I love it, I am quite excited that you decided to pick this one up again because it is the best ES fanfiction I have read, bar none (and I have read a lot). Unfortunately I am at the police academy so I don't have a lot of time to follow it but I'll read it when I can.

At any rate, I think your characters are great. They are natural, believable, and mesh seamlessly in the Elder Scrolls world. I feel like I know them personally after reading each chapter and you have a knack for giving them depth using small details. As a former fan fiction writer myself, I have to give you kudos for working on this story again, I know how easy it can be to just let stories go untold and it would be a shame to not know the end of this one.

Keep up the good work.

The King of Worms uses his most efficient raise dead spell on this thread!


More please?

Ok, can I first of all say I am MASSIVELY sorry for being so lame and letting this slide again? I chose a really bad time to pick up the reposting; I moved house in September and it's been chaos ever since. I only got an internet connection four days ago. On the upside, it means I've done a hell of a lot more of writing; hopefully I'll be able to (somewhat) steadily post on this until the end now. Which is, admittedly, ages away. But anyway!



Effie, I must ask you to forgive me. Even the most OCD of us make stupid typos :hehe:

As for King of Worms vs Wormgod... to be honest, I want to keep it ambiguous. For a start, the Warp In The West idea was created to get around the fact that the player could choose the ending to the game. The ending I chose was to give the Totem to the Underking, and therefore the King of Worms would never have had it to begin with, and would never have become a god. But I didn't like to ignore the Dragon Break entirely, so I went with the aftermath lore supported by Oblivion that the Wormgod and the King of Worms simultaneously exist. Whether as linked beings, or completely separate entities, is up to your imagination. The Wormgod won't really be mentioned in this story; it only concerns his earthly self.

Again, all of these problems arise from the fact that this plot was worked out around 2001, before any lore on the subject was really forthcoming.



Hey Mike, thanks for dropping in! I am so pleased you've enjoyed it so far. If you liked the team Morgiah's put togther, this is the chapter for you - it's all focused on them! Regarding your question about the archaic spelling, it is simply that - archaic spelling. Replacing the 'i's with 'y's is simply my rather lame way of saying "Hey, this book she's reading is really old - honestly, just look at the funny spelling!" It's just to give it a slight medieval twist and show that the Breton language has evolved, that's all. As for 'artefacts', isn't that just the correct spelling? That's what my Oxford Concise tells me, anyhow. It's probably one of those pesky English/American English problems again.




Radont, I can't believe you're even still reading this, I owe you way more than I can repay on that front Thank you so much for coming back to it. I must say, though, I'm rather upset about the "former fanfiction writer" comment; you mean we're never going to get a continuation from you?



Ser, your wish is my command.



*


The King And I

Chapter 6 – First Orders


Seven chairs had been found and squeezed into Morgiah’s study. As of yet, four had been filled.

In the first two: a young Breton couple, looking distinctly shy and intimidated. Plain leather satchels hung from their sides.

In the next: Crassius Curio, an arm draqed languidly over the back of the chair beside him, in which Nenya was idly readjusting a buckle on one of her boots.

The owner of the fifth chair was not in fact in it; rather she was standing closer to the fire, her golden eyes staring hard into the flames. This was not the Suthay-Raht species of Khajiit seen so commonly in this province, but the Ohmes-Raht found more widely in the west. She had come a long way.

Morgiah sat forward. “Thank you all for coming,” she said. “I would like to establish from the start that in coming here, you have agreed to adhere to the strictest discretion. Bar one, you were all recommended to me by the Nerevarine; I hope her trust in you is not misplaced.”

“I can assure you our mouths are sealed, your Highness,” said Curio smoothly. “Although I believe our company is still two short…?”

“They should be here by now,” Nenya frowned. “I hope nothing’s-”

She broke off as Morgiah suddenly stood up, something odd flashing behind her eyes.

“Come in,” she said.

The company looked at the silent door, nonplussed. Sure enough, it was opened cautiously and two men stepped inside.

The first lifted off his legion helmet respectfully to reveal a tired but honest Cyrodiilic face, with hair cropped short in the military style. “Apologies, your Highness,” he said deferentially. “There were delays at the gate-check.”

Before Morgiah could answer, a blonde blur of Domina and Indoril careered past and threw itself into the arms of one very surprised Imperial Spymaster.

“Caius!”

It is far from easy to withstand the onslaught of a fully armoured Nord in the prime of her life; however, Caius managed to keep his ground with little more than a stumble. Though he looked slightly embarrassed by the scene, Morgiah did not fail to notice that he chose not to untangle himself from her embrace.

Partially extricating herself from the confusion of limbs, Nenya looked up at him with cheeks flushed from pleasure. “Hello, you old addict. Did they manage to keep you away from it, then?”

“Cheeky little-” Caius expostulated, pushing her off him and smacking her hard around the head with his gauntlet. Nenya barely blinked, the blow glancing off, an infuriating smile plastered on her face.

“Skulls as thick as rocks, Nords,” Caius muttered. Nenya accepted the insult most peaceably, her smile spreading to an undeniably cocky grin.

She turned to Morgiah, still smirking. “Your Highness, may I present Sergeant Caius Cosades,” she announced, turning to shake hands in greeting with the second man. Caius approached Morgiah and knelt awkwardly to kiss her hand, his chainmail clinking.

From across the room, Nenya indicated to the second man. “May I also present Ser Solon Gothren,” she said.

Years and years of protocol and etiquette were the only thing that kept Morgiah standing upright. Her stomach felt as if the bottom had dropped out of it.

Ser Solon Gothren was shockingly beautiful.

It made you dizzy. His beauty was curiously androgynous – the high fine cheekbones, the smooth skin – his eyes were sultry and intense, his hair was dark and soft.

She distrusted him at once. It is always wise to be wary of people who have a power over others, however it may manifest itself. It was also clear that she was not the only one affected. Every eye in the room, male and female alike, was upon him.

“Welcome,” she heard herself say. He crossed the room, knelt, kissed her hand.

“Thank you,” he replied, his voice low and quiet. He sat in the nearest chair, next to the young Breton woman. She turned bright pink.

The room had become silent. This is ridiculous, thought Morgiah.

“As I was saying, thank you all for coming,” she declared, taking charge once more. “For the benefit of those of you who do not know eachother, I shall make the introductions.”

“Ser Gothren and Sergeant Cosades we have just met. This lady and gentleman,” she indicated the Breton couple, “are Miss Gwynabyth Yeomham and Mr Eadwyrd Greenhart, alchemists from Glenumbra in High Rock. Beside them is Ser Curio, Hlaalu Councillor; Nenya, the Nerevarine; and by the fire is Bomba ’Lurrina, an acquaintance of mine some time ago in Wayrest. Welcome.”

Various figures throughout the room nodded to eachother.

“I have called you here to ask for your help. Recently the Queen Mother and I have become… concerned… about certain residents of the palace, and their affairs. I would like to look deeper into this, and each of you has unique talents invaluable to the investigation.”

Between her fingers wound a silver chain, from which hung a pale green gem.

“I have compiled a list of preliminary orders for each of you that need to be carried out before things can go further.” She shuffled some paper on the desk. “Miss Yeomham, Mr Greenhart. I have here the coroner’s report from the deaths of King Llethan and his nephew, Talen Vandas. I would like you to study them for symptoms of poisoning, and give me your thoughts on the matter.”

The Breton couple nodded, curiosity clear on their faces.

“Nenya and Bomba ‘Lurrina, I would like you to investigate the recent conjecture concerning our holy Tribunal. Nenya will provide you with the details, Bomba ‘Lurrina. I should start by visiting the Vivec Temple if I were you.”

Nenya gave the Khajiit a look which distinctly meant that information would be exchanged in private, after the meeting. Religion was always such a touchy subject, no matter what part of the world you were in.

“Ser Gothren. I am asking you to inquire into my brother’s links with both the Dark Brotherhood and the Cammona Tong. I am not sure where to advise you to start, but I do not think you will need guidance from me in any case.”

Solon turned his gaze on her, but she was ready this time, and remained perfectly composed. He nodded once.

“Finally, Ser Curio and Sergeant Cosades. Your task is less clear-cut. I am aware both of you have many contacts across the province, from aristocracy to underworld. I understand the irregularity of this request, but I would like you to put together a report of every peculiar or inexplicable unresolved event that may have taken place in the last few months. There is a link somewhere, and I am going to find it, no matter how many red herrings we have to wade through.”

It was a moment before she noticed that, to her surprise, Caius and Crassius were surveying eachother with obvious dislike. Nenya was looking between the two, biting her lip crossly.

For a second she considered asking, but decided against it. They were professional men, and this job was more important than any personal dispute they might have.

“Thank you all again,” she repeated, sitting down and arranging her papers. “And now; do not let me detain you.”

And so the meeting was over.


*


“Those guards are looking this way,” Eadwyrd hissed nervously. “I don’t really think we should be here…!”

Gwynabyth muttered under her breath, looking up warily and moving out of sight. “Are they still looking?”

Eadwyrd sighed. “No. Look, we did the report, we know it was poison; uncooked bittergreen. This whole thing is giving me the creeps. We don’t have to be here, what do you expect to find?”

“I don’t know, Eadwyrd,” Gwynabyth said testily, examining the small trade entrance to the palace North Wing. “I just think if she’s paying us this much, we ought to earn it. It took about three minutes to identify those bittergreen symptoms; I just think we should offer something else. The princess said strange robed figures have been getting into the palace this way, and I want to look for clues.”

“I hope she appreciates your dedication,” Eadwyrd muttered. Then his forehead wrinkled in a frown as his eye caught a white glint off the path. “What’s that?”

He stooped down, Gwynabyth beside him, easing the object out from behind the raised flowerbed.

“A square bit of linen,” Gwynabyth said curiously, taking it from him and turning it over. A piece of leaf was stuck to one side – she brought it to her nose cautiously.

“Don’t!” Eadwyrd said suddenly, knocking her hand away. Her eyes widened as she recognised the shape and colour of the leaf.

“Bittergreen… raw bittergreen!”

“Well, at least you’re getting somewhere with your detecting,” Eadwyrd said darkly. “The Princess will probably want to know about this.”

“Maybe you’re right, Eadwyrd,” Gwynabyth said softly, staring at the linen. “Maybe this is too big for us.”

“I’ll say. We came here to work on the tonic, not get tangled up in royal politics and murder cases.”

“But we’ve already spent everything we have on ingredients!” Gwynabyth protested. “We need this salary to get back home on… and to finish the tonic. We’ve made such good progress. If it works out we could be court alchemists in Glenumbra!”

“I know.” Eadwyrd sighed. “I just have… a nasty feeling about this. We’re contractually bound now. What will she ask us to do next? She isn’t even our princess, for Mara’s sake! We’re Bretons, we’ve got nothing to do with the Dunmer.”

Gwynabyth hesitated. “She was Princess of Wayrest too… they say she left years and years ago, but I heard she only arrived in Mournhold a couple of months ago. Where was she in between?”

“Let’s start walking back,” Eadwyrd muttered, taking her arm and steering her away. “We don’t want to look suspicious. And as for the Princess, I heard she married a High Elf king, but he died. What does it matter? We don’t belong to Morrowind, Summurset Isle or even Wayrest. It just… bothers me.” He bit his lip and they rounded a corner, the gates to Godreach coming into view. “The sooner we finish our work here the better. I miss Glenumbra,” he admitted. “I miss your cottage and the kitchen-garden.”

At the mention of home, Gwynabyth’s whole face lit up; she turned and smiled warmly at him. “We’ll be back before you know it,” she promised softly.

It was a second or two before Eadwyrd broke the gaze, looking down at the flagstones, his cheeks slightly pink. Gwynabyth, oblivious, began to quietly sing Broken Diamonds, an old Glenumbra song.

The pink in Eadwyrd’s cheeks didn’t fade until they reached their lodgings, nor the occasional sneaked glance at his companion. But Gwynabyth didn’t notice. She never did.


*


It was well that Nenya had retained her key, because there was no question of gaining an invitation into Vivec’s Palace from the Archcanon now. So it was in the early hours of the morning that two figures swam through the canols to the southern base of the canton, and made their way level to level towards the top tier.

Despite being one of the most human forms of Khajiit and some years past her prime, Bomba ‘Lurrina was naturally adept in the area of stealth and secrecy, and her form glided smoothly up the walkways that surrounded the palace. The same could not be said of Nenya, who moved with the kind of mow-down flippant efficiency of a sphere centurion.

Bomba ‘Lurrina winced at the clumping of heavy boots on the tier below her. The reconciliation of ‘Nenya’ and ‘Nerevarine’ was so baffling that most people preferred not to think of it.

Finally reaching the pinnacle of the structure, the two women edged round to the elaborate front doors, Nenya rustling with painful loudness in her pockets for the key. Bomba ‘Lurrina was fixed in a kind of mortified awe. There were guards at the bridge to the Temple; it was impossible that they couldn’t hear! But there they were, standing with their backs turned, completely oblivious to the ruckus going on behind them. It had to be Nenya. These things just seemed to work for her. Anyone else would have been caught and thrown into Ministry of Justice before they’d gotten halfway up the side.

The key was located, the door opened. They slipped inside and Nenya pulled off her helmet. Bomba ‘Lurrina had insisted that wearing armour to swim the gap to the palace canton was beyond stupid, but her protests had bounced off like an arrow on a kagouti. And the infuriating thing was, the armour hadn’t made a difference in the end anyway. Laws of physics just seemed to bend around Nenya.

The Khajiit sighed and turned her attention to the dais of Vivec.

Her eyes immediately narrowed, her posture stiffening. She gave a barely audible sniff, head turning this way and that.

“It looks just like it did before, except there are a few more spiderwebs,” Nenya commented. “I’m not entirely sure what her Highness expected us to find here. Are you alright?” she said, suddenly noticing her companion’s tense posture.

“Husssh,” Bomba ‘Lurrina growled, slowly lowering herself into a crouch. “Don’t move. Don’t move a muscle until I say.”

Nenya froze with a grace quite unexpected of one who’d made enough noise to wake the dead during the ascent up the palace exterior.

Bomba ‘Lurrina crawled silently and very slowly up to the dais, cold and dark without its torches. She circled the rim, her head moving this way and that. Nenya could see her nose twitching sensitively. After a few minutes she stood up and nodded to herself, as if confirming something unspoken.

Nenya unfroze. “You’ve found something.”

“Yes. Something strange, which changes matters, although we should have thought of it sooner. A window into Aetherius has been opened in this room.”

Nenya looked nonplussed. “Really? How can you tell?”

Bomba ‘Lurrina looked at her steadily. “Once you have looked on Aetherius, you do not forget it, or the marks it leaves on the mortal plane.”

Nothing seemed to surprise Nenya. “Oh, I see. You’ve been there?”

“I- Yes,” replied the Khajiit, a little frustrated at the lack of awe this information seemed to be causing. “It is the opposite plane to Oblivion; the magic-plane. Are you familiar with the phenomenon known as the ‘Warp in the West’?”

“Ah. You were involved in that, were you?”

Bomba ‘Lurrina gave up trying to be impressive. “Yes,” she said with less pomp. “It was during that time that I met the Princess, in fact.”

“Well I never. So, you think Vivec left through Aetherius, instead of going out the front door?”

Bomba ‘Lurrina wrinkled her nose. “It seems likely,” she confirmed. “But did he leave… or was he taken?”

Nenya looked thoughtful.

“It is possible that Vivec created the window himself. But if not, I know of only one person with enough control over Aetherius to do such a thing…” Bomba ‘Lurrina stared at the dark dais. “I don’t think the god’s disappearance was the beginning of this,” she said finally. “I think it’s the latest in a chain of events longer than we realise. The mention of Aetherius makes me think of a particular name… and if she’s involved, this has happened for a well-planned reason.”

“‘She’?”

“The one who sent me into Aetherius nineteen years ago.”

Nenya pondered. Then- “Interesting,” she said. “Maybe we should get this information to her Highness as soon as possible. Seems like it’s quite important.”

“Yes,” said Bomba ‘Lurrina. “It is.”

They left the way they had come, and the guards didn’t hear a thing, despite the faint echo of “oh, bugger” as Nenya dropped her helmet in the water on the way down.


*


The Dark Brotherhood Operative held his lookout position by the Old City Entrance with fierce adherence. He was newly promoted; pale, and trembling with zealotry.

His sharp eyes scanned the vast cavern of the abandoned Old Mournhold, built over and forced underground long ago by new generations of buildings. His long fingers, disconcertingly quick and fluttering, travelled constantly inside his sleeves to feel the knives concealed in the cuffs. His mind didn’t even register the action; it was automatic, almost a nervous twitch.

Manos Othrelath, the current Master, was at the moment residing in the partially-ruined house behind his guard-post. He had been in power for almost two years, rising to his station after the suspicious death of the previous Master. The Operative was not entirely sure what the cause had been, but he’d heard rumours of a contract made by King Helseth himself going horribly wrong. Since then, security near the main meeting-places had been stepped up – they’d moved to a new location a mile or so away from the last and appointed more guards; part of the Manor District, though the ground was slightly less stable and riven with seams and fissures. Though he could not see the other guards, the Operative knew at least three would be posted round the corners of the respective tunnels leading away from the meeting-house.

He decided the check them, out of conscientiousness. He did this every so often, similar to those fluttering hands that felt for his concealed weapons out of oblivious habit. Moving a few steps away from his post, he peered round the corner of the nearest tunnel.

There was no-one there.

He took a couple more steps, assuming the guard was a little further round the bend. Still nothing.

Frowning, he debated what to do. On the face of things, he was required to stay at his post religiously, and he was loath to disobey orders. But if another guard was absent…

He decided to inform a superior. Turning, he had almost made it back to his watchpoint when a soft click sounded to his right, and an excruciating pain ripped through his throat. He tried to shout, but through the haze of horrified agony he realised there was something protruding from his neck that should not be there, and he was voiceless. The front of his armour was suddenly warm and sticky and wet.

Silently, the Operative sank to the floor, and his world went dark.

A figure stepped quietly out from round the corner and approached the body. Retrieving the crossbow bolt, cleaning and replacing it in his quiver, the figure swiftly picked up the Operative’s corpse and rolled it into one of the many fissures in the ground, where it was at once lost in shadow.

Solon Gothren checked the catches on his crossbow and turned to examine the door of the meeting-house. It looked prone to dramatic creakings. It was also heavy, circular, and very locked.

He knelt near the base of the frame, strands of dark hair falling over his eyes. After moment’s examination of the hinges, he produced a small screwdriver and with artist’s hands began to ease loose the fastenings. The door shifted with a small grating sound.

Solon whipped round to face the cavern, his eyes scanning the disjointed tunnels, but despite the sound no guards appeared. He turned back to the door, pocketing the screwdriver and replacing it with a lockpick.

A few seconds later the door swung slowly inward, silent on its loosened hinges. Solon immediately stepped inside, shut it, and melted into the shadows of the hallway beyond – and not a moment too soon, as a Dark Brotherhood assassin turned out of an adjacent corridor and walked the length of the hall before disappearing.

Solon kept perfectly quiet and still, crouched in the darkness, his crossbow precisely balanced. The assassin had been in easy range, but this was not a killing mission. The two guards outside had been necessary, and although he had made use of the chasms to ensure their bodies would not be found, any disappearance would make the Brotherhood suspicious. The key was to get in and get whatever information he needed without them ever knowing he’d been there. That was the mark of a good stealth artist.

The problem was, all the information he needed for Morgiah was inside a person, and it is impossible to get information out of a person without them knowing you’ve been there.

Impossible…?

Solon thought he had found a way. But it would be risky. The proof, as some said, would be in the pudding.

And what a pudding, he thought. What a pudding.

He began to move, melting through the corridors, skirting the edges and avoiding the torches. Two assassins passed him and failed to notice, but the deeper he got, the harder it would be. He was too far from the main door to rely on a last-minute sprint; however, that was only useful in the event of getting caught. And Solon never got caught.

His various contacts in the underworld meant he had visited a few Dark Brotherhood hideouts, albeit not this particular one. Subsequently, he had some idea of the organisation, and headed up to the back of the building. The Master’s room would not be in the centre: too predictable. It would be on one side. He picked the right and turned a corner, but was almost immediately forced to hide behind a heavily-carven table as an assassin passed opposite, holding an empty tray.

An empty tray… the assassin had been bringing food, and no-one in the Brotherhood hierarchy would be waited on except for Master. He must be close. He turned back to the left and crept round the bend.

He was met by a dead end in which a door stood ajar. Through the crack he could glimpse a short alcove, and the end of a richly decorated room. The corridor must carry on for a short while behind the door before opening out into the main chamber-space; this was useful. It gave him a wall to wait behind.

He slipped through the doorway into the creamy glow of the lamp-lit Master Chamber.

Solon could hear someone moving beyond the door-alcove, but it seemed muffled and removed. There was a small writing-table next to his hiding-place; crouching behind it, he peered cautiously into the main room. It was larger than he’d expected; at the opposite end, another door opened onto a small study, equipped with desk, chair and bookshelf. Sitting at the desk was the Dark Brotherhood Master himself, Manos Othrelath.

Silent as a cat, Solon rose and ventured into the room. Outside the small study was another little table, and on it was a goblet of flin, courtesy of the tray-bearing assassin from the corridor. It was perfect.

They’d made it so easy for him!

Moving so as to position the door between himself and the Master in case he turned round, Solon brought a tiny phial out of his sleeve and held it up to the light. It was colourless and thin. Carefully approaching the table, he tipped three drops of the liquid into the goblet, then drew back to the door-alcove to wait.

Solon was unlike other mages in one very important way. He used magic in conjunction with something just as powerful – a study of behaviour. Solon had never heard of the word ‘psychology’, but was nevertheless adept at it in a way no mage would consider. Getting inside people’s heads didn’t just keep you alive: it made you unbeatable. The phial of potion nestling inside his sleeve was, for the moment, the crowning apex of his study.

A few years ago in Solon’s life, something occurred to him which revealed a very interesting fact about sleeptalking: It is impossible to lie. The level of consciousness the brain is in at that particular point of sleep is not aware enough to utilise cognitive devices such as humour or deception. If you can make the person respond without waking up, they will truthfully answer anything you ask them. The problem is, that’s the hardest bit – keeping them in that exact state of consciousness without a) waking them up or B) letting them drift into a deeper sleep.

This was where the potion came in. A sleeping potion. A very, very fine-tuned sleeping potion, tested and perfected over a number of years into the finished product that was now waiting innocently in the goblet of flin.

At that moment the Master pushed back his chair and came through to the main room, bringing a handful of papers with him. For a moment Solon thought he might come straight for the door, but halfway through the room he turned – yes, he was going for the goblet! Lifting it to his lips, he knocked back the contents in one gulp and set the cup back onto the table.

He made for the door, and then put a hand to his head. He swayed.

And fell.

Like an adder Solon was there, catching the semi-conscious man and lying him on the couch. He couldn’t help the spark of jubilation. Like a charm…!

The Master was making murmuring noises. Solon leant down, his nose and inch from the other’s face. “Hello Manos,” he said softly, careful to keep his tone low and neutral. The potion had worked, but he didn’t want to push it.

“Hello,” mumbled the Master. His eyes were closed, but Solon could see a flickering behind the lids. The level of consciousness seemed to be perfect.

“What are those papers, Manos? A report for his majesty the King?”

“’S,” slurred the Master. Solon’s face was a mask, but deep down in his stomach he was grinning like a wolf. “Intell’gence reports. Spies stationed all through the city, l‘ke he asked. Evr’where covered, even the slums. N’thing we don’t know.”

“And the palace?”

“N’t there. T’ risky.”

So, Morgiah’s meetings seemed to be safe so far.

“What do you know of his majesty’s connections to the Cammona Tong? Have they got spies in the city too?”

Manos frowned in his semi-sleep. “Place’s riddled wi’em. ‘S Maj’sty pracly controls th’whole org’nisation. Heard Dren’s gn funny…”

This was news to Solon. “Gone funny? Funny how, Manos?”

“Lu’kin for some mer whu’was at th’ plantation a coupl’a weeks ago. Ub’sessed with him. W’nts to find him.”

Solon’s eyes widened.

He swallowed. “This mer… does he have a name?”

“D’no,” Manos muttered fitfully. “Ganos… Galos, maybe…?”

Solon put a hand to his mouth, quite jolted off-course. He’d hadn’t expected this.

Manos’ increasingly fretful movements brought him back to the present. He didn’t have much time left; deal with the news about Dren later. Concentrate on the job…

“Manos,” he said clearly. “Are there as many Cammona Tong spies working in the city for his majesty as there are Dark Brotherhood?”

“More. Sc’m.”

“Are they in the Palace?”

“D’nt think so. Wouldn’t dare, cu’wards.”

“But everywhere else?”

“N’t a single tavern they d’nt have a spy ‘n.”

Solon knew that was almost his lot. He was reaching the limit of the potion, and there was still something else he had to do before the Master woke up. Lifting the unresisting body, Solon placed him back on the floor by the table, as if he’d fainted. Then, taking a small cloth pad out of a pouch at his waist, he wiped round the inside of the goblet, removing all traces of potion with the last of the flin. The mark of a stealth-artist – no-one had been there.

He slipped out the door like a breath of wind, and was long-gone by the time the Master awoke, groggy, confused and with the half-gone memory of a very strange dream.


*


The study was not the largest of rooms, but the two men in it were sitting as far away from eachother as was humanly possible.

Caius and Crassius were chiefly sorting through letters. They had discreetly sent off as many as possible a few days ago; now they were sifting through the replies. Morgiah had been correct in assuming that their combined contacts amounted to most of Morrowind’s aristocratic and underworld population.

Crassius stopped on one sheaf of paper for rather a long time, his eyes scanning the document. “This is interesting, sergeant, very interesting. Apparently black-robed figures have been seen rather numerously around Tel Fyr for the last few months. Ser Fyr himself, however, has not been so forthcoming. No-one’s had a wink of him.”

“We should report that to Morgiah,” Caius said, his voice clipped and formal. “There’s some information about several missing people here as well, including a Tulius Cicero – the name seems familiar, although I can’t quite place it.”

Crassius put the sheaf of paper down and focused his attention on Caius, a rather devouring grin on his face.

“So, sergeant. Are you enjoying your return to Vvardenfell?”

“Yes, thank you,” Caius said stiffly, determinedly immersing himself in the pile of letters before him.

“Nice to see old friends again…”

“Lovely,” said Caius through gritted teeth, now glaring at the letter in his hand.

“And what a welcome your little Nordic charge gave you! Pleased to see her, were you?”

Caius carried on glaring at the paper, still stubbornly keeping up the pretence of reading.

“Of course she and I bump into eachother so often, both being prominent members of House Hlaalu. Such a shame you don’t get to see her as much as I do. But then, I suppose you had to sort out your little addiction problem before you were fit to be around ladies again. Sweet tooth, eh!” Even Crassius’ laugh sounded like a smirk. “Still, decent of her not to hold it against you…”

“Well, decent people tend to do that,” Caius spat before he could help himself, letter crumpling in her hand.

“Oh, she’s certainly decent, I’ll give you that. Take, for example, my conditions on becoming her sponsor for House Hlaalu. She was extremely… generous in the leeway she granted me.”

Caius was on his feet before he knew he’d moved, dagger drawn. He was shaking.

“You took advantage of her. You filthy son of Dagon…”

Crassius seemed utterly unperturbed. “Honey-like, speaking of your sweet tooth,” he mused, as if he were commenting on nothing more incriminating than a particularly pleasing flower arrangement. “Must be all that mead Nords drink.”

Caius found it hard to speak; his throat seemed too tight to force the words through. “You’d never have dared try a stunt like that if I’d still been on Vvardenfell. She’d have told me right away – and I’d have been down here before you knew what was happening, I’d have torn you apart – manipulative son of a –”

“Would she, though?” Crassius asked mildly. “I remember her mentioning how brusque you could be at times. Perhaps she didn’t feel she could confide in you at all. Shame, really, considering what she was being put through at the time… torn from her homeland… flung into an Imperial prison… hurtled into the miasmic politics of a strange, unfriendly country… Such a pity you couldn’t have offered some much-needed comfort. Lucky I was on hand to… take care of things.”

Caius tried to regulate his breathing. The last thing he wanted in the world was to let this smug bastard think he was hitting home. “It never went that far, you idiot. Do you think I’m stupid? Have you seen that hammer she totes about? She could flatten you without breaking a sweat.”

Crassius laughed jovially, the sound making Caius want to throw him out of the window. “My dear man, I doubt Molag Bal himself could force Nenya against her will. What makes you think she wasn’t perfectly keen?”

Don’t rise. “Liar.”

“Am I,” Crassius murmured. “Am I.” He was still smiling; now looking at Caius’ hand, balled into fist around the hilt of the dagger.

Crassius picked up a stack of documents and walked to the door. As he brushed lightly past, Caius saw himself grabbing him, choking him, smashing his fists into his face over and over again, thrashing and beating and throttling until that smug face was running with blood, nose crushed beyond repair, eyes weeping red tears, teeth splintered, lips split and streaming…

But he stood there quietly and did nothing. Crassius passed unhindered and shut the door quietly behind him.

He couldn’t resort to violence. They all needed Crassius and his influence – Morgiah needed him. Caius knew that beneath the self-satisfied face and lecherous comments a formidable intelligence lay, running his leading House with faultless efficiency and dispatching his enemies with more cunning and practicality than the whole of Redoran and Tevanni put together.

Caius knew that Crassius Curio was an indispensable political genius. But that didn’t mean he had to like the man.

He sheathed his dagger with unnecessary force and left the room.


*


The bright fire was the only illumination in the room. Two figures sat by the mantle, one drawing slowly on a hookah. Sweet, luxurious smoke made the ceiling hazy.

“So,” said Morgiah.

Bomba ‘Lurrina looked at her with golden eyes, fingering the skooma pipe almost lovingly. “So,” she echoed.

“He poisoned King Llethan and Talen Vandas, I am sure of it,” Morgiah said quietly, looking at Gwynabyth and Eadwyrd’s report in front of her. “And bittergreen traces were found on a piece of scrap linen outside the North Wing trade entrance, where black-robed figures have been sighted in the night. I wish I was more surprised.”

“So do I.”

Morgiah’s glance reminded her that while people may talk ill of their own families, it is a different matter when an outsider does the same. Bomba ‘Lurrina looked contrite.

“They are curiously gifted alchemists, the young couple,” she remarked. “Useful they happened to be passing through. Are they married?”

“No. They are colleagues, or so the Nerevarine tells me.”

Bomba ‘Lurrina drew on the hookah, her lips in a smile.

“Curio and Cosades’ compilation is interesting,” Morgiah went on, picking up the second bundle of papers. “Black-robed figures sighted infrequently after dark. Strange goings-on at Tel Fyr. A number of missing people. Surely Divath Fyr wouldn’t be involved with Helseth…? I thought him quite the recluse.”

“Perhaps he isn’t involved at all,” said the Khajiit. Her red mane of hair glinted in the firelight. “There are any number of places he could be, other than Tel Fyr. But you would know your countrymen better than I.”

“On the subject of you, I am sure that your discoveries in the Palace of Vivec put a certain name in your mind.”

Bomba ‘Lurrina breathed out a mouthful of sweet smoke. “You are thinking the same thing that I am. Nulfaga.”

“It may only be a shot in the dark, but she is the only one I can think of who would be that familiar with Aetherius. You’re right, this goes deeper than we thought.” Morgiah looked thoughtful. “And then, of course, there are Ser Gothren’s findings…”

“Ah, yes!” Bomba ‘Lurrina smiled, an almost predatory expression. “The most beautiful prince of darkness. I wonder how often he uses his extraordinary appearance to his advantage?”

“A great deal, I would think,” said Morgiah, her voice clipped. “Out of all our recruits, it’s him I’m wariest of. There’s no point of contact. I have no idea what he is thinking; I’ve no doubt he’s perfected the art. He’s dangerous. If Nenya hadn’t recommended him, I don’t think I’d have gone near him for any price.”

“But she did… he is obviously out for himself and himself alone, but who isn’t? He’ll find you your answers. Or some, at least.”

“He’s already found a lot. He has confirmed what I have suspected for a long time – Helseth has almost full control over the Cammona Tong, and much influence in the Morrowind sect of the Dark Brotherhood. Remarkable, considering both sides are in bitter feud. Which means we must be even more cautious; spies are everywhere.”

“He didn’t anticipate you,” Bomba ‘Lurrina declared softly.

She watched the thoughts ticking behind the Princess’ eyes, but could read nothing from them. Ser Gothren was not the only one who had honed to perfection the art of suppression. Bomba ‘Lurrina had admired Morgiah through the short times she had come into contact with her, but felt much the same about her as the Princess felt about Solon. An unknown quantity is a danger.

“You mean Helseth,” Morgiah said calmly.

“Yes. I believe that when he stopped seeing you as a contender for the Wayrest throne, he stopped seeing you altogether.”

This was perilous ground to tread, she knew. Dunmer had a very swift and non-reversible kind of answer to this sort of boldness. But cats are nothing if not curious…

“And when you left to live in Firsthold, you were a blank space in his mind which was taken over by more and more ambition. He didn’t have room for you when you returned; that was why it was such a shock, although he didn’t show it.”

Morgiah was silent. She knew all this. She had come to these conclusions a long time ago.

“Why did you marry King Reman, your Highness?”

Morgiah’s eyes bored into hers. “There are many reasons,” she said.

“Was love one of them?”

“No. I respected him; I did not love him. I mourned his death as a queen should, but it did not break me.”

“Then what could the reasons be?”

Morgiah stood, suddenly quite frightening. The fireplace outlined her silhouette. “You push me, Bomba. You know more about these reasons than you let on. Do you think I have forgotten the letter you delivered as your first duty to me, nineteen years ago? I know that you read it, and the reply too. I didn’t expect you not to, but I thought it was a fair price to pay for setting you up as Champion of the Bay. You know at least one of these reasons.”

“I know at least one of Reman’s,” Bomba ‘Lurrina returned, something of a purr in her throaty voice. “You were the only one who could let him speak to his dead son.”

For a moment, she thought Morgiah would kill her on the spot. Surely she had gone too far.

But Morgiah sat down again, slowly.

“Not the only one,” she said.

“No, of course…” Bomba ‘Lurrina replied softly. “Another King was needed too. And such a strange one… after all, every King comes to Worms in the end…”

The silence in the room was like a tomb. Morgiah was out of the firelight; her face was in shadow.

Then she spoke. Softly. “I know now that Helseth is monitoring magical activity in Mournhold – the place is crawling with spies. It is imperative that he suspects nothing. You made the journey to Scourg Barrow for me once, Bomba. I am asking you to do it again.”

The Khajiit’s eyes widened. Though she had subconsciously expected it, it was still a shock.

“Our normal method of communication has unfortunately failed me this last week. If there is to be any magical activity, it must be from M… his end, not mine.”

Something flashed in her fingers. Bomba ‘Lurrina was familiar with the green gem, but it took a moment for her to realise that this was a different one – a blue one.

“I am sure you understand what this is for. Take it to him. Bring Nenya with you; explain to her on the way. It will be a long trip.”

“I know it well,” said Bomba ‘Lurrina ironically.

A ghost of a smile passed over the Princess’s face. “I am sorry to summon you here, only to send you back. I know the Dragontail Mountains aren’t the pleasantest of places. I will cover the cost of travel expenses.”

“Thank you.”

When the Khajiit had gone, Morgiah remained in her chair, staring at the fire. The green gem was in her hand, and she held it so tightly her knuckles were white.


*
*



A/N: I apologise for the length of this chapter. I toyed endlessly with the idea of splitting it into two, but I decided in the end that it interrupted the flow. I set all the characters up in Chapter 4 - I was aiming to mirror the format in this one, dealing with them each in turn.

Firstly, sorry for making Solon a shameless pretty-boy. But I thought it might be interesting - we've seen plenty of femme fatales, how about an homme fatale for once? I also wanted to make his beauty trans-gender and almost holy, because it's so ironic and at odds with his criminal lifestyle. He does have lines and he does have morals, but you'll have a hell of a time working out his boundaries behind that perfect emotionless face. The sleep-talk potion is entirely my own idea and something I'm rather proud of. I found out that sleep-talking trick from my friend Emily years ago - apparently her sister tried at a sleepover one night and it worked like a charm. I also learnt a few things about levels of sleep in my Psychology A-Level class, which was fascinating.

Bomba is one of the only characters you will not find anywhere in the games, and her presence is more author-service than anything - she was the player-character I used to complete Daggerfall years ago, and I'm very fond of her. I named her Bombalurina, being a bit mad about CATS at the time, and tweaked the name so it fit in better with Khajiit etymology. I'd also like to say for the record that she gave the Totem to the Underking, although Gortwog was her second choice. Aaaaaand the Morrowind-only players have lost me here... But anyhow, I put Bomba and Nenya together because I just loved the idea of my old and new avatars reacting to eachother.

I also like the idea of Caius developing a sort of gruff fondness for his Nerevarine pupil, I can imagine him getting all outraged and protective over the Crassius Curio thing - which, by the way, I just HAD to put in. Come on, the forums imploded with freaked out teenage boys over that guy's lechery.

One more thing: Morgiah's line "do not let me detain you" is a direct reference to Terry Pratchett's Lord Vetinari, who tends to say it often in a delightfully snarky manner.

R xx

Heh. I love reading long works, so I enjoyed this a lot. Great job so far, I wish you'd write at a faster pace, because you really are that good.

I will forgive you, if only because it is you.

Oh lord....


I'm just happy to see it back in action again! I do hope your new place is awesome, and that you are getting back into a grove of life. ^_^

And in a shameless advert, I'd love it if you read Manic Dementia. I need a pro's critique.

Thanks guys! It's only because of you lot that I keep it up



With pleasure. Watch this space.

Its been a while since I stopped checking in to see if you're still continuing this fan fic. It took a while for me to remember the persona of characters. Plus, your fan fic is the only one I read, so i'd see at it as a sheer dissapointment if you stopped.

Anyways, I feel alot of romantic tension in this chapter. Gothren and Morgiah, Caius and Nenya and possibly the breton alchemists!

Your intentions or not, I think its a neat little twist. I can just see Caius rushing into a kiss with Nenya now. Nenya on the other hand seems to give me imagery of one of the new heros in fable 2, Hammer. The imagery I had recieved when reading this was awesome though. Thats probably the main reason I enjoy it.

It really helps as well if you've played Morrowind. There were a number of settings that were basically mapped out in my mind as your characters ivestigated them.

Pick up the pace dude!

-Mike

Thanks Mike ^_^ I can't help shoehorning bits of romance in here and there!

This chapter is shorter. Hope you enjoy


*


The King And I

Chapter Seven ? Interlude Three; What Karethys Didn't See


Wayrest, High Rock, Last Seed, 3E 399. It is 30 years before the present day. Morgiah is 23.


As Karethys' shadowy figure stole quietly ahead, so Morgiah's shadowy figure stole quietly behind. The main streets of Wayrest were brightly-lit with shielded oil-lamps, but she was out of the town centre now.

The tutor was hurrying and her pupil could barely keep up, but Morgiah did not call out. Because Karethys did not know she was there, and Morgiah was following her.

Since uncovering the meaning of the cloak-clasp rune, Morgiah had watched her tutor like a hawk. She had noticed that on several evenings Karethys would leave the castle and not return for hours, sometimes days, at a time. On this occasion, Morgiah had slipped out behind her.

It wasn't just simple curiosity, she knew. Since reading the name of the King of Worms a month ago, some strange fire had been lit in her. Who was he? What was he? And what was it that made thousands the world over call him their leader?

She ducked behind a smooth red-brick wall as Karethys turned her head, scouting around before crossing a wide courtyard.

A lot of things had happened that month. There was uproar in the Imperial City as the Emperor had been discovered to be the impostor Jagar Tharn, revealed and defeated by a High Elf hero. Morgiah was interested in this for a particular reason; she was sure that there was a connection between this mer and the rumours that the Ogmha Infinium had been found. And the Infinium was something Morgiah had been thinking about for a while now.

She hurried to keep up as Karethys turned a dark corner.

The trouble was, any lore to be found on the subject was profoundly unhelpful. The palace library at Wayrest was fairly well-stocked for a provincial collection, but any references she had found on the subject were frustratingly unvaried. A brief paragraph stating the name, which daedra granted the artefact, and the fact that the Infinium had been written by the mysterious 'Ageless One', Xarses. Of Xarses himself, Morgiah could find not a crumb of information.

She was beginning to feel the limits of Wayrest more strongly than ever. It was true the town was very wealthy, sitting as it did on the most convenient taxable trade-routes of the Bjoulsae River. But it still had not grown to the size of, say, Sentinel or Daggerfall, the other two major powers of the Iliac Bay. It was not as old, either. Perhaps those cities would have the information she craved?

Suddenly Karethys stopped and swung her head around. Morgiah, in the shadow, froze immediately with her heart in her mouth. It was not so much the fear of getting caught, rather that she would not get to the bottom of Karethys' mystery that made her fists clench and her mouth set?

But Karethys visibly relaxed at the sight of a rough-looking stray cat turning out of an adjacent alley. She continued on her way. After a moment, more cautiously, Morgiah followed.

Though she hadn't meant to, she had found herself expressing her frustrations to her mother that day at supper. To her surprise, Barenziah had seemed almost verbose on the subject.

"This library has been adequate for your studies so far," she had said with a thoughtful look, "but you seem to be exceeding expectations in that respect. If you want a decent library, most people would immediately say the Imperial City in Cyrodiil? the Elder Scrolls are kept there, of course? but for your sort of interests, I would look to the Altmer. Their lore goes back a long way. Alinor, perhaps? or Firsthold?"

She knew the Ogmha Infinium was a ridiculous fantasy, but she told herself she would look into the matterof Altmer libraries, if only to humour her own whims.

Karethys was slowing down now; out of the darkness ahead, a large, comfortable-looking two-storey house was visible. It looked plain but affluent, with a veranda on one side. Karethys stole up to the door and knocked.

Voices came then, but too faint for Morgiah to hear. Someone spoke from the other side of the door; Karethys replied softly, and was admitted.

Morgiah hung back, uncertain. What now?

She crept to the side of the house. It was wood-panelled, but expensively finished, like most of the houses in Wayrest. All the curtains were shut.

She dug her fingers into her palms in annoyance. Surely this wasn't it? There must be some way for her to find out what was going on inside?

As she scanned the building, she saw a faint glow between the curtains on the first-floor, just off the veranda. All the other windows were dark. She examined the cast iron railings round the edge of the building and found them climbable.

After a few near disasters due to the fact that royal dresses are not designed for scrambling up walls, Morgiah had arrived on the veranda intact and was pressed to the wall, peeking through the gap in the curtains.

The glow that had seemed relatively bright from the ground was, in fact, a dim illumination from two candles. Seven figures stood in the centre of a large empty room, arranged in a circle round a pedestal, on which was a tightly-bound scroll.

Her heart began to beat quickly with excitement. She recognised Karethys, but only just. The robe she was wearing covered her face and was identical to those the other six figures wore, making them almost indistinguishable. Then, as she watched, the scroll began to glow.

Karethys stepped forward, touched it, and vanished.

Morgiah's eyes were aglitter.

One by one, in intervals of a minute or so, each of the remaining people in the room followed suit. Soon it was empty, and although the light of the candles played on the pedestal, the scroll remained unilluminated.

Morgiah waited, holding her breath. Would they reappear??

After five minutes, she became impatient.

After ten, she sat on a convenient plant-pot that afforded a reasonable view.

After twenty, she occupied herself with pulling the stray threads out of the hem of her dress and weaving them into a bracelet.

After three-quarters of an hour, she put the bracelet down and began to think about her next move.

She looked at the position of the moon. Almost the first hour of the morning. For all she knew, Karethys and her companions wouldn't be back until light, and she couldn't stay on the veranda until then ? for one thing, she would be seen and have to answer some awkward questions. She must be back inside the palace by five 'o clock at the latest ? the maids would be getting up by then.

So, the question was: should she wait on the off-chance that the people would return, or should she leave?

She tried to recall her memories of past incidents like this involving Karethys. She lived in the palace for the most part, but when Morgiah had no lessons scheduled, she might often disappear. Of course, that was perfectly normal. But it was it a clue to what was happening wherever the scroll had transported her?

Morgiah couldn't think of a single instance where Karethys had just been out for the evening, and returned before the next morning. It was always at least a day.

So she decided, partly by logic, partly by guesswork and partly by the fact that the plant-pot had become very uncomfortable, that she would return to the palace and keep a very sharp eye-out for exactly when Karethys put in her next appearance.

That taken care of, she climbed (more carefully this time) back down the iron railing, and made her way quietly back to the palace, feeling exhilarated but annoyingly unsatisfied.


*


Palace South Wing, Mournhold, Morrowind, 9th First Seed 3E 429, Present Day.


Morgiah looked up from her desk as the study door swung open, revealing Barenziah.

"What is it?" Morgiah asked, seeing the expression in her mother's face.

"Helseth left Mournhold twenty minutes ago," said Barenziah, "and is, so I'm told, heading to Vvardenfell in a very inconspicuous manner."

Morgiah put her quill down, thoughts beginning to form.

"Though you might want to know," Barenziah said mildly, bowing out and shutting the door with a quiet click.


*


Facility Cavern, Red Mountain, Morrowind, 10th First Seed 3E 429, Present Day.


"An intriguing hobby," Helseth remarked. "Master Fyr was certainly? unique. Although I am not sure he would approve of the use his 'patients' will serve."

"I would believe not, your Majesty," said a black-robed figure by his side.

The vault of the ruined Facility Cavern stretched above them. Abandoned Dreamers had flanked Helseth six-deep through the pathways to the centre of the volcano, but there had been no need. Nenya had done her job well; it had taken the better part of two years, but not a single blight-creature remained on Red Mountain.

"I am hugely impressed," Helseth continued. "When I conceived of the idea I didn't think it could be put in motion so quickly, or that the Corprusarium patients would be so? effective."

Above them stretched something massive and forbidding. No longer a ruin; now it was a construction site. A hundred Corprus-victims, transported from the cellars of Tel Fyr, swarmed over its tarnished surface like working ants.

"They work at a tremendous rate, your Majesty," commented the Abandoned Dreamer Master. "I believe it gives them a focus rather than the agonies of their infliction. Of course," he went on conscientiously, "their work is set to meticulous instructions given by Bagarn. Who could supervise the reconstruction better than an actual Dwemer? Tel Fyr really has been a gold-mine to us."

"It is a shame Ser Divath himself could not participate. Although I must say I find myself confused ? surely Bagarn is in no condition to be, ah, issuing instructions?"

"He has invented a rather ingenious method of hand-signalling, your majesty."

"I see. Best to keep an eye on that ? you impaired his speech for a reason, I beg you to remember."

"Of course, your Majesty."

Helseth cast a critical eye over the project. The progress was more than satisfactory. Only one thing remained to be asked?

"What is the news on the assembly of the two artefacts?" he inquired.

"The Totem is all but finished, your majesty. The Mantella has presented more of a challenge, but Vivec and Bagarn are making good advancement. I would estimate a month, perhaps a little more, before it will be ready for the final stage. The inclusion of a soul."

"Yes," murmured Helseth, his eyes narrowing. The problem of suitable subjects for this use was still hounding him, though he was not without a plan. "I trust Vivec has not been problematic."

"He believes he is constructing a talisman to protect his people from the invasion of outside enemies, my lord."

Helseth almost laughed. "How ironic."


*


Wayrest, High Rock, Last Seed, 3E 399. It is 30 years before the present day. Morgiah is 23.


It was the next evening before Morgiah looked up from her book to see a familiar figure opening the library door.

"Hello, Karethys," Morgiah purred. "Have you passed a pleasant day?"

"Thank you, yes," her tutor answered in her normal clipped tone. "I thought tonight we might study stealth and concealment spells, what do you think?"

How auspicious, Morgiah thought, and smiled as she picked up her quill.


*
*


A/N: Like most of the places and characters I've included in this story, the meeting-house Karethys sneaks off to actually is a real place in Wayrest in Daggerfall, although I believe it's actually a Dark Brotherhood hideout. It's about halfway into the city southwest from the Palace - and yes, it's big and wooden with a verandah anol eye for detail? Me?

Also, I want to apologise if anyone didn't like the switching from past to present during this chapter. I originally intended the 'Interludes' to be solely about Morgiah's past leading up to her move to Mournhold at the beginning of the fic (confusing, I know), but they also became a very convenient place to slot in tidbits from Helseth's point of view. If it's getting annoying, don't hesitate to tell me

Hey, sorry I haven't been commenting on this one much, I've been a bit busy with some police academy stuff (getting beat up being a part of it). Anyway, I just have classroom stuff now so I'll be able to keep up with it better when I am not studying for exams and what not. But enough about that, this is a thread for your fic and all I can say is it keeps getting better with each chapter. I really have no complaints for it thusfar, as I said before the characters are superbly detailed and the story is tightly written and excellently paced. As far as my own writing goes, I'm actually working on some non-fiction stuff but I always have an itch to write more in the ES universe. That, however, is neither here nor there (I've always wanted to use that phrase). I am anxiously awaiting the next part.

Also, the switching from past to present flowed nicely, no complaints here.

Thanks Radont! I really appreciate your comments, I know how busy you are with training. Besides, you've read these chapters before, so it's double nice of you I'm really pleased you like the characters. For me, that is really what drives a story - I'm quite happy to read something with little to no plot as long as the characters are well-written and interesting. Even though I'm enjoying working out my own plot, it's still the dialogue scenes I have most fun with. I just really like building on what the game gave us to start with.

Good luck with the getting beat up

I liked this little stealthy interlude. A few lines of suspense here and there, and quite a bit of comic relief! (the whole flower pot thing, Karethys teaching Morgiah stealth spells, Vivec..) funny!
I only recently played daggerfall, so the when I saw the word "mantela" I was like, "OH SNAP!" I didn't actually say that out loud..because that would be totally lame.

Anways, as I was reading (I can't remeber at which point but), I just took a step away from reading it all and thought to myself, this guy really knows where his story wants to go. And you do!

I'm glad that you're updating this more frequently. Keep 'em commin!

-Mike

You know, one thing about people asking you to post more (other than it being awesome) is that it really kicks you into gear and makes you write more just so you don't let people down. This is a good thing, because as we all know, I am one lazy ho.



Funny you should mention me knowing where it's going - the very first scene I actually wrote for this story, more than five years ago, was the final chapter I'm all baaaackwards. Also: you've played Daggerfall? That is so cool, because I have so many little references to it in here (which will become more and more as the sotry progresses) and it's great to have as many people as possible who are going to get them!

That said - voila! Shorter chapter again this time.



*


The King And I

Chapter 8 ? Here And There


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, drunk on the fascination of 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 the impending journey to High Rock. "It'll be at least a week before we dock in Northpoint; 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 Khajiit. I've never met an Ohmes-Raht before."

"I don't suppose you get an abundance of Khajiit 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-four 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 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.


*


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 tax-routes 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, and lightly touched a ring on her finger - an odd thing, old-looking, strangely ill-matched to the soft pastels of her garments. 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 a conversationalist," 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 basemants. He never came out.


*


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 here 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 change as often as the wind, leaving only 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 her angels; 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.


*


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 Carolyna, 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 blood 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 an Altmer 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 have embraced 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 trophy-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 her 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 know 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.


*
*

I very much enjoyed this one. I see you're slowly tying the knot with Caius and Nenya. I actually was interested in the brief little background you gave your Nerevarine, since its basically left to the player to make up their own story. (Mind you, I didn't )

Once again, I like how you pay attention to detail when setting the scene. (Eastern Wayrest) Things like Barenziah standing in Mournhold looking at the lack of draqes, kinda generates its own imagery based on the game, but yeah.

I don't about everyone else, but I don't mind you unloading more background on characters like you did with Elysana..and Morgiah briefly. The way you present the information is hardly informative, but almost acts as a tool to understand a characters thought process. If you have no idea what im rambling about, i'm talking about the ending bit with Barenziah.

Keep em come'n, woman! :hehe:

One of the best Ive seen in a long time

Keep writing

You are a wonderful writer. I love this story. I can wait for the next chapter!
Keep up the good work!

Glad you like the background bits! To be honest, I'm being sparse at the moment, but before this is over you will be begging me to shut up, I promise you. :hehe: I have a lot of background exposition floating around. I'm really glad that you're playing Daggerfall, like you said in your last comment, because from here on in there's going to be a lot of references to TESII characters and places. I hope it's not going to put people off, but there are so few Daggerfall-themed fics that I couldn't resist.





Thanks a lot for your support guys! I've had a real writing frenzy recently, and most of the later chapters of the story are finished. King And I is approaching 60,000 words in length.

...What am I doing with my life?!

That said - enjoy! ^_^


*


The King And I

Chapter 9 ? Interlude 4; What Happened Because Of The Plague


Castle Wayrest, High Rock, Hearthfire 3E399. It is 30 years before the present day. Morgiah is 23.

Wayrest's gates were shut and bolted. The quarantine was absolute ? no-one entered, no-one left.

The plague had hit quickly and with little to no warning. There had been crises across the Bay, but it had seemed so far away, and now? even the Royal Family were prisoners, sealed within the relatively safe environment of the palace walls.

Relatively.

Karethys raved. Morgiah was watching from the door of the makeshift hospital room; she had been lucky to get that far at all with the heavy restrictions placed on the family's movement. But while she could, she stood unnoticed, and listened to the delirious words?

"NO! Let me ? I mustn't ? tomorrow, let me go, for tomorrow ? please ? please ? must go ? speak to him ? stop ?"

One of the nurses noticed Morgiah and ushered her away, shutting the door with a final, resolute clang. In the darkened hallway, the light from the closed-off room gone, she leant against the smooth panelling and felt her heart beating. The corridor smelled of wood-polish and dust, but under the familiar scents there were medicinal herbs, and sweat, and death.

Tomorrow.

They may have been delirious ravings, but Morgiah thought she knew what they meant. It had been two months since she had first followed Karethys to the meeting-house; since then, she has done likewise four separate times. Each time the figures had touched the scroll and vanished. Sometimes Karethys would be back in the morning; last time, it had been two days.

Morgiah started to walk down the dim corridor. It was night; a stifling, cloud-blanketed night, with hot air begging for a thunderstorm to clear it. The plants glistened with moisture in the kitchen-garden, glimpsed through the small windows that lead back through the servants' quarters. Bad weather for plague. No cooling, cleansing wind, no refreshing rain. Just this irrepressible stuffiness.

Another meeting tomorrow? a mad idea started to form in her head, one that made her heart quicken as well as her steps.

Karethys was not wearing the cloak and clasp in the hospital room ? they must still be in her chambers somewhere. She and Morgiah were of similar height and build, their voices of comparable pitch, they were both Dunmer ? Karethys was older, but the cloak would hide that?

Tomorrow.

Don't do it, she told herself. You're a fool with more curiosity than is good for you. You have no idea what's waiting on the other end.

But something had changed in her that day she had read the book of symbols in the library, saw the cloak-clasp, read that name. Something had a thread around her wrists and ankles and mind, and it was pulling, pulling her. She knew she would go.

And go she did.


*


Thirty years later, hundreds of leagues from eachother, three people are sipping wine.

The first we know well. She wears a red dress and her eyes are far, far away. She is passion run by clockwork. On the table before her is a green gem, and she is looking at it and thinking of all the things that have happened because of it.

The second we also know well. He is travelling back from Vvardenfell, brooding, thinking of Totems and Mantellas and fame and glory. The crown on his head is heavy, and is pressing into the skin of his scalp. It is not only physically that it leaves its marks.

The third we do not know, except in legend.

We cannot see his face. No, of course not ? who can? The wine in his glass is deep, deep red, like the dress of someone else. There is a strange symbol on the clasp at his throat ? one that would be recognisable to some, but this particular clasp is old. Very, very old. The eyes that glow from under his hood are like no other eyes in the world, and they are fixed in thought.

And so these three people sit in these three different places, their thoughts all occupied by one another. And when that happens to people, sooner or later they meet.


*


They were in a circle round the scroll. It was beginning to glow. Morgiah was sure the others would be able to hear her heart beating ? it was so loud in her own ears that she could hear practically nothing else.

She had been admitted into the house by a silent, incongruously normal-looking blonde woman in a green dress and apron, who gestured for her to go upstairs. Passing by a few ground-floor rooms, she saw other people dressed in civilian clothes, all silent. She assumed they must be there to keep some sort of cover.

When she reached the scroll-room, six other cloaked figures were already there. They spoke no word other than an introductory "Are you ready, sister?" Morgiah nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Then they gathered in a circle, and watched the scroll.

The glow was strong now. One by one, the cloaked figures stepped forward and touched it. Finally, only she was left.

She took one, long, deep breath, and counted to ten. Then she touched the scroll, and everything went dark.


*


Sooner or later they meet.


*


When Morgiah's sight returned, she found herself on a strangely lit podium covered by a heavy gazebo of some luminous stone. What was it that made the sky so impenetrably black, or gave this feeling of closeness, weight, oppression??

As her night-vision strengthened, she realised. She was underground. Torchlight flickered along the rough face of the rock. And as she cast around, trying to get her bearings, assessing her position, she suddenly felt a shock of fear grip her.

She was not alone.

As her eyes adjusted to the light she realised that standing in the shadows beyond the gazebo were two figures, two shapes, whose outlines seemed terribly wrong.

One of them took a step forward.

Don't come into the light, Morgiah silently pleaded, though she hardly knew she was doing it. Don't come into the light?

But the other one moved too, and as the torchlight fell over their wasted remains, she felt her fear like a kick in the chest. Ancient Liches, their musty cloaks holding together decayed limbs, their battle-staffs crackling with half-wrought spells.

For a moment she thought she was done for. Though she boasted years of magical training, she'd never actually used it on as much as a kitchen-rat. Two Ancient Liches?

But she was prepared to go out fighting. As they raised their staffs, so she raised an outstretched arm, spells of fire and destruction on the tip of her tongue...

And stopped just before they flew from her palm. The Liches' staffs were raised, certainly, but not in attack. They were saluting. Bowing.

And now they were reaching out their hands ? surely it couldn't be, though she recognised the gesture from a hundred grooms and nobles throughout her life ? yes, it was unmistakeable. They were offering their once-hands to assist her from the platform, like any footmen might their lady. The unbidden comparison revolted her, even through her astonishment.

She took them, feeling the dustiness of the dry bone. She noticed with satisfaction that her own hands were perfectly steady. The Liches, like some kind of perverse suitors, opened an iron door in the rock and stood back respectfully as she passed through. Gesturing along the cavern corridor, they bowed once more and then withdrew, leaving Morgiah alone with the torches blazing from the line of smooth alcoves.

She was breathing quickly. The shock had not yet subsided ? and yet, what had she expected? These were the headquarters of the Necromancers. Liches were probably not the worst of what she'd see. And there was no reason to feel as if she were in deadly danger when at any moment she could cast the Recall spell back to the meeting-house in Wayrest. Next time, she chided herself, she should cast a Mark in the Palace itself.

But she was determined not to Recall yet. To have come this far already, to have risked so much; her spirit balked at the thought of flight. What had she come here for? Knowledge. To learn, to slake her powerful curiosity. And always at the back of her mind like a canker ? the idea of catching even a glimpse of that fabled figurehead of this profane branch of magic, that leader, that Worm King... It was like a guilty secret under her every thought, impossible to dispel. She had not come this far only to go back.

Instead, she started down the corridor. It was little more than a tunnel of rock; at least she thought so, until one of the torches flared and she saw the myriad unrecognisable symbols that crawled over the walls like oil through water. She guessed at the meanings of some, but soon gave up. Their only recognisable qualities seemed to be some common traits with Breton, other with Altmer ? but she could discern no more than that, and the way the torchlight made them creep along the rock made her stomach churn.

Presently she came to a heavy set of double doors. The sounds from beyond them seemed unnatural after the oppressive stillness of the corridor, but before she could hesitate the door had swung open and she was looking into the heart of the Necromantic world.

It was a vast hall, its walls polished smooth and animated with some of the last things she had expected to see in such a place. Conversation buzzed all about her, unstilted and lively, and (perhaps most disconcertingly of all) a sweet fluting music drifted from the far end, where groups of dancing girls were gathered as if in a temple.

"Welcome, Brother," said a rich voice from her right. Turning, she saw a tall, powerful figure of a man, a red hood obscuring his face but otherwise naked from the waist up. She realised she must have been staring.

"May I be of assistance?" prompted the guard ? for so he must have been ? his voice surprisingly calm and pleasant. She thought about correcting his address of 'Brother', but then realised it was probably a standard greeting, regardless of gender. She had heard the Dark Brotherhood used a similar system.

"What is your name?" she asked, feeling a sudden rush of boldness. She knew she ought to keep as low a profile as possible until she was familiar with their ways and customs, but she couldn't resist a little indulgence.

Luckily, the guard didn't seem to feel her question was out of the ordinary. "I am called Klark, my Sister," he replied, his voice firm but amiable. Ah, so 'Brother' was only a default address after all. She would have to learn all this if she wanted to be convincing.

"Then thank you, Klark, but no," she answered, feeling a little squirm of pleasurable excitement. "I'm meeting someone," she added on improvisation.

"Go well," he said simply, the device on his spear gleaming. It was identical to the one on Karethys' cloak-clasp; it winked at her from the throats of a hundred others throughout the hall.

She moved, dreamlike, through the crowd. The flute music, high and haunting, floated through the air and seemed to work the torchlight into its song, for she fancied the flames dimmed and flared according to its pitch. Groups of people mingled and talked, their faces hidden like hers; some casual and familiar, some serious and formal. Dancing-girls wove sensually throughout the host, their bodies entwining, their skin creamy in the half-light, made faceless and nameless by the hoods that fell to their mouths. Incense curled through the air. How strange. Temple scents, temple practices?

She saw several doors, but for the most part the polished walls receded into blackness, and here and there she could detect the shadowy outline of mouldering capes and dry, spiderlike joints. More Liches, silently flanking the edge of the cavern. Her wariness, which had eased at the introduction of Klark and the groups of talking people, came back full force. Her spine crawled. The hall might seem welcoming (of a sort), but one glance at the figures lurking just out of the light and she remembered where she truly was, and the awful risks she was taking.

Before she really had time to dwell on this uncomfortable state of affairs, she realised the crowd was quietening and parting.

Someone was coming through.

She fell back and peered, jostling for a glimpse, although she already knew deep down what she'd see?

The leader of the Necromancers. The King of Worms.

The meagre noises in the hall seemed muffled, inconsequential, as he neared. A scarlet cloak fell about him in heavy folds. As he passed, he turned his hooded head in her direction ? she stifled the gasp, but not the racing beat of her heart. There was nothing there.

Nothing.

No face; not even shadow. Only blackness, denser than a night without the moon; save for where two points of blue light glowed at eye-level, like unnatural stars in an unearthly sky?

And then half a moment after he'd come into view he'd gone again, into a door beyond the dais. The conversation, respectfully stilled at his entrance, rose once more.

She felt weak and drained. She was shaking, but not with fear: excitement? Anticipation? It was hard to tell? in just that one moment she had become unable to think straight; her thoughts were jumbled, her concentration was shot. She was out of control.

And that meant she had to leave. She was not so undisciplined that she misunderstood this vital fact ? the moment she had less than total mastery of herself, she was putting both hers and Karethys' lives at terrible risk. Though she'd been there only a few minutes, she had already reached her limit. To overachieve would be to ruin.

So she turned and wove back through the crowd. Klark opened the iron door. His voice ? "Until the twenty-fifth, Sister" ? did not properly register with her, and even if it had she would not have trusted herself to answer. Her boldness had vanished along with her composure, and it was simply too dangerous. Neither did she proceed to the gazebo chamber with the Liches. Halfway down the silent corridor, in the dark lull between torch-brackets, she cast the Recall spell and appeared in the wood-panelled salon of the meeting-house.

She climbed out of the window rather than venture downstairs, and saw no-one on the way back to the palace.

Once in her room, she sat on her bed and bowed her head over her knees. It was only when dawn began to break, an hour later, that she was able to take off the cloak, hide it at the bottom of her wardrobe, and get into bed.

Palace life went on; Elysana played, Helseth brooded, Karethys raved. But Morgiah still couldn't sleep; not then, and not the night after either. Not for a long time.


*
*

I absolutely loved this chapter; not to mention the meeting with Mannimarco. You certainly gave a personality to him that I have yet to witness. I wish I could play Daggerfall, really I do.

And Elysana... You seem to have a mastery of the little lass. Helseth... I'm not sure if he would be quite as paranoid as you make him to be (I play Helseth a little differently in Siege of Sentinel) but still a good job.

And I get a sense Morgiah might have a fling for the King of Worms, but I highly doubt this to be actually true.

Can I have more please?

Oh my god, I am such an idiot - I posted the wrong chapter! I got my numbers mixed up and I posted 11 instead of 9. It's the stupid interlude numbers; I knew I was making it too complicated for my tiny brain

So thank you for being a gentleman and not raking me over the coals for my continuity, which must have looked rather odd And thank you so much for the comments. I actually really love writing Elysana; she's one of my favourites. I think my Helseth has probably deviated a bit too far from canon, but again, I'll have to beg your indulgence. I really appreciate the time you take to read and comment.

:ahem: The correct chapter is now in place. Let it never be said that only blondes can't count to ten.

To be honest, I had failed this time to notice the lax in continuity. I simply assumed there had been a break in the story, being an interlude, and some parts had been purposely skipped. While I was somewhat put off by the sudden jump, I have to commend you on a job well done on chp. 11, as it was written well enough that your error was hardly noticeable.

So, now only blondes and bright-red heads can't count to ten, eh?

And I do like how you portray Helseth, as uncanon as it may be. The canon is rather shallow anyways. You're injecting character into him. I do really like how you portrayed Mannimarco, and the Necromancer meeting, in chp. 9. Very sensual, visual, descriptive, and mysterious. And Morgiah's unease towards the liches was an appropriate touch.

I'll be honest, I read chapter 11...and was utterly confuzzled on what was going on...and kept saying to myself..."this doesn't make any sense." As I was reading I had picked up that Morgiah's character had suddenly developed into a person I did not know..so I closed my internet browser.

I was gonna give the piece another chance today, because it is the only thing I read...and what do you know, you screwed up the chapters! yesss! :hehe:

Anyways, that being said...I really enjoyed this one. Your description of the necromancer lair gave me such imagery im inclined to draw out what I saw.

Keep em commin,

-Mike

keep these chapters coming

This is an amazing fan fic and I want to see it continued

Thanks so much for re-reading I'm glad you liked the atmosphere of Scourg Barrow - I'm pretty pleased because that's really exactly what I wanted to create. I had this idea that Scourg Barrow would be even creepier if it had an edge to it that almost made you think that it was a pleasant place - except for the fact that you're constantly reminded of the skin-crawling things that are lurking all around you; not only the monsters, but the acts the seemingly friendly people are committing in their leisure time. I wanted that mix of erotica and disturbia, because it kind of freaks me out, so I figured it might make other people uneasy too.



Ok, so now I am terrified of letting you down! Hopefully the last chapter will bridge the gap that put you off so much between those two interludes. I feel like since this is the only thing you read, I sort of have a responsibility not to screw it up Thank you for your forgiveness! I hope this story ends up living up to your expectations.

And by all means, draw! You're an artist?



Thank you kindly; and here you are!



*


The King And I

Chapter 10 ? Outward and Inward


The ship was rocking a bit too much for Bomba 'Lurrina ? the wind was high, and their speed was good. To combat her natural dislike of water and what she suspected was a threatening bout of seasickness, she watched Nenya with increasing fascination.

Although from the moment they met Bomba 'Lurrina had seen nothing but cheer and friendliness in the Nord, there was a slight gauche ungainliness in her manner ? like a teenager who hadn't got out of the awkward stage, as if she wasn't entirely comfortable in her surroundings. She was a head taller than most Dunmer, and her pale colouring made her stand out instantly in any crowd. Perhaps because of this, she wore her armour everywhere; Bomba 'Lurrina had assumed it was either the most sensible thing to do in her Nerevarine role, or simply the most convenient, but now she began to think differently.

She had been to Skyrim in her time. It was so entirely, vastly different from Morrowind that she wasn't in the least surprised that Nenya would feel unhappy and out of place in a region so alien. The armour wasn't just to protect her from blight creatures and fanatical temple loyalists, it was to protect her from everything. When she put on the inch-thick plate and leather, she was the Nerevarine, and could cope unfailingly with any duties and hardships the Dunmer expected of her. Without it, she was Nenya, and she couldn't.

With every level of Nenya that Bomba 'Lurrina uncovered, she became more and more intrigued.

The armour was now gone, discarded in a cabin at the beginning of the voyage. Nenya was leaning as far over the rail as she could, straw-like hair in rough pigtails completely disarrayed by the wind, not even slightly phased by the lurching and looking almost as if she were a fixture of the ship itself. She was still as incurably clumsy as a particularly cheerful blonde hurricane, but now instead of clashing with her surroundings, it just seemed to fit. She belonged here.

As Bomba 'Lurrina watched, the object of her thoughts leaped down from the rail with a thump and effortlessly negotiated the impossible rocking, coming to flop onto the bench next to her Khajiit companion.

"You look green as a muckpond," Nenya said happily. "Want me to get a potion?"

"No, thank you," scowled Bomba 'Lurrina. "I'll be fine, although it doesn't help to see you skipping around as if you were born to it. And I'm not green."

"Just an expression. Well, take your mind off it; how about telling me why her Highness has arranged such a treat for us?"

"Treat? Speak for yourself," muttered Bomba 'Lurrina sourly. However, the idea of distraction certainly seemed appealing, and it was time Nenya was filled in. She shifted into a more comfortable position, and noted with satisfaction that the rocking had lessened.

"We'll be docking in Northpoint Bay, as you know. There are two main things her Highness wants us to tackle ? firstly, have you heard of Orsinium?"

Nenya wrinkled her nose. "In passing? it's the Orcs' place, isn't it?"

"It's their centre ? their capital, in a way," confirmed Bomba 'Lurrina. "I expect you were too young to remember the realisation of an Orc state by the Emprie, or the beginning of their acceptance in society. It happened around nineteen years ago ? probably nearer eighteen, actually."

"I was six," supplied Nenya helpfully. "I didn't really hear much outside Skyrim."

Bomba 'Lurrina was tempted to question her further about her childhood in Skyrim, and what situation landed her in the labyrinth of Dunmer politics at such a young age, but restrained herself. Not yet. It was too personal.

Instead, she continued with the subject at hand. "The Orsinium Area backs right onto Wayrest, the province where her Highness Morgiah grew up, and where I first met her. If there has been no new successor ? and I'm sure news would have reached us, even in Morrowind ? Gortwog will still be their leader."

"I've heard of him," said Nenya slowly. "I met quite a few Orcs in the Fighter's Guild. They all spoke of him? reverently, I suppose."

"They were right to do so," Bomba 'Lurrina said stiffly, with a slight snap in her voice. "Even now, the Orcs are not appreciated for their true worth. 'Savages'? even 'Beastmen' is an accepted term still. It's madness. Gortwog is worth more than a whole regiment of Imperials any time of the day."

Nenya looked taken-aback by her vehemence, but weighed in nonetheless. "I didn't mean to needle. I'm in the Fighter's Guild ? I know how honourable Orcs can be. But I don't understand ? what have they got to do with Morgiah?"

"Gortwog was in close touch with Queen Mother Barenziah when she lived in Wayrest ? and he knew a lot about Helseth," said Bomba 'Lurrina. "To be straight with you, Gortwog knows a lot about everything. He has contacts, legitimate or nefarious, with an astonishing amount of influential people in Tamriel. It may be that we can find something out from him about Helseth's intentions."

It didn't add up, and Bomba 'Lurrina knew as soon as the words were out of her mouth that the story wouldn't cut it. She realised now that Nenya was as far as possible from being stupid, despite the simple exterior she presented to the world.

Sure enough, Nenya was looking at her with sharp eyes that seemed odd in remembrance of her usual frivolous manner. "We're travelling hundreds of leagues on the offchance that an Orc on the other side of the continent might have heard something about Helseth's slightly odd recent behaviour," she finished.

And Bomba 'Lurrina knew that she could not keep the cards to her chest.

"There is? another thing," she said somewhat lamely.

Nenya looked steadily at her. Then, to Bomba 'Lurrina's surprise, she pulled a section of hair round and started to re-plait it, instead of pursuing the conversation. "I know you and Morgiah are in confidence. If you can't tell me everything, that's fine. I'll go along with you and do my bit and not ask questions."

This put Bomba 'Lurrina out of sync so much that she immediately felt she wanted to divulge the real reason of their voyage, and what's more, understood that it would be in safe hands.

"No ? you deserve to know what we're getting ourselves into. I trust you," she said in a rush of affection that was quite alien to her. Nenya looked surprised, but pleased.

"I trust you, too," she said clumsily, smiling.

"Well," said Bomba 'Lurrina quickly, feeling awkward and keen to skate over the moment, "we are going to see Gortwog. But? that's just on the way. We're going to Wrothgaria to investigate an old acquaintance of mine by the name of Nulfaga? and then, we're going to the Dragontail Mountains."

Nenya frowned in confusion. "But that region's practically deserted, isn't it? I thought ?"

"There is a place in the Dragontail Mountains called Scourg Barrow. It was once a run-of-the-mill abandoned castle ? crawling with the usual vermin, but nothing outstanding or special ? now, it's something else. A headquarters. A meeting-place. A Centre."

Nenya was staring at her. "Centre of what?"

Bomba 'Lurrina looked out over the gunwale to the foamy tips of the waves. Her golden eyes were incalculable once more.

"We're going to see a King," she said. "And keep your hammer close. You'll need it."


*


Mournhold, the hub of the ancient capital Almalexia, makes up only one ninth of the size of the whole city. The rest sprawls, fantastic and mutated, over the gently sloping fertile land that eventually sinks, after many miles, into the southern swamps on the Black Marsh border.

Mournhold is spotless and decorated, filled with attractive parkland and spacious open architecture.

Outer Almalexia is a seething hive of craftsmen, merchants, courtesans, thieves, assassins, urban catastrophe and jumbled beauty. And in a tiny inn that slanted crazily over the narrow alley in the bad part of town, Solon Gothren was sitting in a room enchanting arrows.

Solon was very good at enchanting. He was very good at a lot of things, but it had come at a price, and his expression as he concentrated on the arrows was the blank inscrutability that had put him deep in the mistrust of Morgiah. She was not the first to have felt so.

But for each one that mistrusted, there were a hundred more that were enchanted?

Solon was very good at enchanting.

A thread of golden fire left his fingertip and wound its way round the arrow, like a snake choking a rat.

He was thinking about his Dark Brotherhood foray, and the words he'd heard from Manos. Not the locations and numbers of the Mournhold spies; no, things like that were par for the course when you lived a life like Solon's. He was thinking about what Manos had said about Orvas Dren.

Solon had left the Dren mansion ten days ago, only a few hours after Nenya's visit and request. Working for Dren had been profitable, for a time ? if you lived in the underworld, the Cammona Tong was an invaluable ally. Their networks were vast; their control reaching far beyond the wildest dreams of the ordinary citizens of Morrowind. A Cammona Tong connection could get you out of debt, out of prison, or even out of a noose. But a few months after Solon had come to the Dren mansion, things took a turn for the worse.

Orvas Dren took an interest in him. Personally.

You might say he was enchanted.

Solon had not meant for it to happen. It had occurred before, of course; fascination with Solon was quite common, and he'd been on the receiving end of infatuation more times than he'd had occasion to count. There was something shocking about his appearance that left you breathless, wounded ? you wanted to see more, you had to see more. Everyone felt it sooner or later. All hopelessly irreversible. All totally without Solon's doing.

He was indifferent to the process, as he was indifferent to anything. Over time as he'd realised the extraordinary lengths of his criminal talents, any reciprocal feelings became secondary. It was not true that he was totally inured; Solon was indeed capable of love. He loved his work. He loved the quiet intense concentration of enchanting an arrow; he loved the slow simmering and purification of a potion of his own invention; he loved the satisfaction of the quiet click that signalled the undoing of a particularly tricky lock. He loved melting into the surroundings unreachably with only a moment's notice. He loved the artistry of his work.

Solon did not despise emotion. Quite the opposite ? being so far detached from the phenomenon himself, it was something he looked on with powerful interest. People, their personalities and their psychologies, were as fascinating to him as he himself was to them. The sleeptalk potion he'd used on Manos, for example, could not have been created without several years of indepth study. What even he never realised, though, is that his exceptional understanding of the subject of humanity came from being so separate from it. This was never a conscious decision ? simply the years of his career and the solitude it had brought, not to mention the caution that was essential to survival, taking its toll. He had not noticed the decline. It had happened naturally.

He had not thought that Dren would be affected the way he had. He was quite used to the reactions he provoked in others, but with Dren he had been blas?, and he had allowed himself something he now knew was a crippling mistake: he had allowed himself to explore the situation. He had encouraged him, even. They'd shared several evenings in eachother's company, albeit chaste - he hadn't wanted to get too involved, after all. It was psychologically interesting, and the headman of the Cammona Tong, he had unconsciously reasoned, would surely be as emotionally detached as himself ? the criminal lifestyle brought you into contact with untrustworthy people so often that you couldn't afford not to desensitise yourself to them.

But he had been wrong.

On the night that he left the mansion with Nenya, things had come to a head. Avoiding Dren was becoming difficult. He'd felt his natural survival instinct kicking in? disappear. Melt away. Vanish as if he'd never been there. Outright rejecting Orvas Dren was a far too risky ? Solon may have been the most adept criminal artist to set foot in the mansion for more than a century, but the ill-attention of the Cammona Tong leader was not a wise goal for anyone. Better to slip away. Better to disappear? when Nenya had arrived, he felt a noose lift from around his neck. The perfect opportunity to leave... even if he had been tracked down, the protection of a Princess is not something to be taken lightly. For a while, he had immunity.

But not forever. He would have to settle it sooner or later. If he was lucky, Dren might forget him as a lost conquest, not worth pursuing. The trouble was, people didn't tend to just 'forget' Solon.

He looked away from the last of the arrows, to a letter on the small battered desk. The seal was not explicitly marked, but the quality of the paper and wax was exquisite. He had known it was from Morgiah the moment he received it. It said simply: Sundown, this coming Loredas. Her Highness's study. The South Wing arbour entrance will be unlocked.

He slowly put the newly-enchanted arrows into his quiver one by one.

There was a sense of enormity about the world at that moment ? the sinking sun outside the window, the quiet of the alley below, the muffled sound of voices in the main street. For one moment Solon had the impression of being at the edge of a huge web, one that he dare not step on, because the spider in the middle would feel the slightest movement, and then that would be it? But who was the spider? It couldn't be Dren. This was bigger than either of them.

He put the last arrow in the quiver.

The feeling did not go away, and when he lay on the narrow bed and closed his eyes, his dreams were full of shadowy shapes caught in the dark strands of a web.


*


There are three figures in a room with stars for walls that stretch to heaven and back.

The first one is golden. Golden skin, golden eyes, golden dreams. His motions have the languid abandon of madness. He is showing a small tablet-like object, about the size of a forearm, to a figure in a black robe at his side.

The third is silent and massive, his lower body wedged into a cruel-looking contraption with eight metal legs. Now the object has been finished, he sits motionlessly with downcast eyes. Yagrum Bagarn, the last Dwarf, has no glint of hope any more.

The robed figure bows low. "My Lord? we are forever indebted to you. The Totem is exquisitely made. And once the Mantella is finished, we will finally be able to defeat the malevolent invasion that has overcome your people. Once again, you have delivered us with your infinite goodness and compassion."

Vivec nods. He is good and compassionate, of course. He knows this. It was he that agreed to make these talismans in the defence of these people. It was he that directed the Nerevarine to Red Mountain and told her about the Beginning, and Dagoth Ur?

Something surfaces in the darkness of his mind, like the flip of a glinting fishtail in the murk of a pond.

For a moment his eyes clear, and he looks around, lids wide, his limbs beginning to tremble?

"Where am I?"

The black-robed figure becomes wary, backing away. "My Lord? you are in a haven? you are creating the talismans we need to defeat the threat to your people?"

There is something? there is something? Something is wrong? Totems? Mantellas? this happened once, long ago, when his mortal self died and his immortal guise rose to glory and power? Why was it that 'Totem' and 'Mantella' were ringing warning bells in his mind? What were they for?

Kagrenac? the hulking shape of the mute creature beside him?

Golem?

It is too difficult. The pieces slip through his fingers like sand, the fishtail sinks back into the murky depths, and Lord Vivec's eyes cloud over once more.

"Of course. You have the Totem. Now I and my faithful servant here shall turn to the Mantella."

The black-robed figure relaxes. "You are certainly our salvation, lord."

Vivec had never asked who the 'enemy' was that the robed figures spoke of. The question had never come up. Sheogorath must surely be laughing; it was the madness spreading through the self-made god, not the star-walled room or the black-robed figures, that kept Vivec prisoner. There was no enemy ? only Helseth's obsession with domination, a blinding pinpoint of light in the now-wasteland of his thoughts. It was all that mattered. He had been humiliated in Wayrest. The world would pay for that.

Whether he would pay for it along with the world, is a question as of yet unanswered.


*
*

Damn good chapter

beer is on me :foodndrink:

well dont stop writing now :stare:

there are only two fan-fics I acctually read and this is one of them

write the next [censored] chapter

:P All right, all right!

This is the chapter I mistakenly posted earlier. Mike, I reeeeally hope the last Interlude was able to bridge the gap for you so Morgiah's development makes more sense, because now I am terrified of disappointing you



*


The King And I

Chapter 11 – Interlude 9; Interview With The Necromancer


Castle Wayrest, High Rock, Hearthfire 3E399. It is 30 years before the present day. Morgiah is 23.


The Wayrest library was dark. Only one candle burned on the reading-table, with the adverse effect of making the darkness around it seem all the deeper.

Morgiah sat at the table. The candle illuminated her bodice, jaw and lower lip, but nothing else. She was not reading. She was sitting still, staring into the flame.

Oh, what’s changed? Threads around the wrists and ankles and mind, pulling, pulling… Karethys was still delirious with fever. The cloak and clasp still hung at the back of Morgiah’s wardrobe. She would go again, she knew. Of course she would. Oh, those tricky threads.

Those sparks of blue fire, burning at her from under the red hood…

She would go again.

~*~

And night fell, like a cloak.

~*~

The hall was as she had remembered; full of life. Only the faint pervasive presence of the guard liches, all but hidden in the shadows of the cavern wall, hinted at the purpose of this place. Death was there, like the lingering trace of a woman’s perfume after she leaves the room, dark and unsettling.

Morgiah wound through the host, bodies stepping back and closing in after her like a dance, like a river. The strangeness of it was palpable to her. Just as last time, sound was everywhere – voices, raised and lowered, and the half-caught strains of fluting from the dancers whose hoods glimmered through the sombre grey like ruby jewels.

She barely managed to contain herself when she felt something pluck at her arm. Turning swiftly around, she saw another cloaked shape that might, under scrutiny, have belonged to one of the Wayrestians from the veranda house.

“Karethys? You’re in next. Did you go in early last time? Theodyval Coppersley said he couldn’t find you after his interview. We wondered if perhaps you had strayed from the hall – Scourg Barrow is such a maze beyond the inhabitable parts.”

It was lucky she was wearing a hood that all but obscured her face – Morgiah may have been better than most at remaining impassive, but even she stumbled momentarily at this confusing revelation. They were required to report to someone on these clandestine visits? And she should have done so last visit? She should have researched this properly, she realised. She was just getting herself into hotter and hotter water. The mention of Scourg Barrow was a gift, though – up until now, she had had no idea where in Tamriel this place was located. She would have to pay a visit to the Palace’s map room when she returned.

Despite the unexpected turn of events, her voice was calm as she answered without any noticeable hesitation. “Yes, I was early. I wasn’t able to stay long; I Recalled straight back afterwards. I’m to go now, then?”

“Yes, he’s ready. Until next time, Sister.” The figure turned away. Morgiah’s mind was racing – how could she find out where to go without seeming obvious? There were a couple of doors leading off the main hall further to the back of the dais, but she couldn’t be hesitant about which one without causing suspicion.

She eyed the doors carefully. She hadn’t noticed people coming and going from the central ones; they would have passed directly through the torchlight of the dais, and that would be obvious. It must be a side-door. The one to the left, in dappled shadow but not total darkness, was flanked by a tall guard similar to the one by the main entrance. It wasn’t much to go on, but it would do.

She began to weave through the press of bodies, refusing to admit to herself that with every step, her heart beat faster. Was this really justifiable? Was she being unforgivably stupid? Who was ‘interviewing’ her, what about, and how well would her cover hold up under this added pressure? She really ought to cut her losses and Recall as soon as possible. She would be back in the Palace within moments; she could replace Karethys’ cloak and return to normality. After all, she had already caught a glimpse of the King of Worms, and wasn’t that enough? She had no real interest in Necromancy for its own sake; it was its mysterious figurehead that had drawn her. She should leave before she put her life, and perhaps also Karethys’, in further danger. The greatest wisdom is in knowing your limits.

Perhaps that was Morgiah’s greatest folly. She knew what her limits ought to be, and ignored them.

She crossed the short space to the door; the guard, evidently expecting her, inclined his head in her direction. “Karethys Drethan?”

She nodded in return, conscious all the time of whether her hood was adequately obscuring her upper face. “Yes.”

He stepped aside. “The King of Worms will see you now.”

The King of Worms will see you now.

Morgiah’s heart nearly stopped right there on the dais.

She had never in a thousand years assumed that the conductor of this unexplained interview would be the King himself. For a moment she was frozen, battling with herself, voices shrieking their own internal conflicts within her as she struggled to regain composure.

But she wasn’t given a choice this time. She was at the threshold; there was nowhere else to go. The guard turned the handle and ushered her through – she had the impression of candlelight, a red cloak, two pinpoints of blue light… and then the door swung shut behind her, like the lid of a coffin.


*


Palace North Wing, Mournhold, Morrowind, 11th First Seed 3E 429, Present Day.


Helseth paced through the doors of the Palace North Wing, removing his travelling-cloak and handing it to a nearby servant without looking round. “See that my study is prepared. Vilerys,” he called, motioning for his steward. “Ensure the trade entrance is cleared. You know what I mean.”

“Brother,” pronounced a voice from his other side, a purring voice that was about as welcome to him as a pit full of snakes.

He turned around slowly, forcing what he hoped was a winning smile onto his face. “Sister. Are you well?”

“As well as can be, thank you.” Morgiah sashayed over, eyeing the attendants who were now hastily stowing Helseth’s outdoor clothing. For a wild moment, her animation almost made him think that she had run down especially to see him – which was of course beyond absurd. “Been out visiting? I did not realise you had business outside the city.”

“State visits, you know,” he said airily, feeling his fists clench unconsciously. More questions… why was she doing this? Did she know something, or was this always how she had acted around him? He tried to think back to when they had last lived together. To his alarm, he realised he no longer had any idea of what ‘normal’ behaviour was for Morgiah. Had they really grown so far apart?

“Of course. You are so busy now,” his sister smiled. Her pleasantry was truly bizarre. “Perhaps you are not so busy to have dinner with me tonight?”

Survival instinct kicked in. “I’m afraid I am tied up with court business tonight. It’s so dull, I know. I apologise.”

To his utter astonishment, something flickered in her eyes – surely not disappointment? He could hardly decipher it before it was gone, leaving him uneasier than ever.

“A pity. Another time, maybe. Goodnight, Helseth.”

“Goodnight,” Helseth replied automatically, feeling relieved despite himself.

As she walked quietly back down the corridor, he caught a glimpse of green in her palm, flaring in the lamplight. Helseth’s eyes narrowed. The image jolted a memory in him… a memory of Morgiah, long ago in Wayrest, before they had gone their separate ways… the flash of green was a gem on a chain. She had had it before she left for Firsthold; he remembered now. He had barely registered it at the time, being so involved in his battle with Elysana.

But a spark of intuition came to him unbidden. What on earth would make Morgiah carry round such a plain and nondescript gem so for many years? It wasn’t as if she was partial to subtle decoration. The dress she was wearing now probably cost more than the whole of Godsreach. Was there something… odd about the gem?

Of course, his imagination was running away with him. Why shouldn’t she wear jewellery from years ago? He rubbed his eyes. He was getting paranoid, carried away.

But as he looked back once more to see Morgiah slipping through the doorway to the Great Hall, the flash of green came again, putting him unpleasantly in mind of a staring eye.


*


Castle Wayrest, High Rock, Hearthfire 3E399. It is 30 years before the present day. Morgiah is 23.


Morgiah hung Karethys’ cloak in the very back of the wardrobe, and lowered herself slowly into the deskchair of her own study in Wayrest Palace. She was shaking.

And then she began to laugh. Elation was flowing through her – a wild, hysterical, frantic kind of elation – she had done it! The giddy excitement was like champagne, like opium; she felt dizzy with exhilaration. The memory of the danger and risk of exposure was like a drug. She was gone; she was lost.

The scene was still before her eyes in vivid detail. What had surprised her most had been the… normality. The King of Worms had invited her courteously to sit down as if they were merely guests at a fancy restaurant. He had offered her wine. Perhaps rather sensibly, she had refused – after all, she was on thin ice to begin with. And then he had talked to her, simply talked, for almost an hour.

She had realised quickly that the reason for the ‘interviews’ was espionage. The cloaked figures were evidently informants as well as Necromancers. The newfound knowledge had, primarily, been a bone of contention for her – she had trusted Karethys. She and her tutor had never had what anyone would call personal conversations, but living in the castle, she would obviously pick up a great deal of information without having to ask a single question. The thought make her feel naked, unsettled. Exactly how much did the King know about her family? About her? And what use did he have for this information; what purpose might it eventually serve?

Nevertheless, she had found herself strangely disarmed. The thing she really hadn’t expected had been the King’s charisma. He had spoken to her like the better class of courtier – intelligent, witty and charming. And always, underneath every word he spoke, was a faint aura of power that she couldn’t even begin to measure. Quite simply, he was fascinating. The shock of this revelation was something she hadn’t quite gotten over yet.

She had given him a few harmless tidbits of palace life, the kind of things Karethys would have been likely to pick up. Their conversation had been lively, scintillating and intriguingly enjoyable. She had found him an excellent verbal sparring partner – so good, in fact, that she had to constantly keep herself in check should she get carried away and slip in too much her own personality. She suspected she had already been more challenging than Karethys would have been. She would have to be very careful next time.

Next time?

Oh no you don’t, said her conscience. The more you go, the harder it will be to wriggle out of. When Karethys comes back, the cat will be out of the bag. They’ll know she was being impersonated, and it won’t take long for them to make the connection. And what’s the penalty for that? You know nothing about these people. They’re Necromancers. You have no idea what they’re capable of, what their retribution will be.

But when Karethys gets better, said a louder voice, you’ll never be able to go again. Why not take the chance while it’s there? Where’s the harm?

Everywhere, of course. The harm was everywhere.

But that wouldn’t be enough to stop her.


*


She was stepping back outside the door, wondering how on earth she could pretend she had slept tonight, when a small muslin-pink figure flew round the corner. Too late to check its speed, the shape crashed into her head-on, the two of them stumbling back into the wall. Reflexively, Morgiah raised a hand – until she saw the yellow ringlets, the cornflower-blue eyes narrowed in pique. Elysana.

Panting, the younger girl tugged away and put a hand to her shoulder, where an angry pink mark was blossoming.

“Mind where you run,” said Morgiah stiffly, regaining her balance and straightening her skirt. “You’d better let nurse look at your shoulder.”

Elysana continued to glare, her rosebud lips scrunched in obstinate silence. The older girl was just starting to turn away when she heard a whisper, nearly inaudible: “Black devil.”

Morgiah turned around and slapped her across the face.

The sound rang out loudly in the dark corridor.

For one moment, Elysana’s face cleared of all covert pettishness and was taken over by pure shock, her eyes stretched so wide that the whites could be seen all around them. Her hand flew to her cheek. She stared, speechless.

“Go to nurse,” Morgiah repeated, quietly.

Elysana backed away slowly, expressions Morgiah couldn’t read lurking behind her doll-like features. Then she turned and disappeared down the corridor in a flash of pink.

Morgiah found that she, too, was breathing fast. She leant against the wall, chewing her lip, staring unseeingly down the now-deserted gallery.

She could not pretend she hadn’t desired the satisfaction of that slap for a long time. But there had been something about the change in Elysana that had unnerved her – something had risen in her eyes that had only been dormant before. Fear and hatred. Oh, very much hatred. There had always been tension between the three step-children, but Morgiah had a disquieting feeling that with one strike, she had let loose a beast.

Which was ridiculous, of course. The child was nine years old. Hardly a threat, she told herself.

She could not have been more wrong.


*
*