Passing through the door and the long, narrow corridor beyond it, the four of them entered a broad, enclosed burial chamber, its walls lined with upright Nordic stone sarcophagi. The air was cold and damp. From the ceiling hung a thick growth of hanging moss, forming a dark green dome overhead, like an upside-down forest.
The drooping moss made it hard to see ahead. Onmund swung his hand-axe in front of him, chopping a path through it.
"This might be Saarthal's common graveyard," Brelyna said, lifting her conjured mage-light high and keeping Skyl behind her.
J'zargo poked his head forward and sniffed. "Mm. The air is fresh. There is wind. This place is connected to the outside. There must be a hidden passage somewhere."
As they wandered about the chamber, Skyl suddenly felt something wrong, like that disorienting moment when you wake up from an afternoon nap and realize it's somehow already dark outside.
It was as if time had been stolen.
His instincts told him that something had happened. In those past few dozen seconds, something must have happened—but he had no memory of it at all.
He didn't dismiss the absurd sensation as an illusion. Instead, he keenly realized that a monk of the Psijic Order had just paid them a visit, stopping time with Psijic magic. In that frozen instant, one of the four of them—or perhaps several of them—had spoken with that Psijic monk while the world stood still.
"Did you feel it?" Skyl asked quietly.
Onmund and J'zargo both nodded. "It's strange. I feel a little dizzy."
Only Brelyna remained silent.
"Maryon, what about you?"
"I feel a little dizzy too."
Skyl gave her a long, searching look. Brelyna pressed her lips together and met his gaze with calm, steady eyes.
Bang.
The most nerve-racking sound one could hear in a tomb rang out—the thump of coffin lids being flung open. When the ancient Nords buried their dead, they often placed the warriors' weapons in the tomb with them. This was partly a mark of honor… and partly so that when the dead woke up, they could grab their weapons and chop up any grave robbers on the spot.
"To arms!" Onmund cried, which only served to wake up every last draugr in the coffins.
In an instant, the once-silent chamber was filled with a chorus of booming crashes as coffin lids slammed to the floor. Onmund's ancient ancestors hauled out their grave-goods weapons and came crowding over, apparently eager to crack open the skulls of these little punks with their big axes.
For some reason, Onmund caught a bout of warrior fever. He lifted his battle-axe high over his head and addressed his ancestors with solemn reverence.
"Spirits of Saarthal! Honored ancestors of we Nords! Today, I shall, with the honor of a warrior, grant you rest. May your souls find peace in Sovngarde—"
Before he could finish, Skyl raised his hand and chained together Copying Charm, Summoning Charm, and Ice Spike into one massive icicle barrage. A storm of ice shards shot out, pinning all the draugr closing in on them to the walls. A few that had only just opened their lids were nailed right where they lay, arms and legs flailing uselessly as they struggled in place.
"Uh…?"
The barbarian-mage was left speechless.
J'zargo let out a low, delighted chuckle. "Onmund, you really do think of yourself as a warrior, huh?"
"Hey! They're not your Khajiit ancestors lying in those coffins."
As more coffins cracked open, a hidden passage behind one of them was revealed. Skyl had been planning to finish off all the draugr here, but J'zargo suggested they could stash them away and sell them at a high price to any necromancers looking for practice material.
"The Tower of Tomes does not accept junk," Skyl said, eyeing him warily.
"Exactly. And you want to sell my ancestors for coin—have you even considered my feelings as a Nord?"
"I'll give you thirty percent of the cut."
"All right, it's a deal!"
Skyl rewarded them both with a punch each. "Don't even think about bringing this rubbish into the Tower of Tomes. You'll only make the Lord of the High Tower angry."
J'zargo could only raise both hands in surrender.
As they delved deeper, they realized the Saarthal ruins were far larger than they'd imagined, and littered with tomb chambers. Each chamber held dozens, even hundreds, of warrior corpses. Most had not yet turned into draugr, so real corpses and undead guardians were all mixed together. Sometimes they would walk past a corpse standing in a wall niche, and it would suddenly awaken and lunge for a sneak attack on Skyl and the others from behind.
It wasn't exactly dangerous—but it was very, very creepy.
The air in the tombs was thick with strange smells that made you sick to your stomach if you breathed them too long. The chill and damp seeped into your bones. If any of the College's elderly professors came down here, they'd probably develop rheumatism in under half a minute.
Compared to the excavation work they'd done on the surface, exploring Saarthal's underground section was even more time-consuming than Skyl had expected.
"Looks like we're not finishing this today. Let's rest for the night."
"Master Skyl, can we sleep in the Tower of Tomes?" J'zargo asked, hands clasped together.
"…Fine. But don't stay up all night again," Skyl warned.
Ever since the day Onmund had sniffed out the entertainment Skyl had hidden away, he'd been addicted to the old red-and-white game console, and J'zargo's favorite thing was the pachinko machine. Thankfully, they still had enough scholarly self-discipline not to let games delay serious business.
Once Skyl opened the portal, Onmund and J'zargo bolted through like game-addicted teenagers. Brelyna lingered just outside the doorway.
"What's wrong?"
The dark elf mage seemed to be holding something back. She turned to look at Skyl and was just about to speak—
When that same warped sensation crashed over him again. Skyl frowned. These Psijic monks, leaning on their superior magic to pass messages right in front of him and sow discord. Once wasn't enough, they had to do it again?
Brelyna's expression shifted subtly.
"What's wrong?" Skyl asked again.
"Nothing. I just think it's necessary to leave someone outside to stand watch."
"You want to stay out here? In this place?"
"Yes."
"Want me to keep you company?"
"That would be perfect," Brelyna replied, eyes half-closed in a smile.
Skyl and Brelyna pitched a tent in the clammy tomb and laid out a permanent Circle of Repulsion around it. Restoration magic often came from imitating divine miracles, and this circle converted magicka into the divine power of the Daedric Prince Meridia, who loathed all undead in any form. Her wrath made any undead that stepped into the array's radius suffer unbearable burning pain.
To keep their time flows synchronized, Skyl left the portal open. After a while, J'zargo stuck his head through and asked why they still hadn't come in.
"We're keeping watch out here."
"But…" J'zargo was baffled. From the outside world's point of view, passing a night in the Tower of Tomes took only an eyeblink—what was the point of standing watch?
Onmund hurried over, grabbed him, and dragged him back inside. "Don't say it, don't say it. Come play Contra. Khajiit should keep their noses out of elf-and-human business."
Skyl said he would take the first watch. Before Brelyna crawled into her sleeping bag, she suddenly muttered, as if talking to herself, "Sometimes the road doesn't necessarily lead where you think it does."
"What?"
Brelyna buried her face in the sleeping bag and pretended she hadn't heard a thing.
Inside the Tower of Tomes, Onmund sprawled on the couch, working the controller. At some point, the clatter of pachinko balls had gone silent.
"Master J'zargo, where are you going?"
"To sleep."
Onmund put down the controller. "Then let's squeeze together tonight."
The Khajiit mage was silent for a moment. Then he nodded, wordlessly.
On both sides of the portal, everything fell quiet. The old console played its game music to an empty room. A cold wind blew through the tomb.
Around midnight, Skyl sat on an ancient stone sarcophagus and took out his fork-wand, gripping it in his hand as he walked, step by step, toward Brelyna Maryon's sleeping bag.
He stopped a short distance away, and in the end, slowly lowered the wand.
Onmund opened his eyes and rose quietly from the couch—only to find a dagger, glittering coldly, pressed against his throat.
"Master J'zargo?"
"Tell J'zargo—what are you going to do?"
"Don't be stupid, Master J'zargo," Onmund said softly.
"So it's not just J'zargo. Onmund has met the Psijics too. What did the Psijics say to Onmund?"
"The same thing they said to you."
"Lies. Onmund wants to betray Master Skyl. J'zargo will kill Onmund for Master Skyl."
The dagger flashed, its cold edge slicing suddenly across.
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