Tara leaned back against the stone wall. The cold of the stone pressed through the part of her arms only covered by fabric. The rest of her Penitus Oculatus armor kept her protected from the cold of this prison cell located underground. Under the Penitus Oculatus headquarters here in the Imperial City.
Thick iron bars finished off the cell where Lewin Vanne, the Order of the Fire Queen mage who’d attacked Katla and Richton, was being held.
“He attacked an agent. Do what you need to get information from him,” Marius had told Tara, after Richton reported to him.
Richton’s note to Tara had explained what happened. Rigmor had given her permission to take a day off to handle the situation.
Lewin had attacked Katla. Had nearly taken Katla from her. Tara couldn’t lose Katla. She had to protect her. She couldn’t fail Katla again.
Besides Katla, he’d tried to kill Richton, her friend from Penitus Oculatus training. Richton, who Tara could never tell she was the reason Varro had disappeared. Official Penitus Oculatus reports stated Varro had been killed by the Thalmor. Tara had to do her best not to let anything happen to Richton. She was responsible for him losing his best friend. The least she could was protect him.
Tara dropped her eyelids low and stared at Lewin. In the right moment, Katla told her this look was smoldering.
“You and your bedroom eyes.” She was fond of saying.
This wasn’t that moment, though. Tara meant to convey the sense she thought of him as no more than an ant. She suspected she’d need to guide Lewin through a series of emotions to get what she wanted. Treating him like an inconsequential bug seemed a good start.
He was staring at her. He’d taken her in, resting his eyes on her muscled arms, her axes, but mostly her hair and eyes. Lewin’s hair was deep black, reminding Tara of Mira’s, before some grays had lightened hers. His eyes were a dark blue, like a deep lake. His face narrowed at his chin, leaving him looking severe. Tara thought of a skeever.
“You are not how I imagined,” he said. His voice was deep and as cold as the cell.
He sat in a plain wood chair, at a faded wood table, filled with chipped corners and scratches. He still wore his mage robes. The symbol of the order a bright red against black fabric.
A simple hide sleeping bag sat atop a pile of hay in one corner of the cell. A rough canvas pillow completed his sleeping area.
A bucket sat in another corner for him to use for any bodily needs.
Otherwise, the cell was bare. The floor made of the same cold stone as the walls. There was a grate in the floor in the center of the room. Tara wondered how much blood had flown down it over the years.
“How did you imagine me?” she asked him.
“Looking like a proper mage. Not playing warrior.” His tone radiated disappointment.
Good, he seemed talkative.
“Why would I be a mage?”
“Do you not know who, what, you are?”
You’re perfect. Better than I imagined.
“Tell me,” Tara said. She felt her heart hammer.
He huffed. He looked away, then back at her, searching.
“Do they not tell you? Hmm, we’ve never had a flame. Perhaps they don’t.” He looked as if he pitied her.
“A flame? What does…?” Tara caught it. “My hair?”
Lewin nodded. “Of course. Your hair, eyes. A flame. Not a raven. Lucky is the family who bears them.” He tilted his head. “Surely, you’re testing my loyalty.”
Raven? Where had she heard that reference?
Best to play along, Tara decided.
She kept her eyes narrowed. “Loyalty must always be proven.”
Now, he looked offended. “I was chosen for this job! To retrieve the stone.”
“You failed.”
“Traitors,” Lewin spat.
“Hammerheart?” Tara tried to sound professional.
“Whole family. For too long. Keep trying to bring them back…” Lewin squinted at Tara.
“Your sister, too. How could she? You are both…” he stopped.
“What?”
Lewin shook his head. “This isn’t a loyalty test.” He spat. For real this time. His phlegm landed on the table, light from the wall mounted torches flickered, giving a shine to the mucus.
“Is your whole family this way? No, can’t be. Not the trunk.” Lewin leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, and glared at her.
“Traitor.” He spat again.
Tara stepped closer to him, leaving the wall behind. Her right hand dropped to her axe, resting on the head of it.
“Why do you want the stone?”
He laughed. “You really don’t know.” He kept the grin. “I hope I can watch, then. Be one of the few who see. It’ll be glorious.”
“See what?” Tara now stood at the table, across from him.
“The ritual. The one for flames.” He looked her up and down again. “I’ve only been told about it. Not every generation even has a flame.”
…she said I looked like them. Something about my hair and eyes.
Ravens. Yes, in one of Mira’s letters. When she first asked Tara and Katla to come to the ruins she’d found. The barmaid at the inn had told Mira she looked like the mages that visited the ruins once owned by Geonette. Mira had not been welcome in the town. Everyone seemed suspicious of her.
The ruined tower. That cave. That strange orb. All the voices in her head.
Is it her? How is she here?
Oblivion.
When the time comes, don’t fight me.
Tara’s hand trembled where it rested on her axe head. She steadied herself. She needed more from him.
“Why keep coming for the stone? It’s already in the hands of Geonette’s descendants,” she ventured.
He huffed again and shook his head. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table, careful to avoid the drying phlegm.
“We’ve never had a flame,” he repeated. “They must keep you separate. Not tell you.” He looked at her with a curious expression. Again, it held a note of pity.
“Otherwise, you’d know all of us need the stone. Pass it around. But the Hammerhearts…” He sat back again. “Traitors.”
“You consider her family traitors, so that’s why you keep trying to kill her?”
“If I’d wanted to kill her, she’d be dead,” he said. He seemed offended.
“You shot fireballs at her!” Tara shouted. She felt her face flush.
“At the ground!” The indignation in his voice reminded Tara of the ambassador from Morrowind. “I was to retrieve the stone. Not kill your bitch of a girlfriend.”
He seemed to pick up on Tara’s surprise, though she’d quickly shifted her face to neutral.
“Yes, we all know who she is to you.” He burst out laughing. “The comedy of it.”
What are the odds? You and her.
Tara stepped around the table and now stood at the corner, closer to him.
“Didn’t know about your sister, though,” he said. His voice quieted. He studied Tara again.
“Are you trying to intimidate me?” He nodded at her closeness, her hand still rested on her axe.
“I want answers,” Tara said. She didn’t feel flushed any more. The same cold she’d needed to deal with Varro now enveloped her.
“Your sister,” Lewin said. His eyes shone with their own coldness. That strange curiosity of his. “Has she had the ritual performed? Have your parents abandoned their duties?”
Tara ignored him. “Tell me exactly how the stone is used. What’s inside the stone.”
“You can’t scare me into talking to you,” he said. “I’ve had the ritual performed. I know where I’ll go when I die. I’m not afraid.”
All those voices. All those people in the robes. In Oblivion. With her. Could this ritual send them there?
“I’ve been,” Tara offered. “You don’t want to end up there.”
“Lies. You can’t. Flames don’t belong. Flames aren’t…” Lewin shook his head. “No, I don’t believe you.”
“I have,” Tara said. She thought of the red sky, the dead land, scorched trees. She dropped her voice into a whisper. “I don’t know what they promise you, but it’s a terrible place.”
“Liar!” Lewin stood. “You’re jealous. You won’t be…”
“Sit down!” Tara commanded. Flames erupted from her left hand, forming a sizable fireball. She kept her right hand on her axe. Perhaps she could scare him the way he’d scared Katla, threatening him with magic.
“Ah,” Lewin said. “So the flame has some magic in her.”
“Sit down,” Tara repeated.
Lewin laughed. “I told you. You can’t intimidate me. I’ve had the ritual performed. I’ll be immortal.”
Immortal?
“Sit,” Tara said. The fireball continued to dance in her hand. She extinguished it.
Lewin laughed. “You don’t scare me, little flame.” Like with so many others, Tara was short compared to him. He was a Breton, but looked to be Katla’s height. Or, did he mean something else by calling her little?
…Not today, though, my little catalyst.
“I said sit,” Tara said.
“No,” Lewin smirked.
Tara released a wave. The smallest she could manage. Perhaps, it was the smallest she’d ever released.
Lewin was shoved down onto his chair. His eyes went wide.
“What magic was that?!” Lewin’s eyes narrowed.
“What’s inside the stone? How do you use it in the ritual?”
“What was that?!” Lewin looked both fascinated and scared.
“What is inside the stone?!” Tara pulled out her axe.
Lewin swallowed. He narrowed his eyes again.
“I am immortal. My queen has made me so,” he said. A slow grin spread across his face.
“I look forward to your death,” he said. “To your traitor sister’s and to your traitor girlfriend’s, too. Glory to the Fire Queen! We shall all be…”
She decapitated Lewin in one move. Decapitation should not have been so easy. Even executioners with a headsman axe sometimes didn’t make clean cuts.
She’d not thought, swinging her axe at his neck before realizing what she was doing.
So much anger. So much…pain.
His head flew and hit the nearby wall. It fell to the floor and rolled.
“Feel better?” Freta asked. She stood in the right corner along the back of the cell. Leaning against the wall. Her arms crossed, as if she’d been watching the interrogation the entire time. A superior officer, watching how Tara handled the situation.
She was dressed in her steel armor, her hair down, just as Tara preferred. Looking as she did all the visits before. The same soft glow surrounded her.
Lewin’s head came to a standstill. His eyes open, mouth slightly agape. A moment of surprise frozen on his face. Tara watched a stream of blood flow out of his severed head, moving towards the floor drain. A river of blood poured from his body. It’d dropped to the floor, falling out of the chair. Bodies contained so much blood. You couldn’t grasp it unless you saw someone bleed out.
Tara realized she’d never decapitated someone before. Driven her axe into someone’s neck enough to kill them, yes. Never separating their head. There wasn’t a need to. Her stomach twitched.
“No.” She looked up at Freta.
Freta held her gaze. Her eyes were soft, sad, with something else Tara couldn’t put her finger on.
“I miss you,” Tara said. The words were out of her mouth in a moment. A reflex every time she saw Freta.
“It is good to see you, my little Breton.” Her voice was as warm and silky as Tara remembered.
Freta looked down at Lewin’s body, as if studying him.
“Did you know the first time I killed someone was the day I died?” she said. Her glacier blue eyes focused on Tara.
“I didn’t know,” Tara whispered. “I always saw you as a warrior. A fighter.”
“You’re far more a warrior, my little Breton.” Her tone was a sweet tease.
“I was a sword for hire. Hired more for my size and ability to intimidate,” she said. “I talked myself out of fights, rarely got into them.” She shimmered in the torch’s light.
“I did fight,” she said. “Tournaments. Underground pits, what with the Empire no longer sponsoring them. Private tournaments between Fighter Guilds.”
She smiled. “I was good, too. Only loss was my first fight.” She winked. “The fights were never to the death, though. These were competitions, not battles.” She frowned. “I doubt I could’ve been the fighter you are.”
“Of course you could’ve,” Tara said.
Freta shook her head. “I trained you because I saw it in you. A fire I didn’t have.” Freta chuckled. “I wanted to spend my days traveling all of Tamriel, drinking mead, bedding the ladies. Being a sell sword was about earning enough coin to keep my life simple.”
Her eyes grew soft. “Then, I met you. I wanted to travel with you around Tamriel. Thought one day we could settle down someplace. Spend our days bedding each other.” She winked.
“Freta…”
“But you had a fire in you. Hair of fire. Heart of passion.” Freta looked thoughtful. “I saw it the moment I laid eyes on you. Fire. Anger. I knew I had to train you.”
“You taught me so much,” Tara whispered.
Freta nodded at Lewin. “Did you get the answers you needed?”
“No.”
“Then why did you kill him?”
“I don’t know.”
“You do know.”
“He almost killed Katla.” Tara kept her voice a whisper.
“And?”
Tara thought. “Nearly killed Richton, too. It’s my fault he lost his best friend.”
“No, it’s not,” Freta said. “Varro chose his path. You did your job.”
“I killed him. It’s my fault.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Freta said. “Richton is not why you killed Lewin.”
“He was a threat…”
“Why did you kill him?”
“Why are you questioning me?!” Tara snapped. Had she ever spoken to Freta like this?
“Because you’re questioning yourself,” Freta said. Her tone was soft, a caress. How Katla soothed her when she least deserved it.
Tara felt her hands shake. She almost dropped her axe, which she still held. Blood had stopped dripping off the blade. She sheathed it. She’d need to clean it before returning to duty.
“Why did you kill him?” Freta asked.
“I miss you so much,” Tara said. She felt her eyes water. Freta blurred.
“You miss the time before, my little Breton. Before I died. Before the world became complicated.” Freta came back into focus. Her eyes were soft, but chiding.
“I loved you.”
“Why did you kill him?”
Tara looked at Lewin’s body. The river of blood had stopped its flow. The air smelled of iron, the metallic smell so much blood always left behind.
“She made me relive it all,” Tara managed.
Freta stepped to her. Her shimmering hand reached out and tried to tuck a loose strand of Tara’s hair behind her ear. Her touch was cold, the hair didn’t move. How little ghosts could do. Tara’s heart slowed.
“The pain you carry,” Freta said. A whisper on the wind. “I’d wish it on no one, my little Breton.”
“She scares me,” Tara said.
She looked at Lewin again, then back at Freta. She felt her jaw clench. “I want to kill them all.”
Freta nodded. “When you fail the one, don’t fail the others.”
Tara sighed and stepped back from Freta. “Rigmor and Kintyra.”
“Rigmor and Kintyra,” Freta said.
“How do I protect Katla?”
Freta looked faint. Her expression shifted to something of sadness. “Don’t fail them.”
“That’s not an answer, Freta,” Tara said.
“Rigmor and Kintyra,” Freta repeated. She was barely visible now. “You were the love of my life.”
Freta was gone.
Tara let tears stream down her face.
For Freta. For the time before.
Don’t wish for the past. Its light is always more golden, seen from afar.
Freta was right. Rigmor and Kintyra.
Tara wiped her face.
She had a job to do.