By the time I kick open the gate and stear the horse under the shelter, it's past midnight and Martin is practically asleep behind me. His head fell forward, forehead pressing into my back, ages ago. Whenever it felt like he was tipping one way or the other and about to fall, I'd shift myself to stear him back into place.

It's my fault he's not in a bed sleeping, after all. But after Carahil agreed to pay for our rooms if we went on this mission, not to mention giving me my first recommendation towards the Arcane University, I was ready to head out the door—which was exactly what she wanted.

"Martin, we're here." I gently nudge my shoulder, shaking him.

He mumbles and raises up, rubbing his face. I dismount slowly, so as not to jostle him, and wait for him to come down, as well. Then we head inside the inn together, and I glance around until I spot a breton woman in the corner, whom I approach while Martin waits by the stairs, trying to hide his yawning.

"Hello, stranger. What can I do for you?"

"Arielle Jurard?"

Her face tightens and voice drops to a hissing whisper as she replies. "Are you the one Carahil sent? We cannot speak here. Rent a room for the night. If anyone asks, you are a traveling merchant."

I give a small, sharp nod, and she brightens back up.

"No, I'm sorry, friend. I'm afraid I don't know the way to Cheydinhal, but best of luck to you on your travels. Please, if you would excuse me."

I bow. "Sorry to bother you, ma'am."

Stepping away from her, I head over to the counter and tap it to get the inkeeper's attention, proceeding to fork over the money for two rooms.

"I'm sorry, we don't have two rooms available." The innkeeper looks rather confused, glancing between Martin and I. "Surely a young couple like yourselves don't need two seperate rooms, however?"

Martin stumbles on the steps.

"He's a priest," I say.

"Oh. I'm very sorry, miss. We still don't have two opens room, though. We do have a room with a double bed, if you don't mind."

"That's fine." Martin's tired. I'll sleep in the floor if I have to.

He smiles awkwardly, obviously trying to recover from his slip up. "Pretty late to be out, especially a priest. Are you his protege?"

"I'm a merchant," I lie easily. "We're traveling together out of convenience."

He smiles. "Ah. We get a lot of merchants through here. Or, at least, we used to . . . before, er . . . all these . . . these murders."

His face falls, and he tries to play it off as he calls over my shoulder. "Caminalda, would you mind swapping rooms? These two need a place to sleep and I only have one room open. Yours, at least, has the double bed."

An Altmer woman walks up, looking pleasantly curious. "Why certainly, I don't mind at all. Here."

She passes me the key, and the innkeeper gives her a new one as I hand over my money.

Caminalda smiles at me. "Enjoy the room. I'll need to run up and get my things, but I can personally gaurantee it's top notch."

"Thank you. You are very kind to switch with us."

"Oh, not at all."

Seemingly having decides to escort us up, Caminalda leads the way and I motion for Martin to follow. I catch Arielle watching us go out of the corner of her eye.

Caminalda keeps chattering away.

"Did I hear you say you were a traveling merchant?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Oh, wow. You're terribly brave, then. I mean, aren't you afraid to be out on the road what with these murders lately? I've been afraid to leave the inn, and I'm not even a merchant. I've been here for days."

"I'm sure you're safe, miss. Travel with a group, maybe, if it really worries you."

"Maybe. Ah, this is your room."

We stop at the second door on the second floor, and I unlock it. Caminalda shuffles in, gathering up her things, then pops back out. "You two take care of yourselves, alright? Stay safe on the roads. I'd hate to hear of any more of these senseless deaths."

She frowns, shaking her head, but smiles again and waves as she heads to the next room. I wave back, as does Martin, and we go in, leaving the door open behind us. The room is rather cramped for two, so I sit on the chest by the wall and motion to the bed with my head.

"Sleep."

"But—"

"Sleep."

He doesn't look happy about it, but Martin relents and climbs into the bed, crawling over to the far side by the wall.

"Wake me if you need help, Erin." He sounds exhasperated, like he doesn't believe I will.

"Yes, Sire."

He groans, pulling the blanket tighter to his chest, and yawns. "You'd have thought killing Lorgren Benirus, practially her nemesis, for the second time would have been task enough to warrant a recommendation."

I smirk. "Hear, hear."

His breathing falls into the even rythm of sleep in minutes. It's a soothing, satisfying sound. My emperor, sleeping, safe. Alive.

Caminalda heads back downstairs not long after. Then Arielle comes up, checks to make sure no one's around, and slips in. She edges the door closed, and when she turns around, I raise a finger to my lips and point to Martin. She raises a brow, but nods.

She steps close and whispers: "Head east along the Gold Road in the morning, towards Kvatch. I and a fellow battlemage will be following out of sight. Don't acknowledge us. If the mage attacks you, we will protect you, but do not hesitate in your own defense. Rest, and be ready."

I nod, and she quietly opens the door and slips back out. I lock the door behind her, and resmue my seat.

A candle is the only light in the room, and I watch the shadows it casts flicker across Martin's back. I stare, keeping a careful eye on the up and down movements of his body, listening intently to his breathing. The later it gets, the less soothing it sounds. I listen for it, watch him, almost with desperation. I feel a pounding fear building in my chest, and I don't know why. There's no reason for it. None at all.

Except that, sometimes, when the light flickers, he looks like he's wearing a long purple robe, and his hair is a light grey. And I'm terribly, terribly afraid that the sound of his breathing might stop. That I might blink, and he won't be moving anymore.

My eyes and head ache, my vision blurs, and the candle has burned out long before I convince myself to lay down and try to sleep. I'm still listening to him breathe, focusing on the the way his body shifts the mattress behind me, well into the night.

Something's wrong. I can feel it in my, an instinct on alert. My muscles tighten, chest becomes heavy, hairs stand up on end. My eyes shoot open, staring into the darkness. Something's wrong. Wrong. What?

There's a face in the dark. It's takes a while for my eyes to adjust, to make it out, but it's there; pale, shrouded in shadow, staring down at me, smiling.

My first instinct is to charge him, and I am tensed up, ready. A more powerful urge has me frozen in place, once again locked on the sound of Martin's steady breathing, the feel of his presense behind me. My current position is advantageous. I am between the intruder and my charge, a shield.

"Jumpy, aren't you?" The man speaks softly, humor in his low tone. "Do the lives you've taken weigh heavy on your mind? Do they keep you from an easy rest?"

Faces in black masks; faces under red hoods; the captain; Glenroy; Uriel Septim; the bandits; the wolves; the daedra; the Dremora; Count Ormellius Goldwine.

Fire. Blood and fire.

"You keep a strange bedfellow, though—for a murderer." My eyes are adjusting further, and I see his head tilt. He's seated on the chest, much like I was before I retired for the night, his legs crossed easily, twirling a dagger in his hand. "A priest, isn't he? From the look of him. Do your sins weigh so heavy? That certainly makes you an odd choice for our Mother to select. Remorse is not a quality we admire in the Brotherhood."

"I am not a murderer." My utterance is low, dark, and sure, fueled by a combination of panic and anger. This man has gotten into our locked room, is armed, and calls me a murderer? I have killed no one in a way that wasn't self defense. I don't like what I've done, and yes, maybe it haunts me, but murders they were not. I want this stranger gone, Martin out of danger. I'll kill him if I have to.

That thought strikes me. Killing comes so easy to me. Memories do not. Who's to say I'm not a murderer? I honestly don't know. Just because I am not now, doesn't mean I wasn't once. I had been imprisoned in the Imperial City, after all. What had I done?

It doesn't matter! I repeat it to myself, glaring at the stranger's growing smile. Uriel didn't care about my past, and neither do I. That person I don't remember is gone. All that matters is the potential Uriel saw in me—my future, not my past, and what I do with that future.

I am not a murderer.

"Is that so?" The stranger is very amused by me. "The Night Mother seems to think otherwise. She has been watching you. And I am her voice, Speaker of the Dark Brotherhood, here to offer you a place in our . . . rather unique family."

I don't know what this Dark Brotherhood is, but I want no part in a "family" that sneaks in at night and smiles so gleefully as they recruit someone they believe a murderer. This whole set up wreeks, foul.

"I am not interested."

"Oh? But I haven't even told you your initiation task yet. It's oh so easy."

"I. Am. Not. Interested." I repeat.

The stranger's face falls, his dagger no longer twirling, and his expression is suddenly cold.

"It is your right to refuse, I suppose." He finally says. "We don't get refusals often. The Night Mother chooses well, and is never wrong. Please, accept this gift, a token from our family, in case you change your mind."

Lightly, feigning carefree once more, he tosses me the dagger. I catch it, eyes still on him. He grins.

"Tis a virgin blade, thirsty for blood. Should you reconsider, Rufio at the Inn of Ill Omen north of Bravil need not live any longer than you deem fit. Then I will find you again. Otherwise . . . "

He stands slowly, careful in his movements, and bows. Being showy about being non-threatening, I realize.

"I bid you farewell."

He vanishes. Literally. He is suddenly gone, and I'm staring at empty space, the only other occupant of my room laying behind me. Moving carefully, I stand and roam the room, checking everywhere. Upon closer inspection, I find the door unlocked and standing ajar. The intruder is long gone then, most likely. I shut it and lock it again, questioning the good it will do is someone already got in. This time, it was someone after me—someone apparently who knew of me from my past. What if, next time, it's an assassin after Martin?

Taking this mission was selfish, and a mistake. We'll finish it and then cut across country as planned.

The dagger is still on the bed, where I left it. It's a beautiful thing, made of ebony, intricately carved and lined with gold filigre in all the designs, even in the blade itself. It's light, almost weightless in my hand. And a gift from an obviously dangerous man.

I stow it away.

Sleep comes about as easily as it did before, and is plagued just as it was at Weynon Priory. I wake several times, and by the time daylight starts pouring in through the window, I feel no more rested than I had before I left for Kvatch.

Unwilling to attempt sleep again, I debate for a while and finally decide to lock Martin in our room and make rounds about the inn, checking for assassins and black robed strangers. Everything is clear. The morning air is cool, and the smell of the trees mixes with the ocean scents from the coast. I resist the urge to sit outside and instead return to the room, where I fight two more urges: to watch Martin breathe (again) and sleep (again).

Everything is exhausting. This day is a terrible one, and it's barely started.

Martin wakes earlier than I expected, and is surprised to find me up.

"I assumed, since you stayed up later than I did, that you would sleep later."

I shrug. "I thought you would sleep later just because you were so tired."

"I'm used to getting up early. The chapel schedule and whatnot." He scoots over to the edge of the bed and sits there, pressing his hands to the small of his back and stretching.

"Shall we get breakfast before we head out?"

Martin rolls his shoulders and then looks to me. "Did you get the rest of your orders?"

"We're bait. Battlemages will shadow us until we're, hopefully, attacked. If that happens—"

Anticipating my words, Martin raises his brows, and I sigh.

"Fall back and fight from a distance, if at all?" He asks sardonically.

I narrow my eyes. "Precisely, Your Majesty."

He frowns, then sighs. "Right."

"Thank you."

I get up and head out, Martin watching me oddly before he follows. Splurging a bit, a pay for a bottle of Surilie Brothers, venison for myself and mutton for Martin, and we split a cheese wedge as well as the wine. Then we mount Prior Mayborel's horse and get a slow start, enjoying the morning as we ride, and I try to let the cool air dash away the tired ache that's taken me over. The wine helped a bit with that, but I feel even more sleepy than I did before.

We pass up the usual patrols pretty quickly, moving uphill and east only the Gold Road, as instructed. I'm surprised to find Caminalda out as well once we're quite a distance away. She's standing beside some rocks on the roadside, and looks like she's waiting for something.

When we get close, she turns our way—and sneers.

"You're journey ends here, I'm afraid, traveler. I'll be taking whatever you're carrying—after you're dead, of course. I do hope the two of you've got more on you than the last few. My recent kills have been most disappointing." Raising a hand, she begins to glow.

Jerking on the reigns, the horse gives a whiny and races past, while the two promised battlemages jump from either side of the road and charge on Caminalda. I twist the horse around once we're far enough, and climb off, passing Martin the reigns.

"You know the drill," I tell him, not waiting for his argument. "Your safety first."

His face torn with indecision, I leave him and rush back to the fight, summoning my zombie once I'm close. The two battlemages are locked with Caminalda, who's holding her own well. As to be expected from a serial murderer.

Strangers try to recruit me in the night when there's something like this sleeping in the same in? Tsking, I reach for my knife and circle around while she's occupied with the battlemages and the zombie. The rush is starting, my mind is racing, and I am moving, acting on plans I hadn't known I was making, seeing moves rather than thinking them, twisting the knife handle around in my hand slashing, falling into step with the others.

Caminalda rears away from me, ducks under the swinging mace of one of the mages, and breaks away from the fight, using the free moment to start her own barrage of spells. They're cut short as ice hits her from behind, Martin coming up on the battle. Instinctively, the mages and I spread out, using Martin and the zombie to fill the gaps in our circle, surrounding Caminalda.

Desperate, she gives out a throaty cry, blasting us with the force of her magic, knocking us back. An arrow hits her before she can run, however; a patrolman has joined us, bow at the ready, knocking back another arrow as Caminalda turns on him. It's distraction enough, and I duck under her from behind, jamming the knife into her side, right under the bottom rib.

She screams, trying to bring her elbow down at my face, but I dodge, slipping the blade free and letting her blood stream out, spotting the road. She stumbles back, grabbing at the wound—and walks right into the killing blow of Arielle's mace, slamming the back of her head in. Her face freezes in shock, eyes rolling, and she crumples, almost dragging Arielle down with her. The mage has to put a boot to the dead woman's back and tug to pull her weapon free of the skull. The sound is . . . unpleasant.

"Well done." Arielle says, her breathing rather heavy.

"Is everyone alright?" The patrolman asks, jogging over.

"Yes, yes, we're fine. We're with the Mages Guild." Arielle smiles, all business.

The patrolman seems relieved by the news, and it isn't long before he takes off again, having been given his thanks. I move to wipe my dagger on Caminalda's clothing, and stop. I'd grabbed the ebony dagger the stranger had given me. I clean it off and stash it away, out of reach this time.

Arielle is pleased at our work, it seems. "Few. Well, that's all done then. The Gold Road should be a bit safer now."

She smiles at us, and her companion bends down to pick up Caminalda's body, throwing it over his shoulder.

"We'll get this all cleaned up and sorted here," Arielle tells me. "You should head back to Anvil and let Carahil know it's all handled. And thank you for your help."

With that, she walks away, leaving me silently annoyed.

"We're returning to Anvil?" Martin asks in confusion. "Carahil didn't mention that when she told us it was on our way."

"No, she didn't." The horse is still a bit off, where Martin left it, and we walk over. "And it's out of our way. We can't waste more time going back."

"But then you won't get your recommendation," Martin frowns. "Not reporting back won't go over well. We completed the mission; you should get the credit."

"We need to get you to Weynon Priory."

"Weynon Priory isn't going anywhere, and we're still on the move. Anyone tailing us will certainly be thrown off by the backtracking. We can risk it. You deserve your recommendation."

I pat the horse, taking a moment to think. I eye Martin, impressed again by how considerate he is.

I sigh. "If we get through this without you getting yourself killed rescuing puppies or something, you'll make a great ruler, Martin Septim."

I'm not sure what surprises him more: my estimation of his sense of self preservation, my evaluation of his potential as Emperor, or my use of his full name, probably the first time he's ever been called by it.

"I . . . thank you, Erin. The Arcane University will be lucky to have you."

I smirk. Not if strange men who think I'm a murderer are coming to recruit me in the night.

"Your Majesty." I offer the horse to Martin, who climbs on. I join him, and turn back west.

"Do you wish to talk about it?"

"No."

Martin continues softly after a moment. "Just because Carahil's pessimistic doesn't mean she's right."

"I'm aware."

"How many recommendations have you gotten?"

"That was my first."

"Then of course you haven't gained recognition yet. You still have plenty of time to prove yourself."

"Thank you, your Majesty."

Behind me, Martin sighs. The trip continues in relative silence, the clip-clop of the horse and the occasional chriping of birds the only sounds.

I frown. I'm not meaning to be snippy with Martin. It's not his fault Carahil all but said it wouldn't do me any good to have her recommendation, as I'm too much of a nobody to get into the University. And after all that trouble, too. We killed a woman for her. Does that mean nothing in this land? Is life worth so little?

I suppose, as she was a murderer, her life was worth little. Death is so easy to dish out, it almost sickens me.

Maybe I am a murderer. Maybe self defense doesn't matter. If killing is so easy, maybe it is sparing life that is the test.

Martin speaks up again. "How many recommendations do you need to get into the University?"

"One from each major city, not including the capitol." I try not to be so clipped with my answer this time.

"Then, if we keep on the road, we'll pass through Skingrad . . . "

"No." We are still on the road at the moment, headed towards Kvatch again, since from north of Kvatch is where I traveled before. "We can't take that much time, and besides, there could be assassins in the cities, waiting to hear word of you. We can't risk it."

"The task for the Anvil recommendation wasn't even in the city," Martin points out.

"We have no gaurantee the other tasks will be like that one. What if they require us to stay even a short length of time within city walls? Another Oblivion Gate could be opened, and an attack launched against the town just because of our presense."

At Martin's silence, I feel bad. I shouldn't have mentioned the Gate.

"I'm not blaming you," I add quietly. "We just have to be realistic. These are the threats against us."

"I know. You're right. I'm sorry."

His defeated tone doesn't make me feel any better, as I obviously haven't made him, either.

I pull out my map. "Chorrol is almost straight north from Skingrad. It certainly wouldn't be as much of a hassle to navigate if we stuck to the road until then."

"But the risk to the city—"

"If the task takes longer than a few hours, we'll skip it. I can always return another time."

"It won't look good to the head mage if you ask for a task and then decline."

"I can win back any favor I lose," I reply reasonably. "I cannot replace any lives that could be lost by our daliance."

Martin's answer comes slow. " . . . this is still a bad idea, isn't it? You're just agreeing to appease me."

"And you only suggested it because you feel responsible for denying me my opportunity. Which you're not. If it weren't for you . . . "

"What?" Martin prompts me after a moment.

I stare straight ahead at the road, barely seeing it. "If it weren't for you, I'd be lost."

"What do you mean?"

Absently, I rub the shackles on my wrist beneath my sleeve. "If your father hadn't tasked me with finding you, I don't know what I'd be doing with myself. I have nothing. No life, no purpose."

"That isn't true. You're a member of the Mages Guild—"

"Which I joined when I visited the University to stock up on equipment and spells to protect you with." It's an odd thought. The next is even odder. " . . . I think I would have turned myself back in to the guards after your father died, if he hadn't asked me to find you before that. Gone back to rotting in prison. It's what I deserve."

"It isn't." Martin says this with a casual conviction that has the world snapping back into focus around me. "I do not know what you have done in the past, but you have a strong sense of duty, that I do know. You don't belong in a prison."

I swallow, hard. "Uriel doesn't belong in a grave."

"Most do not." Martin matches my quieter tone. "Did you . . . know him well? The Emperor?"

The Emperor, not my father. It must still be so strange to him.

"I did not." We're coming up on the Inn again. The horse turns it's head slightly, but when I don't steer towards it, she settles back into her forward trot. "I knew him less than a day."

This surprises Martin, as his voice shows. "Really? The way you speak of him, I had though you better aquainted."

"Hm. You are a lot like him. Or at least, from what I knew of him. He did not care about my past either, or what I had done to land myself in the Imperial Prison. He believed in me, said he saw hope for the future, and I was a part of it. That he'd seen me in his dreams, and the gods had brought us together. I was the omen of his death, and he smiled at me."

"He knew he was going to die." There is pain in his voice, and I suddenly wish we were talking about anything else.

"Yes. He'd known for some time, from the way he spoke of his visions. He thought it was a blessing, to know. Said he'd made his peace. He wasn't afraid at all. He mourned for the soldiers who died defending him, though. Only a Blade named Baurus and I made it out alive."

"You said you were with him? When he . . . "

"I was trying to protect him, but I failed. I'm sorry."

"No, it isn't your fault, I told you. I just . . . I wanted to know . . . but if you can't talk about it—"

The sky above rumbles, lightning flashing. The day has grown grey and dark.

" . . . there was a secret escape tunnel in the prison. I was placed in the cell by mistake, and the Emperor's guards—the Blades—had to lead him through it. That's how we met. The Blades didn't want me along, but Uriel . . . like I said. We went through some underground ruins. They must have known ahead of time, though, because we were ambushed at several places down there. We were headed for the sewers, but they cut us off before then. Uriel was pinned in a dead end, and I was guarding the door while the Blades faught, but there was a secret passaged in the room and . . . this assassin just . . . came up to him from behind."

We lapse into silence. The sky keeps growling.

"I killed him. The one who did it." It's important to say. At least, to me. Maybe a priest won't agree.

"Thank you." His answer is quiet, and holds no pleasure, no satisfaction. But it sounds sincere. I don't know if it's for avenging his father or just for simply telling him about what happened. I suppose it doesn't matter.

Uriel was a stranger to him. But he was his father. It must be difficult.

If I ever meet my family, the family that I don't remember, I expect it will feel similar. I find myself hoping I don't. I don't even want to think about it.

We ride past the fork to Kvatch and have gone still aways before the rain finally starts. It pours down in sheets, no slow start or mercy. I speed the horse on until we pass a camp on the side of the road, apparently abandoned, and I pull off and we both clambor under the cover of the tent. And then stare at the horse, who stares back, still be soaked.

After a lot of uncomfortable shifting around, Martin, the horse, and I are all crowded in the tent, bed roll and chest shoved under one of the smaller pup tents outside to make room.

After a few minutes, Martin puts his hand over his face and snorts. "This is ridiculous."

I raise a brow at him. "Do you want me to throw the horse out?"

"Of course not. Not after all the work it took to get it in here."

I snort. "Alright then."

Ducking around the horse's head, I step out and back into the rain.

Martin gapes. "What are you doing, Erin?"

"Well, someone had to go. There wasn't room. And since you refused to throw out the horse, and you're a prince and whatnot . . . "

All but rolling his eyes, Martin says, "You'll catch a cold."

I cock an eyebrow. "Bosmer."

"Natural disease resistance isn't immunity, Erin."

"It feels nice out here, though." Closing my eyes, I raise my head up to the sky, letting the water hit me and run down, little puddles forming in the grooves of my face. "It's cold."

"You just said it felt nice."

"I think I like the cold," I muse, letting out a deep breath. My body shivers from the drastic chilling, and it reminds me of when Martin's frost spell hit me in the fight with Lorgren. "Hey, can you teach me ice magic?"

"You don't know any?" Martin sneezes, and I shake the water off my face to look his way. He wipes his nose, having apparently gotten to close to the tent entrance and been hit with a few droplets.

I grin. "Only the basics, weak things. Fire comes much more naturally to me than anything."

"Really? I thought you were more of a conjuror. You summoned that zombie in those fights before, then fought mainly with a dagger."

My good mood falls a bit. "I'm favoring Conjuration more lately, yes. But that's because fire has done me little good when I needed it."

I suppose my tone gives my thoughts away, because Martin only says, "Emperor Uriel."

"'The Prince of Destruction is born anew in blood and fire.' The Emperor said that to me. And to find his son, and 'close shut the jaws of Oblivion.'"

"Oblivion? He knew his enemy could open Oblivion Gates?"

"There's no telling what he knew now. But he had visions his whole life, from what I understand. And if he said this Prince of Destruction would be born anew in blood and fire, then I want no part in either."

The horse shifts nervously as the thunder sounds again, and Martin strokes her neck soothingly. "You admired him greatly."

"He trusted me when I didn't trust myself. He gave me purpose when I had none. I was alone and lost, and a convict, and he was kind and encouraging."

Martin smiles. "It sounds as though the Emperor was more of a father to you than he ever was to me."

I shake my head. "I told you, I knew him less than a day."

"And I never met him."

We trail into silence.

"You look like him," I finally say.

Martin glances up at me. "Do I? You said that before."

"Very much so." I can see him in almost his every feature; his blue eyes, the way wrinkles form around them when he smiles, the set of his jaw, the way his hair lays.

"But not your nose," I add a bit teasingly. "That must come from your mother."

He laughs. "So it must."

"And you are both easy to listen to. You don't sound alike, but . . . You have a wonderful voice, like a smooth, aged mead. I could listen to you speak for ages."

He dips his head as he chuckles. "I get that rather often, actually. A helpful talent to have as a priest."

"You have the same charisma. I look forward to serving you as my Emperor, if that is what it comes to. From what I have seen of you so far, you would make a wise one, and I would be proud to follow you."

Martin doesn't answer for several seconds, and his throat bobs, before he looks up and smiles crookedly. "Well, you haven't know me very long yet."

I raise my brows, but don't respond to his doubt. "Jauffre said he kept an eye on you for the Emperor. That he asked after you from time to time."

"Did he?" Martin casts his eyes down again. "I wonder just how much he knew of me, then."

That statement doesn't seem to be directed at me, so instead I ask, "How about those Frost lessons?"

Martin smiles and shakes his head. "Not in the rain."

"Fair enough."

"Now get back under here."

"Yes, Sire."

"Don't start that again."

"Whatever you say, Sire."

When the rain lets up, I spew enough fire at the leftover kindling to melt metal, and it burns bright enough for at least Martin and the horse to dry up. I, having stood in the rain, remain damp in the saddle as he gallop our way down the road towards Skingrad, trying to make up some of the lost time.

Not far down the road, we are accosted by a bandit, an opportunity which, to Martin's horror, I insist we use for him to teach me Frost magic.

"Erin, I don't think this is the time—"

I hop off the horse and flex my fingers, cracking the knucles and circling the bandit. "It can't be that difficult. Tell me where it draws from. I feel Fire magic in my back and shoulders."

"Well, I normally feel the cold start in my chest I suppose." Martin's eyes dart back and forth between me and the Dunmer woman, who's backing up to knock an arrow.

I cast a protection spell and swat the shot away. "I think Shock starts in the gut. It makes me nauseous."

"Careful not to store too much of the magic in you instead of chanelling it out, or you could freeze your heart and lungs."

"That happens?" The band takes another shot, and I dodge, shrugging my shoulders and trying to feel for the chill inside me.

"It isn't pleasant."

"Sounds positively deadly."

"Are you two serious!?" The bandit bellows, slamming down her bow. "Don't ignore me! I'll kill you!"

"Doubtful." She charges me with a roar, and I feel the cold. It starts in the middle of a deep, calm breath, and travels down my arms like a breeze, releasing a flurry from my fingers. It hits her in the shoulder and she stumbles sideways before regaining her footing and launching her attack again, this time weilding magic of her own.

Martin's climbed off the horse to join the fight. She's hit from both sides, one after the other, with icy cold—Martin's of the more powerful variety.

I move in while she's focused on his and knock her off her feet, and hold my knife to her throat while she's down. Martin moves toward me, as though to stop me, then slows, realizing I'm not making the move to kill.

I meet the woman's eyes very carefully. "If you run and leave us be, I'll spare you."

"Y-yes, a-anything."

I pull away and step back. She shuffles away fearfully—then picks up her discarded bow and aims an arrow at Martin.

It hits me in the back of the forearm, both of which I've raised in front of my upper torso and face as I threw myself in front of Martin. I surge forward, angry, my mercy squandered, and I feel the heat build in my shoulders again. The woman tries to turn and run, but I chase her down, reaching my uninjured arm forward, grabbing her, wrapping the other—arrow and all—around to her grab her face.

I push the fire away—and pump ice into her skin. She shrieks as it freezes her, seeps into her skull, down her neck. It doesn't get much farther than that, my magicka drained, but that's far enough. I shove her away and her head hits the ground like a rock, frozen solid.

I yank the arrow out of my arm, seething. "Assassins after the Emperor didn't kill me. Bandit trash certainly won't."

"Erin! Are you alright?" Martin runs up, horse forgotten behind us.

"Do you know how to sew?" I ask.

Martin pales, reaching to take my arm and inspect it. "Do you need stitches?"

"No. I'm just accumulating a lot of holes in my robes. They're important to me, I don't want to ruin them."

"They are odd." He pushes up my sleeve, pausing at my shackles, but continues up to where the arrow pierced, which is still bleeding; a steady, thin little current down my arm. "Don't see many red robes around, at least not of this quality."

"They were what he was wearing." I should tell him. He should know. "The assassin. It's stained with Uriel's blood."

Martin's hand stops, hovering over my wound. "I see. We should bandage this up, stop the bleeding until we can get it looked at."

"Right. I'll heal it up when my magicka's back."

"We can check around Skingrad for a tailor."

" . . . too much time."

Martin looks around for a moment, before leaning down to tear off a strip from the bottom of the bandit's skirt. He begins wrapping my arm with it. "I can get it done while you get your recommendation."

" . . . I don't want to take it off."

"The blood stains the robes, Erin. Not you. You don't have to bear them."

I pinch the front of the fabric, pulling it away from my body to peer at the discoloration. "Blood and fire."

"But you aren't using fire anymore."

I drop the front of my robe and exhale, feeling the chill tickle through my torso. My breath fogs.