Chapter 8 – Here And There
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Caius was helping Nenya pack.
“Which potions do you want?”
“All the ones in that drawer; can’t be too careful. Especially when a wet fish could do a better spell than me.”
Caius smiled. It was true, although Nenya seemed to have her own peculiar brand of magic; the fact that things just seemed to get up and make way for her.
“Had to nip over to Vvardenfell last week,” he said, with the air of one about to pull some kind of trick. “Strange to be back in the Balmora house again.” He gave Nenya a sideways glance. “I see you, er, kept it nicely.”
“Oh, yes. I suppose,” said Nenya. Was that a blush tingeing her cheeks?
“Everything looks very clean. It was kind of you to wash the linen and stock the larder. I’m sure my old crockery didn’t need to be exchanged for silverware, but it was a very generous thought.”
“Well,” said Nenya awkwardly, looking like a child caught raiding an orchard, “it’s not really anything to comment on. I was in the town and had some spare money. It was just a fleeting idea.”
He could have left it, but Caius couldn’t resist the chance to push it a bit further. Nenya trying to give a house a ‘woman’s touch’ was like being hit in the face by something that didn’t quite know what it was, but was putting a hundred per cent of effort into it anyway.
“The, er, coloured paper lanterns were very… ambient,” he went on impishly, fascinated by making her blush. “And the little roof-garden really brightened things up…”
“Had a spare couple of hours,” mumbled Nenya, cheeks flaming. It was obvious that it had taken at least a week.
“Look,” she said quickly, “I know it’s not really your style – I’ll take it all away if you want. I just thought it would be nice for you to have something to come back to.”
Caius was immediately contrite. “Oh, you skullthick Nord – I didn’t mean it,” he said gruffly. “It was very nice to have something to come back to, especially when I didn’t expect it.”
Nenya flushed again, but this time with satisfaction.
“I can’t wait to be back on a ship again,” she said animatedly, turning the subject back to that of the impending journey to High Rock. “It’ll be at least a week before we dock in Northmoor; plenty of time to get used to it again.”
“I still don’t fully understand what you’re going there to do,”
Caius said, passing over a couple of potions which she tucked in a bag.
“Neither do I, not really. Bomba ‘Lurrina will explain more on the way. She’s ever so interesting, you know. Different from the Morrowind Khajiiti. I’ve never met an Ohmes-Raht before.”
“I don’t suppose you get an abundance of Khajiiti in Skyrim, either.”
“No…” Nenya trailed off, obviously lost in thought. She wrapped some bread in a piece of cloth. Then, very resolutely not looking at him as she packed it away, she said, “I’m going back.”
“Sorry?” said Caius, nonplussed.
“I’ve decided I’m going back. To Skyrim. I can’t live here forever, Nerevarine or not. They’ll have to start taking things into their own hands. I want snow and pine again.”
Caius had halted at this alarming news. “Back?” he said, his voice a slight pitch higher. “But don’t you – I mean, isn’t there – aren’t there things you need to do here? Sixth House bases, and things?”
Nenya scowled. “I’ve cleared out all the Blighted ones. Of course I’ll come if they desperately need me, but for Mercy’s sake – I don’t even come from here! It’s not ALL my responsibility! I can’t do everything, it’s time they started sorting out their own country for a change. I’m twenty-two years old, Caius, do you really think I should be doing this?”
“No,” said Caius quietly. “I have never thought you should be made to do this.”
They looked at eachother.
“Did I ever tell you about Fjordan?” Nenya asked after a moment.
“No, said Caius uncertainly.
“He was my foster-brother in our village near Winterhold. I spent nearly all my time with him; we grew up together. When I left he’d gone with my foster-father to hunt down a wereboar that had been terrorising the farms. I’ve never been able to find out what happened to them, because I haven’t had a chance to go home yet.
“I know I’ve got responsibilities here, but they weren’t put on me by my choice. I’ve already spoken to Crassius – he says he’s perfectly able to take care of my Hlaalu duties while I’m away.”
The name Crassius and the phrase ‘take care’ wormed its way through Caius’ mind, and jolted him back to their conversation last week.
“As for the remaining Sixth Housers,” Nenya went on, “well, what are Ordinators trained for? I’m sure they’d jump at the chance to crack a few heads–”
“Did you sleep with him?” Caius blurted out.
Nenya’s jaw dropped.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Crassius,” Caius insisted stubbornly, his eyes fixed on the wall next to her head. “Did you sleep with him?”
“What the – what did he tell you?”
Caius stared doggedly at the wall.
“Of course not,” Nenya said emphatically, sounding both embarrassed and caught off-guard. “He knows you don’t like him. He’s being his usual manipulative self.”
Caius’ cheeks were red. “He took advantage of you when you first came here,” he mumbled.
Now Nenya looked awkward. There was a Pause.
“It’s not like it was the most comfortable situation in the world,” she said finally, picking at a fingernail. “But between the survival of a nation and an anonymous Nord having to sacrifice a bit of dignity, where do the priorities lie?”
“I should have stayed. He wouldn’t have done that if I was here.”
The tension in the room was getting worse. Neither was looking at the other.
“He never touched me apart from that one kiss,” Nenya said quietly, coming to sit clumsily on the bench beside him. “I’d rather forget about it.”
Oh god, Caius groaned inwardly, seeing her plaintive expression. Her hair was so yellow…
She coughed nervously. “Anyway, I have something to ask you.” She said, fidgeting with her gauntlet buckle. “…Will you… will you come to Skyrim with me?”
Caius gaped.
“I mean, you wouldn’t have to stay long,” Nenya gabbled hurriedly. “Just a bit of a break from everything, you know…”
Don’t do it, Caius’ conscience told him. Don’t say yes. It’s an entirely platonic request; you’ll be taking advantage of her if you go. You’ll be no better than Crassius. Say no. Just say no…
He cleared his throat.
“I’d love to,” he said.
Nenya beamed.
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Wayrest had not changed much in the last decade.
The flower-beds were as lush and colourful as always; the privet-maze behind the palace was neatly clipped. Early summer rested balmily on the red-tiled roofs. The Wayrestians themselves were the same as ever – upper-class, gossiping, complacent and wealthy from the city’s unique position on the taxable trade-route of the Bjoulsae River.
From a stained-glass window in the west wing of the palace, the Queen looked out over her dominion with pretty eyes of shallow cornflower blue. Her fingers idly adjusted the delicate coral-pink muslin of her dress. She turned from the window to face the man standing by the door, who was twisting a handkerchief in his hands.
“I employed you as a spy, not an equal,” she said pleasantly. “Do not be above yourself. Tell me plainly; can I use the Dark Brotherhood to disable my step-brother?”
The spy wilted like a leaf under her gaze.
“No,” he said tentatively. “King Helseth’s ties with the Dark Brotherhood are complex, and in any case he is already involved in a number of contracts with them. It will not be possible to separate them for some time.”
“Then we shall find another way,” she declared, smiling at him prettily. A bead of sweat formed on the spy’s brow.
He paused hesitantly. “There is… another organisation we might look to. The Morag Tong are a mainly Dunmer sect – the guild which the Dark Brotherhood actually stemmed from, though they are bitter enemies now. You could speak to them about a, ah, writ for King Helseth.”
Queen Elysana looked interested. “How ironic!” Her laugh was like silver. “He fled to them for sanctuary, and now they will be his undoing! This pleases me. Your counsel is good.”
The spy visibly sagged with relief.
“With Helseth gone, I am the family’s next of kin, step-daughter or no,” Elysana said slowly, rolling the words round her mouth like chocolates. “In theory, the Mournhold throne should be turned over to me. After all, Helseth was the rival heir to the throne here, and he was Dunmer… why should it not be the same in the other provinces?”
The spy was temporarily shocked out of deference. “My Queen – it would never happen! The Dunmer are fiercely protective of their customs; they would never allow you to rule! Barenziah would sooner retake the throne herself-”
Elysana looked at him incredulously, and her expression spoke thumbscrews and branding-irons. The spy shrank back against the wall. The queen looked away with haughty boredom, curling a golden ringlet around her finger.
“We will see,” she said sweetly. “Leave now, and send up the groom.”
The spy left.
Half an hour later, while the groom received orders to ready a carriage for a journey to the Dunmer province, two of Elysana’s personal guards caught up with the spy and took him to the castle basements. He never came out.
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East of Wayrest, past the cultivated silt-plains of the river and the fertile valleys, the Bjoulsae veers north and the land becomes rugged and barren – the outlying slopes of the Wrothgarian mountains. The region is sparsely populated, but the southeastern spine is the craggiest, highest and wildest part of the entire range, and thrust on an outcrop of rock looms Shedungent.
Although she has resided there for over fifty years, Shedungent was not built by Nulfaga, or even in her lifetime. High rock is clannish, and its rulerships often change, leaving mere scattered remains as clues to kingdoms past. Only the faint oily hue of light around the main doors of Shedungent, telltale residue of a powerful binding-spell, hints at the activity inside.
Nulfaga is locked in a nightmare, believing she is in a dream.
In a crumbling ruin, believing she is in a palace. In a cage of deceit, believing she is free. The black-robed figures who care for her are angels to her; they listen to her rambling tales until her old throat is dry from speaking, they sit with her and soothe her and take away her loneliness, they call her ‘Nanan’, an affectionate term for ‘grandmother’ – such sweet familiarity! So sweet that it brings back the memories of her dear Lysandus…
Nulfaga begins to rock, the matted mess of her hair hanging down her back like a tattered flag. She cannot hear it, but she is moaning like something lost.
A black figure approaches. Her mouth is very red. “What is it, Nanan?” she inquires, the falseness of her concern utterly unapparent to the cripple before her.
Nulfaga rocks, her withered fingers compulsively plucking at the fraying sleeves of her dress. “Sit with me, little helper, little nurse,” she croaks.
The woman in the black robe sits cross-legged in front of her, like some perverse mockery of a loving family.
“Tell us a story, Nanan,” she says, the fanatical glint in her eye hidden by the darkness of her robe. “Tell us of the Mantella, and how it was made.”
Nulfaga told her. She might as well have whispered it directly into Helseth’s ear.
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In Mournhold, the sun was setting.
Looking at Barenziah’s eyes, one could see the same measure of concentration and intensity that was present in her daughter. That same focused seething of cogitation burnt and clicked and turned… one could only imagine the thoughts that were being processed behind such eyes…
In fact, Barenziah was thinking how the windows in her parlour could do with some nice curtains. The Dunmer didn’t generally go in for window-decoration, and she’d gotten used to them during her time in Wayrest. So many things, now, that she’d been used to were gone…
She grieved for Eadwyre. Like her first Dunmer husband, Eadwyre and she had shared an unspoken understanding. But unlike Symmachus, Eadwyre had had the kind of good-natured humour that lightened her heart and made her forget, for a time, the memories that haunted her. Life in Wayrest had been happy, at least for her. She had been in love, the people had accepted her (albeit grudgingly), and she cherished her children with a kind of quiet ardour which, although they responded, the extent of which they never quite guessed. The only snag in the otherwise perfect scenario had been Elysana.
Sweet daughter of Eadwyre and his deceased first wife, girl of the golden ringlets, darling of the court… Wayrest saw Elysana as beautiful and charming, if somewhat lacking in intelligence.
Barenziah saw something else.
She saw the loathing glances at her own children. She knew of Elysana’s involvement with one Lord Woodbourne, an ambitious young man who later was discovered responsible for the betrayal and murder of Lysandus, one-time King of Daggerfall and son of the witch Nulfaga. She heard, through various eyes and ears, of Elysana’s ambition for the Wayrest throne and subsequent blackmail, manipulation and assassination of several court-members. Elysana’s true personality was clearly the exact opposite of the image she projected onto the nation.
After the second rise of Numidium and the 3E 410 disaster known as the ‘Warp in the West’, the competition between Helseth and Elysana had begun in earnest. The fight between the heirs was ugly, and culminated in Helseth’s blackmail attempt: the threat to reveal Elysana’s involvement with the traitorous Lord Woodbourne to the kingdom. The stunt backfired; the Wayrestian public were far likely to side with their own rather than a Dunmer outsider, and though some of them had their doubts, the tide turned against Helseth. He fled to Mourhold, and since the elderly Eadwyre had died the year before, Barenziah followed.
Morgiah, having denied any ambition for the throne, had been ignored and forgotten, not only by Helseth and Elysana but by Wayrest as a whole. She had in any case arranged for herself a marriage to a High Elven king, and was no longer a subject of interest.
This period of her daughter’s life was still mainly a mystery to Barenziah, peppered with tantalising clues that she couldn’t quite link together. That Morgiah’s study had taken her to strange heights and depths she knew, but the extent of those remained elusive. At the centre of it all was her marriage to Reman, the Firsthold King. This was an enigma for several reasons. Firstly, Morgiah had never met the man in her life. Exchanged a few ambiguous letters, perhaps, but she was certainly not one prone to girlish infatuations from afar.
Secondly, marriage in Firsthold would mean life in Firsthold, away from all her family and every place she had called home. She would be queen by the marriage, of course, but would that really gain her so much? The Altmer were so fiercely protective of their bloodline and culture that they put even the Dunmer to shame; they would never embrace her. Barenziah knew Morgiah had been unpopular with the Firsthold citizens. It was not even as if she would have much influence – the power of the throne would lie with Reman, not any foreign wife he might fancy to take.
So why?
Barenziah had only tidbits to go on. She knew, for example, that Morgiah had not gone to Firsthold directly, or travelled there alone. Then there was the green gem that had appeared on her person everywhere she went, and the frustratingly obscure letters that had been exchanged for years between her and a mysterious correspondent in the Dragontail Mountains, a region she would have to pass through on her way to Summurset Isle – unless she went by boat all the way from Wayrest, which she hadn’t. Coincidence? Barenziah thought not.
Then there were the whispers that she had heard, few and far between, that Reman had made some sort of bargain with Morgiah – either she had something he needed, or there was something she could do… and in return, Reman would take her hand in marriage.
But it all came back to that blank, unanswerable question – what could Morgiah gain from Reman that she’d be prepared to marry him for?
Barenziah had exhausted this topic many times. Morgiah had not been in love with Reman, although it was clear that the king’s feelings for his new queen had escalated quickly. The Firsthold Altmer had never accepted her. Was there something about Firsthold itself? The city was home to one of the greatest and least-explored libraries in Tamriel, and Barenziah knew well of Morgiah’s thirst for learning, but would Morgiah really have married a man she didn’t love just for a library?
The Queen Mother of Mournhold put a hand to the glass in the window. It faced west, and the sun shone red through the pane.
The answer was there somewhere, back west, back in Wayrest, back before Helseth and Elysana’s deadly duel of wits. It was there, and she was going to find it.
On to the next chapter