Illusion – Skyrim Books

Mystery of Talara, Book IV

Gyna never saw the Emperor’s agent Lady Brisienna again, but she kept her promise. Proseccus, a nightblade in the service of the Empire, arrived at Lord Strale’s house in disguise. She was an apt pupil, and within days, he had taught what she needed to know.

“It is a simple charm, not the sort of spell that could turn a raging daedroth into a love-struck puppy,” said Proseccus. “If you do or say anything that would normally anger or offend your target, the power will weaken. It will alter temporarily his perception of you, as spells of the school of illusion do, but his feelings of respect and admiration for you must be supported by means of a charm of a less magickal nature.”

“I understand,” smiled Gyna, thanking her tutor for the two spells of illusion he had taught her. The time had come to use her new-found skill.

The Prostitutes Guildhouse of Camlorn was a great palace in an affluent northern quarter of the city. Prince Sylon could have found his way there blindfolded, or blind drunk as he often was. Tonight, however, he was only lightly inebriated and he resolved to drink no more. Tonight he was in the mood for pleasure. His kind of pleasure.

“Where is my favorite, Grigia?” he demanded of the Guildmistress upon entering.

“She is still healing from your appointment with her last week,” she smiled serenely. “Most of the other women are in with clients as well, but I saved a special treat for you. A new girl. One you will certainly enjoy.”

The Prince was guided to a sumptuously decorated suite of velvet and silk. As he entered, Gyna stepped from behind a screen and cast her spell quickly, with her mind open to belief as Proseccus had instructed. It was hard to tell if it worked at first. The Prince looked at her with a cruel smile and then, like sun breaking through clouds, the cruelty left. She could tell he was hers. He asked her her name.

“I am between names right now,” she teased. “I’ve never made love to a real prince before. I’ve never even been inside a palace. Is yours very … big?”

“It’s not mine yet,” he shrugged. “But someday I’ll be king.”

“It would be wonderful to live in such a place,” Gyna cooed. “A thousand years of history. Everything must be so old and beautiful. The paintings and books and statues and tapestries. Does your family hold onto all their old treasures?”

“Yes, hoarded away with a lot of boring old junk in the archive rooms in the vaults. Please, may I see you naked now?”

“First a little conversation, though you may feel free to disrobe whenever you like,” said Gyna. “I had heard there was an archive room, but it’s quite hidden away.”

“There’s a false wall behind the family crypt,” said the Prince, gripping her wrist and pulling her towards him for a kiss. Something in his eyes had changed.

“Your Highness, you’re hurting my arm,” Gyna cried.

“Enough talk, you bewitching whore,” he snarled. Holding back a sharp jab of fear, Gyna let her mind cool and perceptions whirl. As his angry mouth touched her lips, she cast the second spell she had learned her illusionist mentor.

The Prince felt his flesh turn to stone. He remained frozen, watching Gyna pull together her clothing and leave the room. The paralysis would only last for a few more minutes, but it was all the time she needed.

The Guildmistress had already left with all her girls, just as Gyna and Lord Strale had told her to. They would tell her when it was safe to return. She had not even accepted any gold for her part in the trap. She said it was enough that her girls would not be tortured anymore by that most perverse and cruel Prince.

“What a terrible boy,” thought Gyna as she raised the hood on her cloak and raced through the streets toward Lord Strale’s house. “It is good that he will never be king.”

The following morning, the King and Queen of Camlorn held their daily audience with various nobles and diplomats, a sparse gathering. The throne room was largely empty. It was a terribly dull way to begin the day. In between petitions, they yawned regally.

“What has happened to all the interesting people?” the Queen murmured. “Where’s our precious boy?”

“I’ve heard he was raging through the north quarter in search of some harlot who robbed him,” the King chuckled fondly. “What a fine lad.”

“And what of the Royal Battlemage?”

“I’ve sent him to take care of a delicate matter,” the King knit his brow. “But that was nearly a week ago, and I haven’t heard one word from him. It’s somewhat troubling.”

“Indeed it is, Lord Eryl should not be gone so long,” the Queen frowned. “What if a rogue sorcerer came and threatened us? Husband, don’t laugh at me, that is why all the royal houses of High Rock keep their mage retainers close to their side. To protect their court from evil enchantments, like the one that our poor Emperor suffered so recently.”

“At the hand of his own battlemage,” chuckled the King

“Lord Eryl would never betray you like that, and you well know it. He has been in your employ since you were Duke of Oloine. To even make that comparison between he and Jagar Tharn, really,” the Queen waved her hands dismissively. “It is that sort of lack of trust that is ruining kingdoms all over Tamriel. Now, Lord Strale tells me -”

“There’s another man that’s gone missing,” mused the King.

“The ambassador?” the Queen shook her head. “No, he’s here. He was desirous to visit the crypts and pay homage to your noble ancestors, so I directed him there. I can’t think what’s keeping him so long. He must be more pious than I thought.”

She was surprised to see the King rise up, alarmed. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Before she had a chance to reply, the subject of their conversation was coming through the open door to the throne room. At on his arm was a beautiful fair-haired woman in a stately gown of scarlet and gold, worthy of the highest nobility. The queen followed her startled husband’s gaze, and was likewise amazed.

“I had heard he was taken with one of the harlots from the Flower Festival, not a lady,” she whispered. “Why, she looks remarkably like your daughter, the Lady Jyllia.”

“That she does,” the King gasped. “Or her cousin, the Princess Talara.”

The nobles in the room also whispered amongst themselves. Though few had been at court twenty years ago when the Princess had disappeared, presumed murdered like the rest of the royal family, there were still a few elder statesmen who remembered. It was not only on throne that the word “Talara” passed through the air like an enchantment.

“Lord Strale, will you introduce us to your lady?” the Queen asked with a polite smile.

“In a moment, your highness, but I’m afraid I must first discuss pressing matters,” Lord Strale replied with a bow. “Might I request a private audience?”

The King looked at the Imperial ambassador, trying to read into the man’s expression. With a wave of his hand, he dismissed the assembled and had the doors shut behind them. No one remained in the audience room but the King, the Queen, the ambassador, a dozen royal guards, and the mysterious woman.

The ambassador pulled from his pocket a sheaf of old yellowed parchment. “Your Highness, when you ascended the throne after your brother and his family were murdered, anything that seemed important, deeds and wills, were of course kept with the clerks and ministers. His entire incidental, unimportant personal correspondence was sent to archive which is standard protocol. This letter was among them.”

“What is this all about, sir?” the King boomed. “What does it say?”

“Nothing about you, your majesty. In truth, at the time of your majesty’s ascension, no one reading it could have understood its significance. It was a letter to the Emperor the late king your brother was penning at the time of his assassination, concerning a thief who had once been a mage-priest at the Temple of Sethiete here in Camlorn. His name was Jagar Tharn.”

“Jagar Tharn?” the Queen laughed nervously. “Why, we were just talking about him.”

“Tharn had stolen many books of powerful and forgotten spells, and lore about such artifacts as the Staff of Chaos, where it was hidden and how it could be used. News travels slowly to westernmost High Rock, and by the time the King your brother had heard that the Emperor’s new battlemage was a man named Jagar Tharn, many years had passed. The king had been writing a letter to warn the Emperor of the treachery of his Imperial Battlemage, but it was never completed.” Lord Strale held up the letter. “It is dated on the day of his assassination in the year 385. Four years before Jagar Tharn betrayed his master, and began the ten years of tyranny of the Imperial Simulacrum.”

“This is all very interesting,” the King barked. “But what has it to do with me?”

“The late King’s assassination is now a matter of Imperial concern. And I have a confession from your Royal Battlemage Lord Eryl.”

The King’s face lost all color: “You miserable worm, no man may threaten me. Neither you, nor that whore, nor that letter will ever see the light of day again. Guards!”

The royal guards unsheathed their blades and pressed forward. As they did so, there was a sudden shimmering of light and the room was filled with Imperial nightblades, led by Proseccus. They had been there for hours, lurking invisibly in the shadows.

“In the name of His Imperial Majesty, Uriel Septim VII, I arrest you,” said Strale.

The doors were opened, and the King and Queen were led out, heads bowed. Gyna told Proseccus where he would most likely find their son, Prince Sylon. The courtiers and nobles who had been in the audience chamber stared at the strange, solemn procession of their King and Queen to their own royal prison. No one said a word.

When at last a voice was heard, it startled all. The Lady Jyllia had arrived at court. “What is happening? Who dares to usurp the authority of the King and Queen?”

Lord Strale turned to Proseccus: “We would speak with the Lady Jyllia alone. You know what needs to be done.”

Proseccus nodded and had the doors to the throne room closed once again. The courtiers pressed against the wood, straining to hear everything. Though they could not say it, they wanted an explanation almost as much as her Ladyship did.

Incident in Necrom

“The situation simply is this,” said Phlaxith, his face as chiseled and resolute as any statue. “Everyone knows that the cemetery west of the city is haunted by some malevolent beings, and has been for many years now. The people have come to accept it. They bury their dead by daylight, and are away before Masser and Secunda have risen and the evil comes forth. The only victims to fall prey to the devils within are the very stupid and the outsiders.”

“It sounds like a natural solution to filtering out the undesirables then,” laughed Nitrah, a tall, middle-aged woman with cold eyes and thin lips. “Where is the gold in saving them?”

“From the Temple. They’re re-opening a new monastery near the cemetery, and they need the land cleansed of evil. They’re offering a fortune, so I accepted the assignment with the caveat that I could assemble my own team to split the reward. That’s why I’ve sought you each out. From what I’ve heard, you, Nitrah, are the best bladesman in Morrowind.” Nitrah smiled her unpleasant best.

“And you, Osmic, are a renowned burglar, though never once imprisoned.” The bald-pated young man stammered as if to refute the charges, before grinning back, “I’ll get you in where you need to go. But then it’s up to you to do what you need to do. I’m no combatter.”

“Anything Nitrah and I can’t handle, I’m sure Massitha will prove her mettle,” Phlaxith said, turning to the fourth member of the party. “She comes on very good references as a sorceress of great power and skill.”
Massitha was the picture of innocence, round-faced and wide-eyed. Nitrah and Osmic looked at her uncertainly, particularly watching her fearful expressions as Phlaxith described the nature of the creatures haunting the cemetery. It was obvious she had never faced any adversary other than man and mer before. If she survived, they thought to themselves, it would be very surprising.

As the foursome trudged toward the graveyard at dusk, they took the opportunity to quiz their new teammate.
“Vampires are filthy creatures,” said Nitrah. “Disease-ridden, you know. They say off to the west, they’ll indiscriminately pass on their curse together with a number of other afflictions. They don’t do that here so much, but still you don’t want to leave their wounds untreated. I take it you know something of the spells of Restoration if one of us gets bit?”

“I know a little, but I’m no Healer,” said Massitha meekly. “More of a Battlemage?” asked Osmic. “I can do a little damage if I’m really close, but I’m not very good at that either. I’m more of an illusionist, technically.”

Nitrah and Osmic looked at one another with naked concern as they reached the gates of the graveyard. There were moving shadows, stray specters among the wrack and ruins, crumbled paths stacked on top of crumbled paths. It wasn’t a maze of a place; it could have been any dilapidated graveyard but even without looking at the tombstones, it did have one very noticeable feature. Filling the horizon was the mausoleum of a minor Cyrodilic official from the 2nd Era, slightly exotic but still harmonizing with the Dunmer graves in a complimentary style called decay.

“It’s a surprisingly useful School,” whispered Massitha defensively. “You see, it’s all concerned with magicka’s ability to alter the perception of objects without changing their physical compositions. Removing sensual data, for example, to cast darkness or remove sound or smell from the air. It can help by–”

A red-haired vampire woman leapt out of the shadows in front of them, knocking Phlaxith on his back. Nitrah quickly unsheathed her sword, but Massitha was faster. With a wave of her hand, the creature stopped, frozen, her jaws scant inches from Phlaxith’s throat. Phlaxith pulled out his own blade and finished her off. “That’s illusion?” asked Osmic. “Certainly,” smiled Massitha. “Nothing changed in the vampire’s form, except its ability to move. Like I said, it’s a very useful School.”

The four climbed up over the paths to the front gateway to the crypt. Osmic snapped the lock and disassembled the poison trap. The sorceress cast a wave of light down the dust-choked corridors, banishing the shadows and drawing the inhabitants out. Almost immediately they were set on by a pair of vampires, howling and screaming in a frenzy of bloodlust.

The battle was joined, so no sooner were the first two vampires felled than their reinforcements attacked. They were mighty warriors of uncanny strength and endurance, but Massitha’s paralysis spell and the weaponry of Phlaxith and Nitrah clove through their ranks. Even Osmic aided the battle.

“They’re crazy,” gasped Massitha when the fight finally ended and she could catch her breath. “Quarra, the most savage of the vampire bloodlines,” said Phlaxith. “We have to find and exterminate each and every one.” Delving into the crypts, the group hounded out more of the creatures. Though they varied in appearance, each seemed to rely on their strength and claws for attacking, and subtlety did not seem to be the style of any. When the entire mausoleum had been searched and every creature within destroyed, the four finally made their way to the surface. It was only an hour until sunrise.

There was no frenzied scream or howl. Nothing rushed forward towards them. The final attack when it happened was so unlike the others that the questors were taken utterly by surprise. The ancient creature waited until the four were almost out of the cemetery, talking amiably, making plans for spending their share of the reward. He judged carefully who would be the greatest threat, and then launched himself at the sorceress. Had Phlaxith not turned his attention back from the gate, she would have been ripped to shreds before she had a chance to scream.

The vampire knocked Massitha across a stone, its claws raking across her back, but stopped its assault in order to block a blow from Phlaxith’s sword. It accomplished this maneuver in its own brutal way, by tearing the warrior’s arm from its socket. Osmic and Nitrah set on it, but they found themselves in a losing battle. Only when Massitha had pulled herself back up from behind the pile of rocks, weak and bleeding, that the fight turned. She cast a magickal ball of flame at the creature, which so enraged it that it turned back to her. Nitrah saw her opening and took it, beheading the vampire with a stroke of her sword. “So you do know some spells of destruction, like you said,” said Nitrah. “And a few spells of healing too,” she said weakly. “But I can’t save Phlaxith.”

The warrior died in the bloodied dust before them. The three were quiet as they traveled across the dawn-lit countryside back toward Necrom. Massitha felt the throb of pain on her back intensify as they walked and then a gradual numbness like ice spread through her body. “I need to go to a healer and see if I’ve been diseased,” she said as they reached the city. “Meet us at the Moth and Fire tomorrow morning,” said Nitrah. “We’ll go to the Temple and get our reward and split it there.”

Three hours later, Osmic and Nitrah sat in their room at the tavern, happily counting and recounting the gold marks. Split three ways, it was a very comfortable sum. “What if the healers can’t do anything for Massitha?” smiled Osmic dreamily. “Some diseases can be insidious.”

“Did you hear something in the hall?” asked Nitrah quickly, but when she looked, there was no one there. She returned, shutting the door behind her. “I’m sure Massitha will survive if she went straight to the healer. But we could leave tonight with the gold.”

“Let’s have one last drink to our poor sorceress,” said Osmic, leading Nitrah out of the room toward the stairs down.

Nitrah laughed. “Those spells of illusion won’t help her track us down, as useful as she keeps saying they are. Paralysis, light, silence — not so good when you don’t know where to look.” They closed the door behind them.
“Invisibility is another spell of illusion,” said Massitha’s disembodied voice. The gold on the table rose in the air and vanished from sight as she slipped it into her purse. The door again opened and closed, and all was silent until Osmic and Nitrah returned a few minutes later.

Before the Ages of Man

Timeline Series – Vol 1

Before man came to rule Tamriel, and before the chronicles of the historians recorded the affairs of the rulers of Tamriel, the events of our world are known only through myths and legends, and through the divinely inspired teachings of the Nine Divines.

For convenience, historians divide the distant ages of prehistory into two broad periods of time — the Dawn Era, and the Merethic Era.

The Dawn Era

The Dawn Era is that period before the beginning of mortal time, when the feats of the gods take place. The Dawn Era ends with the exodus of the gods and magic from the World at the founding of the Adamantine Tower.

The term ‘Merethic’ comes from the Nordic, literally, “Era of the Elves.” The Merethic Era is the prehistoric time after the exodus of the gods and magic from the World at the founding of the Adamantine Tower and before the arrival of Ysgramor the Nord in Tamriel.

The following are the most notable events of the Dawn Era, presented roughly in sequence as it must be understaoo [sic] by creatures of time such as ourselves.

The Cosmos formed from the Aurbis (chaos, or totality) by Anu and Padomay. Akatosh (Auriel) formed and Time began. The Gods (et’Ada) formed. Lorkhan convinced — or tricked — the Gods into creating the mortal plane, Nirn. The mortal plane was at this point highly magical and dangerous. As the Gods walked, the physical make-up of the mortal plane and even the timeless continuity of existence itself became unstable.

When Magic (Magnus), architect of the plans for the mortal world, decided to terminate the project, the Gods convened at the Adamantine Tower, Direnni Tower, the oldest known structure in Tamriel and decided what to do. Most left when Magic did. Others sacrificed themselves into other forms so that they might stay (the Ehlnofey). Lorkhan was condemned by the Gods to exile in the mortal realms, and his heart was torn out and cast from the Tower. Where it landed, a Volcano formed. With Magic (in the Mythic Sense) gone, the Cosmos stabilized. Elven history, finally linear, began (ME2500).

The Merethic Era

The Merethic Era was figured by early Nord scholars as a series of years numbered in reverse order backward from the their [sic] ‘beginning of time’ — the founding of the Camoran Dynasty, recorded as Year Zero of the First Era. The prehistoric events of the Merethic Era are listed here with their traditional Nordic Merethic dates. The earliest Merethic date cited by King Harald’s scholars was ME2500 — the Nordic reckoning of the first year of time. As such, the Merethic Era extends from ME2500 in the distant past to ME1 — the year before the founding of the Camoran Dysnasty [sic] and the establishment of the White Gold Tower as an indepenent [sic] city-state.

According to King Harald’s bards, ME2500 was the date of construction of the Adamantine Tower on Balfiera Island in High Rock, the oldest known structure of Tamriel. (This corresponds roughly to the earliest historical dates given in various unpublished Elvish chronicles.)

During the early Merethic Era, the aboriginal beastpeoples of Tamriel — the ancestors of the Khajiit, Argonian, Orcish and other beastfolk — lived in preliterate communities throughout Tamriel.

In the Middle Merethic Era, the Aldmeri (mortals of Elven origin) refugees left their doomed and now-lost continent of Aldmeris (also known as ‘Old Ehlnofey’) and settled in southwestern Tamriel. The first colonies were distributed at wide intervals on islands along the entire coast of Tamriel. Later inland settlements were founded primarily in fertile lowlands in southwest and central Tamriel. Wherever the beastfolk encountered the Elves, the sophisticated, literate, technologically advanced Aldmeri cultures displaced the primitive beastfolk into the jungles, marshes, mountains, and wastelands. The Adamantine Tower was rediscovered and captured by the Direnni, a prominent and powerful Aldmeri clan. The Crystal Tower was built on Summerset Isle and, later, White Gold Tower in Cyrodiil.

During the Middle Merethic Era, Aldmeri explorers mapped the coasts of Vvardenfel [sic], building the First Era High Elven wizard towers at Ald Redaynia, Bal Fell, Tel Aruhn, and Tel Mora in Morrowind. It was also during this period that Ayleid, [Wild Elven] settlements flourished in the jungles surrounding White Gold Tower (present day Cyrodiil). Wild Elves, also known as the Heartland High Elves, preserved the Dawn Era magics and language of the Ehlnofey. Ostensibly a tribute-land to the High King of Alinor, the Heartland’s long lines of communication from the Summerset Isles’ sovereignty effectively isolated Cyrodil [sic] from the High Kings at Crystal Tower.

The Late Middle Merethic Era is the period of the High Velothi Culture. The Chimer, ancestors of the modern Dunmer, or Dark Elves, were dynamic, ambitious, long-lived Elven clans devoted to fundamentalist ancestor worship. The Chimer clans followed the Prophet Veloth out of the ancestral Elven homelands in the southwest to settle in the lands now known as Morrowind. Despising the secular culture and profane practices of the Dwemer, the Chimer also coveted the lands and resources of the Dwemer, and for centuries provoked them with minor raids and territorial disputes. The Dwemer (Dwarves), free-thinking, reclusive Elven clans devoted to the secrets of science, engineering, and alchemy, established underground cities and communities in the mountain range (later the Velothi Mountains) separating modern Skyrim and Morrowind.

The Late Merethic Era marks the precipitous decline of Velothi culture. Some Velothi settled in villages near declining and abandoned ancient Velothi towers. During this period, Velothi high culture disappeared on Vvardenfell Island. The earliest Dwemer Freehold colonies date from this period. Degenerate Velothi devolved into tribal cultures which, in time, evolved into the modern Great Houses of Morrowind, or persisted as the barbarian Ashlanders tribes. The only surviving traces of this tribal culture are scattered Velothi towers and Ashlander nomads on Vvardenfell Island. The original First Era High Elven wizard towers along the coasts of Tamriel were also abandoned about this time.

It was in the Late Merethic Era that the pre-literate humans, the so-called “Nedic Peoples”, [sic] from the continent of Atmora (also ‘Altmora’ or ‘the Elder Wood’ in Aldmeris) migrated and settleed [sic] in northern Tamriel. The Nord culture hero Ysgramor, leader of a great colonizing fleet to Tamriel, is credited with developing a runic transcription of Nord speech based on Elvish principles, and so Ysgramor is considered the first human historian. Ysgramor’s fleet landed at Hsaarik Head at the extreme northern tip of Skyrim’s Broken Cape. The Nords built there the legendary city of Saarthal. The Elves drove the Men away during the Night of Tears, but Ysgramor soon returned with his Five Hundred Companions.

Also during the Late Merethic Era the legendary immortal hero, warrior, sorceror [sic], and king variously known as Pelinal Whitestrake, Harrald Hairy Breeks, Ysmir, Hans the Fox, etc., wandered Tamriel, gathering armies, conquering lands, ruling, then abandoning his kingdoms to wander again.

2920, vol 02 – Sun’s Dawn

3 Sun’s Dawn, 2920
The Isle of Artaeum, Summerset

Sotha Sil watched the initiates float one by one up to the oassom tree, taking a fruit or a flower from its high branches before dropping back to the ground with varying degrees of grace. He took a moment while nodding his head in approval to admire the day. The whitewashed statue of Syrabane, which the great mage was said to have posed for in ancient days, stood at the precipice of the cliff overlooking the bay. Pale purple proscato flowers waved to and fro in the gentle breeze. Beyond, ocean, and the misty border between Artaeum and the main island of Summurset.

“By and large, acceptable,” he proclaimed as the last student dropped her fruit in his hand. With a wave of his hand, the fruit and flowers were back in the tree. With another wave, the students had formed into position in a semicircle around the sorcerer. He pulled a small fibrous ball, about a foot in diameter from his white robes.

“What is this?”

The students understood this test. It asked them to cast a spell of identification on the mysterious object. Each initiate closed his or her eyes and imagined the ball in the realm of the universal Truth. Its energy had a unique resonance as all physical and spiritual matter does, a negative aspect, a duplicate version, relative paths, true meaning, a song in the cosmos, a texture in the fabric of space, a facet of being that has always existed and always will exist.

“A ball,” said a young Nord named Welleg, which brought giggles from some of the younger initiates, but a frown from most, including Sotha Sil.

“If you must be stupid, at least be amusing,” growled the sorcerer, and then looked at a young, dark-haired Altmer lass who looked confused. “Lilatha, do you know?”

“It’s grom,” said Lilatha, uncertainly. “What the dreugh meff after they’ve k-k-kr-.krevinasim”

“Karvinasim, but very good, nonetheless,” said Sotha Sil. “Now, tell me, what does that mean?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Lilatha. The rest of the students also shook their heads.

“There are layers to understanding all things,” said Sotha Sil. “The common man looks at an object and fits it into a place in his way of thinking. Those skilled in the Old Ways, in the way of the Psijic, in Mysticism, can see an object and identify it by its proper role. But one more layer is needed to be peeled back to achieve understanding. You must identify the object by its role and its truth and interpret that meaning. In this case, this ball is indeed grom, which is a substance created by the dreugh, an underwater race in the north and western parts of the continent. For one year of their life, they undergo karvinasim when they walk upon the land. Following that, they return to the water and meff, or devour the skin and organs they needed for land-dwelling. Then they vomit it up into little balls like this. Grom. Dreugh vomit.”

The students looked at the ball a little queasily. Sotha Sil always loved this lesson.

4 Sun’s Dawn, 2920
The Imperial City, Cyrodiil

“Spies,” muttered the Emperor, sitting in his bath, staring at a lump on his foot. “All around me, traitors and spies.”

His mistress Rijja washed his back, her legs wrapped around his waist. She knew after all these many years when to be sensual and when to be sexual. When he was in a mood like this, it was best to be calmly, soothingly, seductively sensual. And not to say a word unless he asked her a direct question.

Which he did: “What do you think when a fellow steps on his Imperial Majesty’s foot and says ‘I’m sorry, Your Imperial Majesty’? Don’t you think ‘Pardon me, Your Imperial Majesty’ is more appropriate? ‘I’m sorry,’ well that almost sounds like the bastard Argonian was sorry I am his Imperial Majesty. That he hopes we lose the war with Morrowind, that’s what it sounds like.”

“What would make you feel better?” asked Rijja. “Would you like him flogged? He is only, as you say, the Battlechief of Soulrest. It would teach him to mind where he’s stepping.”

“My father would have flogged him. My grandfather would have had him killed,” the Emperor grumbled. “But I don’t mind if they all step on my feet, provided they respect me. And don’t plot against me.”

“You must trust someone.”

“Only you,” smiled the Emperor, turning slightly to give Rijja a kiss. “And my son Juilek, I suppose, though I wish he were a little more cautious.”

“And your council, and the Potentate?” asked Rijja.

“A pack of spies and a snake,” laughed the Emperor, kissing his mistress again. As they began to make love, he whispered, “As long as you’re true, I can handle the world.”

13 Sun’s Dawn, 2920
Mournhold, Morrowind

Turala stood at the black, bejeweled city gates. A wind howled around her, but she felt nothing.

The Duke had been furious upon hearing his favorite mistress was pregnant and cast her from his sight. She tried again and again to see him, but his guards turned her away. Finally, she returned to her family and told them the truth. If only she had lied and told them she did not know who the father was. A soldier, a wandering adventurer, anyone. But she told them that the father was the Duke, a member of the House Indoril. And they did what she knew they would have to do, as proud members of the House Redoran.

Upon her hand was burned the sign of Expulsion her weeping father had branded on her. But the Duke’s cruelty hurt her far more. She looked out the gate and into the wide winter plains. Twisted, sleeping trees and skies without birds. No one in Morrowind would take her in now. She must go far away.

With slow, sad steps, she began her journey.

16 Sun’s Dawn, 2920
Senchal, Anequina (modern day Elsweyr)

“What troubles you?” asked Queen Hasaama, noticing her husband’s sour mood. At the end of most Lovers’ Days he was in an excellent mood, dancing in the ballroom with all the guests, but tonight he retired early. When she found him, he was curled in the bed, frowning.

“That blasted bard’s tale about Polydor and Eloisa put me in a rotten state,” he growled. “Why did he have to be so depressing?”

“But isn’t that the truth of the tale, my dear? Weren’t they doomed because of the cruel nature of the world?”

“It doesn’t matter what the truth is, he did a rotten job of telling a rotten tale, and I’m not going to let him do it anymore,” King Dro’Zel sprang from the bed. His eyes were rheumy with tears. “Where did they say he was from again?”

“I believe Gilverdale in easternmost Valenwood,” said the Queen, shaken. “My husband, what are you going to do?”

Dro’Zel was out of the room in a single spring, bounding up the stairs to his tower. If Queen Hasaama knew what her husband was going to do, she did not try to stop him. He had been erratic of late, prone to fits and even occasional seizures. But she never suspected the depths of his madness, and his loathing for the bard and his tale of the wickedness and perversity found in mortal man.

19 Sun’s Dawn, 2920
Gilverdale, Valenwood

“Listen to me again,” said the old carpenter. “If cell three holds worthless brass, then cell two holds the gold key. If cell one holds the gold key, then cell three hold worthless brass. If cell two holds worthless brass, then cell one holds the gold key.”

“I understand,” said the lady. “You told me. And so cell one holds the gold key, right?”

“No,” said the carpenter. “Let me start from the top.”

“Mama?” said the little boy, pulling on his mother’s sleeve.

“Just one moment, dear, mother’s talking,” she said, concentrating on the riddle. “You said ‘cell three holds the golden key if cell two holds worthless brass,’ right?”

“No,” said the carpenter patiently. “Cell three holds worthless brass, if cell two –”

“Mama!” cried the boy. His mother finally looked.

A bright red mist was pouring over the town in a wave, engulfing building after building in its wake. Striding before was a red-skinned giant. The Daedra Molag Bal. He was smiling.

29 Sun’s Dawn, 2920
Gilverdale, Valenwood

Almalexia stopped her steed in the vast moor of mud to let him drink from the river. He refused to, even seemed repelled by the water. It struck her as odd: they had been making excellent time from Mournhold, and surely he must be thirsty. She dismounted and joined her retinue.

“Where are we now?” she asked.

One of her ladies pulled out a map. “I thought we were approaching a town called Gilverdale.”

Almalexia closed her eyes and opened them again quickly. The vision was too much to bear. As her followers watched, she picked up a piece of brick and a fragment of bone, and clutched them to her heart.

“We must continue on to Artaeum,” she said quietly.

The Year continues in First Seed.