Wy-Naught and Her Own Good
Read with illustrations here!
The land of Morrowind was once remarkable in having both a bleeding mountain and its own miniature moon, but just before Wy was born the moon fell and the mountain exploded. Now it is remarkable only for being very bruised. It coughed more than it bled, after the administration of the moon’s truth, and this unhealthy breath curled around the world, sealing it in snow and fog that lasted until Wy turned nine in the College of Winterhold. Then green sprang up between the cold-hammered cobblestones, having heard that the Red Winter was broken at last, and the last ship of Dunmer set sail from the College to search for friends and family in Morrowind.
Unlike the green and the winds, which were just vaguely nice, this leaving actually mattered. The city’s starry-browed king sent word from his Hoarfrosted Hall that there was to be a census of all in his holding, and so the charcoal monks of Julianos descended from their furnaces and went out among the people to administer truthful record of all that they found. And that is why a monk interrupted Wy’s history lessons with the other parent-free elf-spawn almost – but not quite – in time.
With a great BLIM BLAM, Urag’s ebon hammer came down upon Wy’s essay, making sure that she was wrong.
“I do not know what you have been reading, Wylandriah,” the orc growled, “but I assure you that Reman the First did not reign for 217 years.”
Our winter-withered transplant wilted in her seat, watching the red ink bleed across the page. “But – but he was immortal as long as –“ she began, but Urag interrupted her swiftly.
“Can anyone tell Wy what did last 217 years?” A chubby Dunmer boy raised a dark hand. “Savos?” Urag invited.
“The entire Reman Dynasty, sir. Reman the First took the throne of Cyrodiil after the battle of Pale Pass and ruled for only 59 years. His sons took over after that.”
“That is correct,” Urag approved, but just then a knock sounded at the door and a monk stepped into the tiny tower classroom. A charcoal triangle smudged his forehead, and beefy arms bulged from his habit’s shorn sleeves.
“Children, form a line,” Urag commanded promptly, turning on his heel and striding to the front of the room. “The Rune-Writer will record you for the census now. Brother,” he greeted shortly.
The monk nodded stiffly. “Salutations, Librarian. Hello, children.”
There was something funny about him. He stood too still, and the tattoos scribing his skin were blank black instead of the normal woad.
“The King has commanded a true record be made of all those living in and around Winterhold,” he explained as the class scraggled into a line. “Ordinarily we do not survey the juveniles, but as your parents are absent and the College does not seem to keep comprehensive records on the issue of its members, we must make exceptions. Still, I will truncate the inquiry.”
He unrolled a sheaf of pale paper and removed a sliver of charcoal from a case at his waist, then looked expectantly at the front of the line.
“Name?” he asked the plump Dunmer boy.
“Savos Aren, sir,” he said.
“Age?”
“Eight and a half.”
“Parents?”
“Andila and Iranu Aren, of House Telvanni, sir.”
“Occupations?”
“Researchers and teachers here at the College, sir.”
“And where are they now?”
Savos shifted his feet. “In Morrowind, sir, taking… care of my grandfather.”
“Very good; you may sit.” He scribbled off a flourish. “Next!”
One by one, he made record of the left-behind dark elves, slicing charcoal across the bright sheet. Wy peeked out from the back of the line, watching his hands. They seemed to suck soot straight from his charcoal, blackening ominously the more he wrote. He even paused halfway through to wipe them clean, but moments later they were blood-black again.
Wy was still staring at them, fascinated, when her turn came. Savos had to poke her to snap her transfixion.
“What is your name?” asked the monk severely, frowning.
“Um, my – oh, Wy- Wylandriah.”
“And what is your surname?”
“Er – well, it isn’t, is it?”
“Excuse me?”
“It is not, sir,” Wy repeated, more clearly, thinking he was rather deaf.
The monk shook his head. “Elves,” he muttered. “Very well, ‘Wylandriah Not’ it is. Age?”
“Nine, for a bit.”
“Parents?”
She shook her head, and Urag spoke up. “I look after her, Rune-Writer.”
The muscled monk raised an eyebrow, but then merely nodded and rolled up the paper. “That concludes this census, then,” he announced, peering blackly around at them. “Truth rule you.” And he left, copper-nailed boots ticking away.
“And you lot,” Urag grumbled, waving a hand at the class as he sank behind his desk. “Except you and you,” he amended, jabbing a cedar-grained fingernail at Wy and Savos.
“Is there something wrong, Mister Librarian?” Savos asked anxiously as the rest of the class drained from the room. “Did I make a mistake in my essay?”
“And what about me?” Wy inserted. “I haven’t done nonsense!”
The Orc shook his shaggy mane. “There are two of you,” he rumbled when the rest of the class had gone, “but only one problem. You both know things you shouldn’t. Savos, have you been using symbolic snares on the wildlife?”
The Dunmer blinked and began to answer, but Wy gasped. “Oooh, I’ve read about those! That’s where you trap some spirit in a bit of pattern or –“ She gasped again, this time because Savos had stepped hard on her toes.
Urag’s bushy eyebrows wriggled up his forehead. “Worse than I thought with you, it seems. As it always does. Savos?”
“Did Hafnar tell you that, sir?” the Dunmer asked earnestly. “I thought he overheard Bralsa and I talking, but I never said I had actually tried it. I really haven’t, sir.” The boy stared innocently into Urag’s eyes.
The librarian scoffed. “You shouldn’t even know about them.”
“Yes sir, it’s just… my grandmother sort of teaches me whatever she wants. I can’t help it.”
“Your grandmother is not here, unless I have been gravely misinformed.”
Savos shook his head. “Yes sir, she is dead. I have her teeth here, see?” He pulled a necklace of engraved teeth from under his robes. “She likes to look after me, whispering advice down the Hollow Hall. It’s a Dunmer thing.”
“Then in that case you are absolved,” Urag grunted, and favored the boy with a rare smile. “But do not attempt anything your teachers have not expressly allowed.”
Savos bobbed his head. “I’ll be sure to remember that, sir.”
“Good,” the librarian replied, then turned to Wy. “And you, wild girl?” Surprised, she froze in mid-swish of her robes. “How do you know of the more fanciful interpretations of Reman Cyrodiil’s life and times, mm?”
“I… I read it in a book, of course.”
“You read it in a book you had to steal a key to open,” Urag completed, and held out a green palm. A tiny key zoomed out of Wy’s wild hair, tugging her head down by its securing string.
“When I told you to read anything you wanted,” Urag said as he unfastened the knot, “it should have been clear that locked books at least require individual permission.”
Wy scowled, rubbing her head. “They don’t though. That’s just you saying it; I can say the opposite. Who could tell the difference?”
“Anyone,” Urag replied shortly. “Because you saying it does not make it true. What book did you find, by the way?”
“The… Remanada,” Wy answered shiftily.
“It had better have been. There are some things that little girls just shouldn’t read, for their own protection. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” sulked the said little girl. “I understand that you get to decide what’s right and true just because I’m too little to stop you.”
“Oh, out with your saucy tongue!” the Orc snorted suddenly, pushing Wy toward the door. “Savos, your homework is to teach this animal how to not be a snot. Go on, and I swear if I find you’ve stolen another key I’ll alter you a new nose. Go!”
The door clipped shut behind them, and Wy set off in a trounced flounce down the stairs, her echoing grumbles gruff as her Uncle’s.
“Blimey, you need parents,” marveled Savos as he followed.
Wy shoved him into a window well. “You shut up! I don’t need parents or anyone telling me what to do or not do!”
“Duh,” the boy answered, shoving her back. “You need them so you’ll learn how to manage grown-ups. Because you are so bad at it.”
“See, Wy, here’s how it is,” he went on, putting his arm through hers and ignoring her suspicious glances. “Grown-ups are twice as big, twice as strong, and twice as mean as us. The only thing they’re not is twice as smart, but they sure think they are. That’s the trick to keeping them in line: they think we’re all little idiots, so tell them what they want to hear and then do exactly what you want where they can’t see.”
“You – what?”
“It’s like symbol snares,” Savos went on. “You put them on things weaker than you to make them do or be what you want. Grown-ups try it on us all the time with their rules and facts and their good, bad, goodbadgoodbad. Get wrapped up in too many of their traps, and, well, you start thinking that’s who you are. Like being forced to wear a mask so long you forget it’s not really you. That’s what they want, of course. They want us to wear their rules by choice.”
“They do seem to think it’s their job to control us,” agreed Wy.
“Yeah, but like I said it’s not very smart to just rebel. They’re bigger than us. You’ve gotta look like you’re doing what they want, like their snares are part of you. You know how it goes, ‘Finish your scrib jelly, Savos, there are starving slaves downstairs who might eat your leftovers,’ and if you argue, well, ‘We are your parents and we have no need of your theory.’” But they’re ALL so crazy for feeding us that if you just eat the wording of their rules and spit out the meaning, they can’t even tell the difference.”
“I get it.” They stepped off the spiraling stairs and into an empty corridor lined with bubbling wells of light. “So… I guess your grandmother didn’t actually teach you all that?”
“’Course she did!” laughed Savos. “But not through the Hollow Hall! I nicked one of her notebooks from my parents before they left.”
“But you told Uncle that she whispered it to you!”
“Didn’t either! That’s just what you both wanted to hear. That’s the other thing: don’t lie unless you have to. A twisty truth is always stronger.”
Wy gasped, and grabbed his sleeve. “Then you – you said you hadn’t tried the spell, not that you hadn’t succeeded, didn’t you?! You did do it!”
“’Course,” the boy answered, and flashed a lacquered playing card from his pocket, upon which the image of a spider shifted eerily. “And Tedril and Dalam have got a viper and a chaurus larva. We’re gonna duel them in the basement. Want to come watch?”
Wy hesitated. “We found J’Skar’s moon sugar stash,” he added slyly.
“Sweet mama Malacath,” she whispered, “show me the way!”
And the giggling criminals sauntered away picking up on the feline beat of rulers, ruling all things.