposed to defend this place from a dragon. Come on, we have to check the back gate again.” She heard footsteps nearing the door and, without enough time to nock an arrow, flew through an open door across the hall, hastily throwing it shut and thanking Talos when it closed silently, shutting her in darkness. Merill turned, intent on searching the room, only to find herself face-to-face with a handful of fire.

An Altmer girl, several heads taller than she, stood before her, her hand flung out and crackling with magic flames ready to sear Merill’s face. The fire illuminated the girl’s sharp, angular features and the jagged Orcish dagger in her other hand. Slowly, the girl raised the dagger to her lips, tapping it against them in a gesture for Merill to be silent. She lowered her hand, the flames dissipating into smoke, and for a moment they stood in silence, listening for the guards outside the door. When the Thalmor had gone, the girl cast a ball of magelight into the air. It hovered uncertainly above her head, throwing an eerie blue light over them both.

“Sorry about that,” the girl said lightly, and Merill found herself surprised by her cheery tone. In the glimmer of the magelight, she could see much more clearly – the girl was beautiful – stunning, even – her angular brassy eyes were lined with kohl, her lashes long and dark, and her full lips were painted the color of cranberries. Her gold hair was drawn back off her pointed face in a low bun, bright stones glittering in her ears that matched her striking orchid gown. Merill couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d seen her somewhere. “Thought you were a patrol at first,” she went on, sliding her dagger into the sheath around her waist. In an instant, Merill had an arrow nocked and pointed for the girl’s face.

“You’re Thalmor,” Merill said at once, and the girl held up her hands as if in surrender.

“No,” she replied calmly. “Though I imagine it looks a bit like that, doesn’t it?”

“You’re an Altmer in a Thalmor party,” Merill spat. “Seems like Thalmor to me.”

“If I was with them, you’d be dead,” the girl told her, still oddly calm despite the arrow poised to kill her. Merill didn’t move. “Fair enough,” she went on, her brassy eyes glimmering beneath the magelight. “Might as well tell you – I’m here to assassinate a Thalmor administrator. Elenwen’s assistant, to be specific.” Merill faltered, lowering her bow a fraction.

“You’re…an assassin?”

“Some fool in my organization tipped him off for money,” she was saying, annoyance crossing her angled face. “If the man was smart he’d have run out of Skyrim the moment he heard the news, but instead he’s holed up in Elenwen’s Solar surrounded by his guards. Which won’t save him, of course. Just make my job more interesting.” Merill lowered her bow, slackening the string.

“You don’t…strike me as an assassin.”

“I don’t really have that effect on people, do I?” she asked lightly, a faint smile on her lips. “And what are you here for?”

“Why should I tell you?” Merill asked sharply. The girl raised a thin blonde eyebrow.

“Because two of us sneaking our way through this Embassy separately could be quite a challenge, but if we give each other a hand it might be easier.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“And I don’t trust you. I certainly don’t expect trust, just a hand taking down some of these fools,” she said, nodding toward the hall. Merill paused.

“I’m looking for evidence that the Thalmor had something to do with the dragons returning,” she said finally. The Altmer looked surprised.

“Really? That’s quite interesting. I’ve got to tell you, though, I don’t think it’s possible. Altmer magic is certainly more sophisticated than, say, Breton magic, but a standard Thalmor summoner has nowhere near the capability to bring back something with so much metaphysical energy…” she went on, talking more to herself than to Merill about the aetheric properties of dragon bones until Merill cleared her throat. “I suppose,” she went on, snapping back to the present, “that if they have got anything to do with it, the evidence would be in the Solar. So we might as well go together.” She gazed expectantly at Merill, the magelight flickering above them.

“If it comes to it,” Merill told her guardedly, “I’m not saving you.”

“That’s fair,” she said simply, a small smile pulling up the corner of her mouth. “After all, you barely know me.” She extended a narrow hand, fingers laden with rings. “I’m Silronwe. Of Sunhold, but that’s a bit of a mouthful.” Merill reached out cautiously, letting Silronwe take her hand.

“Merill.”

“Merill? Is that a Bosmer name?”

“You were at the execution!” Merill said suddenly, the realization striking her. Silronwe looked puzzled.

“Which one?”

“The one – Helgen. The dragon attack. I saw you.” The girl had looked vastly different then, her face clear of makeup and her hair in a tangled knot around her head, but there was no doubt in Merill’s mind now.

“Oh, yes, I suppose I was at that one,” she said, rubbing the back of her neck thoughtfully. “Yes, they were trying to kill me. Lucky that dragon showed up, really. I would have had to kill a lot more people to get out if it hadn’t.”

“Have you been almost executed before?” Merill asked in disbelief.

“Once or twice,” she replied casually. “Comes with the job. You can’t call yourself an assassin until you’ve escaped a few of your own executions. Shall we?”

With that, she casually stepped past Merill, pulled open the door to the hall, and sent a blast of fire down its end. Merill hastened to Silronwe’s shoulder, staring out at the two guards that were twisting in flame, their mouths screaming wordlessly as their skin blackened into ash.

“Threw a silence spell on them,” Silronwe remarked lightly, heading through the hallway and leaving the burning guards where they were. “Just in case. That spell tends to invoke…creative vocals.”

“Are you insane?” Merill snarled. “Somebody’s going to find those bodies!”

“And by the time they do, we’ll be long gone.”

Silronwe was a puzzlingly skilled figure to follow through the ornate halls of the Embassy. They passed a number of guards silently, but where they could not, the Altmer was able to quickly finish them with a slender hand to the forehead or a knife to the throat. Merill admitted to herself, with much chagrin, that she was lucky to have the Altmer around. She hadn’t been betting on so many soldiers within the Embassy – without Silronwe, she reasoned she probably wouldn’t have made it far. After about twenty minutes, Silronwe requested that Merill take the lead, and Merill moved carefully through the dimly-lit halls, her fingers curled around her arrow’s nock and her mind racing.

It certainly didn’t sound as if the Thalmor were behind the dragon attacks, but Merill knew Delphine would want more proof than the mutterings of two guards. She peered carefully around a door and jerked back, seeing that the guards were right inside, but her lavish gold earrings jingled and the guards suddenly leapt to attention.

“What was that?” one of them asked as they drew their blades. Shit.

She backed up until her back was against the door, drawing the arrow taut, just as the first guard came through the doorway. Silronwe hung to the other side of the door, a spell at her fingertips. Merill let the arrow fly, and it struck just under the guard’s helmet, making him reel back with a yell and crumple to the ground. The second guard stepped over him, moving faster than Merill could draw a second arrow. She managed to duck under his arm, but his blade caught her shoulder, slicing the fabric and biting in sharply. Merill rolled over the fallen guard’s body, drawing another arrow and loosing it just as Silronwe cleaved the man’s head open with a spell that splattered blood across the floor and along the bottom of Merill’s gown. Merill jammed her bow over her shoulder, pulling out her earrings and tossing them on the bloodied carpet.

“Oh, those were quite lovely,” Silronwe remarked, wiping her hands of blood before kneeling to pick though the pockets of the dead guards. “Ah,” she said, drawing forth a small gold key from one. “This should get us into the Solar.” She lowered her hand, frowning. “Did he get you?” Merill glanced down at the cut in her shoulder, blood welling into the deep green fabric of her gown.

“It’s fine,” she said distractedly, but Silronwe was there in an instant, pressing a slender hand to the wound. Merill jerked away.

“It’s only going to get worse,” Silronwe told her, exasperated, and Merill reluctantly allowed her to run a finger along the wound, lighting it up with a spell as the skin knit itself back together. “I was a healer,” Silronwe said as she inspected Merill’s shoulder. “In the war.”

“Thanks,” Merill said curtly, swallowing her pride, and Silronwe smiled and gave her a nod as they moved carefully into the next room, a kind of living area with another bar and several stairs leading out. Merill set her bow down on the bar and pulled off her noisy clogs, leaving them under the bar. When that was done she nocked an arrow and led the way up one of the staircases, finding a single other patrolling guard that she was able to put down with a couple well-placed arrows. The house was extensive, and Merill combed every desk and bookshelf she came across, searching for anything that might vaguely pertain to the dragon attacks while Silronwe flipped through the heavy tomes on Tamriel’s history and theoretical analyses of alchemical plants of Hammerfell, appearing genuinely interested. Merill had long since given up trying to understand the Altmer’s motivations.

When there was little else to search, Merill cracked open a door at the back of one of the sitting rooms to find a mezzanine around an inner courtyard, lit with torches as Thalmor guards patrolled the walls.

“That’s the Solar at the back,” Silronwe whispered, nodding to a round building surrounded by Thalmor guards. “The fool thinks he’s safe with men all around the door,” she muttered, amused.

“Do you have a different way in?” Merill hissed.

“Go in from the side,” Silronwe murmured back. “See, we can take the wall all around, stay low, take out the guards there quietly, then slip past the ones around the door and they’ll be none the wiser.”

“Let’s get it over with, then,” Merill muttered, reaching for an arrow.

“Eraamion!” someone shrieked, and Merill shrunk into the shadows, nocking her arrow, Silronwe giving a sharp intake of breath beside her. One of the guards in the middle of the snowy courtyard turned to see Elenwen marching furiously through the snow, her shimmering gown billowing in the wind. “There’s a traitor here, someone who came in masquerading as one of my guests. I want you and your men to find her. Now.”

“We’ve got our full guard on the lookout for the assassin, Ambassador,” someone replied, and Elenwen looked livid. Silronwe gave a small satisfied chuckle from beside Merill.

“I don’t care about the assassin, you fools! There’s somebody else!”

“Is…Is she at the party?” Eraamion asked timidly.

“Do you honestly think I would be telling you to find her if she was still at the party, you flat-headed idiot?”

“Right, of course, Ambassador, we’ll spread out at once,” he stammered as Elenwen returned to the main building of the manor. Eraamion spoke a command, and Merill watched as the guards spread out, a few going into the building they’d just come from. It was only a matter of time before they found the bodies left in the halls.

“Let’s move,” Silronwe whispered, and they started around the walls. Luckily, the thickly falling snow helped shield them from the eyes of searching Thalmor, and they managed to get across the courtyard unscathed. It was only as Merill pulled open the now-unguarded door to the Solar that someone shouted and the air was full of crackling spells and unsheathing swords.

Merill turned to see nearly twenty Thalmor guards flying toward her, and, panicking, she did the first thing that came to mind.

“FUS RO!” The shout burst forth, making the guards fly back, burying them in snow, and Merill hastily slipped inside the solar and barred the door with a nearby table.

“You’ve been holding out on me,” Silronwe remarked lightly, and before Merill could reply, there was a shout and a scuffle from inside a nearby office. Silronwe seemed to glide to the doorway, reaching in with a spell and yanking her arm back out, her magic pulling out a wet-eyed Thalmor that was thrown heavily on the stones, sputtering. “You’ve caused me quite a headache, Mr. Imare,” she told the man, and in a heartbeat she had yanked him into the air with a spell and slashed her dagger across his throat, splattering blood all down her front. She looked annoyed as she dropped the body with a thud, holding up the layers of fabric of her orchid-colored dress. Merill rubbed her eyes as the pounding in her head that came with the shouts subsided, staring at the door. It wouldn’t be long before the Thalmor broke through it.

“My business is done,” Silronwe told her. “But I’m happy to stay and help.”

“Let’s search these offices, then,” Merill replied, and she quickly started through the rooms, breathing a quick sigh of relief when she found the first spacious lined with heavy bookcases. There has to be something in here. Merill set down her bow and quickly pulled open the desk’s drawers, rifling through the papers there for anything useful. When she found nothing, she broke the lock on a chest behind the desk with a kick, knowing she didn’t have time to pick it properly, and yanked the lid open to find a chest full of papers and books. Merill sifted through the papers, briefly scanning each one, and as she did so, there was a banging from the front door. She felt her face growing hot as she threw papers from the chest, desperately searching for something of use.

A single sheet of folded parchment found Merill’s hand, and she flicked it open:

First Emissary Elenwen,

We anticipate a breakthrough in our efforts to uncover the party or power behind the dragon resurrection phenomenon. An informant has

It was enough. Merill shoved the parchment inside her gown and pushed through to the bottom of the chest. She heard wood splintering as she came up with two thin leather books and a key.

“I think that’s our cue to go,” Silronwe whispered hastily from the doorway. Merill flipped open the cover of the first book. Official Thalmor Dossier: Delphine. Merill didn’t know who the other dossier was on, but she took it with her anyway, not bothering to close the chest as she stood quickly, clutching the key as she heard Thalmor pouring into the Solar. Merill snatched up her bow and searched frantically around, diving into an alcove off the office to find herself on a small landing leading down, Silronwe at her heels. They went as quietly as she could down the stairs and jammed the key into the door at the bottom, praying it would fit. When the key turned all the way Merill breathed a silent thanks and slipped through, locking the door from the other side and shoving a nearby stool underneath it to block the handle from turning.

“I don’t know anything else!” someone shouted suddenly, startling her. Merill quickly nocked an arrow and peered over the banister of the landing she had come out onto to see, to her disgust, what was clearly some kind of torture chamber.

“Gods, not this nonsense again,” Silronwe whispered from beside her. Dark bloodstains covered the wood plank floors, tables lined the walls laden with lethal-looking instruments, and a mercifully empty rack stood in the centre of the area, stained brown. Behind the torture area there looked to be two holding cells. The voice had come from one of them, addressing a single Thalmor that sat a table facing it, his back to Merill as his quill scratched on parchment.

“You know the rules,” the Thalmor was saying calmly, the scratch of his quill echoing in the wood-covered room. Merill silently drew an arrow, nocking it. “Do not speak unless spoken to. Master Rulindil will ask the questions. Now, let’s begin again.” Merill silently moved along the loft, searching for the best spot, her finger rubbing the fletching on the arrow. Silronwe cast her a wary glance, but made no move to stop her.

“No,” the prisoner moaned. “For pity’s sake, I’ve already told you everything.”

“You know the rules,” the Thalmor repeated, still writing. “Start at the beginning, as usual.” The man breathed a heavy sigh, sounding as if he was struggling to find air. “There’s an old man. He lives in Riften.” Merill slowly drew back her bow, taking in a deep breath as she angled the point of the arrow toward the back of the Thalmor’s head. “He could be this Esbern you’re looking for, but I don’t know. He’s old and seemed kind of crazy. That’s all I know.”

“And his name is…?” the Thalmor pressed. Merill narrowed her eyes, reminding herself to aim right more, correcting for her blind eye.

“I don’t know! I don’t even –” the man let out a cry of anguish. The man’s scream was overpowered by shouting leaking down from the ceiling, heavy footfalls trundling back and forth. The Thalmor inquisitor looked up sharply.

“What –” He had begun to stand, turning as he left his seat, and Merill let the arrow fly, shooting it forward to bury itself in the Thalmor’s left eye. He grunted slightly as he fell, dying almost instantly, and Merill hopped the banister and landed in the torture chamber, quickly slinging her bow across her back and swiping a key off the Thalmor’s desk.

“Who the fuck is that!” the man was screaming now as Merill went to unlock his cell.

“Would you shut up?” she snarled as she rounded the corner. She was met with a shortblade angled to her face. In an instant she took a lithe step back, drawing an arrow and holding the bowstring taut toward her new assaulter.

“I’m getting a little sick of weapons in my face,” she spat, and as she watched the sword dropped a fraction, revealing the man behind it.

He was dark-skinned, with an angular, pointed face and a fine-boned jaw, silver studding the pointed ears pointing out from beneath fine, nutty-brown bangs. Merill almost didn’t recognize him with his hair drawn up off his face in a high pony’s-tail, but the familiar shock painted on every line in his face gave him away.

“Nalimir!” Merill threw her bow away, practically throwing herself into his arms, past caring about the Thalmor struggling to force their way inside. His arms found her, uncertainly at first, but then familiar, pulling her close.

“Merill, gods!” he exclaimed, and she hugged him tighter, afraid that if she let go, he would slip away again. She felt muscle beneath his thin cloth armor and on his arms that wound around her, calluses on the hands that held her close. “Gods, I thought you were dead!” She pulled back, trying to force the tears out of her eyes. She had barely shed a drop since she lost her eye that day five years ago.

“How are you alive?” she gasped, grasping his face to try and convince herself that he was real. He had lost the boyish roundness in his cheeks and the light in his eyes, replaced by a stern face and a heavy, unreadable gaze. This scared her – she had always been able to tell everything about him before, know his feelings with a glance. “What are you doing here?”

“Breaking this one out,” he said, nodding his head toward the cell. She felt his gaze on her dead eye, questioning.

“Not to interrupt,” Silronwe intoned from behind them. “But I think they’ll be getting in soon.” Another bang issued from upstairs.

 “You have a key?” Nalimir asked her, and she was confused for a split second before she realized he meant the cell key grasped in her hand, and she quickly passed it off to him, scrambling for her bow as he clicked open the cell door and went to unbind the shackles around the prisoner’s wrists.

“Get that, too,” the prisoner was saying, nodding his head toward the desk where the Thalmor interrogator had been seated. “The dossier. Anything to slow these sons of bitches down.” As Nalimir helped the groaning man to his feet, Merill made a beeline for the desk and picked up the leather-bound dossier lying open there. She flipped to the front page. Official Thalmor Dossier: Esbern.

“Who’s Esbern?” Merill asked, but the prisoner’s answer was cut short by a sudden sound of splintering wood from the loft. “Get back,” Merill hissed, shoving the dossier into her bag with the others and nocking her bow. She took a place in front of the prisoner, angling the arrow up at the loft as the Thalmor trooped in. Silronwe stood just beside her, flames in her hands and her eyes on the loft, and Nalimir took up position on her other side, two shortblades in his hands.

“Since when do you use swords?” Merill asked him, and she caught a faint smile on his face.

“Listen carefully, spy!” the guards’ leader shouted down. “You’re trapped in here, and we have your accomplice.” Merill watched as Malborn was shoved in after the soldiers, a bruise encircling one eye and blood coating the entire left side of his face. “Surrender immediately or you all die.”

“There’s a trapdoor right over there they use to get rid of bodies,” the prisoner whispered from behind them. “It has to have a way out.”

“You get out,” Merill muttered back, knowing he was weak and would be no help in a fight. “Come down where we can see you,” she called up to the Thalmor, and several of them stayed up in the loft with arrows pointed at her while four came down, pushing Malborn between them. Merill heard them come in from the other side as well as the prisoner slipped down through the trapdoor. Malborn stared at Merill through hooded, swollen eyes, but if he was trying to tell her something she couldn’t tell what it was. She kept her bow drawn taut as the Thalmor approached her, their own Blades drawn.

“Stand down,” one of them hissed again, grabbing Malborn and holding a knife under his chin. There was a long moment of silence in which every eye was trained on her. Despite the chill in the unheated basement, Merill felt sweat beading on her brow. The flames in Silronwe’s hands crackled beside her. Slowly as she could, Merill lowered her bow, relaxing her arrow hand. The Thalmor seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief, and they glanced at one another, nodding. The moment their eyes were off her, Merill drew the arrow again, quick as a hare, and let it fly straight into the neck of the Thalmor that held Malborn. She rolled out of the way to avoid fire from the loft, seized Malborn’s arm, and pulled him back, letting a shout build in her chest as she did so. Fire flew up into the loft, catching the wood alight.

“FUS RO!”

The Thalmor stumbled back, and Merill pulled Malborn with her to the open trapdoor, shoving him through and drawing more arrows as she stood over it, burying them in the throats of the soldiers that tried to near her. From the corner of her eye, she saw Nalimir spinning, taking down Thalmor in splatters of blood, and Silronwe, pelting fire at the soldiers that poured down from the loft. Merill jerked to the side, narrowly missing one of the enemy arrows, and ducked into the trapdoor, hastily pulling her head down to avoid a freezing ice spell.

“Let’s go!” she shouted, and Silronwe and Nalimir were there in an instant, tumbling through the trapdoor ahead of her, and Merill yanked the door closed, jamming the key into the lock and sealing the body deposit, slipping a little on the bones and the half-rotted, rat-infested remains that littered the cave floor. Silronwe caught her and steadied her, and Merill pulled Malborn to his feet.

“Hurry,” she said as the frustrated shouts of the Thalmor were heard beyond the hole, struggling to open the trapdoor. They sprinted through the cave, Malborn limping on Merill’s shoulder, just seeing the swirl of snow outside as the trapdoor splintered and Thalmor began to rain down into the chute. They ducked out of the gloom and into the freezing silence of the night, and Silronwe spun on her heel, raising her arms and bringing her hands forcefully down, sending a cascade of stones falling down the cave’s mouth and sealing the exit in a cloud of disturbed snow. Merill could feel Malborn shivering beside her.

“You all right?” she asked, offering a hand to help him up.

“Sorry,” he muttered, still shaking. “They had me at swordpoint, I had to tell them…”

“What all did you say?” Merill asked, shrugging out of her over-gown and offering it to him. The Bosmer took it gratefully, looking shrunken and pale in the half-shredded finery.

“Just that you were a spy that I’d agreed to help for pay and that you’d gotten into the Embassy as a party guest. Nothing about Delphine or the Blades or…”

“I guess it isn’t a secret anymore,” Merill muttered, and she turned to see Silronwe and Nalimir gazing at her, wide-eyed. The prisoner stood by Nalimir’s shoulder, clutching a wound on his side.

“Or about…being Dragonborn,” Malborn was saying, and Merill bit her lip at the fresh shock on their faces. She hastily turned back to Malborn. “I’m sorry I was so sharp with you earlier, I didn’t realize –”

“It’s fine,” she said hastily, glancing around. “But now we’ve got to get out of here before the Thalmor come back. I’m sure they’ll be searching this area. Can you get back to Solitude from here?”

“Sure, sure,” Malborn murmured. “Just down the road a bit.”

“Here,” Silronwe said, speaking finally. She stepped forward and brushed Malborn’s hair out of his bloodied face, finding the wound with her long, slender hands and ignoring his protests. A faint gold light glowed briefly around her palms, then she withdrew, Malborn anxiously patting his forehead.

“Thanks,” he muttered, reddening, and Silronwe gave him a graceful nod as he turned, jogging down the hill toward the city in the distance. Snow had begun to fall, heavily now, and Merill felt the chill seeping in through her thin gown.

“I’m heading back to Riften, mate,” the prisoner told Nalimir. “I’ve had enough of this place to last a few lifetimes. You coming?” Nalimir hesitated, glancing at Merill.

“You go on,” he told the man, offering him a cloak to cover his bruised and scarred chest. “I’ll meet you down there. Let them know I’ll be there in a bit.”

“Sure thing, mate. Thanks again,” he said, and with that he was off, following Malborn down the road, leaving Merill standing alone in the snow with Silronwe and Nalimir, who both gazed at her with a mingling of shock and confusion.

“So,” Silronwe finally said. “I take it you two have met?”

“Let’s get out of here,” Nalimir said at once, shaking his head as if coming to his senses. “The Thalmor’ll be out here combing these woods any minute.”

“I’m headed to Riverwood,” Merill told him.

“Then so am I.” She smiled in spite of herself, warmth lighting up inside her at the familiarity of it, and Nalimir returned the grin.

“Mind if I tag along for a bit?” Silronwe asked pleasantly, flicking her hood up over her hair. “I’m headed to Falkreath, and the company’s always nice.”

Before Merill could protest, the distant shouts of Thalmor soldiers echoed down to them, and the three exchanged one quick glance before they took off into the trees, crashing through the dark snowy forest and moving south, the chill air biting at their cheeks.