Chapter VII: Gothway Garden

The tongue his brother spoke in was garbled and senseless. He tangled one finger in his long, braided beard, trying to make sense of the foreign speech. When he opened his mouth to speak, his answer was not his own—muffled into that same, incomprehensible language. They were talking of something important—that much he could remember. The Blade looked at his hands, ringed in so many pieces of gold and silver and jade that for a moment he questioned how he had ever crafted so many weapons. His skin was dark. His nails long and perfected into gold-trimmed spines. There came a tone, pure and simple, and he remembered fully. The dream was gone. He was standing there, in the heart of Red Mountain.

The workshop came alive with the sounds of blaze-wealds, shearing cutlers, and harmonic manipulors. An aurignomonic chimed in his ear—an apprentice on the lower level required the aid of a senior architect. The ring of vestige couplers above resounded through the volcanic cavern, steam screaming from them before being released into the pyroclast above.

Lord Kagrenac was far below, consorting with the Heart. In one hand he held a hammer, built of hollow brass. With it he struck the Heart. It answered with a singular, echoing beat. In his other hand, he held a knife—a knife of crystal and wiry Daedra-gold. With it, he cut away the sound of the Heart, collecting it in a receptacle at his feet. He’d been harvesting for days on end, searching for the exact tone they needed—the last before the Great Work was complete.

“And what will that make us, I ask you?,” Ntchuszar continued. The Blade could understand his companion completely now. “The Chief Architect says that we will be gods—I say that we will be gods by proxy only.”

He turned to Ntchuzar, anger welling in him once again. They’d had this conversation a dozen times in the last week, and every time his brother’s piety never failed to draw his ire. “What difference will divinity make when the heavens are reified? When the tone strikes and the hammer falls silent, there will be no more word for god except oudenopoeia. What concerns you is of no concern—it is an un-drop in an ocean of blood. A pinprick of shadow in a blaze of light. A flea of naught on a wolf of—“

“I understand brother,” Ntchuzar placed a hand on his shoulder, quietting him in that infuriating way he always could. “I’m sorry. Much hinges on the days to follow. The Chimer are at our door—my mind is… much occupied, despite our confinement in these unchanging halls.”

The Blade turned back to the golem, already willing himself to relax. The coming conflict made them all tense, he knew. He and his brother were standing in their usual place, elevated on a catwalk before the gargantuan brass visage. Ntchuzar is only worried for our people, same as you, he chastised himself. There was no reason to castigate him for urging caution. The Great Work was nearly complete. The world would change soon. Perhaps the Dwemer, and their ideas of it, would need to change too.

The golem’s lips parted—an illusion of breath. The magma below fueled its tonal architecture, transcribing the heat into Music. It cooled itself with the occasional vent of steam. It could not yet draw true breath—not until the inhalatory bellows were installed and the final tone harmonized.

“No, don’t apologize, my friend. You’re right. Perhaps more circumspection will serve us well in the coming days.” He admitted, embarrassed by his sudden outburst. He'd always been quick to anger. The siege did little to help his temper.

Ncthuzar clapped him on the shoulder. “Thank you, Yagrum. And do not worry—I know you mean well.”

***

The world was warm again.

Cardinals sang outside his window, flitting between the snow laden branches of a fir. The castaway woke gently, groaning as dull pain thrummed through his entire being. His throat was still dry—though not as dry as it had been in the hold.

He could smell the scent of honey. And juniper.

There was a bone-deep ache in his side, though it was nothing like the pain it had brought him before. He was bandaged across the chest, a fresh burn peaking its way from beneath the pristine white linen. Another bandage covered his eye, wrapped over the place where he’d cauterized the wound on his temple.

He remembered the cold for a moment and grew frantic. He checked his fingers and toes, before lifting the sheets. The sight of his manhood intact was assurance enough. No frostbite. All was as he’d last seen it. A little better off, actually, considering his ordeal.

He grimaced, remembering what he'd done to make it out alive. He pushed the thoughts from his mind. The mission came first. He could regret later. He wondered how long he must have been asleep for—and more importantly, who carried him to this place.

Were they friend or foe? Where was he now? Did anyone know he was still alive? Where was—

his sword.

The Blade erupted from his bed, searching frantically for his weapon. He clutched his side as he rose, wincing as a renewed surge of pain travelled through him.

“Careful now,” came a voice from the foot of his bed. “You’ll crush the maggots.”

The Blade turned sharply in its direction.

A burst of uncanny laughter gave away its position. ”I jest, master elf! I only jest! Calm yourself, now. You are in a house of healing—there is no need to feel troubled.” The voice belonged to an elderly man, clad in old grey robes. The amulet about his neck, a carved sphere of jasper set in a halo of jagged wood, marked him as a priest of Arkay. His wispy white hair covered all but a shiny patch of scalp, reflecting the cold morning light. His face was serene, plump and red in the way it often was for men fond of drink. As he spoke, the Blade caught sight of his yellowed teeth. Black around the edges, like rotting wood.

”My sword, where is it?” The Blade demanded.

”You have no need for weapons in this place, my child. Do not worry about such things—”

”Where am I?” He would offer no chance for the priest to interrogate him—nor would he allow anyone to keep him from his sword.

The priest quickly hid his annoyance, if he showed any at all. “You find yourself in the village of Gothway Garden, on the bounds of Daggerfall Kingdom. This is a temple of Arkay, master elf—where we serve both the living and the dead. I must admit, I was convinced for some time that you were among the latter. It was he who found you, Sir Rodig, that stayed my embalmer’s hand. He swore you were still breathing, though I had my doubts. Yet here you are—live as a mourner at sunrise."

The Blade ignored all except the name of the man who found him. “Sir Rodig? He’s a knight of the crown?” It would do no good to be discovered so quickly, and by a station so conspicuous.

”Ah yes, and a noble one indeed. He found you near that place—that den. Demanded that none know of your rescue, save we servants of the temple." The priest's tone turned investigative. Smooth, in a way the Blade found disquietting. "Whatever were you doing out there, master elf? It is a place for brigands and bandits—I hope we can trust you were not a friend among them.”

The Blade’s answer was a glare, as if to say ’What do you think?’

The old man burst again into too-sudden laughter. “Again! I jest, master elf! I jest. You must learn to relax—you will recover more quickly that way. Do not worry yourself with weapons and knights and dead kings—you are among friends in this place, and we will see to it that you are recovered fully before we send you on your way.”

”Let the maggots do their work,” the Blade answered coldly. He'd said nothing of dead kings.

”Worms have their uses, my child! Worms have their uses.” The priest nodded, chuckling with approval at the retort. “But enough of this. Where are my manners? I am Brother Perionard, priest of Arkay. And now that you know my name, will you do me the courtesy of offering yours?”

The Blade had no intention of doing so. He remained silent.

It took some time for Perionard to accept that no answer would come.

”I see… well, in that case, allow me to fetch Sir Rodig. He ordered that he be informed upon the moment of your waking, and it has been several moments since then. Stay put now, I will return posthaste.” The elderly man stood with surprising ease, stretching his back until the segments of his spine popped in rapid succession. He retrieved a cane from the threshold, whistling a discordant tune as he took his leave.

The Blade waited until he was gone before easing back into bed.

The room was sparse, save for his bed and a table beside it. There was a tiny roaring hearth. A window to the pale world beyond. He glimpsed the barest hint of red, darting between the branches of a leafless tree. Light filtered into the tiny room from the window, pale and cold light—the sort that barely warms in the dead of winter.

His stomach growled. His hand, by instinct, made to soothe it. His fingers brushed a crest of protruding ribs. They were much more conspicuous than last he remembered. The other hand went to his chin. A beard had grown to cover it, already nearly a knuckle deep.

The scent of juniper incense carried his nose away from his thoughts, and then his gaze. On the table beside his bed was a bowl of something steaming, a cup set beside it. He took the bowl to his lips, burning himself once before he was patient enough to let its contents cool. His reward was the immaculate taste of a creamy root broth. Chunks of white cuttlefish gave it a chewy, but not unpleasant texture. Combined with the herbs and faint tang of salt—and probably the fact that he must have been asleep for days—it was altogether the best thing he’d ever tasted. The cup was filled with warm tea, pine needles balanced against the rim, bleeding their fragrant, tawny colors into the drink. He took a gulp, grateful for his Dunmeri constitution. Fire did not burn so hot for him...

He sat back with a sigh when he'd finished. Even without magicka, he felt a little less empty now. He relaxed, letting the warmth of the bed and the food in his stomach ease his exhausted bones.

The strange dream still lingered. The words turned to nonsense when he woke, but the sights were permanent, burnt into his mind’s eye. He could still see the golem… that terrifying, all-encompassing visage. The bridge above lava. The braided beard of the elf he’d been speaking to. He’d had such dreams ever since he was a child. Ever since Vvardenfell. Most of the time, they were nonsense. This one, though. Something was different about it, even if he could not decide what it was.

Some time later, he could hear the sound of heavy boots approaching.

”I told you to inform me as soon as he was awake.” The voice that spoke was deep, angry, with a strange boyish quality to it. A heartbeat later and the Blade met its owner.

Sir Rodig of Camlorn was a mountain of a man who had to stoop to enter the room. He bore a full harness of steel plate. An open-faced helm was tucked under his arm. Under the other, a familiar wooden scabbard. “Dunmer,” he said brusquely as he entered. “Mind explaining how you came to that hold? King Gothryd does not take kindly to brigandry i his lands—and neither do I.”

Perionard moved to stand between the two of them. “My lord, against my better judgement, I do not believe this man was with the outlaws that sealed themselves—”

”Begone, priest. I've no further need of you.” Rodig did not so much as glance at Perionard as he spoke. His eyes were locked firmly on the Blades’.

Opening his mouth to protest, Perionard thought better of it, and took his leave once more. When they could no longer hear the click of his cane against stone, Rodig relaxed.

”Dark days there are in Daggerfall, brother, when we cannot trust the likes of Arkay's attendants.” The knight placed his helmet on the mantle. “You have no doubt been told of me. That one is too loose-lipped. Too odd a fellow for a village like the Garden. I am Rodig, liegelord of Gothway.” The Blade was already helping himself out of bed as Rodig drew close. He knew he’d have no chance against a man his size. Not one in full plate. Not in his condition. Not without magicka. They were standing shoulder to shoulder, as strangers passing one another on a busy street, when the knight’s voice dropped conspiratorally low. “Long live the Empire,” he whispered, before drawing back to his full height. "And those who guard it." He offered the Blade his sword, before stepping away, awaiting his answer.

Dark days indeed, when you cannot trust a knight of the realm. ”You know the order?” the Blade chanced a question, knowing it would reveal his allegiance. Rodig had rescued him. Returned his weapon. Now he was alive at the man’s mercy. If he was an ally, there was only one chance to be sure.

In answer, the knight unlatched his gorget. The armor fell away, hanging loosely to show the emblem hammered inside. The Blade looked down at his sword. The same circular guard adorned it. Two serpents, chasing one another over the rim of an eight-spoked wheel. The emblem of his—of their—order. The symbol of the Blades.

”You have my thanks, Sir Knight.” He allowed himself to relax, just a little. A fellow Blade meant Rodig was an ally. It did not mean he could be trusted. “What news is there? I'm afraid I was... detained on my arrival to the frontier.”

”There is no news from me, brother. I was told to watch the coast for you, and so I have. I rode the shoreline every night for a week, in search of castaways. Scriers of the Imperial Library sent word your ship was sunk. All I know is that you are to meet a ‘Lady Brisienna Magnussen’ in Daggerfall—in three days’ time.”

That was not an encouraging thought. Such a ride would be difficult in his condition. And besides, he had no horse.

Orders are orders. It was time to face the Illiac Bay in earnest. ”Then I suppose we best be on our way? Before another priest means to embalm me.”

Rodig nodded in agreement, stern-faced and void of humor. The Blade could tell already this would be a long journey. “You can ride, then?" the knight asked. "I was worried your wounds might be too great.”

”Yes. I will be fine to make the trip—how far is Daggerfall?”

”Four days’ ride.” Rodig answered plainly.

”Fetcher,”

”Come. We’ll find you a horse—I need to retrieve my arms from the smith. We’ll be on the road before noon.” Rodig made for the door, before turning back to him, as though he'd just realized something. His face, still as stone, threatened to give way to a hint of curiousity. “What is your name, Master Blade? I was told little—only that you were a witchhunter of the southern provinces. A spelldrinker by your stars. The priest says you would not share it—and I think that was wise—but if I am to accompany you to Daggerfall, I would call you by a name besides the title we both carry.”

The Blade tied his sword at his side, fastening it with a length of linen torn from his bedsheets. He let his hand rest on the familiar guarskin, testing that it would hold. When he was satisfied, he met the knight’s gaze.

“My name,” he offered at last.

“Is Steve.”