Still feeling fairly querulous, I wandered the city for a while, following the stream downhill through the city. Eventually, the rill terminated in a large, contained pool shaded by wooden scaffolding. The hot tang of molten metals hung in the air, and the sharp ring of pickaxes against stone rebounded off of the stone walls of the city.
Trying to look inconspicuous, I removed the gems and gold from my bag and tossed them into the pool. Let someone else find them. I thought. As I pulled the silver ingots from their resting place, preparing to discard them as well, I remembered my broken knives. A trill of sorrow ran through me as the thought brought me to the memory of Derkeethus and I honoring Jorin's body. I missed my fox friend, even if I mostly allowed his presence to fade into the background. Sorrow mingled with irritation as my thoughts strayed to the Argonian.
With a sigh, I knew exactly what needed to be done with the stolen ingots.
From where I stood, I followed the sound of a clanking smith's hammer to the direction of its source. I climbed the steps steadily, working through the maze of bridges, stairways, and stony paths to the forge. As I ascended, I watched the water that poured down the walls of the canyon Markarth rested in. Everywhere it seemed the Dwemer ruins spewed forth water as if the very mountains were flooded. The rock looked like a sponge being squeezed by giants.
At last I came to the mill, where a surly Orc and her Imperial assistant stood arguing.
"Tacitus, if I've told you once, I've told you time and time again. Never leave your brushes on the forge!" she shouted, throwing a charred piece of wood with a few wires attached to the ground.
"I'm sorry. I just...forgot."
"Forgot! Malacath, save me. Tacitus, we've gone over this every. Single. Week. And yet you still manage to do it. Do I have to shove your useless hands into the forge to teach you the lesson? I promise I will do it!"
"No! I swear I'll never leave things on the forge again," the young man said, holding his hand up in testament.
"Swear on Zenithar or so help me--"
"I swear on Zenithar that I will not leave things on the forge again."
"Good. Now get back to work. What do you want, elf?" she spat, turning to me.
"I need to use your forge. I can pay you in exchange, if you like," I said, recoiling at her tone.
"Fine, fine. I'll take your offering so long as you don't destroy my forge." She leveled a glare at her assistant.
Handing her a small pouch of gold and some of the ore, I set to work. It had been years since I last forged a weapon. My father taught me much about the craft, having been in practice years counting in Valenwood and later in Chorrol. My hands remembered most of what to do, though working silver was something unknown to me, and I stood shaping and reshaping the metal for several hours before I got the hang of molding it.
As the blade took on the shape of a leaf, I melted down the green ore and poured it onto the blade, watching it fill the filigree I painstakingly tapped into the cooling metal. Something in the silver interacted with the viscous liquid and the designs began to glow faintly as I felt something of the power inside me seep through my hands into the weapon. Thinking of Jorin, I named the weapon: Dincelebilom after the silent, silver memory of the fox that echoed in my mind.
Feeling I had at least accomplished something in the haze of the day, I continued to climb throughout the city. With no true direction I meandered up and down, listlessly ignoring the percussive impact of emotions constantly thrumming through the connection. However, my willful ignorance did not stop me from wondering what Derkeethus was doing. Or if he was following me. I dearly hoped he wouldn't turn into some awful lovesick puppy--that he could keep whatever it was we had purely professional.
Such thoughts led me to think of Valindor, the maker of my new bow. I began to consider the contents of his letter. Ever yours. I had made no claim to the young mer when I visited Riften, though I genuinely connected to him from the start. Sitting with him had made me homesick for a home I barely remembered. Follow you in spirit. How curious that he said that even then.
Eventually, I came to a great palace set in the rock. Falls thundered down from solemn faces and strange designs. Several commoners strolled in and out of the huge bronzed doors leading into the interior of the structure.
Carefully, I entered the building, peering about. The guard eyed me warily.
"No lollygaggin'," he groused before crossing his arms and staring resolutely at the commoners entering the palace. "You! You there! Don't think I don't see you. Keep your fingers to yourself, Redguard!" he shouted at a rather innocuous-looking Redguard woman, who only rolled her eyes and went about her business.
Gas lamps lit the long hallway into the palace, and for a moment I stood staring at them, wondering how they worked. After some minutes to trekking steadily downhill, the room opened into a vast cavern constructed from the very bones of the mountain.
More somber visages adorned the walls at strategic points, and strange, bronze constructions ornamented the wide stair that spanned the length of the wall. Voices echoed in a discordant jumble of conversations. The gas lamps were replaced by low-burning braziers that allowed only dim light to penetrate the swath of darkness.
As my eyes adjusted to the low light, I glanced at the top of the stair to see a figure that froze my blood. He was adorned with dark robes, black as night, hemmed with glimmering golden thread. His gait was imperious, slow, deliberate, and at the same time restless. Fear crept through my veins as I recognized the Thalmor Justicar's station from childhood memories. They had been increasingly seen in the village, taking neighbors away for questioning. The neighbors always returned unharmed, but terribly shaken.
The Justicar at the top of the stairs paused mid-stride and looked down at me. Like a deer that has seen a wolf, I stood still as the stone, unmoving. As the Altmer approached, I began to panic. "Halt. Don't move," he said in a voice that was both soft and commanding.
Knowing it was hopeless to flee in a place filled with guards and the Justicar's personal guard, I awaited my fate with trepidation. "Look at me," he said, his voice forcing me to look up from my boots. Narrowing his eyes, he examined my face carefully. "Yes, I recognize your marking," he murmured, running a thumb over the tattoo on my cheek.
"You're part of Irwaen's clan, aren't you. One of our more...troublesome quarries. Whole family of upstarts and Precursor supporters," he grinned devilishly. I flashed back to Constantius' attempt to arrest us and flinched away from the mer's hand. "I have no warrant for your arrest, my dear." he said, gently, "Walk with me."
Quietly we paced the length of the main hall. "I was stationed in her village, you know. Years ago." I said nothing in reply. With a sigh he glared at me out of the corner of his eyes, "You're being awfully rude. Just like your father."
"You knew my father?" I exclaimed, utterly floored by this news.
"Knew is a rather strong word, don't you think. Let's say, I was ordered to recapture him for questioning. Though he has obviously slipped though my fingers. Highly skilled archer and scout, of course."
"Well, you'll never be able to fulfill your duty. He's dead," I said bluntly.
"Dead?" The Justicar looked genuinely shocked. "I see."
The Justicar stopped in his tracks. "Tell me, madam, how much do you know of your father?"
"Gwaihen," I corrected.
"Ondolemar," he parried back. "Now, Gwaihen, answer my question."
"He was a smith of some renown. Cared the world for my mother. Taught me how to wield a bow and about survival in the forests. Was exiled from Valenwood because of people like you," I snarled, pointing an accusing finger at the Altmer. He delicately pushed my finger away with his thumb and forefinger, sneering in disgust.
"So you know nothing. Your father was a fanatic. He worshiped the ground the Precursor--the Prophet as you would know him--walked on. He singlehandedly managed to convince an entire clan of Bosmer to attempt the Wild Hunt. The very fact that you are here during a crisis involving aspects of both Akatosh and Lorkhan is highly disturbing. Auriel preserve us if you have also joined in this farcical 'Civil War'..." He glared at me in suspicion as he spat out each fact with the lethal sharpness of a blade.
"I haven't. I want nothing to do with it," I sputtered, almost tripping over my words.
"Good. You're blood is too pure to be wasted on such doggerel affairs. Mer was not meant to mingle in the affairs of men, you know this, yes?" I nodded. He continued, "There is much you don't know about yourself or your family, I can see that is plain. But there is something in you that could be put to good use for the Dominion should you accept our invitation."
I recoiled in revulsion. Join the very people who hunted my father? Ridiculous. "No, I can't." Then, glowering, "And I won't become some tool for your use."
"Please understand, this is merely an invitation. I will not force you to aid us. And we have no need of you now. Let me know your decision. Whatever it may be, I will not hold it against you." Turning, the Justicar strode away, his guard in tow.
After several yards, he paused. "I had no quarrel with your father. It was nothing personal. Had he unleashed the Wild Hunt, all of your family would have died along with everyone else in the village. Do keep that in mind."
Fearing the Thalmor Justicar changing his mind, I ran from the palace.
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