As I was firmly convinced of my daddy's wisdom and that he knew more about Riften than any dusty book or guildmaster, I told him of my intention and asked his opinion on the best way to travel there. Without a word, he seized my hand and hauled me into his study. There, Leif rummaged through a cobwebbed cabinet and brought forth a fat roll of parchment, which he unfolded upon the great desk in the middle of the chamber.

  "Here is a map of Skyrim, Elsie. I drew it myself, long, long ago—perhaps even before you were born. By the way, my daughter, you never told me your age!"

  "Oh, daddy, I'm five years old, and I love you dearly! Yet I'd love you even more if you'd give me a croissant and explain this map thing!" I said.

  I was bewildered, for I had seen maps before, but none such as this: it was carved into little windows—each marked with a letter and a number—cut into Skyrim's tough, stony hide, and cluttered with a multitude of roads, many of them drawn in dotted lines.

  "Well then, my little daughter, although a baby girl like you would not be allowed to leave the city—not even by the mercy of the sentries—I shall tell you the mysteries of this map. Only, you must keep them secret, for this is old, very old Dunmer wisdom; and even in Morrowind, those who know it are few and far between."

  Leif left me there, staring at the old parchment, and went to the kitchen. He returned with a croissant dipped in honey and a cup of milk. And then the lesson began.

  My daddy, with that sly sparkle in his old eyes, fetched yet another treasure from the cabinet—a weighty tome bound in cracked leather, its clasps green with verdigris. He set it beside the map as though unveiling a relic of the Tribunal itself.

  "This," he said, stroking the cover like one strokes a favored kitten, "is the atlas. The great book of the squares. This map is divided into measured squares, and each has its twin within these pages. Here, every hill, every stream, every blasted marsh or stubborn road is drawn as I saw it with mine own eyes, many years ago."

  "And you, my daughter," Leif continued, "when you stray beyond Whiterun's walls, you shall carry with you the copy of the squares that concern your journey. They are not to be kept as idle parchment in your satchel. No—your task is to amend them, to catch the rivers in their wandering, to mark the paths that men or beasts have trampled into the earth, to weigh the peaks of the hills and the mountains."

  I laughed, though not very bravely, for the thought of measuring mountains seemed a madman's errand. Yet I could not help but feel a thrill—like he had chosen me for some secret order, some silent guild whose craft was to steal the shape of the world itself and bind it in ink.

  "Now, Elsie, listen close, for this is no child's trick. When you wish to know the height of a mountain—or even a tower, if you're nosy enough—you do not climb it like a goat, nor beg some Nord bard to sing you its measure. No, you use Nirnometry."

  "Ah, I know Nirnometry, daddy! I learned it some years ago in... oh, never mind where!"

  Amazed, Leif fixed me with his stare, and I met it with the most innocent look I could summon.

  "I should have known—you are full of surprises, after all, Elsie! Then let it be simpler: take a stout staff, straight as an arrow, and taller than your nose. Plant it in the earth before you. Then step back and look: when its top aligns with the peak yonder, measure the distance between yourself and the staff. That little number, multiplied in the proper fashion, will whisper the mountain's true stature."

  "Or, if you'd rather play with strings, tie a stone to the end of a cord and let it dangle—a plumb-line. With it, you may reckon angles, though you must keep a steady hand, else you'll be measuring the dance of your own fingers."

  "And there is one more tool, old as Veloth's road: the quadrant. A simple quarter-circle of wood, with a sight at one edge and a cord that hangs from the center. Hold it to your eye, align the sight with the mountain's crown, and where the cord crosses the marks upon the arc, there you have your angle. From that, with a bit of reckoning, the mountain shall bow down and reveal its height to you."

  He said all this with the solemnity of a priest, then fell silent for a while, his mind wandering somewhere far beyond the candlelight. I leafed through the wonderful atlas he had brought; all the maps were meticulously drawn, filled with names of rivers and mountains, lakes and settlements. I was eager to find where Bjornby, the hamlet I had just ventured into with Aela, might be. I knew it lay somewhere near Falkreath, to the south, toward the slopes of the Jeralls, yet there was no such settlement on the great map. So I turned to the corresponding little windows in the atlas—but found nothing there either.

  Perplexed, I looked questioningly at my daddy.

  "Something wrong, my dear?" Leif asked.

  "Well, your map is not so good, daddy! Look—here, near Falkreath, a small village is missing..." I said with a smile.

  "What's its name?"

  "Bjornby."

  "Let's look in the glossary," Leif said, and flipped to the atlas's end. There were several pages listing all the towns upon the map, each followed by the number of its corresponding window.

  "Oh—it's not here either. So your Bjornby is not marked at all. You see, Elsie, this is your task: to add whatever new you may find, especially settlements. In Skyrim, many things may change over the centuries..."

  And then he taught me how to use the map's scale. I was amazed, and began to love this map business; when evening came, it found us both bent over the table, copying the little windows from around Riften, side by side in the flicker of the lamp.

  Later, my daddy went to rest, but I stayed until dawn, still drawing new maps—copying all the squares for the road toward Riften, via Darkwater Crossing.

  "Oh, Darkwater Crossing—what an interesting name..." I thought. Once more I understood that Skyrim is full of mysteries and beautiful beyonds—if only it weren't so cold!

  At last, I went to bed and slept until Courtney's crystalline, and far too loud, voice woke me:

  "No, Leif! She's used to working at night, believe me, old man! And she's had enough sleep!"

  "Courtney, I beg you, let her rest and come later..." I heard my daddy's whispered, worried voice.

  "Let her come, daddy! Anyway, you won't be able to get rid of her if she's set her mind to something!"

  I sighed in resignation and got out of bed. As always, it was a bit chilly for me; I stirred the embers in the stove before Courtney burst into my room, a very angry Leif following at her heels.

  "Ah, the golden-haired little Princess is still sleeping! Ha, get up, you lazy girl! I've prepared a feast in your honour at the Bannered Mare, and we have much to speak about! Better away from prying eyes and curious ears!" she said, darting a look at Leif.

  "No! My daddy is the most trustworthy man in this world, and I have no secrets from him!" I yelled, very angry. But at once I shut my mouth, because that was another lie.

  Ah, lies! I lie often and like to lie, I like it very much, but sometimes life grows complicated this way—especially when very dear persons are involved... I felt bad. And worse still, Nocturnal spoke very seriously in my mind:

  "Why are you tormenting yourself? You will not be able to overcome your nature, Elsie..."

  Oh—She named me Elsie! My Mistress rarely does that, and only in sad moments...

  Then I heard Leif's tender voice:

  "Go, daughter, if you wish. Go and have fun!"

  And turning toward Courtney:

  "I'm not curious about your petty secrets anyway, girl!"

  "They are not petty secrets, old man! You'll see about that!" my dear friend laughed triumphantly.

  On the way to the Bannered Mare, Courtney asked me if this "silly joke" with "daddy" and "daughter" was a serious thing. I told her, "Yes, it's dead serious, Courtney, and I'd kindly ask you to have the grace to behave yourself around Leif!"

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  That made her laugh with tears, and she said it was my own business if I liked being treated like a small girl, but she, personally, "would never be able to overcome her nature!"

  I frowned and stared long into her eyes—those were Nocturnal's words, not hers!

  Courtney is a smart girl and enjoys reading occasionally, but she's never been one for fine psychological analyses!

  In any case, she must have thought I was angry with her, because she quickly drew me into her arms and whispered:

  "For your sake, I'll try, Elsie. This is a promise."

  Once we reached that expensive inn, I was astonished to find my friend had rented the bridal suite! And there, upon the huge dining table, stood platters full of oranges and other exotic fruits as well as bottles of fine wine from the vineyards on the hills around Anvil.

  "Ah, did you inherit somebody, Court? What's this?" I asked.

  She burst out laughing, then pulled a heavy bag of septims and silver coins from her belt.

  "No, my dear, but I've got here the dough from Riften! That's what I wanted to talk about. I'm telling you, Riften is a stinking treasure! Oh, Elsie, that filthy city is Bravil in miniature—and would you believe it even has a Temple of Mara?"

  And then she went on describing Riften's docks, the smugglers from Morrowind and Cyrodiil, the "dance halls," the gambling dens, and all the other delights we had once known so well in Bravil.

  "Only," she added with another burst of laughter, "they've got there the most inept branch of the Thieves Guild you could ever imagine!"

  This was good news—too good to be entirely true, though. It was hard for me to imagine that such a source of wealth was not already controlled and drained by someone. And since Courtney spoke of the Guild's weakness, somebody or something else must surely be in control of the underground, or edge-of-the-law life in Riften.

  Regardless, my resolve to head there as soon as possible was strengthened, and I told my friend that, as soon as she felt up to it, we would go.

  Of course, brave as she is, Courtney said, "Tomorrow!" But I told her first I must finish my "map business." Then I explained the whole thing, and—believe it or not—this time she did not laugh. On the contrary, my friend said she would very much like to learn more about this "so interesting and useful thing."

  I remembered then, with a pinch of nostalgia, our days in Cheydinhal, when I taught Courtney to read, and she learned astonishingly fast. Oh, we were so happy back then! And Rasha was still alive, safe, sound, and strong... I shed a few tears, and Courtney understood immediately where my thoughts had wandered; she patted me on the head and kissed me, then poured more of that sparkling wine from a faraway land—a land where my brother's body lay buried; a realm that held the ashes of my mothers: Kiersten, Shaira, and Alisanne; and where, above all, Her majestic cathedral from Bravil still stood.

  All those thoughts gave me the idea to speak with my daddy about a map of Cyrodiil—though I did not truly know why I should need one. After all, I had fled from the Imperial lands as far as I could, and there a long-pronounced death sentence awaited me, along with a more recent bounty of five thousand septims on my head, placed by the Duchess Nephatah Indorys.

  Then Hulda, the inn's owner, and her waitresses brought us the appetizers, and soon after, Ysolda—who knows quite everything that happens in Whiterun—poked her pretty head through the door and asked, seemingly shy, if she might have a word with me.

  That, of course, made me immediately invite her to our table, and the three of us soon chatted merrily about all sorts of funny trifles.

  But when Courtney, who had started to warm up from the wine, began again to sing the praises of Riften—and she did that a lot—Ysolda's eyes turned sharp and attentive, her smile faltered, and a quiet anxiety crept over her face, one she tried her best to hide.

  That made me terribly curious. Though I smelled the possibility of a good business, I didn't press her; besides, I doubt I could have learned much anyway, for Ysolda is clever, and her tongue is better guarded than the vault of Dragonsreach.

  Meanwhile, Courtney's many friends from The Drunken Huntsman started arriving one by one, and soon our party grew loud and merry. Even that insufferable, conceited bard, Mikael the womanizer, came to sing us a few of his songs, which, in our state, seemed to us to be sung very well indeed, and with much feeling!

  At some point, Ysolda rose, kissed Courtney and me on the cheeks, and slipped away, saying she was very busy that evening.

  And so we feasted happily until late in the night. Then I woke up in the morning in Courtney's arms, with a terrible headache and a great nausea churning in my guts.

  But Hulda, wise woman that she is, brought us weak beer, sauerkraut juice, and black bread. Soon enough, I was able to stumble back to Breezehome, where my daddy greeted me with a knowing smile—and where a soft bed awaited me in the room warmed by a cheerful fire roaring in the stove.

  In the following days, I prepared for the long-awaited journey to Riften—the city my Mistress Nocturnal had first advised me to seek.

  I replenished my stock of bolts and darts, and my daddy took my armour once more to Adrianne, asking her to sew a special pocket inside, right near the heart.

  "This is the place for maps and documents, Elsie!" he said proudly when he brought the jacket back.

  Documents... hm. That reminded me of Lord Ulfric's salvconduct—the one Gerdur had written, and he had signed and stamped with his signet ring. I ran to my room, brought it, and showed it to Leif.

  The look on his face was priceless; I nearly choked laughing when he said he would not be surprised to hear, one day, that I was at least some long-lost heir to a ducal crown. I told him plainly that I had lived most of my life in the gutter, and was probably born in a sewer—oh, I did not know how close to the truth that was! In any case, Leif said such a parchment was invaluable in this part of Skyrim, for Windhelm was a closed city, always under martial law.

  "And I have there an old acquaintance," he said, "an Altmer woman named Niranye—worth knowing, Elsie. If you ever go to Windhelm, seek her in the city's great market."

  Apart from that, my daddy gave me a letter addressed to a certain Delvin—Delvin Mallory of Riften—"one of the best in our profession," as he put it.

  I also refilled my flask with a healing potion brewed from poppy seed and... well, that's enough for now, because this is a very secret recipe and involves a bit of magic too. I also poisoned two darts with a narcotic substance—as usual, nothing more.

  When the moment of departure came, Lydia handed me a bag full of supplies and, to my surprise, gripped my hand firmly.

  "Take care, my lady," she said.

  My dear daddy gifted me a long cloak of bear fur, with a fox collar and a great hood and so, on a bright and beautiful morning, Courtney and me set out along the wide road beside the White River—a trail that would lead us close to Darkwater Crossing, and, beyond it, into the Rift, the Gilded Vale of Skyrim, where, in my burning imagination, Riften gleamed like a giant gem waiting to be plucked. By me!

  This was the first true, long separation between my daddy and me. And while I did not give it the importance it deserved, Leif was deeply moved—and perhaps even a little worried. Much later, I found a touching letter lost among his maps and manuscripts. It was the kind of letter written by a heart too full and sad and not meant to be sent. For its sentimental value, I will quote it below:

  My dearest Elsie,

  When you left this morning, the house fell silent as if Whiterun itself were holding its breath. Even the stove, that old friend of ours, burns more slowly now.

  I watched you from the window, your cloak of fur bright in the sun, your steps light and certain. You walk as though Nocturnal Herself guards your heels—and perhaps She does, though I would rather it were I.

  I have seen many pupils go seeking fortune, and some not return. But you are not like them, my daughter. You carry curiosity like a lantern, and that light will guide you through any shadow— though it may also draw things that feed on light. Remember that.

  Maps can tell where roads end, but they do not show where hearts wait. Mine will wait here, in Breezehome, among the dust and my scrolls, until your steps echo again on the stone streets of Whiterun.

  Go with both courage and cunning—and may the Unnamed God forgive an old Dunmer for loving too much one not of his kin.

  Your daddy,

  Leif.

  The lands to the east and south of Whiterun are fertile—at least by the standards of this austere country of mountains and cold wind. There stretch wide fields of that reddish mountain wheat, short in stalk yet crowned with heavy ears, and among them graze herds of cattle and shaggy goats. Near the bed of the White River, the people tend neat vegetable gardens and practice a most curious kind of husbandry, unlike anything I have ever seen elsewhere in Tamriel. I shall perhaps describe it in detail another time, for it might be of use to folk dwelling in cold and stony realms, but for now, let it suffice to say that the granary of Whiterun could easily feed half of Skyrim.

  Not far from the city lies a prosperous meadery—Honningbrew, one of only two in all of Skyrim. It stands amid a vast field of beehives, where the air hums and throbs with the sound of countless wings. The buzzing is almost deafening, and the local bees themselves are creatures most fierce: large, golden, and quick to anger, as though the very temper of the North had taken flight upon their backs. I could not help but think that these bees, too, would make fine soldiers in time of war—unyielding, stinging, and loyal only to their hive!

  The roads about Whiterun are broad and well kept—paved with granite slabs in places, and guarded by sentries and customs officers who know the worth of a toll. A wise and profitable custom, this "fee for safe passage," for the highways swarm with caravans from Hammerfell, High Rock, and Cyrodiil. Many of them look upon Whiterun as a promised land, for it is the beating heart of Skyrim's trade.

  Ah, the spices and silks, the perfumes and trinkets from faraway lands—all find eager buyers here: Nords with a taste for southern finery, or merchants clever enough to buy in bulk and send their wares farther north at thrice the price. And when the caravans depart again, their wagons groan under other riches: precious furs and pelts, the sweet mead of Honningbrew, amber from the ghostly shores of the northern sea—and, of course, a few tusks of mammoth ivory, discreetly tucked beneath the tarpaulins. A small sin, perhaps... but a profitable one.

  At the bridge over the White River, the last sentries greeted us and wished us a safe and peaceful journey. Then Courtney and I passed beyond the city's reach, into the wilds—or what folk call wilds, though in truth they still lie within the bounds of Whiterun Hold and under Earl Balgruf's weary protection. In those days, the earls were often too lazy and too poor—a pair of conditions that, while not always bound together, are old companions nonetheless. So the lands beyond the walls were often left to fend for themselves, haunted by roving bands of brigands and Imperial deserters, and by the inevitable, quarrelsome beasts of Skyrim.

  And so, we walked on—two specks upon the wide road, our laughter mingling with the sigh of the wind and the distant song of the river. The city of Whiterun sank behind us, wrapped in its morning haze, and ahead stretched the long, uncertain ribbon of the world.

  I remember thinking then that the road is a strange creature: it promises freedom and fortune, yet it never tells you where it truly leads. It goes ever onward, turning and twisting, carrying you into places you never meant to find—and perhaps, if you are unlucky or perchance lucky enough, into the very heart of yourself.