Chapter One
The Lady In Red
In the waning light of the 5th of First Seed 3E 429, a woman in Mournhold brought a glass of wine to her lips, deep in thought.
The wine was good; a heavy, fragrant red. The Dunmer had plenty of native drinks – mazte brewed from fermented saltrice, the potent bitter sujamma – but the Royal Princess Morgiah had taken to wine during her abidance in Wayrest, and her appreciation hadn't lessened since her arrival in Morrowind.
The room Morgiah occupied was a lavishly-appointed study. Bookshelves lined the walls, and a comfortable chair flanked an ornate carven desk piled high with correspondence and literature, at the top of which was the latest issue of Mournhold's controversial political newspaper, the Common Tongue. The headline emblazoned "IMPERIAL VISITOR TULIUS CICERO MISSING FOR OVER A MONTH – CITIZENS SUSPECT FOUL PLAY!"
The Common Tongue was notoriously melodramatic.
A second issue could be seen half-buried beneath the pile, the few visible words reading 'Helseth… most subtle poisoner… by all accounts, King Llethlan died a natural death…' This particular issue was not available for casual viewing, having been banned and mass-burned by his Majesty the previous year. But no guard, however loyal, would dream of searching HRH Morgiah's private study.
Morgiah had not been in Morrowind long, though her stay was indefinite. The circumstances of her arrival had been much discussed by the court, the gossip centring on her recent widowhood from an Altmer king somewhere in the Summurset Isles. Naturally, she would wish to come back to live among her kin and seek sanctuary from her grief in the arms of her brother, King Helseth… but the woman who sat training a knife-sharp gaze over the latest Common Tongue looked anything but grief-stricken. You could almost see the thoughts ticking like clockwork, information meticulously stored and filed and memorised…
Morgiah was troubled. She had never expected her reunion with Helseth to be the stuff of fairytales, though she genuinely took pleasure in seeing him again. But though they had been apart for more than a decade, she had retained enough judgement of his character to know that something was amiss. Something was wrong.
She couldn't quite put her finger on it. Of course Helseth had grown and changed throughout her long absence, but Morgiah was of the opinion that in their heart of hearts, people rarely transform beyond recognition. Helseth was her brother; they'd played and quarrelled and conspired together for twenty years of childhood, and as such he would never fully be a mystery to her. If he was avoiding her now, she suspected it was precisely for this reason.
He was up to something, and he didn't want her to know what.
She was moving through the room in what a casual observer might call an absent-minded manner, gliding along bookshelves, stopping here, checking a file of documents there, sometimes merely pausing as if lost in thought… but the tiny frown and concentrated force of her gaze dispelled any illusion of nonchalance. In her left palm she held something, a pale green jewel, and was rolling it lightly between her fingers like a conjuror playing a coin-trick…
She stopped abruptly, her attention focused on a volume on the highest shelf. Slowly she drew it out, sat in the chair, let it fall open on her lap. The gold lettering on the spine read Altmer, Society and Nobility.
Suddenly her head drooped as the book fell sideways, and all at once she appeared as she really was, which was young and anxious. Her fingers gripped the velvet chair, hard enough to turn pale at the knuckles.
But the lapse of composure lasted a scant few seconds. In a flash she was on her feet again, the book replaced and her expression serene and controlled, calm and calculated. Never mind that now. It was late; she would think more tomorrow. Smoothing her skirts, she cast a critical eye over the piled documents and tried to return them to some semblance of order. When she was satisfied, she pushed the chair neatly under the table, the chain of the green gem wound about her fingers.
The study door clicked quietly as she left.
It was almost sunset, balmy and cloudless, when a figure climbed the many steps that led to the huge doors of Vivec's Palace.
The person was no pilgrim, that much was immediately clear. Pilgrims walked with reverence. They stopped many times to take in the spectacular view, the beauty of the architecture. They trod the sacred stones with the hushed respect they deserved, attentive to every detail.
There was nothing reverent about this figure's movement. It clumped up the stairs noisily, almost flippantly. Halfway up it paused to shift an enormous warhammer from one shoulder to the other, continuing with a cheerfully unstoppable gait that was as much in contrast to its surroundings as a rampaging kagouti is to a rosebush.
When it reached the heavy doors of the upper palace, it stopped and swung the hammer down idly with one hand, fumbling in a leather satchel-bag with the other. No Dunmer could have mistaken this behemoth for one of their own race, so quiet and graceful and sharp. But despite the figure's outlandishness, it would nevertheless be considered as integral to Morrowind's cultural identity as the Palace itself. After all, the Dunmer were not likely to forget the hero who had destroyed Dagoth Ur, purging their land of the Blight disease.
Triumphantly locating the correct key amid hoards of junk and pushing it into the lock, the Nerevarine shoved open the door and stepped inside.
And stopped at once, utterly still, all remnants of flippancy gone in a moment. The hammer no longer swung idly from one hand but was held out at an angle, steady and perfectly balanced. Because the room was empty. The dais was cold and deserted. There should have been someone there, and there wasn't.
The god was gone.
The Nerevarine stood quite still, eyes scanning the room from a helmeted face. Then with a swish and creak of armour, the door banged and the palace was empty once more.
The god is gone! The god is gone!
Dusk light fell over the cantons of Vivec as the Nerevarine clattered down the steps, across the High Fane, lost to sight behind St Olm's in minutes.
The god is gone! The god is gone!
Sunset caught the pinnacle of the temple, twinkling innocently.
"You're avoiding her."
Helseth looked up from his plate, startled. "I'm sorry?"
The King of Morrowind was taking dinner with his mother in the relative solitude of the Northern Wing. In the year of late they had rarely dined together, and during a lull in the hectic city calendar, the precious opportunity was taken at once.
The Queen Mother Barenziah's gaze rested steadily on her son, shrewd and penetrating. "Your sister," she clarified. "You've hardly seen her since her return. I wonder why?"
Helseth pressed his lips together, stifling an outward show of discomfort. It was true that he had not made an overt effort to approach Morgiah; indeed, even for the estranged siblings they were, their lack of contact since her arrival was unusual. But Helseth had his reasons. Curling his fingers under the table, he controlled his expression with practised expertise. It was disconcerting enough to know that his mother's eagle eye was trained on his doings in Mournhold, but Morgiah as well?
Helseth admired and respected Barenziah. He loved her, in his own calculating way. He would much rather she enjoyed the respect she deserved in Mournhold instead of stewing in Wayrest with his hated stepsister, Elysana. But Helseth's modus operandi was to reign alone, subject to no-one's scrutiny... and his mother, damn her, did not seem to have got the message.
He sipped a mouthful of flin in what he hoped was a nonchalant manner. "I certainly have not. As usual, you have jumped to conclusions. I have merely kept a respectful distance, as is proper after the death of her husband."
Barenziah was quiet for a moment. Then: "Do you not think your solace might be more appreciated?"
It was so different to her usual efficient tone that Helseth was surprised, and for a moment quite unnerved. The idea of Morgiah needing his comfort was so alien that at first his mind went blank, unable to process such an absurdity.
Curse it! He was so good at presenting a formidable front to his subjects, but to his mother? He might as well be an open book. He remembered why he didn't suggest these cosy family meals more often.
His habitually composed voice had become moody. This was why her presence frustrated him – far from being her king, he was first and foremost her child. "I'm sure there are others more suited to the task," he said sullenly, stabbing at an ash-yam with unnecessary force. "After all, we've hardly spoken since she went to Firsthold."
"Since before that, actually. In her last years at Wayrest, I don't recall you actively seeking her out more than a handful of times."
"We both know the pressure I was under," snapped Helseth. "Elysana was on the attack all the time. If I turned my back for a second she would have stabbed it – she'd do anything for sovereignty – and look what happened!"
These were old grievances, the bitter internal struggle with his stepsister for the Wayrest throne and his subsequent defeat. Helseth had been humiliated by Elysana's victory over him, and his mother was opening old wounds now.
Barenziah looked contrite. "Yes, I know. But – at the risk of broaching a touchy subject – losing Wayrest brought you here, and the kingdom of Morrowind is vast compared to a city-state of the Illiac Bay. It was apt indeed," she carried on mildly, "that the rapid deaths of King Llethan and his nephew left a vacancy for you."
Helseth froze.
Don't rise, don't rise, he repeated like a mantra. At the same time, another voice was screaming what does she know? What does she suspect? How could she suspect? He drunk from his goblet slowly and mechanically, starved of any response that could placate her.
But there was no need, for Barenziah placed her knife and fork neatly together and rose to her feet. "It is late. Goodnight, Helseth – it is lovely to dine with you when the calendar permits." Smiling as if nothing in their conversation had been awkward or antagonising, she bowed from the room and shut the door gently.
Helseth clenched his fists, his body as taut as a bowstring. Of all the tests of his character he had endured over the years, dinner with his mother proved the most taxing of all.
