Chapter 1 – The Lady In Red
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In the waning light of the 5th of First Seed 3E429, someone in Mournhold brought a glass of wine to her lips, deep in thought.
The wine was good; a heavy, fragrant red. The Dunmer had plenty of native drinks – beer brewed from fermented saltrice, or the potent bitter sujamma – but the Royal Princess Morgiah had taken to red wine during her abidance in Wayrest, and her appreciation of it hadn’t lessened since she arrived in Morrowind.
The room Morgiah was occupying was more a study than anything else. Bookshelves lined the walls. A comfortable chair flanked an ornately carved desk piled high with documents, correspondence and publishing, at the top of which was the latest issue of Mournhold’s controversial political newspaper, the Common Tongue. The headline emblazoned, “IMPERIAL VISITOR TULIUS CICERO MISSING FOR OVER A MONTH – CITIZENS SUSPECT FOUL PLAY!”
The Common Tongue was notoriously melodramatic.
Another issue could be seen, one corner poking out from beneath the pile. The visible words read, 'Helseth… most subtle poisoner… by all accounts, King Llethlan died a natural death…' This particular issue was not usually available for common viewing, having been banned and every copy burned a year before. But no guard would ever dream of carrying out a search in HRH Morgiah’s private chambers.
Morgiah had not been in Morrowind very long, though her stay was indefinite. The circumstances of her arrival were not pressed upon, it being vaguely known among the court that she had recently been widowed from a High Elven king, somewhere in Summurset Isle. It was only natural that she should want to come back to live among her kin, and, grief-stricken, seek solace and sanctuary in the company of her brother, King Helseth.
But the woman who now sat training a knife-sharp gaze over the latest Common Tongue looked anything but grief-stricken. You could almost see the information being filed and memorised, the ticking behind the eyes of a mind that was not to be miscalculated...
The truth was, Morgiah had a lot on her mind. She had never expected her reunion with Helseth to be unrestrainedly joyful, although she genuinely took pleasure from seeing him again. But though they had been apart for more than a decade, and that Helseth and herself could never be deemed close in any familial sense of the word, she was no less adept at seeing through him than she was in their childhood. Something was amiss. Something was wrong.
She couldn’t quite put a finger on it. She was aware of the fact that through her long absence, Helseth had grown and changed. She was aware that she would have to understand and familiarise herself with those changes in his character before she could properly trust her judgement on him again. But she was also aware that though time passes, people are always people, and deep down they change little. Helseth would never fully be a mystery to her. Furthermore, she suspected that he was avoiding her for this very reason. That was just one of the things that had sparked a tiny warning-signal in her mind.
He was up to something.
She was moving around the study in what a casual observer might call almost a distracted way, gliding along the bookshelves, stopping here, checking a file of documents there, sometimes merely pausing as if lost in thought. But the clear, concentrated force in her gaze was enough by itself to destroy any pretence of diversion. In her left palm she held something; a pale green jewel or stone, and she was rolling it lightly between her fingers, almost like a conjuror playing a coin-trick…
She stopped for a moment, attention focused on a volume on the highest shelf. Slowly, she pulled it out, sat in the chair, let it fall open on her lap. The gold lettering on the spine read Altmer, Society And Progression.
Then suddenly her head drooped, the book fell a little sideways even as she looked at it; all at once she looked like what she really was, which was younger than expected, and tired. Her fingers gripped the velvet chair hard, hard enough for the smooth grey to turn pale at the knuckles.
Barely a few seconds had passed before she was on her feet again, the book replaced and her demeanour fine and clear, calm and calculated. It was late; she would think more tomorrow. Smoothing her skirts, she cast a critical eye over the piles of documentation on the desk, and tried to return them to some semblance of order. Satisfied, she pushed the chair neatly under the table, the chain of the green gem wound about her fingers.
She left, closing the study door quietly behind her.
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It was almost sunset, clouds on the horizon making the colour hazy, and a figure was climbing the many steps that led to the huge doors of the High Palace of Vivec.
The figure was not a pilgrim, that much was immediately clear. Pilgrims walked slowly, with reverence. They stopped many times to take in the spectacular view, the beauty of the palace. They trod the sacred stones with the quiet restrained respect they deserved, attentive to every detail.
There was certainly nothing slow or reverent about this figure’s movement. It clumped up the stairs diligently; flippantly, almost. Halfway up it paused to shift an enormous blunt warhammer from one shoulder to the other, then carried on almost cheerfully.
When it reached the heavy doors of the upper palace it stopped, swinging the hammer down to the side idly with one hand, fumbling in a leather satchel-bag with the other. Any Dunmer would have recognised in less than a minute that this was not one of their own; a manner so different to their own quiet, sharp, intense demeanour. But however alien it was, it would certainly be recognised by any inhabitant of Vvardenfell; after all, they were not likely to forget the person who had destroyed the enemy of their temple, and purged their land of the Blight disease.
Finally, triumphantly locating the correct key amid hoards of junk and pushing it into the lock, the Nerevarine shoved open the door and stepped carefreely inside.
And stopped at once, utterly still, all remnants of geniality gone in a moment. The hammer no longer swung idly from one hand, but was held out at an angle, steady and perfectly balanced. Because the room was empty. The dais was cold and deserted. There should have been someone there, and there wasn’t.
The god was gone.
The Nerevarine stood quite still, eyes scanning the room from a helmeted face. Then, with a swish and creak of armour, the door banged and the palace was empty once more.
The god is gone! The god is gone!
The dusk light fell over the cantons of Vivec as the figure of the Nerevarine clattered back down the steps, across the High Fane, away to the north, lost to sight behind St Olm’s in minutes.
The god is gone! The god is gone!
The sunset caught the pinnacle of the temple, twinkling innocently.
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“You’re avoiding her.”
Helseth looked up from his meal, startled. “I’m sorry?”
The King of Mournhold was taking his evening meal with his mother, in the relative solitude of the Northern flank of the castle. In the year of late they had rarely dined together, and in a lull of the hectic calendar of the city, the precious opportunity was taken at once.
The Queen Mother Barenziah’s gaze rested steadily on him, shrewd and penetrating. “Your sister,” she clarified. “You’ve hardly seen her since her return. I wonder why?”
Helseth pressed his lips together, suppressing an outward show of discomfort. It was true that he had not made an overt effort to approach Morgiah; indeed, even for the estranged siblings they were, their recent lack of contact was not merely unusual – it was odd. But Helseth had his own reasons for his behaviour. Curling his fingers under the table in frustration, he controlled the expression on his face with practised dedication. It was disconcerting enough to know that his mother’s eagle eye was trained on his doings in Mournhold, but Morgiah as well? Helseth liked his business to be his own, and was exceptionally good at enforcing this regarding anyone but the two female members of his immediate family.
Helseth admired and respected Barenziah. He loved her, in his own calculating way. He would much rather that she were here in Mournhold with the respect she deserved, instead of back in Wayrest in the presence of his hated half-sister, Elysana. However the fact remained that Helseth reigned by his own rule, and preferred to keep certain things known only to him. And his mother, damn her, was not an easy person to hide things from; he was uncomfortably sure that she knew more about him and his doings than he would like.
He sipped a mouthful of flin in what he hoped was a nonchalant manner. “I certainly haven’t been avoiding her. As usual, you have jumped to conclusions. I have merely kept a respectful distance, as is proper after the death of her husband.”
Barenziah was quiet for a moment. Then- “Do you not think your solace might be more appreciated?”
It was spoken so softly, so differently to her usual efficient tone that Helseth was surprised, and for a moment unnerved. The idea of Morgiah needing his comfort was so alien, so strange, that at first his mind went blank, unable to process such a thing.
Curse it! He was so good – he was so good at presenting a formidable front to his subjects and advisors. But to his mother? It seemed he was an open book, to be read and re-arranged at her every whim. The same was true of Morgiah; he knew quite well that this was why he had been avoiding her, and it seemed his mother was also aware. He now remembered exactly why it was that he didn’t take his meals with Barenziah more often.
His usually smooth voice was moody. This was why his mother’s presence frustrated him – he wasn’t a king to her, he was first and foremost her child.
“I’m sure there are others more suited to the task than me,” he said sullenly, stabbing his fork at an ash-yam with unnecessary force. “After all, I’ve hardly spoken to her since she moved to Summurset Isle.”
“Before that, actually. In her last years at Wayrest, I don’t recall you actively seeking her out more than three times.”
“We both know the pressure I was under,” snapped Helseth. “Elysana – she was on the attack all the time. If I turned my back for a second she would have stabbed it. She’d do anything for the throne. And look what happened – she got it!”
He was agitated now. These were old grievances – the bitter internal struggle with his stepsister for the Wayrest throne, and his subsequent defeat. Helseth hated defeat. He had been humiliated by Elysana’s victory over him, and his mother was opening old wounds now.
But Barenziah looked contrite. “Yes. I know. But – at the risk of broaching a touchy subject – losing Wayrest brought you here, and as an objective observer, the Kingdom of Morrowind is vast compared to a singly-ruled city-state of the Illiac Bay. It was apt indeed,” she carried on mildly, “that the rapid deaths of King Llethan and his nephew left a vacancy for you.”
Helseth froze.
Don’t rise, don’t rise, he repeated like a mantra. At the same time, a part of him was screaming, what does she know? What does she suspect? How could she suspect? He drunk from his goblet slowly and mechanically, for the moment starved of any response that could placate her.
But there was no need to strain himself any further, for Barenziah placed the knife and fork neatly together on her empty plate and rose to her feet. “It is late. Goodnight, Helseth. It is lovely to take time to dine with you when the calendar permits.” Smiling as if nothing she had previously said held any weight, she bowed from the room and shut the door gently.
Helseth clenched his fists, his body as taut as a bowstring. Of all the tests of his character he had endured over the years, dinner with his mother proved the most taxing of all.
On to the next chapter