Freyja bites her cheek, thinking. "Your cousin, though," she says. "If he wasn’t at the shrine, and the Thalmor hadn’t found it…he could’ve gotten away.”
“That’s what I hoped, at first.” Eitri shakes his head. “But there was something they said. If the other one won’t talk, maybe this one will. I’ve had a lot of time to think it over, and I don’t know who that would be, if not Brokkr. And they were looking for me by name. They had their weapons out as soon as they laid eyes on me. Why else would they be so eager to arrest me, if not because I’d been asking after him?”
It’s a fair point, but Freyja’s not sure where that leaves them. Nor, she realizes, does she actually know what the Thalmor do with their captured prisoners, except that it likely involves a grisly end. Security at their embassy is tighter than a miser’s purse strings; their headquarters in Solitude is too small and too close to the full strength of the Legion to hold a host of unlucky Talos worshippers, and – as she’s already explained – it’s not exactly a bustling hub of activity. The justiciars are rightly feared for their skill at making men vanish without a trace, but where do they vanish to?
She can think of several ways to find out, but none of them sound appealing.
As the day wears on they follow the river north, watching it broaden from a quick, mountain-fed torrent to a channel nearly half a mile across. The ferns and spruces crowding its banks give way to patches of open marshland where hawks drift overhead. Occasionally one plunges toward the water to rise with a thrashing salmon gripped tightly in its claws. By the time the sun sinks behind the mountains Freyja and Eitri are clambering over a rocky shoreline, and the cold air seeping up the riverbed sometimes carries a whiff of salt.
Masser and Secunda are slung low in the sky when Freyja finally hears the telltale creak and splash of a sawmill. A breeze stirs the pines around them. Freyja pushes a branch aside and beckons with the torch. “Solitude,” she murmurs.
The capital towers above them, a silhouette of high black walls against the deep blue twilight, torches trailing in the wind like red banners. A few stars wink on the horizon, beneath the great prow of the crag. At the end of its span the Blue Palace glitters. Eitri doesn’t say a word, but he cranes his neck up at the arch and whistles, soft and low.
They hurry along the waterfront, past the East Empire Company’s Warehouse and a party of dockworkers straggling home late, talking eagerly of the tavern. A single lantern hung beside the road forms an island of ghostly light, and just beyond it Freyja snuffs out the torch and steps into the weeds beside the road. She feels her way over the rocks. Finally she finds a crevice in the cliff face, just big enough for a man to slip through, but soon it widens and reveals a battered wooden door.
A long tunnel sloping upward, a set of jagged steps, and then a passage of stone that has been cut and mortared rather than hewn, stairs built in an elegant spiral rather than hacked into solid rock. When they reach the ground level of the tower light flickers outside – a guard on patrol. Freyja waits for him to pass by and then pads quietly down the hallway. A moment later the lock gives a well-oiled pop and they step into the fine, cool night air of Solitude. Conveniently, their destination is just down the street. In six strides Freyja is tucked around a corner with Eitri close behind her, rapping at the door to the Hall of the Dead.
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timeasmymeasure
Songs For Nomads 2.3
Date: 2013-07-18 10:29 pm (UTC)“That’s what I hoped, at first.” Eitri shakes his head. “But there was something they said. If the other one won’t talk, maybe this one will. I’ve had a lot of time to think it over, and I don’t know who that would be, if not Brokkr. And they were looking for me by name. They had their weapons out as soon as they laid eyes on me. Why else would they be so eager to arrest me, if not because I’d been asking after him?”
It’s a fair point, but Freyja’s not sure where that leaves them. Nor, she realizes, does she actually know what the Thalmor do with their captured prisoners, except that it likely involves a grisly end. Security at their embassy is tighter than a miser’s purse strings; their headquarters in Solitude is too small and too close to the full strength of the Legion to hold a host of unlucky Talos worshippers, and – as she’s already explained – it’s not exactly a bustling hub of activity. The justiciars are rightly feared for their skill at making men vanish without a trace, but where do they vanish to?
She can think of several ways to find out, but none of them sound appealing.
As the day wears on they follow the river north, watching it broaden from a quick, mountain-fed torrent to a channel nearly half a mile across. The ferns and spruces crowding its banks give way to patches of open marshland where hawks drift overhead. Occasionally one plunges toward the water to rise with a thrashing salmon gripped tightly in its claws. By the time the sun sinks behind the mountains Freyja and Eitri are clambering over a rocky shoreline, and the cold air seeping up the riverbed sometimes carries a whiff of salt.
Masser and Secunda are slung low in the sky when Freyja finally hears the telltale creak and splash of a sawmill. A breeze stirs the pines around them. Freyja pushes a branch aside and beckons with the torch. “Solitude,” she murmurs.
The capital towers above them, a silhouette of high black walls against the deep blue twilight, torches trailing in the wind like red banners. A few stars wink on the horizon, beneath the great prow of the crag. At the end of its span the Blue Palace glitters. Eitri doesn’t say a word, but he cranes his neck up at the arch and whistles, soft and low.
They hurry along the waterfront, past the East Empire Company’s Warehouse and a party of dockworkers straggling home late, talking eagerly of the tavern. A single lantern hung beside the road forms an island of ghostly light, and just beyond it Freyja snuffs out the torch and steps into the weeds beside the road. She feels her way over the rocks. Finally she finds a crevice in the cliff face, just big enough for a man to slip through, but soon it widens and reveals a battered wooden door.
A long tunnel sloping upward, a set of jagged steps, and then a passage of stone that has been cut and mortared rather than hewn, stairs built in an elegant spiral rather than hacked into solid rock. When they reach the ground level of the tower light flickers outside – a guard on patrol. Freyja waits for him to pass by and then pads quietly down the hallway. A moment later the lock gives a well-oiled pop and they step into the fine, cool night air of Solitude. Conveniently, their destination is just down the street. In six strides Freyja is tucked around a corner with Eitri close behind her, rapping at the door to the Hall of the Dead.