Prologue
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Sun’s Dawn 3E429
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In a tower in the Azura Coast region, the heart of Telvanni country, a man is standing overlooking his life’s work. His name is Divath Fyr, and in ten minutes he is going to die.
The tower itself is typical of the Telvanni style in that it is isolated and organic, grown by magic and alive in its own right. Telvanni mages like isolation. They run their household and their land by their own rule, away from the eyes and ears of others.
Divath Fyr’s life work is the Corprusarium in the lowest level of his home. He is not quite a scientist, or a healer, or an alchemist, but perhaps a strange mix of the three.
Occasionally rumours of his connexions with the Psijic Order circulate. That he is an accomplished practitioner of magic there is no doubt, but although many people know he is an experimenter, few know of the Corprusarium. It is even rarer knowledge that Divath Fyr has actually created a cure (of sorts) for the Corprus disease; in fact at this point in time only four people in all of Tamriel know of his discovery and its implications. One, of course, is Divath himself. The second and third are an Imperial member of the Blades and his young charge, both sworn to secrecy. The fourth is a Dwarf, a well-kept secret himself.
Divath Fyr has not used his creation to cure the diseased wretches in the Corprusarium. He has distributed it twice, and found it successful. But that was a year and a half ago now, and since then Dagoth Ur has been defeated and his blighted realm purged. There is no longer any threat of Corprus from the Red Mountain. Victims of the disease are no longer plentiful and disposable to Ser Divath; they have become an endangered species, a dying breed. To cure them would be to eradicate them, and make his long years of toil meaningless. And so in the past year he has extended the vaults below Tel Fyr and collected every last remaining Corprus victim on Vvardenfell – almost a hundred, and each as precious to him as a diamond.
During the last four months, Divath Fyr has achieved another milestone in his experimentation. He has known, of course, for a long time now that not all the symptoms of Corprus are a hindrance. Greatly advanced strength, speed and endurance, for example, or immunity to all other diseases. Two days ago he perfected an elixir that infects the drinker with Corprus; a refined Corprus that contains only the benefits of the disease, dismissing the unnatural growth of the body and the pain it causes. Two days ago he turned Corprus into a blessing instead of a curse, and now he has decided to test it.
He has upwards of twenty samples of the elixir. He decides he will run a trial on one of his Corprus victims, and if all goes well, drink the elixir himself.
He is surprised, therefore, that upon reaching his cabinet, every single one of the sample phials is missing.
“Master?”
He turns to find his daughter standing in the doorway.
“Delte, have you or any of the other girls tampered with my cabinet?”
She looks puzzled. “No, we know not to go near your experiments. Master, has your visitor been and gone already?”
He pauses. “Visitor?”
“The man in the black robe. The slaves let him in a few minutes ago. He said he wished to speak to you.”
He tears his eyes away from the empty space in the cabinet slowly. “I have had no visitor…”
Both father and daughter heard the tinkle of a sample-phial and the drawing of a dagger too late.
As no-one knew about the Dwarf in the Corprusarium, no-one knew that he vanished later the same day. Fishermen and travellers who noticed an unusual lack of activity around Tel Fyr, or perhaps a faint wisp of red smoke drifting from its highest tower, would leave well alone. As explained, Telvanni mages like isolation.
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Three hundred leagues away, in the easternmost province of High Rock, an imposing castle thrusts its crumbling arms into the wilderness. No animals come close to the formidable structure. Fetid lichen hangs limply from the battlements, like broken wrists. The castle extends for many miles more underground than it does above, but the most interesting thing resides in the audience chamber only yards beyond the entrance: Nulfaga.
There was a time when the name of Nulfaga was familiar to everyone in High Rock, from the humblest of peasants to the three Royal Families. But time has passed, and Nulfaga is decrepit now, older than any Breton of her time, and her part in the history of the Illiac Bay is all but forgotten. As her senility grows her immense power becomes wayward, unchecked, unfocused. She now neither wants to nor has the means to hear news of the outside world, retreating instead into her own thoughts, which are themselves wayward and random.
So when the black-robed visitors arrived, saying they had come to take care of her, she did not object or send them away, thinking that King Gothryd must have finally remembered his grandmother and lavished some affection on her. The robed strangers were quiet and helpful, bringing her food, helping her out of her filthy rags and into clothes of good craftsmanship, keeping her company, easing her loneliness. They were her guardians and companions. In turn, she taught them secrets that ten years ago she would have died rather than revealed – but these strangers were so kind, and their curiosity so simple and innocent, that she found it a joy to teach them all she knew. As their curiosity grew she divulged her magical art with willingness and affection...
Not ever noticing the impenetrable seal that appeared on the castle door.
Or the increasingly dark nature of the knowledge her helpers sought of her.
She did not register the particular interest they had in Aetherius; the magic-plane, the twin of Oblivion, the external field of existence over which Nulfaga had almost complete knowledge and control. And as time went on and she came to rely more and more heavily on her charges, their influence over Aetherius grew as did their influence over her.
Nulfaga saw none of this. Her loneliness was no longer. She was the happiest she had ever been in her life.
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Back on Vvardenfell and a far cry from Shedungent in the Wrothgarian Mountains, the Tribunal god Vivec was in deep contemplation.
It was rare not to find Vivec in contemplation these days. Since the Heart of Lorkhan – the source of the Tribunal’s godhood – had been wantonly destroyed by the Nerevarine a year ago, his power was slowly but surely waning. How, it is difficult to say, for as no Dunmer but the Tribunal have ever become gods, naturally none of them could say what it would be like to stop being one.
It is impossible for a mortal to peruse the consciousness of an immortal. A mortal’s mind is not built for such a thing, and would instantly deteriorate. Some say this is how Nulfaga’s madness began to grow. But few Dunmer have ever heard of Nulfaga, and their interest lies only with their own gods. Certainly it was for this reason that the once-benevolent Almalexia fell to insanity, and for her subsequent tragic demise.
Vivec’s power would surely wane as time went on without the Heart. Would this mean that his mind would slowly again become mortal? If so, the inability to contain his remaining immortality would surely crumble his psyche. Perhaps it has already begun. Perhaps that was why, when the messengers arrived, he co-operated with them with less suspicion than he once would have. Vivec’s ability in magicka was no less potent since the destruction of the Heart, but his judgement of people was.
The black-robed figures stood quietly in the High Temple, silently watching the god. His huge liquid-like eyes were open, but he made no move to acknowledge them; in fact he made no move at all. The robed figures were patient; they waited.
Time passed. Something in the eyes of the god seemed to change – a subtle shift of consciousness, a flicker of recognition. Gradually, his head moved. He looked from one robed figure to another as one who has come out of a long sleep, disorientated.
He spoke slowly. “I did not summon you.”
The middle figure stood forward. “My Lord, we have been sent by the Archcanon Saryoni.”
There was no reply, only that wide, soft, golden-eyed gaze.
The middle figure continued. “We have dire need of the power and wisdom of our god. Your people are in grave peril. An enemy has come upon us.”
The god had almost slipped away from the conversation, they could tell, but he came back little by little at the last words of the robed figure.
“An… enemy?”
“Your people call you, my Lord. They have dire need of your skill. Will you come with us, and aid them in their hour of greatest need?”
A spark glinted in the god’s eyes. If nothing else, he had always been devoted to the welfare of those in his beloved city.
“Their hour of greatest need… Yes. Yes, I shall come. You will tell me the nature of this enemy on our way.”
The robed figures bowed low.
The Archcanon Saryoni himself discovered the absence of the god the following week. Confused and desperate, and possessing the rare knowledge that two of the Tribunal had already met untimely ends, he kept the disappearance to himself. He debated what to do by day, and drank large amounts of sujamma by night.
On to the first chapter