Broken Vows

Chapter 2

The night I met the assassin was a cold evening in Frostfall, some weeks after I had been restored to my regular duties on the Watch. My orders that night sent me to the plaza of the Telvanni canton, and I had spent the majority of my shift reciting the Cantatas of Vivec in my head.

I had just begun the refrain of the chorus in the twenty-eighth stanza when a frightened cry rent the late-night quiet of the plaza. I charged toward the sound, and found a Redguard man standing outside the temporary housing building, shouting for help. When he saw me approach, he stepped away from the entrance, gesturing frantically. "In there, ser!" He said urgently. "The woman attacked-"

I shouldered past him, not waiting for the rest of his explanation. Inside, the single common room was crowded with bunks and tables; in the center of the room, among overturned chairs, lay a dead Telvanni Dunmer. Nearby, another was casting furious spells at a female who was backed against the wall in an attempt to avoid the magic. Some of the sorcerer's spells bounced off a flickering shield the woman had cast, but some were too strong for it, and sank into her flesh. Some sort of Alteration spells, I guessed; maybe Burden, by the way she seemed to stagger under an unseen weight. She had a glass dagger clutched in one hand, already bloody; from the dead man, I presumed. She was clearly no Telvanni, and had entered their dwelling to kill. I stepped forward to order the sorcerer to cease, so that I could arrest her.

The woman glanced up at me, a snarl on her face as she struggled against the sorcery. Her eyes were a deep, fiery crimson, and when they met mine, I felt as if I had been physically struck. There was something intangible between us, some connection I could not explain. Even now, I can only guess that it was a thread of Mephala's Web itself, drawing the two of us together.

She was just as startled as I; her shield flickered out of existence, and in her moment of weakness, the Telvanni let out a shout of triumph and loosed a blast of flame at the woman.

That unseen, inexplicable force took hold of me again, and my gauntleted fist shot out, dealing the sorcerer a blow that whipped his head around. The spell careened off to the side, evaporating harmlessly against the wall. The Telvanni staggered and turned to glare at me, fury and confusion in his eyes, but my dagger was already planted in his abdomen, and his protestations died with him as he fell.

The room was deathly silent, except for the Dunmer woman's shaky breathing. That darkness was clinging to me again, that sense of power and greatness and anger... but it was mostly my own anger. I fought it, this time, furiously. For the third time, it had compelled me to go against all I had been trained to do, and I refused to succumb to it. I jerked my eyes away from the corpse and glared at the woman, all sense of connection forgotten.

Before I could begin my recitation of the arrest lecture, she held out a rolled parchment with one hand, wiping her bloody dagger against her leg with the other. "I thank you, ser," she said, a cool professionalism in her voice. "Two of them at once was rather more than I was prepared to handle."

Assassins' Guild, I thought, reaching wordlessly to take the parchment.

Idroso Vendu

Ethal Seloth

The afore-mentioned personages have been marked for honorable execution in accordance with the lawful tradition and practice of the Morag Tong Guild. The Bearer of this non-disputable document has official sanctioned license to kill the afore-mentioned personages.

Below the text, pressed into blood-red wax, was the official seal of the Morag Tong, a vaguely arachnoid tangle of lines that may have been weapons, or a creature with several heads, or something else.

"All your papers seem to be in order," I said, handing her back the Writ. "I'll need your name for my report." I pulled from my belt pouch a folded paper and a tiny inkwell and quill pen, setting it all on a nearby table. She waited silently until I glanced up at her, pen in hand.

"Amurah Llenith," she said. "White Thrall of the Morag Tong." I wrote it down, pen scratching softly, and then marked a few distinguishing details. Procedure requires we record descriptions of all assassins in the city. Dunmer female, I wrote. Early twenties.

I glanced back at her, looking for details, noticing more than I should have. Her brown hair was held off her forehead by a black headband; it rose like an artfully messy crown. She was already tall enough to look me in the eye; the hair made her look even taller. She was slender, but muscled; her arms, between her cuirass and bracers, were lean and defined. She was armed to the teeth, with daggers of varied make and size strapped to her boots, her thighs, her waist, and even one upper arm. A faint scar tracked across the side of her cheek, and she was regarding me with an amused twist of her lips as I made my notations.

Tall. Short, brown hair. Netch leather armor. Scar on left cheek. Heavily armed.

"Very well," I said, putting away my writing instruments. "You are free to go."

She glanced around the room; it was empty, but for us. She took a step towards me, and I was suddenly glad that I was hidden behind the mask of my Indoril helm. "You are one of hers," she said softly, wonder in her voice. "I knew it as soon as our eyes met. She's marked you, as surely as she has me."

Even then, I did not know who she was, but Amurah's words struck an uncomfortable chord. Taking refuge in my identity, I said flatly, "I am an Ordinator. I am marked only by the Three, assassin."

She smirked at me. "Whatever you say, Ordinator," she said insolently. She was gone before I realized it, vanishing in a flash of light, leaving me alone with two dead Telvanni.

----

As you might imagine, this incident was rather more difficult to explain to my superiors. It did not occur to me to falsify my report; my morals had not slipped so far, yet. I am ashamed to admit, however, that after my report was made, I began to wish I had bent the truth a bit.

I stood at attention in Elam Andas' office, my helm in hand, while he shuffled papers across his desk and raged at me with the quiet anger of a man determined to keep his temper, no matter how difficult it was.

"Why does this keep happening, Brother Sul? Four men dead at your hand within the past three months; you have a higher kill rate than any other Brother on the Watch. Explain this to me, Sul-- Explain how it is that you have been on duty less than half a year, and have four deaths on your record. A Telvanni sorcerer, for Vivec's sake? Are you working for the Morag Tong, now? What came over you?"

I flinched inwardly, my stomach twisting at the accusation, even though I knew he only spoke in anger.

"I acted as I thought best, sir," I said quietly. "There was an altercation taking place, the assassin's life was in danger, and I acted to save it."

A sheaf of papers crumpled in Andas' fist as he gritted his teeth. "You have your priorities backwards, Sul. The Morag Tong is a cult of blasphemous Daedra worshippers who commit legitimate murder for a living. I don't know what possesses the Emperor to allow their existence here, but the Temple only tolerates them as much as necessary. We don't leap to their aid when they get themselves in over their heads with a citizen who can defend himself, you know that!"

I did know it, and there was nothing to say. What could I say? That it was my fault she nearly was killed, because some unseen connection between the two of us distracted her, leaving her defenseless? I knew better than to lie directly to the Chief of the Watch; I also knew when to keep my mouth shut.

When I said nothing, Andas sighed and snatched a paper from the pile, smoothing its wrinkles before writing out my new orders. I stood motionless, staring ahead, while the sound of the quill scratching filled the quiet room.

"Here," he said, his voice clipped, handing me the paper. "Get out of my sight, Sul, before I decide to make those orders permanent."

"Yes, sir," I said stiffly, and made my exit.

Outside, I checked my orders. Two months without pay, meager though it was. Regular Watch duties suspended; I was to work a twelve-hour shift in the scullery each day, and stand watch on the scullery doors for a six-hour shift afterwards. Oh, and two hours daily meditation in the Temple, to "pray for guidance and strength in my duties".

I rolled up the parchment and strode down the hall to report to the scullery.

----

Those two months were not as bad as one might expect. The work was tedious and never-ending, but I threw myself into it, determined to prove that I was not going to be a further problem for the Order. There was little time for sleep, which left little time to contemplate that invisible noose that drew tighter each night. After the first week of my new routine, I was tired enough to fall into slumber as soon as my head met my pillow.

My brothers in the Watch avoided me, as if my string of unwarranted kills were some contagious stigma.... All except Rogis, who sympathetically said it was only bad luck, and suggested I lay low when I returned to duty, letting others handle any trouble on the streets for a few months.

It was good advice, and I took it. When my punishment had passed, I was posted to the Arena. It was the off season for the fights, so the canton was nearly empty. For a month or so, it was quiet; when an incident or two occurred, I let the other Ordinators nearby take care of it. I stayed out of Elam Andas' notice, and things seemed to return to normal.

The Arena's dueling season began as the weather grew warmer and more spectators were willing to travel to the city. The first scheduled event of the season was an open tournament, in which anyone could compete. It was held during my shift, and by Vivec's grace, I was assigned to a post away from the pressing crowds. The Watch had been increased for the event, because the Arena was well-known for having fights take place outside the pit, among drunken spectators. I was assigned to watch the eastern entrance, however, and had a good view of the pit, while staying behind the throngs of people.

I watched, uninterested, as several short bouts were fought to warm up the crowd. The spectators grew more unruly as the first of the "real" fights was about to start. Into the pit strode a well-known Nord champion, bearing a huge war-axe. From the other side entered his Redguard challenger, carrying an ebony longsword that should have been too heavy for him to lift at all.

A tall shadow appeared suddenly at my side, murmuring, "Some show, eh?"

I managed not to betray my startlement, but it was a near thing. "Move along, citizen," I grated, pretending not to recognize Amurah.

She chuckled and ghosted behind me to stand in the shadows on my right side, cloaked in some illusory spell that made her nearly impossible to see. Down in the pit, battle was joined, axe and sword meeting with a screech of metal.

"Nice try, Ordinator," she said near my ear, barely audible over the roar of the crowd. "I know you recognize me just as easily as I recognize you, mask or no mask. I've been looking for you."

The two combatants in the pit seemed evenly matched; neither had landed a blow yet. Resolutely, I pretended not to understand her. "Any member of the Watch will help a citizen if they are able. How can I be of service?" I had little hope that she only wanted directions to a good tavern, or some other mundane request.

She snorted. "No. You in particular. The Guild has a payment of five hundred gold that must be delivered to the man who performed the execution of Ethal Seloth. We didn't know your name."

The thought made my stomach twist in a mixture of fear and distaste, remembering Elam Andas' words, spoken weeks ago. Are you working for the Morag Tong, now? "Keep it," I said. "The Temple has...already compensated me."

"Against Guild charter," she replied matter-of-factly. "Payment must be rendered to the Guild member, his or her estate, or to a representative charity."

In the pit, the Redguard was pressing his advantage, forcing the slightly slower Nord back with quick, vicious slashes. "Donate it to the Temple, then. I cannot take it."

"It will be done by nightfall," she said. The Nord had fought back; now the two combatants circled warily, making darting feints at each other.

I ignored her, waiting for her to leave now that the business of my payment was settled. Instead, she said, "I've had my own reasons for finding you, as well. You are marked as hers, and I've been instructed to bring you to her."

"I don't know who you mean," I said flatly, watching the Nord desperately fight off a flurry of attacks from his opponent.

I heard a smile in her voice, a smile that said I was an oblivious fool, and it amused her. "Mephala, of course."

I wanted to recoil in horror at the very idea that a false Daedric deity might have laid claim to me. Instead, I turned to glance at the assassin. There was that same jolt when our eyes met, but I was ready for it this time. "I am not interested in your blasphemies, assassin."

Her smile widened. "No?" Her hand flashed up, skillful killer's fingers finding the gap between my pauldron and bracer, brushing her fingertips against my forearm. Her touch was like fire and ice at once; searing, passionate heat and the cold of the grave, all in that tiny area where skin met skin. I jerked away, startled, thinking she must have cast some spell, but the sensation was gone as soon as I broke the contact.

All amusement was gone from her expression as we looked at each other gravely. "Don't you want to understand this? Why we are drawn to one another this way? I know I do."

I narrowed my eyes, staring at her, unsure what to say. She glanced down into the pit, where the Redguard knelt over the fallen Nord, blade against the blue-tattooed neck. "You can find me in the Canalworks, here, when your shift is over," she said, and she smiled again, a predatory grin. "Right now, I have a fight to prepare for." She faded away into the shadows and the crowd, leaving nothing but the burning-cold echo of that brief touch on my skin.

I felt sick. The idea that a Daedric goddess had been responsible for the strange occurrences in my life seemed as plausible as any other explanation, and it was not one I wanted to think about. Fortunately, a few rowdy Dunmer several rows away burst into a brawl, and I was preoccupied with breaking apart the fight. When the participants had been separated and the more inebriated of them led away, the next match was beginning in the pit.

I returned to my post in time to see the first contender enter, a golden-furred Khajiit who bounded into the pit with a smooth, controlled energy, armed only with his own claws. From the opposite side, a tall Dunmer woman strode in. I had not yet seen Amurah walk more than a few steps... now, watching her cross the ring, I was struck by the grace with which she moved. One might have believed she was half-Khajiit herself, the way she walked; keeping her center of balance level, nearly gliding across the sand, unhampered by her lightweight leather armor. Most of her numerous weapons had been left behind; she carried only a steel tanto, low and ready in her right hand. I was thinking that Amurah Llenith was not someone I would want to face in battle, when the Khajiit made his move.

He launched through the air, a golden blur with teeth, but Amurah was no longer there, having thrown herself aside. The feline shot past her, landing with a puff of dust and whirling with lightning speed to face her. He was more cautious this time, and she attacked first. They closed on each other in a whirlwind of leather and fur, the clash of steel against claws drowned out by the crowd's cheering.

Their feet moved quickly, scuffing up sand and dust, obscuring the two of them. Coincidence, I wondered, or was it some trick of Amurah's? Sorcery was strictly forbidden in the official competitions. A moment later, the cloud cleared, revealing the Khajiit slumped with Amurah's arm around his throat, his chin carefully lifted away from the point of her tanto.

The crowd surged forward, shouting and cheering, exchanging money for wagers won and lost. Amurah let the Khajiit go, and thrust her blade up, grinning in triumph, playing the victorious champion. Her eyes met mine, though, and even at that distance, I felt that unmistakable connection, as if I was drawn to her.

I watched her be led away to claim her prize, and wondered where I would find myself when my shift ended.