Chapter 3 – Interlude 1; Fiery Night
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Castle Wayrest, High Rock, Sun’s Height 3E397. It is 32 years before the present day. Morgiah is 21.
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The library was very quiet.
There were only two things in the room that could be heard. One was the soft dry rasp as Morgiah turned the pages of a book, and the other was the scratching of her tutor’s quill. Even their breathing was inaudible. Dark Elves have excellent concentration, and may quite easily work for hours in still silence.
The tutor stopped writing and looked out of the window. It faced west, and the low evening sun cut motes through the dusty glass; it reflected off her ornate cloak clasp. She rose and eased open the two heavy panes, because it was summer, and the air from the Bjoulsae River was balmy. She allowed herself a moment’s bask in the warm breeze, then turned to look at her pupil.
Morgiah was absorbed, learning strange things. Her eyes trained the page with clear cold precision, the facts consumed hungrily and stored meticulously. It was this strange mix of implied passion and clockwork accuracy that had come to fascinate – unnerve, even – her tutor. But Morgiah knew none of this. She was reading; her thoughts were on her book, not the woman standing by the window.
The topic of the book was conjuratory theory; in particular, the basics of Necromancy. Morgiah’s parents, though naturally of the opinion that Necromancy was not to be practised by persons of good intention, were firm on the idea that the teaching of no branch of magic should be denied their daughter, provided it was theory only.
Or, more accurately, Morgiah’s mother was firm on the idea. King Eadwyre was less than comfortable with the extent of his stepdaughter’s magical expertise, although he rarely overruled his wife. But Queen Barenziah was an extraordinary woman, gracious and captivating, intelligent and powerful. She was observed in varying affections by the Wayrest public. Many resented the idea of a Breton province presided over by a Dark Elf and her offspring, but there were some sharp political minds who realised that although Breton Barenziah was not, capable she certainly was. Thus she remained.
And thus Morgiah read her conjuratory theory unhindered.
The summonyng of spyryts from Oblyvyon, the book told in its faint brown ink, ys proportyonate to the strengthe and ynfluence of the beyng ynvolved. Whyle the raysyng of a lesser mortale or daedryc spawne maye requyre only the encantatyon of the spelle, to bryng backe a creature of hye power demandes greater attentyon and skyll…
Her tutor watched her with a gaze part calculating, part ruefully interested.
..For these beyngs an addytyonal levele of controle ys requyred. Thys maye be obtayned bye havynge yn thy possessyon an objecte formerlye belongyng to the partycular spyryt. Yn cases of extreme magnytude, thy wyll be complyed to speake the true and byrth-gyven name of the spyryt at the performance of the ceremonye…
Her tutor glanced out the window, then corked the ink-bottle and gathered up her papers. Morgiah looked up at the sudden noise, unnaturally loud in the stillness of the library air.
“Supper already, Karethys?” she inquired, looking out the window to the position of the sun.
“Yes. You shall be late.”
Casting a flickering look of regret at the open book that Karethys only just noticed, Morgiah stood up from the table and rescued her wrap before it caught under the chair-leg. Draping it around her shoulders, although there was no real need for it in the pleasant summer warmth, both tutor and pupil left the library in quiet dusk light. The books stayed open on the table, ready for tomorrow’s lesson.
The sun fell across the floor of the upper West Gallery, lined with windows to catch the evening light. It plucked a note of crimson from Morgiah’s dress and sang out against the deep turquoise carpet, a little patch of red that glowed defiantly until her Ladyship turned round a corner down the South Stairs, parting with her tutor, out of the sun.
Morgiah was thinking.
She was good at thinking. She was also good at keeping what she was thinking to herself, something which inspired both respect and suspicion in the members of the Wayrest court. How could you relate to someone so calmly impassive? How could you find common ground, or root out a weakness, or manipulate the conversation the way you wanted? There were simply no cues to take your lead from.
Today was the 29th Sun’s Height. Fiery Night, it was called. The centre of the year. The Palace marked it as usual with a feast, a chance to bring together the family. The Wayrestian Royals seldom took their meals together, for a number of reasons.
The banquet-door was opened for her by a footman. The great hall was already full of celebrating nobles. At the high table on the dais sat, for all intents and purposes, her family.
At the centre: Eadwyre, her step-father. Morgiah’s true father was long dead, relic of the strife at the time of Uriel VII. King Eadwyre was a heavily-built man, hair yellow as corn and curly as a babe’s. A massive but blunt presence, he alternated frequently between booming laughs, abstract irritation and cunning words. Certainly he loved his wife with reverence and tenderness, but how far that love extended towards his stepchildren was unclear.
Across from Eadwyre: Helseth. Her brother by birth and younger by eight years. Her feelings for him were complex and discomfiting – the closeness of their youth had dissipated recently as Helseth, young as he was, turned to life in the court. Politics. His mind was sharp and eager, she knew, but his temperament could be rash and ugly. He was not cherished by the Wayrestian public.
At Helseth’s right: little Elysana, stepsister, daughter of Eadwyre and his first wife Carolyna. Unlike Helseth, she was the darling of the court – those cornflower-blue eyes, those flowing golden ringlets! So sweet of temper, so kind and thoughtful, who could not love her? Who indeed. It was only the odd malicious gaze towards her step-siblings that had sparked a warning in anyone’s mind, and even then it had registered with only one person.
Finally, at the side of her husband: Barenziah. Silently adored by her daughter. Stately, sharp, beautiful, graceful, dangerously quick of mind; her eyes held fathoms of wisdom and experience. Queen Barenziah had lived more than half an Era, and it was not lost on her.
As Morgiah seated herself opposite her brother, she had a sudden flash of unbidden insight: how different really were they, these irreconcilable creatures? What paths did their minds wander along, what was being spoken behind the festival smiles and pleasantries?
What indeed.
THE REVERIE OF EADWYRE, KING OF WAYREST
…and I fear these public appearances are of greater need of late as the city seems to be waking up to the fact that an heir apparent must be announced in the coming years of course my darling Elysana so sweet and gentle I do love her so dearly as did Carolyna but bless her she is so naïve and not that I doubt her but I am not sure of her competence to rule intelligence never seemed to be her forte but to think of that dark and brooding Helseth taking the throne I never could quite feel fond of the boy especially in these recent years he can be so cold and I have no meeting of minds with him like the girl Morgiah although I am relatively fond of her there is still a point which I cannot pass with her she is courteous and friendly enough but I feel she is so alien we have no common ground not that I could ever tell Barenziah my beautiful proud wise queen how I love her so and Arkay rest dear Carolyna but I love Barenziah more than my own life her hand on mine on the tablecloth so full of grace my queen I never quite penetrated the depth of your thoughts but if only I understood your children as I almost do you…
King Eadwyre looks out at the sea of his subjects in the Great Hall, and then at his wife beside him, and is lost in the flame of her eyes, as he always is.
THE REVERIE OF HELSETH, PRINCE OF WAYREST
…Dagon take it sitting up here like a puppet on show if only I could mingle with the crowd there are people I must meet properly the Baron Moorsley for instance I must start to integrate myself I did not realise it before but we are more outsiders than we know Mother Morgiah and I it will go the worse for me if I am not careful I must work hard to become popular and my step-father is at last allowing me into council meetings to observe he thinks it is a whim I believe but I must learn the mechanics of this province I know they do not take me seriously because I am young and it is true not long ago I would have scoffed at the idea of establishing myself within society at this early stage and I do not see Morgiah so much now I am so busy with step-father and his doings I do miss her company I remember when we snuck into the treasury I was right there were piles of jewels she had to pay up all her jack-dice to me it is a shame I was caught but we have not done things like that for more than a year now I wonder I must try and introduce myself to people tonight especially the Baron but after maybe I could catch her before she goes to bed and we could have a game of halma-board…
Helseth looks up for a moment at his sister, and their eyes meet: for one second a fleeting feeling of companionship passes between them, and the smallest of smiles is exchanged.
THE REVERIE OF ELYSANA, PRINCESS OF WAYREST
…oh it’s so tiresome I wish I could go back to my room I have not yet finished dressing Pollyanna in the new frock that came today maybe I shall play with her before I go to bed but the nurse might not let me she might put the candle out straight away maybe Papa will tell her and that will teach her to boss me oh Papa Papa it is so dull I have eaten all I want and why oh why must I sit next to horrid Helseth how I hate him with his stupid red eyes he is so ugly and her too I hate her with her stupid dark hair nothing like my pretty yellow ringlets I wish they had never come here Papa why did you bring the dark queen back my step-mother I wish she didn’t live here she has never been unkind to me but I am a little afraid of her they say she has been alive for five-hundred years she must be a daedra oh Papa how could you bring her to live here with her horrid children one day when I grow up I will be Queen and I will send them back to their devil-land just you wait and see one day when I grow up and I am Queen…
The Princess Elysana swings her legs under the table, the pearls on her little bodice reflecting the candlelight. She glares savagely at her step-brother, before arranging a charming smile on her face and looking up at her father. He puts an affectionate arm around his gentle pretty daughter.
THE REVERIE OF BARENZIAH, QUEEN OF WAYREST
…I must remember to write to dear Llethan to confirm my visit to Mournhold Helseth has been quite adamant in my taking him he says he would like me to explain their system of government I don’t quite know how to take this growing obsession with politics he is still so young my darling Helseth where did your carefree days with your sister disappear to but I don’t like the glint of ambition I sometimes see in his eyes of course ambition is not always a bad thing but he has such a rash temper if I can only channel this interest into something healthy though I am proud of his focus proud of both of them of course they always were so intelligent I have heard of Morgiah’s studies so complex and advanced her thirst for learning gladdens me oh darling Morgiah had you only red hair I could be looking at myself in your face how I love them both but dear Azura what on earth is this glare that Elysana is giving Helseth she looks at him with such loathing I have seen it before Eadwyre of course will never notice I worry that this rift will grow unless Elysana will accept my children she is so young but ridiculous as it is I find myself nervous of her I fear this hatred of hers will grow I can only think that trouble will come of it…
Queen Barenziah watches her husband and step-daughter for a moment, then sighs and looks away. There is prophecy in her eyes.
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32 years later in the present day of First Seed 3E 429, the magic-plane of Aetherius is playing host to a certain group of people, and has been for some time.
Unlike its opposite, Oblivion, the nature of Aetherius is malleable and possible to manipulate, given the right knowledge or influence. It has been done before to create the Mantellan Crux, the trap-ridden hiding-place used to safeguard the Mantella, the Heart of the broken Dwemer golem that Tiber Septim used to forge his empire. The Crux was traversed and the Mantella retrieved nineteen years ago by an agent of the Emperor, an event which resulted in the catastrophic reactivation of the Dwemer golem, Numidium.
Interestingly, Tamriel has not heard the last of Dwemer golems and Mantellas. It shall hear of them again, and soon.
But the mention of the Mantellan Crux is merely a reminder; a preface to the news that now, another area very similar has been created on the blank canvas of Aetherius. A habitable space within a metaphysical plane. It is a room the size of a mountain, with stars for walls. In the very centre of this room is a cluster of black-robed figures, and stationed before them:
Vivec, the lost god!
Move closer; they are speaking.
Vivec’s eyes are beautiful, but not focused. His movements are too slow.
“This enemy you speak of,” he intones mildly. “You say I must help you create a talisman to defeat him.”
“Yes, my lord,” replies a black-robed figure. “Two talismans, in fact. One to power the force we will use to defeat our enemy, and one to control it. We are in need of your mercy and your aid; your magical expertise is second only to your fellow, the almighty god Sotha Sil.”
“Ah, Sotha Sil,” the god moans, his eyes rolling back and his arms becoming rigid. “If only I had seen you – watch now, in your hallowed halls… your hallowed halls…”
The black-robed figures exchange looks.
Presently the god recovers, his tautened limbs falling limp. He looks around slowly.
“What are these talismans I must make?”
“You shall have help, my Lord. Your skill in magicka will fulfil half the making; we have found for you a servant skilled in mechanics to complete the construction.”
And now Vivec sees being led toward the group the soft massive silhouette of a man, but something about the outline is terribly wrong… below the waist, the reaching spindly arms eight times over, as of a spider made of metal…
Yagrum Bagarn, the last Dwarf, is propelled into the centre of the room. Vivec looks at him as if he is remembering something long ago, or trying to keep hold of a dream that is slipping away.
“I have seen the like of you before,” he says to the hulking silhouette.
Yagrum Bagarn cannot answer. Where his tongue once was there is now only a cauterised stump of flesh, and with it has gone Bagarn’s last chance of hope. He moves painfully and obediently, and his eyes are dim.
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On to the next chapter