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“Let me get this straight. You want me to infiltrate the Thalmor Embassy, risking life and limb in the process, to recover intelligence that probably doesn’t even exist, because for some reason you think the Thalmor are behind the dragons returning to Skyrim.” Calmerion crossed his arms and glared down at Delphine, who raised one eyebrow at him. “In what plane of Oblivion does this make any sense?”

“At the very least, they have to know more about it than we do. And I don’t like the thought that they might be one step ahead.”

“And I don’t feel like dying before I’ve seen my first half-century!”

Delphine sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. She said nothing for a few moments, as if waiting for Calmerion to take leave of his senses.

“I know it sounds insane,” she said at last.

“Sounds? It is insane.”

“I watched you take down a dragon,” she said a little more sharply. “We saw it rise from the ground, where it lay dead for thousands of years. These are insane times we live in. I need you to trust me.”

“You didn’t trust me when I answered your note,” he shot back. And for good reason, he had to admit, but it still stung now that she was asking this of him.

“I don’t trust anyone. Ugh,” she said with a shake of her head. “This isn’t working. Look. We have to figure out where these dragons are coming from and some idea how to stop them. You’re Dragonborn and I’m one of the last of the Blades, we have more chance of doing it than anyone else. We just need information. And we might as well get it from the people who built an empire by hoarding it.”

Calmerion couldn’t argue with that fact, at least. He turned his gaze up to the ceiling and took a deep breath. “Auriel help me. What exactly is your plan?”

“The Dominion’s ambassador to Skyrim throws parties every once in a while. You pose as a guest, find what we need, and get out.”

“A… guest.”

“Yes. A wealthy merchant or something. Don’t draw too much attention to yourself, and you’ll be just fine.”

Insane times called for insane measures. “You know what?” He smirked. “I have a better idea.”

-----

It was snowing quite hard when the Thalmor Embassy came into view around a corner. Calmerion watched carefully as they drove up, keeping an eye out for possible escape routes and dead ends, in case everything went sour. As it probably would, because if being Dragonborn had taught him anything so far, it was that disaster followed him at every turn.

He got off the cart and steeled himself for the ordeal ahead. It was easy to fall into old mannerisms, the subtle swagger of an elf who knew he was better than everyone else, the unconscious look of disdain he laid thick on everything that surrounded him. It wasn’t all false; the snow did nothing to improve his mood, nor did the prospect of doing this in the first place.

The door guard stood up a little straighter when Calmerion approached. “Good evening, Justiciar. Your invitation, please?”

So far, so good. He affected disinterest as he pulled the invitation from within his outer robe and held it out between his first two fingers. He made it past without incident, and went into the warmth of the Embassy to face whatever nightmare was waiting for him there.

The Ambassador, apparently.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” she said quite pleasantly, all the more terrifying for the fact that Calmerion knew exactly who she was. He drew on every last scrap of his training and discipline when he spoke.

“Second Justiciar Endoril, Madame Ambassador. Firsthold Company, eighth detachment, Skingrad. On special assignment in Skyrim for a few weeks.”

“Hmm.” Her eyes flicked up and down, and for a moment, Calmerion could have sworn that Elenwen—infamous master interrogator, decorated war hero, and Aldmeri ambassador to Skyrim—was checking him out. “It’s a rare pleasure to have visitors of breeding at my little get-togethers.”

He smiled. “I was looking forward to it. We don’t have many in Skingrad.”

Behind her, he spotted Malborn mopping his forehead with a bar towel and looking stricken.

“Ah. Quite a lovely place, by Cyrodiil standards,” Elenwen said. Yes, she was definitely checking him out. He felt exposed. “I spent a few years with Firsthold Company, in fact, back in 93. Perhaps you’ll catch me up on their news over a nightcap.”

Oh, gods, Calmerion wasn’t sure which was more disturbing: that this was happening, or that in the not-so-distant past, he would have gladly done whatever she wanted him to. Because she was older-woman sexy. Part of him was tempted to accept, because it might be easier to get information on the dragons that way. But something about her made his hair stand on end, and besides, potentially getting naked in the Thalmor Embassy was a little more than he’d bargained for.

“I may have to leave early,” he said. “Maybe. If I’m still here later, then certainly.”

“In that case, I hope you do stay.” With that, she walked off to talk to someone else, giving him a suggestive smile as she went. He was quite tempted, in fact.

No. This was not the time or place to be thinking with his dick.

Malborn was somewhat less enamored of Second Justiciar Endoril, and his face radiated fury when Calmerion lingered for a moment by the bar.

“Is this Delphine’s idea of low-profile?” he hissed. He was practically shaking with a mixture of outrage and terror, and wine sloshed onto the polished wood when he poured Calmerion a drink.

“No, it’s mine. Don’t worry, I’ve got it under control.”

“How do you plan on getting away from the party with Elenwen staring at your ass the whole time!”

“I said, I’ve got it under control.”

“Gods.” Malborn corked the bottle and wiped his face again. “Find some way to make a distraction, and I’ll smuggle you through the kitchen. As quickly as you can manage.”

It was a crude plan, but if Calmerion was careful, they could probably pull it off. He needed to get a good picture of the party first.

As Delphine had said, most of the people there were wealthy merchant types. He did see the Jarl of Falkreath, as well as a very unhappy-looking General Tullius, whom he only recognized from Helgen. Aside from them, he saw only a handful of people he recognized and none that he knew.

There was only one other Justiciar at the party, and he was drunker than Sanguine’s whores. The Bosmer serving girl at the other end of the room looked uneasier with every goblet he took, but she clearly didn’t dare cut him off. He was somehow managing to stand upright and speak coherently. It was a state that Calmerion knew well from his own days of being required to attend official functions, and he decided to keep his distance, in case it was anyone he’d met before and forgotten.

Actually, most people at the party were at least somewhat drunk. That could make this a lot easier.

“Well, well, well,” said a shrewd voice somewhere near his shoulder. “Look who it is.” 

He whirled around with an in-character retort at the ready, but nearly sagged with relief when he saw Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone standing there, her black eyes twinkling and a secretive smile in the corners of her mouth. “Coming here in that getup?” She tweaked his hood. “Forget stones, you’ve got boulders.”

“Gods, am I glad to see you,” he said in a low voice. He could see what others couldn’t—that despite her visions, she still had her wits about her. And he needed someone to watch his back in here.

She had Seen him as well, specifically that he’d once been Thalmor. That could have turned very ugly very quickly, but she explained having a vivid dream of a golden eagle devouring a tangled nest of snakes, and she decided that it meant Calmerion was trustworthy. It seemed like a terrible reason to trust someone, but… she hadn’t been wrong yet.

“And I’m glad to help with whatever mischief you’re brewing,” she replied. “If you need me to.”

“Thanks, Id.”

“Hmph. So, who are you supposed to be tonight?”

“Second Justiciar Endoril.”

“Is that a real person?”

“Nope.” Calmerion took a sip of his drink. He made sure not to keep his eyes off the room for too long, and Idgrod made sure not to look too happy to see him. “Enjoying the party?” he asked.

“Not especially,” she said. “You don’t turn it down when you’re invited, much as I would like to.”

“Who’s the Justiciar?” No harm in being informed.

“Name’s Ondolemar, he’s stationed in Markarth,” Idgrod said, and Calmerion made a mental note to never go to Markarth for any reason. “You should also watch out for Erikur, the Nord in the fur mantle. He’s a self-absorbed lout, but much more dangerous than he looks. And Jarl Siddgeir, the pompous brat. And that bitch Maven Black-Briar. No one else should give you trouble if you’re recognized, they all hate the Thalmor as much as you and I do.”

“Thanks. I’ll keep it in mind.”

“You’d best find someone else to gossip with,” she said. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but I know it won’t do either of us any good to act like we like each other.”

“Agreed.” Calmerion drifted away, pointedly looking down his nose at everyone he passed.

Later, he would reflect that the time between his arrival and the whole party spiraling out of control was horrifically brief.

Erikur immediately sidled up and started talking about business, despite Calmerion’s best efforts to ignore him. It wasn’t hard to play the typical uninterested-in-human-concerns Thalmor agent while Erikur waxed lengthy about mutually beneficial relationships. Something about exports, something about tariffs, something about his rivals’ goods falling off the back of a cart on the way from Hammerfell…

Calmerion openly rolled his eyes and took a long drink of wine. Erikur didn’t seem to notice. Like Idgrod had said, he was a self-absorbed lout. But Calmerion hadn’t seen the “more dangerous than he looks” side of him yet, and he braced himself for that shoe to drop.

It took him a moment to realize that the subject of Erikur’s one-sided conversation had changed.

“Excuse me. What were you saying?”

“That serving girl… she’s a nice little treat,” Erikur said with a lecherous grin, and pointed. Calmerion looked over at the girl, who appeared to be edging as far away from him as she could without actually leaving the party. The drunk Justiciar Ondolemar blocked her path and took another goblet of wine from her tray. She looked terrified, poor thing. “Well? Think she’s interested?”

“I do not condone Nords lusting after elven women,” Calmerion said with an exaggerated nose-wrinkle. “I suggest you drop it.”

“Come on. She’s a wood elf, that’s what they’re there for, right?”

Calmerion’s left hand balled into a fist. The leather of his glove creaked. “It most certainly is not.”

Erikur chuckled. “Yeah, right, we all know you Altmer bastards can’t get enough of ‘em. But this one’s mine.”

By Auriel’s flaming crown, Calmerion was very tempted to incinerate him right there in the middle of the party, but he abstained. Instead he watched with horror for the girl’s well-being as Erikur sauntered over to her with a leer on his face. She couldn’t escape, but valiantly kept her tray of drinks between her body and Erikur no matter which way he tried to circle around her. He wouldn’t try to grab her right here in the middle of the party… would he? He was saying something in a low voice that was probably meant to be flirtatious, but the way he kept crowding her made the hairs on the back of Calmerion’s neck stand on end, though he couldn’t make out the words.

Just as Calmerion was starting to wonder when and how he should intervene, Erikur’s voice exploded from the corner he’d backed Brelas into. Half the room turned to look, and the other half turned when Brelas’ tray of cups crashed to the floor. He had her by the wrist.

“Don’t you dare walk away from me, you little slut! Don’t you know who I am?”

“Please, sir, leave me alone!”

Calmerion didn’t have time to think, it all happened so quickly. Erikur’s shouting got Elenwen’s attention. With a wave of her hand, Elenwen summoned her golden-armored guards, who had been standing motionless on the edges of the party like part of the decor. Erikur ranted about teases and whores and insults to his person, Brelas trembled and begged not to be taken “downstairs,” and by the time Calmerion had unstuck his tongue from the roof of his mouth the guards had already removed her from the hall, leaving an uncomfortable quiet in their wake. To Oblivion with keeping a low profile, he couldn’t stand by and watch this happen.

He stepped forward and took a deep breath. “With respect, Madame Ambassador, surely this is unnecessary,” he said. “I saw what happened, and I don’t believe the girl did anything—”

Elenwen brushed it off, giving his arm a little squeeze that Calmerion would not have given to one of his own subordinates. “Oh, Justiciar Endoril, please don’t trouble yourself. She’s in good hands.” With that, she swept away, the hem of her robe swishing softly on the polished floor.

This was a disaster. Calmerion felt like he was tripping over his own guilt as he hid himself near the edge of the room, wishing he would have done something else, anything, either to keep Erikur from advancing on the poor girl or to keep Elenwen from sending her “downstairs.” Not only that, but he could feel Malborn’s eyes burning a hole in the back of his head from the other side of the party, and realized belatedly that he could have used the unpleasantness as a distraction to get away and finish what he’d come here to do. Maybe he’d completely fucked it up. Maybe they’d gone to all this risk for nothing after all.

He rubbed his forehead. Why did this have to be so hard? Why couldn’t they just have all the right answers, like he’d been taught growing up? Why had he never noticed just how Bosmer were treated in the Aldmeri Dominion? Why did he care so much? Why did it hurt so much to care? Why was his drink empty? Why? Most importantly, why was Drunk Justiciar Ondolemar standing this close to him?

Calmerion breathed slowly to calm himself. He needed to be calm. He was both Dragonborn and an elf of superior blood, it would be a shame to those who had come before if he wavered and gave up now. Carefully, he began to walk in the opposite direction.

“Excuse me, Justiciar.”

Calmerion froze. He couldn’t just ignore him and walk away now that he’d been addressed; there were protocols to observe. He’d made the decision to use this disguise, and so he had to observe him. He turned around, his face carefully neutral, his hands carefully still. This agent clearly outranked Second Justiciar Endoril, and so Calmerion showed his deference with a slight bow of his head.

“Yes, sir.”

The agent looked slightly unsteady as he walked over. “You… I know you, Justiciar.”

Calmerion’s heart thudded painfully. He forced his voice not to shake. “You must be mistaking me for someone else, sir. We’ve never been introduced.”

“No, I know you,” Ondolemar said. He grabbed Calmerion’s shoulder and peered under his hood, and Calmerion was obliged to let him, otherwise he would wonder why he was hiding his face. His breath stank of wine. “You’re Jasterien’s boy.”

Fuck. Fuck!

“I don’t know who that is,” Calmerion lied, but Ondolemar either didn’t hear him or didn’t understand him.

“Last time I saw you, you were about this tall,” the drunk elf slurred, holding out his other hand to the appropriate height. “Your mother used to play cards with my wife. How’s your sister?”

“I don’t have a sister,” Calmerion said. It seemed Ondolemar hadn’t been close to his family in a while, or he’d know that Norenya had died on the Red Ring twenty-five years ago. Maybe that would be his salvation, if he could feign ignorance until he found some way to distract him. Maybe he could try to get him even drunker so that when he woke up tomorrow, the half-remembered face of an old friend’s child would be the last thing on his aching mind. It didn’t matter, he had to do something soon, this was it, he had to get out now—

“I forgot your name,” Ondolemar drawled. “Cal…celmo. That’s not right. Cal-something.”

Calmerion could no longer hide his panic. His breath came fast, his heart beating so loud he thought Ondolemar could probably hear it. He glimpsed Jarl Idgrod’s fox fur out of the corner of his eye and looked up. She was watching them from a distance, her eyes narrowed.

“My name is Endoril,” he insisted. His face must have been doing something suitably desperate, because Idgrod gave an almost-imperceptible nod and drifted away.

“Following the family block. Chip off the business,” Ondolemar said. He gave him a rather painful slap on the back. “Good for you, Cal.”

“Sir, I think you’ve had a bit much to drink,” Calmerion said. “I’m not you think I—”

The entire party flinched at the sound of a glass bottle exploding. Idgrod stood before a seated guest, who looked both terrified and bewildered as to why an old woman had thrown a wine bottle with considerable force, just missing his head and shattering against the wall behind him. Idgrod, clutching her heart, staggered back and pointed a shaking finger at him. “I see it in your face!” she shrieked. “The snakes WRIIIIIITHE behind your eyes! Get away! Get away from me!”

Calmerion saw his moment. He jerked free of Ondolemar’s grasp and made haste for Malborn and the kitchen, wasting no time but not moving so quickly as to draw attention away from Idgrod.

“Quickly, this way!” Malborn hissed, holding the kitchen door open. Calmerion slipped through with Elenwen, her guards, and the party guests none the wiser. He could still hear Idgrod ranting in a banshee-like rasp as the door clicked shut behind him. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, his heart pounding, unable to keep going just yet. Too close. That was too close. “What are you waiting for!” Malborn said again. “Go!”

“One minute,” Calmerion snapped back. He couldn't make himself move for a long few seconds. With some difficulty, he managed to stand up straight and breathe deeply enough to stabilize his shakes. Come on. Don’t lose your nerve now. Keep going.

He retrieved the dagger, lockpicks, and handful of poisons he’d given to Malborn to smuggle inside the embassy—he wasn’t sure he’d need them, but it never hurt to be prepared in case he was caught in a situation where a lightning bolt would be impractical.

“Don’t do anything stupid in there,” Malborn whispered as he showed Calmerion the door. “Good luck.”

“Thank you. Good luck to you as well.”

Malborn frowned a little. He nodded once and closed the door.

The inner workings of the Thalmor Embassy were now Calmerion’s to crack open. Keeping his face calm, he started down the hallway.

A pair of guards were complaining together about their superiors, but when Calmerion approached, they sprang to attention and remained silent and motionless as he passed. Maybe it was his imagination, but he could feel their eyes following him. Perhaps they thought he would rebuke them for their lack of deference, but he still couldn’t shake the feeling that they knew he didn’t belong.

Soft footsteps crossed the floor above him. Those weren’t soldiers’ armored boots, there was a Justiciar up there. Calmerion weighed his options. He could either look around until he found something interesting, or ask for directions and risk being recognized again. Neither option was terribly attractive; poking around at random would arouse suspicion as surely as anything else. Statistically, most of the agents who would recognize him were stationed in Cyrodiil or High Rock, Ondolemar notwithstanding, but it only took one stroke of bad luck to bring it all burning down.

He made his decision, rallied his courage, and started up the stairs. The agent’s eyes flicked to his insignia and she stepped to the side of the hallway to let him by—he outranked her.

“Pardon me, Justiciar,” Calmerion said, indicating for her to stand at ease. “I’ve only just arrived. Could you direct me to the Ambassador’s office?”

“Of course, sir. It’s in the north building. If you go out the ground-floor exit, the path will lead you right to it.”

That went better than I thought it would, he thought as he went back downstairs and out into the cold evening. The guards on duty outside either ignored him or nodded as he passed. The lights from the party spilled out onto the snow and a faint, tasty whiff of cooking smells wafted from a cracked kitchen window. All seemed quiet, but Calmerion knew better than to let that lure him into complacency.

The mage guarding the door to Elenwen’s office stood aside to let Calmerion in. This was starting to go a little too well, and he remained ready to defend himself if his luck ran out again.

He walked in on a Nord informant trying to coax more money out of an agent seated at a desk. He wrinkled his nose—he’d long held that informants were the scum of the earth, even when he used to work with them. They had no honor, no morals, no loyalty to anything but coin. It would be different if they actually believed in the goals of the Aldmeri Dominion for some reason. A least then they’d be fighting for a cause.

The agent—more to the point, the interrogator—sent the informant out without his money. He went, muttering spitefully, and shot Calmerion a wary stare before slamming the door behind him.

“You, standing by the door. What do you want,” the interrogator said without looking up from his writing. Calmerion jumped.

“I am Second Justiciar Endoril, sir,” he replied, walking into the light. “I’m on a special assignment in Skyrim for a few weeks, related to the, ah, dragon problem.”

“Hm, yes, I remember hearing something about new mages being sent in. The barracks are across the courtyard. Or did you have a message for the Ambasssador?”

“Actually, sir, I didn’t come with the reinforcements. My assignment is a bit more… delicate in nature.” He hadn’t planned for this, but he could improvise.

“I’ve been sent from Alinor to observe and report. Mostly.”

“Hmph.” The interrogator stood up. He didn’t look like he got out much. He was waxy-skinned and baggy-eyed, and a faint burning smell clung to his robe—tar, hot metal, singed hair. This had to be the Rulindil that Elenwen had mentioned while having Brelas removed from the party. Calmerion hoped she was all right. “Good to know they’ve finally decided to send someone to look into it. I don’t know what they think we’re doing in this godsforsaken wasteland, but if they think we’re holding back information, they’re severely mistaken.” He paused a little, like he was unsure he should continue. “If you brought any intelligence with you, it would be most welcome.”

“I’m afraid not, sir,” Calmerion said, disappointment flooding his body. He shouldn’t be disappointed, he knew it was unlikely the Thalmor knew any more than Delphine did. At the very least, he knew the Thalmor weren’t behind the dragons. But now he knew this whole expedition had been worthless. All of it, from watching Brelas get hauled away to being recognized to having Idgrod stick her neck out for him had been for nothing. And now he had to figure out how to get out of this stupid place and start his trek back to Riverwood to rendezvous with Delphine. He’d tell her the truth of it, and then some.

Rulindil, his missive finished, folded it and pressed a black wax seal to the edge. He looked up and scratched his colorless beard. “Tell me, Justiciar, do you conduct interrogations?”

“I’ve… dabbled.”

“Good. Perhaps you can assist with my current subject. We have reason to believe he may know the location of an escaped Blades agent.”

Calmerion raised his eyebrows. “Is that so?”

“Possibly. We don’t know much yet, but he’ll break soon. They all do.” Rulindil turned on his heel and waved a hand for Calmerion to follow. 

They walked down a hallway, through a locked iron door, and into the dim, unheated dungeon. Calmerion held his breath against the too-familiar odor of blood, hot tools, and pain-sweat that agents sometimes referred to as the “Dungeon Smell.”

At the bottom of the stairs, a soldier was whipping a restrained human prisoner. Rulindil sat down at a desk to one side. The soldier stopped and took a step back while Rulindil flipped through a small file. “Now that your memory’s been refreshed, why don’t you start at the beginning, as usual,” he said to the prisoner.

“I already told you… I don’t know anything. I would have said if I did—”

“What a shame. Private, you may continue.”

The soldier raised her whip. The prisoner flinched. “No! No, please, I told you about the old man, the one in the Ratway, but that’s all I know, I swear—”

“And his name?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know! He could be the one you’re looking for, but I… I can’t. I don’t know.”

Rulindil looked to one side. “Justiciar Endoril, perhaps you’ll be more effective at helping him remember. My tools are at your disposal, as is Private Oranie.”

The back of Calmerion’s neck prickled. In truth, he had never presided over an interrogation. There were always plenty of agents on hand who actually liked it, so the higher-ups never had a reason to make him do it. Still, he had learned the basics at the Academy alongside every other prospective Justiciar, and it boiled down to “hit the subject until he says something useful, repeat as necessary.” No need to get creative. Standard restraints and a whip worked just fine, and that seemed to be Rulindil’s philosophy as well, for this prisoner at least. He had more specialized paraphernalia arrayed on a table nearby, from which Calmerion averted his eyes.

“Certainly, sir,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “Although, I prefer to work in private. If you would allow it, as this is your dungeon.”

“Hmm.” Rulindil steepled his fingers. “Yes, I’ll allow it. I want a complete report.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll have a confession out of him by dawn.”

“I look forward to it.”

Relief trickled over Calmerion’s head like rain. He was worried he’d have to keep torturing the man in order to extend the facade. Either that or kill the two actual Thalmor in the room without raising the alarm across the whole compound. Either way, a sadistic choice.

Rulindil left the dungeon with Private Oranie in tow. When he was sure they were gone, Calmerion walked around to the prisoner’s open cell. He was either a Breton or an Imperial; Calmerion could never tell the difference. Blood welled from dozens of cuts all over his body, and where he wasn’t bleeding, he was swollen and bruised. He hung limp in the shackles but tensed visibly when the uniformed elf approached.

They would have to move as quickly and quietly as possible across the courtyard and out to the relative safety of the woods. Calmerion could cloak himself in silence and invisibility, but he hadn’t mastered doing it to someone else, so they would have to just be extra careful. He bent his head down to the prisoner’s level like they were sharing a secret. “Ready to get out of here?” he asked in a low voice. The man didn’t respond. Calmerion sighed. “This isn’t some kind of trick,” he continued. “I’m not Thalmor and I don’t torture people. I don’t know how to prove it besides standing here continuing to not torture you, so…”

“Pray to Talos.”

Calmerion choked back whatever snappish response sprang first to his lips, because what he really thought of that suggestion would do little to persuade anyone he was anything but Thalmor. Pray to Talos, what a ridiculous idea. He pulled himself up to his full height and glared down at the prisoner. “If I was, uh, really Thalmor, I would have killed you on the spot for saying that. Probably.”

“Bastards were going to kill me eventually,” the man said. He paused a moment to catch his breath. “Might as well make it quicker. Either kill me or pray to Talos to prove you’re not one of them. I’m not playing any more mind games.”

Well. Calmerion wasn’t just going to leave him there. What was a little more abject humiliation on top of everything else? He rolled his eyes and silently begged Auriel to forgive him of his blasphemy as he raised his hands in sarcastic supplication.

“Oh, mighty Talos,” he intoned. “Deliver us from our filthy elven oppressors. Well? Is that good enough for you?”

The man gave a pained chuckle. “Sure. Let’s go. Name’s Etienne Rarnis, by the way.”

“Calmerion.” He picked Etienne’s shackles open. The man sank to his knees with a groan, leaning his head against the wall. He grimaced and batted Calmerion’s hand away when he raised a healing spell to his face.

“Nice to meet you. There’s a trapdoor just over there. They’ve been dumping bodies into it, could be a way out.”

There was indeed a trapdoor, but Calmerion’s picks were useless on it. Still, this was a better option than sneaking back through the embassy, so he began looking around for a key. Rulindil probably had the only copy. And hacking it open with one of the many weapons in the area was also not feasible, as it was solid iron like the door he’d come in. Surely there was something in here that could get the damn thing open…

“Hello?” A scared voice wavered from the darkened corner cell.
Calmerion looked up and immediately smiled in relief. It was Brelas, still alive and not visibly injured. She shrank back into the cell when he walked over, however, and he realized she must have seen him talking to Erikur earlier and drawn the worst conclusions from that.

“I’m not actually Thalmor,” he said, trying to sound reassuring. “And I’m not going to hurt you. Are you all right?”

“I guess,” she said, still sounding wary.

“If you’re up for it, we’re leaving as soon as we can find a way to open the trapdoor.”

“Well, I sure don’t want to stay here,” she replied, her voice taking on a little strength. She walked closer to the door, into the light, but still stayed a safe distance away from him. “I… don’t know where I would go.”

“We’ll figure it out.” Calmerion had the barred door open in seconds. Brelas ventured out. Her serious brown eyes took in everything around her, from the trapdoor to Rulindil’s array of tools to Etienne struggling to his feet against a backdrop of gray stones and faded floorboards all liberally flecked with blood. She was clearly still scared out of her wits, but she held her head high, unwilling to crumble in the face of the unknown. Her hands, callused from work, were balled up in determined fists by her sides.

For a moment, Calmerion saw a different Bosmer woman. A little older, darker-skinned and lighter-haired, marked with separatist tattoos, bound at the wrists and ankles. Her stare was bright, fierce, and yet terrified.

She still crept up on him sometimes when he was least expecting it. He still wondered if she’d made it to Morrowind after all…

He shook his head to clear the vision.

“Those maniacs have to have my gear around here somewhere,” Etienne muttered. He staggered out of the cell, supporting his weight on the wall, and dug into the chest next to Rulindil’s desk. “Oh good, here it is. Look, I don’t really know what they wanted with me, but if you’re working against them you should take his file on that Esbern guy. There, on the desk.”

Calmerion took the small, worn book and flipped through it. Etienne’s words, however, struck him harder than anything in it.
He was officially working against the Thalmor. Before now he had been avoiding them for his own sake, but now… he was actually working against them. After forty years of indoctrination, ten years since he took his oath, and less than six months since he arrested his last Talos-worshipper, his life was spinning wildly in some bizarre direction he couldn’t control. Here he was, springing a prisoner from a Thalmor dungeon, stealing Thalmor intelligence, and helping the remnants of the Blades. And he wouldn’t go back even if he could.

He felt as if the realization should have given him some kind of direction, some hint as to what he should be doing. It just made him more confused than he had been before.

“Listen up, spy!”

Calmerion, chilled to the bone, looked up at the source of the voice. Two Thalmor soldiers, armed and alert, no longer fooled by his disguise. And—oh, gods, one of them had Malborn by the hair, pushing him forward into the light. He looked like nothing more than a quivering rabbit cornered by a pair of cats.

“Let him go,” Calmerion said before the soldier could launch into an ultimatum. “He had no part in this. I tricked him into helping me.”

“Don’t make me laugh,” Malborn’s captor huffed. “This is the price of crossing us, Justiciar.”

She kicked Malborn in the back of the knee, forcing him to kneel, still holding his hair. She jerked his head back. The other soldier unsheathed his sword.

“Stop!” Calmerion felt like he was moving through mud as he tried to close the gap between him and the soldiers. “Stop! That’s an order!” he blurted before he remembered it was unlikely to work.
The golden blade flashed. Blood spurted.

“TIID KLO UL!”

The sword froze mid-swing. Calmerion, time bending around him, ran up the stairs to Malborn and the soldiers. Globes of blood hung suspended around the weapon, still cutting, not too late if he could just—

Lightning crackled and exploded from his outstretched fingers. It tossed the soldier backwards, slowly, as if underwater. Calmerion rounded on the other soldier and flung a storm of ice spikes straight for her neck. He didn’t wait to see where they struck, knowing his aim was true, only detached her fingers from Malborn’s hair and clamped both hands around the Bosmer’s fragile throat.

He could hear time roaring into its proper stream. It crashed in all at once, and then the world was shivering with heavy breathing and fresh blood bubbling up through his fingers as he laid Malborn back on the floor.

“Eyes on me, Malborn,” Calmerion said, trying not to let his panic show in his voice. He had to be in control. “Don’t close your eyes. It’s going to be all right, understand?”

He poured all his power into healing. He could feel the torn skin and veins and muscles sucking up his magicka. Malborn’s eyes were wide, his brown face sallow with shock. Sweat beaded his forehead and his desperate breaths were rapid. “Come on, eyes on me,” he said again. “Don’t panic.”

Malborn’s lips moved, but Calmerion couldn’t make out what he was trying to say. The bleeding didn’t stop, even though he sank his magicka into the wound with greater intensity, feeling it tug on him, draining him. His hands shook, his mind started to cloud with fatigue, but he kept pushing, willing the flesh to close up.

“My dad taught me this,” he said to distract them both. “He’s the best healer I’ve ever known, but I couldn’t be arsed to sit still and listen most of the time. Restoration’s a bitch to get good at.” Yes, it was finally working, he didn’t know how much longer he could do this, but it was working. “You’re going to live, Malborn. Stay still, it’s going to close up nicely.” His gloves were soaked. The front of Malborn’s shirt was almost black with his own blood, but the hemorrhage had been tamed into a weak pulse under skin that held together in a furious red line on his throat. Carefully, Calmerion withdrew his hands.

“Nocturnal’s tits!” Etienne exclaimed from below. “You were here, and then you were… up there. How…”

“I’ll explain later,” Calmerion said. “Right now, we need to move.” He shucked his gloves and unbuckled his outer robe, and then wrapped Malborn’s helpless body in it.

“I feel weird,” the little elf said faintly.

“I bet you do. Ugh, give me a minute.” Calmerion leaned back against the railing. Keep it together, Calmerion. Clear your mind, think recovery, envision your body filled with magicka. Breathe. Breathe. There. Feels better already.

“There’s b-blood dripping down the stairs,” Brelas said in a fragile voice. “W-what happened?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Calmerion hauled himself up and inspected the soldiers he’d dispatched. Oh, that one was Private Oranie, how… lucky.

He dug around her armor for a ring of keys. To his immense joy, he emerged with a heavy iron key that matched the trapdoor. Auriel, please let this be the right key. I really didn’t mean all that Talos nonsense. Please, please let this be the right key. He tossed it down the stairs to the others, cradled Malborn in his arms, and stood up. If Private Oranie had come for them, Rulindil couldn’t be far behind, and maybe Elenwen as well. “Open that trapdoor, someone,” he instructed. “We’re out of time.”

They made it out, and Brelas pulled the trapdoor shut over them.

It opened into a cave that smelled of rotten flesh and something like wet dog, but soft moonlight gleamed on fresh snow not far ahead, and an icy blast of wind from the cave opening cut through the stench and the lingering memory of the dungeon’s equally oppressive odor. Almost there.

Familiar grunts and snuffles made Calmerion grit his teeth. Etienne frowned. Brelas looked up with wide, uncertain eyes. Malborn just blinked a little, his eyes glassy.

“There’s a troll ahead,” Calmerion said softly. “Stay here and I’ll take care of it. Don’t make a sound.” He set Malborn down on the packed ice, choosing not to think about the bodies Etienne had mentioned being disposed of down here, and crept ahead with double handfuls of lightning at the ready. The troll was gnawing at a suspicious meaty joint. Calmerion caught it completely off-guard. It was twitching with stray sparks and steaming gently in the cold before it knew what attacked it, and Calmerion went back to retrieve Malborn and the others.

They walked out into the gently falling snow. They had to hurry, get somewhere they wouldn’t be found, and then get as far away from Haafingar as they could. Like this, they were totally vulnerable if a Thalmor patrol caught them. Malborn was completely incapacitated and mostly needed to sleep off the catastrophic healing he’d gotten. Etienne had put on his own pants and boots but drew the line at wearing a shirt and gloves on the worst of his injuries. Brelas walked stubbornly along with her arms wrapped around her body against the cold.

It wasn’t long before Calmerion’s fingers and toes and the tips of his ears were numb. Brelas was shivering and rubbing her bare shoulders. Etienne staggered along with a grim smile on his face. Malborn at least felt warm.

“I’ve got a friend who will probably help us,” Calmerion said. “Ma’zaka, he tends the Solitude Lighthouse. Used to be a pirate. He’s told me stories about dodging Thalmor ships out of Elsweyr.”

“Oh, that’s not far,” Brelas said. She quickened her pace. Etienne groaned and tried to hobble faster, but gave up.

The snow didn’t let up. The only sounds were the wind and three sets of footsteps crunching through the fresh layer on the ground. Another elf would have taken comfort in the night’s silence, but Calmerion knew how quietly Thalmor Justiciars could move when they wanted to. They might not even know they were being followed until they were dead. He tried to keep an eye out, but with the noise they were making and the fact that he was the only person in the group currently capable of fighting, it wouldn’t even make a difference. He could only hope they made it to the lighthouse soon. Nowhere was going to be perfect, but he also knew that agents tended to disappear around areas the East Empire Company had an interest in protecting. Among other areas.

Malborn kept slipping in and out of consciousness. His eyes would close for a few minutes, and then his eyelids would flutter open and he would frown out at unfamiliar surroundings, mutter a little bit, and drop off again. He was currently awake, and his stare could have burned a hole in Calmerion’s shirt.

“You just had to put on that robe like it’s a costume and prance around like you were invincible,” he said. His words pierced Calmerion like knives, he knew he deserved the blame, he should have stood his ground with Delphine and refused to come to the party in the first place, especially now they knew that the Thalmor knew nothing. It was a waste of time. There was that Esbern person, though. Hopefully that information wouldn’t be for nothing.

“It’s thanks to the robe I got as far as I did,” Calmerion said. If nothing else, the excuse let him push his guilt back until he had a better time to deal with it. “It just… all went wrong in the end. It could have turned out all right.”

“What, you could have escaped before they finished dragging me down to the dungeon? And then what?” Malborn glared up at him as fiercely as it was possible to glare while being carried.

Maybe I should have taken Elenwen up on that nightcap, Calmerion thought, and immediately reminded himself that he was just tired, to be thinking something like that. In all likelihood it would have turned out worse, with all four of them imprisoned. Or dead. At least now they were on the road to safety, wounds notwithstanding.

The city of Solitude shone brightly on top of its natural arch, still a long walk to the east, but its presence was reassuring. In the opposite direction, The Solitude Lighthouse twinkled like a star, and they hurried through the dark towards its shelter.

As it turned out, Ma’zaka was more than happy to help, and he asked no questions as to why four people—three of them covered in blood, and one of those three wearing the uniform of a Justiciar—needed a place to lie low until morning. They had obviously come down the road from the Thalmor Embassy and no other explanation was required. The old Khajiit barred the door, just in case, and immediately started building a bed of furs for Malborn next to the fireplace.

“This one wonders what happened to him,” he said.

Calmerion wordlessly drew one finger across his throat.

Ma’zaka’s ears flattened slightly. “Those Thalmor bastards. Ma’zaka has some soup that will make him feel better.”

“I’m not hungry,” Malborn muttered.

“All the more reason to have some,” Calmerion said. “Have to keep up your strength, you lost a lot of blood.”

“Thanks for telling me, I hadn’t noticed,” he grumbled, and Calmerion felt a smile tugging at his lips. At least he wasn’t too weak to be sarcastic. That was a good sign.

The soup was very nourishing, in fact, thick with fish and clams and a couple of onions Ma’zaka brought out to stretch it further. Brelas insisted on cutting them up, cooking them, dishing up the soup, and passing bowls around to everyone, and by the time Calmerion had started to volunteer to clean up the dishes, she’d already done it and stacked everything neatly on the hearth. Apparently life as a servant to such an exacting mistress wasn’t so easily left behind.

Brelas went to sleep almost immediately afterward, cocooned in a blanket and curled up on a nest of flour sacks with a pelt thrown over them. Ma’zaka chuckled and tugged the edge of the blanket over her bare feet before stepping outside to check on the lighthouse flame. Malborn dropped off as well, still wrapped in Calmerion’s bloodied silk robe, his breath still shallow but thankfully regular. His eyes were shadowed, his mouth slack with fatigue. Calmerion couldn’t blame him for being upset about everything that had happened tonight. Maybe he shouldn’t have gone to the party in robes. Maybe he shouldn’t have let Rulindil leave the dungeon alive. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Meanwhile, Etienne was sitting by himself, gingerly tending to his wounds with a wet cloth and a bottle of aromatic medicine. His face was twisted in a strained grimace as he dabbed at a ragged laceration on his side. That was going to be one ugly scar.

Calmerion drifted over, unsure how to begin. “If you want, I could, uh,” he said. He twiddled his fingers to mean “magic.” Etienne flinched and shook his head.

“No thanks. I’ve had more than enough healings in the past couple of days.”

“Oh.” Calmerion shifted in discomfort. “Why did they get you, anyway?”

“It was a burglary gone horribly awry,” Etienne said. He squeezed his eyes shut and bathed another wound on his chest. “I’m Guild. The Thalmor have this nice little setup in Castle Dour that they don’t even use. Turns out I came to visit on the one day there were any actual agents in the building.” He threw down his cloth. “Gods. Could you—just here.” He lifted his arm a little and indicated the messy wound on his side.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Just… um… stop if I start to panic, okay?”

Calmerion nodded. He extended a hand and tried to heal as gently as he could—it always hurt at least a little, but the relief afterward was worth it. Etienne trembled and pulled away before it had fully healed.

“Stop! Stop. I think it’ll hurt less now,” he said weakly. The wound still bled a little, but it looked less awful than before.

“Sorry.” Calmerion tore his eyes away from the damage that marred his body all over.

“Not your fault.” After a moment to settle himself, Etienne resumed his cleaning. “I was sold out, that’s the only explanation. And when I find out who it was, I’m going to fucking kill him,” he said, his voice brimming with false cheer. Calmerion believed it.

Ma’zaka came back into the lighthouse in a swirl of snow. He herded Etienne into bed, saying much about sleep being the finest healer. Apparently too tired and hurt to protest, the thief went. He spent a long few minutes trying to find a painless position before lying still, either finally comfortable or just too exhausted to move. Calmerion sat against the wall, knees drawn up, studying the stolen file under flickering lamplight. There were words inside, but they made no sense to him, just squiggles and collections of letters that meant something to someone, but to him, they swam and slithered over the page, a swirl of incomprehensibility.

His eyes watered. He forced them to stay open and kept trying to read. Something about the Blades. He picked out that one word, and then it was lost once more.

He shook his head vigorously. Stay awake. You’re on duty now. They’re counting on you not to make any more mistakes.

Ma’zaka came up silently and touched his shoulder. “You should rest. It is safe here,” he said.

“I can’t let anything else happen to them,” Calmerion muttered.

“This one keeps late hours. I will warn you of any danger. How can the elf continue to be their protector if he’s falling asleep on his feet?”

Calmerion shook his head again, but he was so tired. His mind felt as if it was stuffed with tundra cotton. He was warm from the fire and the soup in his belly. It all felt far away, like he was viewing the world through clouded glass, all sights and sounds dropping away every time he blinked.

A pair of furry hands guided his head down to rest on something soft. A blanket came to rest on top of his unresponsive body. He looked around, but the scene around him felt more like a dream than something that was really happening. Brelas was fast asleep in her nest. Malborn was still passed-out by the fire. Etienne lay on the bed, not yet asleep, but his eyes fluttered closed and he sighed.

Just a nap, Calmerion said to himself. Just a few minutes.

He closed his eyes.

The next thing he knew, it was morning. Everyone else was already awake and Ma’zaka was heading to bed.

“Why did you let me sleep?” Calmerion said, rubbing his face as he staggered to his feet.

“You looked like you needed it,” Brelas said.

“I needed it? I didn’t get tortured or stabbed in the neck,” he grumbled. Speaking of which, Malborn was looking much better, not like he’d never been injured, but the magic was still working in him to heal and replenish. The scar on his neck had gone from red to pink, allaying some of Calmerion’s fears of it reopening. Etienne also looked better for a good night’s sleep, but pain was etched in his brow, and Calmerion still wouldn’t have bet money on him in a fight.

The four of them gathered around the kitchen table to come up with plans.

“I’ve got to get back to Riverwood and catch up with Delphine,” Calmerion said. Let her know exactly how fruitless her plan had been, more like. He looked over at Malborn and Brelas. “And you two need to hide somewhere. My advice? Run for Morrowind. You’ll be safe there.”

Etienne nodded. “I recommend going by way of Windhelm. Thalmor agents know better than to even look at it, and I have a couple of friends-of-friends who’ve helped refugees get across the border in the past. Ask around the Gray Quarter.”

“What’s the use, they’ll find us before we even get that far,” Malborn said bitterly. “There’s no escaping the Thalmor, no matter where you go.”

“That’s giving them power they don’t need to have,” Calmerion said.

Still, the words chilled him a little, because he of all people knew how the Thalmor operated, and how close to the truth his statement was. There were few places in Tamriel not touched by their shadow, few people not indexed and documented in their archives. In the back of his own mind he knew it was only a matter of time before they tracked him down here in Skyrim, and he knew the fate that awaited a rogue Justiciar in their deepest, darkest dungeons. He’d accepted that fate when he took his oath, and again when he turned his back on that life.

Etienne’s voice drew him out of his worries. “I’ll see you as far as the city, but I’m off to Riften from there. Look me up if Windhelm turns out to be a bad idea,” he was saying.

Before they left for the harbor, Calmerion penned a brief note of thanks for Ma’zaka and left it on the table along with the few coins he had with him. It seemed inadequate, and Ma’zaka would likely refuse the money if he was awake, but the four of them didn’t have anything else to give and they had to leave something in return for the lighthouse’s refuge.

Luckily, the sun was out and there was a bit of fresh warmth in the air when they stepped outside, a nice contrast to last night’s bitter chill. It was only a short walk downhill from the lighthouse to the crowded docks. Malborn walked most of it on his own, but Brelas noticed him struggling as they neared the harbor and gave him her arm to lean on. With some well-placed words and a few coins he hadn’t had before, Etienne secured passage for himself and the two Bosmer on the next boat to Windhelm. The thief also secured fresh clothes to replace Malborn’s bloodstained set and Calmerion’s suspicious uniform.

“All a matter of knowing the right people,” he said with a wink, and then cuffed Calmerion lightly on the arm, but winced at the action. “Ow. Can’t move like that. If you find yourself in Riften, don’t be a stranger.”

“Of course. Good luck to you,” Calmerion said. “Rest up a bit.”

“I plan to.”

He waited and watched until the boat was out of the harbor. They would be safe. They had to be. He would never forgive himself otherwise.

-----

It took Calmerion several days to get back to Riverwood, taking side-roads and game paths to avoid unwanted attention. All he knew was that the Thalmor would be out looking for whoever had infiltrated their embassy and absconded with valuable intelligence and three prisoners, but he didn’t know what their orders were. Best not to find out, in any case. 

It was the small hours of the morning when he arrived. The Jarl’s guards watched him, but said nothing. Faendal, just setting out on his hunt, nodded as they crossed paths. The Sleeping Giant was quiet when he entered. There was a candle lit in Delphine’s room, which didn’t surprise him, and he let himself in to find it empty and the wardrobe open, though the back of it was closed. It clicked open at his touch.

“Delphine? Are you there?”

He didn’t register the sound of a sword sliding free of its scabbard until the blade swung at his neck.

His training took over. He called up a glowing sword in one hand and covered himself in spell-armor with the other, trying to keep Delphine at bay as she slashed out at him and tried to beat him into a corner. Her eyes were flaming-hot, her face flushed in pure rage. A tuft of his hair flitted off when he moved a half-second too slow. Oh, gods, she was actually trying to kill him.

“What are you doing!”

Her eyes narrowed in seething hatred as she kept stabbing and slashing at him, driving him in circles around the room, sending him tripping over chests and tables in his haste to get away. “You thought I wouldn’t find out you were Thalmor!”

“Ex-Thalmor,” he said, in that moment not terribly concerned with how she’d found out. “As in, no longer running with that crowd or any like it!”

“It doesn’t matter! You don’t join them without meaning it! It’s still a part of you, and I’m going to cut it out of your body!”

He managed to get his sword between hers and his neck. Sweat dripped down his forehead as she backed him into a corner, blades clashed, that wicked edge inching closer to the pulse under his frail mortal flesh. He’d put Malborn back together well enough, but he was completely sure he wouldn’t be able to do the same for himself—if she actually did it, he’d be dead for sure—surely she wouldn’t. Right? She wouldn’t kill him, would she?

“How many Blades did you kill,” Delphine hissed. “Back in 171. The 30th of Frostfall. Sound familiar? How many? Did you behead them while they slept?”

“I was nine years old,” Calmerion said with equal venom. They stood like that, locked together, for a few endless moments. Delphine was shaking with ill-concealed rage. In spite of the attack, he couldn’t really blame her. It was such a betrayal to trust someone with your jealously guarded secrets, only to discover that he was hiding a few ugly ones of his own. Her gray eyes shot daggers into his face, but when she blinked a few times and realized he wasn’t actually fighting back, she heaved a disgusted sigh and looked away.

“So you’re a baby who didn’t even know why you fought.” She shoved him off and angrily sheathed her sword. “‘Just following orders’? Isn’t that how you bastards tried to explain what you did in the Imperial City?”

“Once again, I was a kid.” Calmerion instinctively rubbed his neck as if to reassure himself it was still intact. She glared at him, breathing heavily.

“That doesn’t absolve your guilt. You were part of it. You and everyone else who ever supported them.”

“Don’t tell me what to feel guilty about,” he spat. As if she thought he didn’t feel guilty about who he used to be. As if she had any idea why he left, or what he had given up, or what kind of person he was, Thalmor or not. “Yes, I was a Thalmor Justiciar for more than ten years. And yes, I did want it. But now I have bigger problems to worry about than which fake gods people worship or what their lineage is. I’m Dragonborn, and there are dragons in Skyrim. All that matters is that I can stop them.”

Delphine’s face twisted. It almost looked like… grief. “Don’t you tell me what matters. If you’re wondering, I intercepted this on the way out of Haafingar.” She slapped a paper into his chest and then stormed upstairs where she didn’t have to look at him. Calmerion looked down at the paper, frowning more with each word he read.

ATTENTION ALL AGENTS

Be on the lookout for a young male Altmer, may be using the name Endoril (an alias). He may also be impersonating a Thalmor agent. He is experienced in both magic and subterfuge and as such is VERY DANGEROUS. Approach with extreme caution.

There is reason to believe that this “Endoril” is the ex-Justiciar who deserted his post in northern Cyrodiil earlier this year. If that is the case, he may also be using the names Lancalmo, Calmerion, and Anderien. Reports disagree on which (if any) is his real name; acquiring more information should be your first priority. This ex-Justiciar is wanted for desertion, treason, and the murder of three fellow agents.

The Ambassador prefers for him to be apprehended alive and brought to the Embassy without delay. If this is not feasible, you are authorized to execute him and bring his head.

GLORY TO THE ALDMERI DOMINION

There was also a drawing of his face from the front and in profile, and it was pretty good, but they drew him with long hair and missed the scar through his left eyebrow. Malborn had been right, there was only so long you could hide from them before they caught up. And really, the only reason they’d taken this long was because he was an ex-Justiciar who knew the secrets of the trade, not a defenseless Bosmer servant—

“I have to get to Windhelm,” he said aloud, though Delphine wasn’t there to hear him. He went back up the stairs to see her furiously scrubbing the bar with a cloth. “Delphine.” She pointedly ignored him. Calmerion gritted his teeth and stuffed the paper into his belt. “Delphine! They’re going to go after Malborn! Or do you so easily forget the people you put in danger over a hunch?”

Her hand cracked across his face. Bewildered, he touched his throbbing cheekbone and looked at her, all words stolen from his mouth. He rather felt like a kicked puppy.

“Don’t you dare say that to me,” she said. Her voice was trembling, he was astonished to notice, almost like she was about to cry.

“I’m… sorry,” he managed to say. “But I’m serious. Malborn’s in danger, and I have to make sure he’s all right. He already got hurt on the way out of the embassy. And there’s a girl, Brelas, I helped her escape too. If the Thalmor know this much about me, they’ve probably already found the two of them.” He was less sure about Etienne. At least he had the Thieves’ Guild to hide out with.

Delphine still said nothing. Calmerion took the file he’d liberated from the Thalmor from his satchel and slapped it down on the bar. “Here. Read that while I’m gone.” With that, he turned to leave.
Pages fluttered as Delphine opened the book.

“Esbern?” She sounded shocked. Calmerion didn’t turn around. “You found… he’s alive?”

“We’ll talk later,” he said simply, and walked back out into the quiet village.

-----

By the time Calmerion reached Windhelm, it had been eight days since the Embassy. The city was depressing as always, but he encountered no Thalmor on the trip. Maybe that just meant they’d caught Malborn and Brelas already and he was too late.

It was getting dark outside. He followed the city’s servants and laborers, quiet and weary from the day’s work, into the Gray Quarter—Etienne had mentioned contacts there, not to mention, if Calmerion had to hide in Windhelm, that’s where he would go. It was crowded and isolated and no one who lived there had any great reason to trust someone who went around asking questions.

To his relief, he found Malborn in the New Gnisis Cornerclub, looking miserable but still very much alive.

“Oh, it’s you,” he spat when Calmerion took a seat at the bar. He had a half-empty mug of beer in front of him. His eyes were red-rimmed and tired, his brow tight with worry. At least the scar on his neck was looking better, and his complexion had returned to its usual ruddy-brown hue. 

“How are you?” Calmerion asked. Malborn didn’t respond. He kept drinking, staring at a patch of peeling paint on the wall behind the bar. The small tavern kept filling up with hard-faced Dunmer who clustered around tables and bar stools, ordering liquors with strange names and strange smells that made the hairs on the inside of Calmerion’s nose itch. Soon there was no room at all for a private conversation, but everyone else seemed to be more interested in their own troubles than anything Calmerion and Malborn had to say. The life of a dark elf in Windhelm was hard, that much was painfully obvious, and few had any pity to spare. Not after a long day at work, which most of them spent in service to people who despised their kind.

Malborn’s voice was desolate when he spoke. It sounded like he’d given up. “The Morrowind border is so close. Half a day’s journey, if that. Blacklight’s not much further, just a day or two. I would be safe there, I think.”

“So why haven’t you gone already?” Calmerion asked, dreading the answer. Malborn confirmed what he’d hoped wasn’t true.

“The Thalmor know where I am.” The Bosmer took a long drink. “There’s a Khajiit hanging around outside the main gate. I did some work at the Hlaalu farm, and he… wouldn’t stop staring at me. He’s just waiting for the right time to follow me and kill me somewhere no one will ever look, I know it. It doesn’t matter. I’m a dead man.”

“You could probably—”

“Look, I’m not a warrior,” Malborn interjected. “I’m not like you. I don’t know any magic, I’m not very strong, and I can’t run very fast. I’m just a regular person who doesn’t want to die. If I try to go now, with that Khajiit after me, he will kill me. That’s all there is to it.” He shook his head. “I talked to some people who know Etienne. There’s a safer way, but I can’t… it’s too expensive. My life savings was under my bed at the embassy.”

Calmerion winced. “I’m sorry. How are you getting by now?”

“I started doing some odd jobs once I felt well enough.” He lifted his hand to his neck. “It was good magic. Thanks,” he said grudgingly, though there was sincerity underneath. Calmerion shrugged it off.

“I had a good teacher, is all.”

“Your dad?”

Calmerion nodded. He didn’t mention that the same mer who had healed his childhood cuts and bruises had also burned down half of Hammerfell. Instead, he returned to the previous topic. “Is the work steady, at least?”

“Not steady enough to get me out of here any time soon.”

“Where’s Brelas?” Calmerion hoped she was all right. Maybe she’d managed to slip away, maybe she’d gone on to Riften, maybe, maybe, maybe.

“She got a job up at Candlehearth Hall,” Malborn said. “She said she likes it here! In Windhelm! With some murderous Khajiit outside the gates!” He downed the rest of his drink and slid the cup forward for a refill. “I can’t stay. I have to make it to Morrowind. Maybe they don’t have any reason to send assassins after her, she didn’t know anything. But I helped you with your stupid idiot plan. Stupid!”

He sounded like he blamed himself more than Calmerion or Delphine or anyone else. Still, Calmerion felt responsible, and it would bother him until he did something about it.

A rush of cold air announced a new arrival, one who greeted the patrons nearby in a sharp, clear High Rock accent. Calmerion looked up, and his jaw dropped when he saw Etienne Rarnis stride up to the bar, rubbing his hands together and breathing warmth into his fingers. His cheeks were rosy, his fair hair was clean and combed, and his wounds were faded, at least as far as Calmerion could see. Also, he was gorgeous. 

When he looked up, his eyes were bright and a grin spread across his face. “Look what the wind blew in. Still alive?”

“Not for long,” Malborn muttered.

“You look good,” Calmerion said. Etienne didn’t seem to pick up on the double meaning, which was unintentional but absolutely sincere.

“I spent a few days curled up in bed, looking pitiful enough that the boss forced me to see a healer,” he explained, and then gave a crooked chuckle. “He said a hurting thief is a dead thief. More like, he can’t get his cut from a dead thief.”

“Oh. How… are you now?”

“Fine. It just aches.” He rubbed his left shoulder for emphasis.

“And the healing?”

“It wasn’t too bad. Probably helped that the healer wasn’t an elf. No offense.” His words were glib, but on closer inspection he still held himself as if he was in pain. His shoulders were bunched, his face tight, and although he smiled easily and leaned against the bar in a friendly way, it looked a little too careful to be entirely genuine. Calmerion had to wonder if the healing was actually as trauma-free as he let on. “Oh, by the way, these are all over the Ragged Flagon. Might want to watch yourself.” He tugged a wrinkled sheet of paper from within his jacket. Calmerion found himself looking at the same drawing of his face that Delphine had shown him.

HAVE YOU SEEN THIS ELF?

The Thalmor in Skyrim are looking for a young Altmer mage of average height and medium build, possessing blond hair and green eyes. Reports indicate he has used the names Endoril, Lancalmo, Calmerion, and Anderien. He is VERY DANGEROUS. DO NOT engage.

INFORMATION LEADING TO HIS CAPTURE WILL BE RICHLY REWARDED

“Fucking hell.” Calmerion crumpled the paper and then burned it in his hands before sweeping the ashes to the floor.

“My favorite part is the ‘average height,’” Etienne drawled. “They’re going to have people turning in a bunch of hilariously tiny Altmer and they’ll wonder why everyone’s so confused. Anyway, that’s why I came. I knew if they’d found you, they’d probably found Malborn and Brelas as well.”

Calmerion nodded. His hands were shaking in his lap. “Same. Apparently there’s a suspicious Khajiit outside the gates, did you see anyone?”

“I saw that there was a caravan camped out, but I didn’t look too closely.”

“He doesn’t look like a trader,” Malborn said. He was curled around his mug like he was trying to protect it. “He’s got that… look. He just looks like a killer, it’s hard to describe. Work for the Thalmor long enough, and you notice it.”

What look? Do I have the look? Calmerion resisted the urge to touch his face, as if that would tell him what Malborn meant. And he couldn’t remember seeing any particular “look” on an agent before. Nothing particularly intimidating, nothing out of the ordinary. His former commander had a rather unpleasant countenance, but he was just a miserable bastard through and through, no one could miss that, “killer look” or not. One thing was certain, it was going to bother him now. What if he had the look? He’d killed people, certainly, but he’d always tried to put it out of his mind. Did that make him a killer, or did you have to like it? Because he hated it.

I don’t want to look like a killer, he thought unhappily.

“Hey.” Etienne touched his arm. “You all right in there?”

Calmerion looked up sharply. “Uh, yeah.”

“So are you going to help me scout out this Khajiit, or what?”

“Oh… I suppose.”

He stood and willed himself to push the dark thoughts somewhere else until he knew what to do about them. “Don’t worry, Malborn. If you can.”

“I can’t help it. Wait,” Malborn said as Calmerion and Etienne turned to leave. His face took on a pained expression. “I’m… sorry if I’ve seemed ungrateful. I’ve just been so scared, worrying about being hunted, knowing I can’t escape—”

Calmerion tried to smile. “It’s all right. You’re going to be fine.” Underneath it, he knew exactly how Malborn felt. He was hunted, but unlike Malborn, he wouldn’t be able to escape it by shaking off a single agent. For him, the hunting would never stop, not until he was dead. He had known that the moment he walked away. He just thought he would have been able to stay hidden longer than this.

They left the Cornerclub. Etienne led the way, stretching out his arms as they trekked out into the cold once again. Instead of thievish shortblades, he wore a sword, which Calmerion found interesting. It also looked a little too nice for the rest of him, but it was high-quality rather than flashy.

“To be honest, I don’t know what we’re going to do once we take a look,” Etienne said. “How much money do you have? We might be able to buy off the Khajiit if we try hard enough.”

Walking fast against the cold, Calmerion shook his head. “Too risky. He’ll just go to his bosses with fresh information and come back for Malborn once we’re gone.”

“Hmm, true.”

They exited the city gates. The sky was velvety with low clouds that blocked out the moon and stars. The city was lit, but darkness lay thick outside the walls and the cottages on the outskirts. The Khajiit caravan’s fire glimmered in the distance. That might be a good place to start.

“Did you find out who set you up?” Calmerion asked.

“Not yet. I’d say there are a couple of lowlifes been looking at me all threatening, but since I got back it seems like everyone’s looking at me all threatening.”

“Gods, I’m sorry.”

Etienne rounded on him. “Don’t apologize,” he said. “You didn’t do it.”

“S—uh, all right.” Calmerion crossed his arms and winced inwardly as Delphine’s words came flooding back. You were part of it. You and everyone else who ever supported them. Maybe he hadn’t hurt Etienne specifically, but how many humans had he arrested without bothering to think what fate awaited them at the end of the line? How many times had he done what was asked of him without questioning?

“I…” The thief sighed and shook his head. “As soon as I saw the poster, I knew why they’re looking for you. The real reason. They wouldn’t be so desperate to get their hands on you if you hadn’t turned your back on them.”

Calmerion’s breath froze in his throat. One heartbeat passed, and then two. But Etienne’s sword stayed sheathed.

“Look, I know you probably did a lot of rotten things for them.” Etienne spoke quickly, like he was in a hurry to get it out. “It’s okay. I mean, it’s really not okay, but, well, you saved my life. You’re all right in my book. I know plenty of guys who’ve left behind lives they’re not proud of. And besides… I steal for a living. Who am I to judge.” He shrugged. He was smiling a little, gentle and genuine. “That’s it. I won’t bring it up again.”

“Thank you.” Calmerion let out the breath that had gotten stuck. “You’d have every right to hate me.”

“Yeah, but I don’t want to. It takes too much effort to hate.” He turned back around and started walking again, Calmerion following close behind. He understood completely.

They paused at the stables, taking a moment to admire the horses and trying not to look like they were spying on the caravan. Ulundil, friendly as always, chatted about his animals but neither Calmerion nor Etienne paid close attention. There was a suspicious Khajiit camped out with the others. Or rather, next to the others. He didn’t seem to be a part of the group. And where the others lounged around the fire and conversed easily with one another, he sat up straight and alert, yellow eyes taking in everything around him, not saying a word.

As for a “killer look,” Calmerion noticed nothing. The realization worried him. Had he become numb to it?

Calmerion looked closer, squinting in the darkness. A gold-colored dagger shimmered at the Khajiit’s hip. Unmistakable moonstone-and-quicksilver alloy, a genuine Thalmor-issued weapon, not the cheaper, adulterated metal marketed as “elven” craftsmanship in the rest of Tamriel. Of course, he could have killed an agent and taken the dagger from him, but with every other piece of evidence so far? Not likely.

That confirmed it. Calmerion touched Etienne’s arm briefly. “He’s got a Thalmor dagger,” he whispered.

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah. As far as I’m concerned, that’s all we needed to know.”

“All right. I trust you.” Etienne stroked the horse nearest to him. “Hey, Ulundil, you look like you could use a drink.” He flipped the hostler a coin, took Calmerion by the elbow, and steered him down the road a short distance to where the caravan had set up camp, as casual as can be. They both recognized Ri’saad, who explained he was traveling around to check up on the other caravans. 

“What can you tell us about the Khajiit on the far edge?” Calmerion asked. Ri’saad stroked his chin.

“J’datharr? Turned up a few days ago. He’s not one of us. I’m not sure what he’s doing or who he thinks he’s fooling.”

“He’s hunting our friend,” Etienne explained. “Thalmor. We came out to see if we couldn’t get rid of him.”

Ri’saad’s ears flattened. “Filth. Gives all Khajiit a bad name. In that case, I’ll have everyone get out of the way. Be careful. I thought he had the look of someone dangerous.” He slipped away. Seconds later, the caravan’s camp was deserted, not a tent or piece of merchandise out of place, the merchants having disappeared without a sound. Calmerion blinked. It was as if they had simply stopped existing. He’d been looking right at them, damn it, and he still hadn’t seen where they went. He shivered a little and told himself it was a stray snowflake on the back of his neck.

J’datharr, however, remained. Far from seeing where the others had gone, he didn’t even seem to realize they were no longer sitting around the fire. No, his full attention was on Calmerion and Etienne.

“We need to disappear too,” Calmerion said quietly. “Across the street, into those trees. Casual.” The assassin didn’t follow as they went. That didn’t mean they had lost him, but at least they weren’t out in the open. He was just… waiting. Waiting for what?

“Ever assassinated anyone?” Etienne muttered as they crouched in the underbrush.

Calmerion winced. “I thought you said you weren’t going to bring it up again.”

“Whatever your answer is, I’ll forget it once we’re done here.” He took his eyes off the Khajiit for a moment. “Well?”

A muscle twitched in Calmerion’s jaw. He nodded once.

“All right, how would you take this guy out?” Etienne asked. He looked back out at their target, keeping one hand on the hilt of his sword.

“Lightning strike to the heart. He won’t be easy to sneak up on, though. And if I miss, it’ll be hard to get another angle on him.”

“How about when you did that thing at the Embassy and moved really fast, could you do that again?”

It took Calmerion a moment to figure out what he meant. Oh, right, the Thu’um. “If it comes to it, yes. But it involves, uh, shouting, so I’ll wait to use it in case he finds us first. Don’t want to give away our position.”

Etienne tensed a bit, a snake ready to spring. “Sounds good. Tell me what you need me to do.”

“We’ll split up. I’ll cloak myself with magic and come around in front of him, and you block his exit on the opposite side. I’ll find some way to get his attention and then, while he’s looking for me, you can move in without being seen.” This was risky. Too many variables. “If I miss the first shot, and I might, it’ll be a mess to pin him down. I’ll count on you to help me if that happens.”

“Understood.”

Calmerion, as silent and invisible as a ghost, crept out of the trees and nearer to the assassin, making sure to step only on rocks and paving stones to keep from making footprints. J’datharr didn’t notice anything yet. His eyes were still on the trees where they’d been hiding, fingers drumming impatiently on his leg just inches from the dagger. Calmerion paused a stone’s throw away from him, lifted two fingers to his mouth, and whistled sharply.

The Khajiit’s tufted ears pricked up. His every muscle tensed as he sniffed the air and looked around him for some sign—he wasn’t stupid, J’datharr, he knew he was hunted as well as hunter. The question was who would be the true predator, and who would end up prey.

A shadow glided across the snow as J’datharr stood and prowled the area. That was Etienne, moving into position just as they had discussed. Calmerion breathed slowly through his nose, concentrating only on the breath, keeping from making a sound as he crouched unseen just a few steps from his target. His right hand twitched with electricity as he prepared to strike. As slow and smooth as he could, he stood up, pulled back his arm, and locked his eyes on the center of J’datharr’s chest.

Yellow eyes fixed on the position where he stood, invisible but still very real. The assassin’s clawed hand flicked forward. A splinter of pain, like a mosquito bite, pierced Calmerion’s neck.

The effects were instantaneous. He tried to reach up and pull the dart out, but ice filled his arms—he tried to look down, but his neck was frozen—his legs buckled and he collapsed chin-first onto the snowy ground, suddenly visible and totally vulnerable, his body so much useless meat. Across the way, Etienne’s eyes widened in shock.

“Dart,” Calmerion gasped, but then the poison seized his lips and tongue, and he couldn’t speak if he tried. Couldn’t warn him.

“Forget the wood elf,” J’datharr said with a smile that gleamed in his dark fur. “You will make this one a very rich Khajiit.” He drew his dagger. “How should I do it? Slit your throat? Boring. Slice out your guts and hoist you up in a tree? Better. Chop off your limbs and drag you to the Ambassador behind a horse? Maybe. Cut your lungs out through the back of your ribs, like the old Nords? This one likes that idea.”

They want me alive, you lunatic, Calmerion couldn’t help but think. Maybe if he thought sarcastically enough, the cat would hear him.

“Hey! Skooma-breath!” Etienne threw a rock that hit assassin square in the back of the head. J’datharr hissed and turned his predatory yellow eyes toward the thief, who held up his sword in challenge. “Why don’t you kill someone who can fight back!”

“A fine plan! You’ll be first!” J’datharr crowed. He lunged forward, dagger flying like a splinter of light.

Etienne was a good fighter, and his weapon had greater reach, but J’datharr fought like a demon, pushing him back and wearing him down with a relentless barrage of blows that neither slowed down nor softened in the face of Etienne’s defense.

Come on! Get up and help him! Calmerion’s hands and feet prickled with pins and needles. He tried to move his right arm, all he managed was a twitch of his fingers. Come on, Calmerion, fight it off. He kept struggling. He could wiggle his fingers and toes. Then his hands and feet. Then his knees and elbows, it was wearing off, if he could just get moving and help Etienne before it was too late—

He pushed through the poison, extended his arm, and forced as much lightning as he could muster from his fingertips.

It wasn’t much, but it hit J’datharr in the hip, throwing him off-balance and drawing out a yowl of pain. Etienne didn’t wait. His sword flashed once—the golden dagger flipped useless into the snow. Twice—the Khajiit’s black-furred head rolled down the gentle slope and his body fell, lifeless, into a heap. Blood gleamed darkly in splatters on the road. The thief looked at Calmerion, who was struggling with stiff limbs to stand up.

Etienne ran over and was patting him down before Calmerion could think of anything to say.

“Are you all right? He didn’t hurt you, did he?” His voice shook a little.

“I’m fine, it was just a dart. The poison’s mostly worn off.” He reached up to the tiny puncture in his neck. It had already stopped bleeding. “How about you? Are you hurt?”

“A little on the leg, but it’s just a scratch.” Etienne paused for a moment to catch his breath, one hand still resting on Calmerion’s shoulder. It was warm and solid, and Calmerion resisted the urge to reach up and cover the hand with his own.

“Come on, let’s get back inside.” Etienne grinned. “Can’t wait to tell Malborn. He’ll be in Morrowind before he knows it.”

That was the reward, wasn’t it. Malborn would finally be free to start a new life out of the Thalmor’s reach. Part of Calmerion wanted to go with him, to disappear into a strange country and let the trouble in Skyrim sort itself out, but he knew he couldn’t. He was Dragonborn. He was here for a reason, whatever it was. He had to stay. But clearing the way for Malborn to go gave him some measure of peace.

“You’re a better fighter than I expected from a thief,” Calmerion said as they walked. Etienne smiled cheerfully.

“Why, thank you. You’re a… worse assassin than I expected from an ex-Thalmor.”

Calmerion couldn’t help but laugh a little. “I must be out of practice. But thanks, I guess. I’ll take that as a good thing.”

-----

“You did it? He’s really gone?” Malborn looked like he hardly dared believe it. But hope, always battered but never quite stamped out, won out and he stood up straight. As if a massive weight had lifted from his shoulders.

Etienne grinned. “Killed him myself.”

“Are you sure? There isn’t any chance—”

“Unless Khajiit can live without heads, yes, he’s really extra dead,” Calmerion said. Looking at the two of them, he also couldn’t keep from smiling.

Malborn started immediately for the door. “Well, then I’m not staying here a moment longer,” he said. “I can’t believe it, I’ll be in Morrowind by morning. Thank you. Finally, finally I’ll be free of them.” Wordlessly, Calmerion and Etienne followed him out into the night, just in case something else happened. He looked grateful for the company though he tried to say it wasn’t necessary.

“Nonsense,” Calmerion said as they headed on the road east. “What good would killing the assassin do if you got eaten by bears instead?”

Malborn laughed, a bright, clear sound that was so unlike anything he’d said or done since before the Embassy.

The three of them walked through the night, pausing to rest briefly every few hours. The sun was coming up over the horizon as they reached the border. Beams of pink shot through the cold sky, banishing shadows and the last remnants of the night’s fears. Not so long ago, the opposite side of the border led to freedom and safety, but this morning Morrowind itself was the promise of a new beginning.

Smoke from a farmhouse chimney smudged the hills before them. Beyond that, Blacklight stood strong and distant—it really wasn’t that long of a journey at all.

“I’ll be all right from here,” Malborn said. He shook Calmerion’s and Etienne’s hands. “Thank you. Thank you. Let’s not do this again.”

“Agreed.” Etienne and Calmerion looked at each other and smiled. They’d said it at the same time.

They stayed and watched until Malborn had disappeared from sight. He would make it.

Etienne crossed his arms and gave a heavy sigh. “I’m beat,” he said. “What do you say, drinks at Candlehearth?”

That sounded like a good idea, even though Calmerion was not looking forward to the long walk back. Now that it was over, he was exhausted. It would be a miracle if he made it back to Windhelm without falling asleep on his feet. At the moment all he really wanted was a nap, drinks could come later. Tomorrow, maybe. “Sure. I’m buying.”

“No you’re not.”

Calmerion rolled his eyes. “We can talk about it on the way.”

-----

“So there I was, standing in the fucking Thalmor Embassy like I had every right to be there, and not ten seconds after I walk in the door, she comes up and invites me in for a private drink,” Calmerion slurred, warm and happy with beer and the roaring fire and Etienne’s company. “And I was like, she’s hot, even though she’s probably older than my mom, but seriously, do you just harass every marginally attractive mer that comes to your stupid parties?”

“You are pretty sexy, but still. Ffffraternization,” Etienne managed to say. It was quite impressive, considering.

“Yeah, totally inarp… inapo… inappropriate and creepy,” Calmerion said. He held out his empty mug. Brelas, smiling and shaking her head, came around to refill it. “Thank you. You are a jewel among elves.”

“Hey, take it easy, I just poured you a beer,” she laughed, and then went to check on the other patrons.

“Older women, though,” Etienne said. He held up a philosophical finger. “Just… older women. Always a good time. Even if… no, especially if they’re into some freaky shit.”

Calmerion frowned into his drink. “Normally I’d agree,” he said. “But, uh, ever seen frostbite spiders mating?”

“What the fuck! No.”

“Gods, I spend too much time in caves.” Calmerion rubbed his face with his free hand and took another healthy swig. “So, like, the female bites off the male’s head afterwards, and eats most of him, and then lays eggs in what’s left of his body.”

“What the fuck!”

“Yeah. Bet you anything that’s the kind of freaky shit Elenwen’s into.”

Etienne ground his fists into his eyes like he was trying to banish the mental image. “Never mind. I take it back.”

That seemed to have killed the mood somewhat, but if there was something they had in excess this evening, it was good mood. The inn was warm, the chairs were comfortable, the beer was superlative, and the dangers of the outside world seemed very far away and very insignificant. The bard was playing a song which was, thankfully, not another requested iteration of “The Age of Oppression.” Etienne was touching Calmerion’s knee with his own.

He looked so… sweet. Maybe that wasn’t exactly the right word for him, considering all the theft and assassination, but it was the word that came to Calmerion’s fuzzy mind. Absently, he reached out and tucked a stray lock of hair behind Etienne’s ear. The smile he got in return was warm and inviting and Calmerion felt as if he’d been forgiven for bringing up the frostbite spiders.

“I’m gonna be frank,” Etienne said, leaning in close. “I want you to do so many dirty things to me.” He couldn’t be bothered to keep his voice down, and Calmerion couldn’t be bothered to care. Still, he peered into his mug, trying to remember how many he’d had. His brow wrinkled when he realized he didn’t know.

“With pleasure,” he said. “But later. When we’re sober. We didn’t agree to get drunk first.”

Etienne pouted a little, disappointment showing in his lower lip. But he nodded and grabbed affectionately at Calmerion’s shoulder. “See, that’s what I like about you. You’re a responshible individual. Me, I’m just a mess.”

Calmerion chuckled. In spite of himself, he could feel his cheeks growing warm. “You’re all right.”

“Eh, if you say so.” Etienne tipped his head back and drained his mug. “How about a cuddle then, are we sober enough for that?”

“Sure. Let’s go.”