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Shadowed Destinies
Chapter Four: Eyes in the Dark
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Outside the walls of a city, citizens prized shelter above all else. Wild beasts and strange creatures ruled the land. Fiery gates loomed over every province, spewing out their monstrous denizens. Every town, even the smallest, dirtiest hamlet seemed an oasis of civility and comfort after facing an angry bear or a crazed troll. Nothing stimulated peace of mind quite like a strongly built door and a lock.
After struggling past a knot of bandits and mages, Sylves the Shade now looked upon such a door, though in trembling apprehension not relief. Knowing what lay ahead, he gave serious thought to sprinting back to the bandits. The Oblivion gates might be a lark compared to what lay behind the door. At least the creatures in that realm could not help their innate cruelty. The creaking of bone on bone beckoned to him from the bowels of Fort Farragut. The guardians waited.
He remembered the first day he arrived at the fort: a young, budding assassin just months into his life among the Dark Brotherhood. In his shaking fist, he clutched a note addressed to him, ordering him to travel to the abandoned bastion and serve his Speaker. To serve a Speaker! He could barely believe his luck. Even if it did not mean taking up the role of Silencer, he would be directly serving the Black Hand itself! The words of warning in the note had all but floated away from his memory he was so excited. Perhaps he might find the odd rat, maybe a flimsy zombie or two, but he was not too worried. Sylves had grown up in a small settlement among the wilds of Cyrodill. Bands of adventurers passed through, boasting of crumbling edifices rife with strange denizens. Some of the less experienced ones often invited a few townsfolk along, so he thought himself well versed in these types of situations.
He barely made it into the inner sanctum with his hide in one piece. The low chuckle of the receiving Speaker, amused by his ordeal, still haunted his thoughts.
With great effort, he shook off the paralysis of fear. He was a fool then; he was a much better man now. Growling, he drew his sword. The midday sun sparkled along its finely honed silver, filling the symbol of Arkay with power. As if sensing the fell energies beyond the door, the blade came to life with white, twisting flames. With a howl, he burst through the door, ready to feed his holy blade its unholy fare. The shriek of scraping metal and bleached bone resounded through the forest around the fort, shooing travelers and curious beasts from its hidden secrets.
Hours later, bleeding and exhausted, Sylves fell upon the lever that would grant him sanctuary. Screeching, clattering servants raced down the corridor, their swords dressed in barbs and rust ready to split his flesh. Heaving with all his strength, he pushed the lever until it clicked into place. A massive pulse of magical energy radiated outward from the gate, sending the skeletal guardians tumbling into harmless piles of bone. For many minutes, he lay there staring at the fallen monsters, particularly focused on a set of bony claws mere feet from him.
So much faster this time. And more of them. The blessed sword was now a simple silver blade. It ran out of charges at least a full hour ago. This was even worse than his first time, and he had only been armed with a steel sword and a ratty wooden bow then.
Well, it was all over now. Pulling himself up, he entered the sanctum, searching about for a healing potion or some bandages in the pitiable torchlight. The bed looked inviting, but he knew better than to lie there. Not that he would fall asleep; his thoughts were still in turmoil over the morning's events.
As he at last found a clean linen cloth and wrapped his ripped arm, he replayed his failed morning. The sight of Jillik dead in the street with another's arrow in his chest lingered in his memory. Clenching his teeth, he yanked the ends of the bandage and tied them tightly, imagining catching the little thieving elf's throat in the cloth noose. Watching the light in those pretty, golden eyes dimming in death would be the ultimate sweetness, but that would have to wait. Right now, his main concern was saving face before his Speaker. Once more, he ran the story through his mind, hoping that any sign of lying would be well-hidden under the genuine distress of his previous battle.
"I trust Jillik lies dead, Silencer."
The blood in his veins turned to ice water, his entire body rigid with fear as the voice of the Black Hand shivered through his ear. He turned to find the dark eyes of a tall Imperial boring into his soul, like an arrow in his heart. He had been here all along, watching and waiting, laughing silently at his expense. Such was the way of Lucien Lachance.
"S-speaker…I did not hear you come in…" Sylves stammered banally, his tongue swelling in his mouth, garbling his words.
"I heard you come in. Trouble in the halls?"
The lightly mocking tone swimming under the velvet cordiality told Sylves what he already suspected: the guardians had been tougher for a reason. He knows, of course he knows, he though frantically. Clearing his throat, he rose and faced his Speaker, doing his best to keep his voice steady and confident, "A little. Obviously, I prevailed. And more importantly, yes, Jillik is dead."
Lucien Lachance's dark eyes never wavered, steadily meeting Sylves' stare. "By your hand?"
With a deep sigh, Sylves dropped his façade and lowered his eyes. There was no use in lying to him. No doubt the Listener himself had told him of his failure. "No, Speaker. Not by mine."
As one might do to a young child, Lucien clicked his tongue a few times, shaking his head in displeasure, though his eyes remained as soulless as ever. "Most disappointing, Silencer. This was supposed to be easy for you. What happened?"
His face crumpled in disgust as he saw the victory shining in the elf's eyes as she looked upon his prey. His prey! "Damn elf…"
"What was that, Speaker?"
Grumbling as he struggled with another bandage, he began his tale. He told Lucien of the time spent trailing Jillik, following his disgusting urchins on their nightly heists, finally culminating in the interference from the little elf girl. With a small smile, he told him of his clever imitation of Quintillius' missive to the meddling guard and his hand in Jillik's release. Then, choosing his words carefully, he told his Speaker of the theft of his kill, of the potent poison that snatched Jillik's soul from the grasp of the Void.
"I tried to kill her, but she vanished. Before I could give chase, someone alerted the guards to my presence, thinking me to be the killer. And…here I am." Finished, he lowered his head, not daring to meet the intense gaze of Lucien Lachance.
Through his Silencer's entire story—his excuses, truly—Lucien mentally compared the details given to those he learned earlier from his Listener. There were, of course, more intimate ones offered by Sylves, but the backbone of the stories matched. As rash and chaotic as his Silencer could be, he would not dare lie to him. Little, if anything, could escape the Black Hand's eyes and ears.
Finally, the black robed Speaker rose, turning his back on Sylves. Shaking his head, he rifled through a pile of potions, ingredients, and other items on a table, deftly plucking a few things out and tossing them into a knapsack. "You should have killed him last night, you know."
Sylves lifted his eyes up, a gaping expression of shock on his face. "In full view of a guard? They'd have me locked up, put to the lash!"
Spinning about, Lucien's dark eyes blazed across the cold air, the palpable force rocking him back in the chair. Harder they pressed him until he felt like he was shrinking, melting into the ground. "How much are we willing to do for our Unholy Matron?"
The sharp question slapped the insolent pride from Sylves' face. Humbled and fearing the calculating temper of his superior, he slid from the chair and knelt before him , crossing his hands over his chest in supplication. "Ask of me anything, my Speaker! I will serve the Night Mother with my life!"
Silence fell between them. A wisp of cool air blew in from some unseen draft, sending goose bumps over his flesh. Desperate for an answer, Sylves peeked up at him, thinking to implore his forgiveness. His blue eyes widened as he discovered himself alone in the cold of Farragut. Lucien, once again, had vanished.
"Find your way back to the Sanctuary, Sylves. Do not return until I call for you."
The voice came from everywhere and nowhere, bouncing from wall to wall and back onto Sylves. Its echoes lingered for many moments, obviously carried on by some spell, adding to his tortured solitude. Gathering himself up, he swallowed hard and slowly walked back into the empty corridors. Bones clattered at his feet as he shuffled back to the exit. Back to the Sanctuary…the place of mere Murderers and other lesser assassins. Surely, it was no place for a Silencer.
At his feet, a pile of bones creaked and sent him backpedaling to the sanctum. The portcullis slammed down, barring his way with a doomful grinding of metal on stone. In horror, he watched the guardians pull themselves back together bone by bone. One of the fleshless faces rolled along to settle on top of a knitting spine, leering up at him with empty sockets. Screaming, he grabbed the saving lever and pulled with everything he had.
It did not move.
"Do wipe your feet on your way out," whispered the ghostly voice of Lucien Lachance, his deep, sinister laughter rolling down the dark way as his Silencer, smashing through the bony ranks, ran for his life.
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Still chuckling, Lucien pulled his cowl down and let the warm sun pour over his face. That was one of his favorite tricks, and this was the first time in years that he had the opportunity to pull it. A harsh lesson, true, but his Silencer's arrogance demanded discipline.
His deep brown eyes turned to the west, eyeing the waterlogged city of Bravil. There, his Listener resided, awaiting the sacred voice of the Night Mother. His first though was to go to him, to inquire his next move in the ongoing tribute to Sithis. His stomach churned in anger, thinking of the soul lost by his increasingly tiresome Silencer. In the end, Lucien was the one who gave him the contract, so part of the blame rested on him. If only he had delegated to another, perhaps one of those at his Sanctuary, Jillik's soul might now kneel before Sithis.
Still, he could not help silently applauding the one Sylves referred to as "the little elf": a wood elf with a poison that mirrored his own favored apples and a deadly eye with her bow. Sylves scoffed at her "sloppy marksmanship" to soften the blow to his pride, but Lucien deduced as to why she had taken that mortal but not instantly fatal shot; she reveled in watching Jillik die. In this, he felt a kinship with her. Though her actions had cost Sithis a soul, he felt no animosity toward her. To his knowledge she had not willingly stolen the kill from the Dark Brotherhood. She had merely been in the right place at the right time. In these ever-darkening days, tensions ran high and men found their breaking points more often and more quickly than ever. How many more contracts could be in danger from the hatred of men and mer?
"Lucien…"
Smiling softly, Lucien turned and regarded the apparition before him. A small, elven figure dressed in the dark regalia of the Black Hand stared through him. A bluish glow surrounded him, giving him a spectral quality, but Lucien knew better. This was merely a gift bestowed by the Night Mother to her Listener, allowing for easy communication between him and those serving the Dread Lord. Trusting a courier was far too time-consuming, and no amount of coin could dispel the risks caused by imparting their kind of information to outsiders.
"Hello, my Listener. Sithis be with you."
"Greetings, Speaker. Sithis be with you, as well." Noticing the smile on Lucien's face, the elf smirked. "Judging by your look, I'd say you either eviscerated someone recently, or you have dealt with your Silencer's incompetence."
"How recently are we talking?" The joke did not go wasted as the Listener snickered morbidly, Lucien following with a throaty chuckle. "But in the latter case, you are correct. Sylves has been disciplined. He should count himself quite lucky that I did not call upon the Wrath of Sithis."
Even through the mystical glow of the Listener's communication spell, Lucien saw a shudder pass over him. The Wrath of Sithis…a terrible entity indeed. Sylves had come close to breaking one of the Five Tenets, the age-old set of rules for the Dark Brotherhood. Not many in the history of the Brotherhood had been foolish enough to break one, but those who did faced an apparition known as The Wrath of Sithis: many times more powerful than the fearsome Dread Wraiths that wandered the many catacombs in Cyrodill. Even fewer brothers who faced that entity lived to be welcomed into the Brotherhood again. Lucky indeed that Sylves had known just how close he came and sublimated himself appropriately.
Bringing himself into composure once more, the Listener gazed intently at the Speaker. No humor remained in his face. "Don't be so sure it will not happen. Sylves grows ever bold and brash. Watch him, Speaker."
Casting a scornful eye back to the fort, Lucien nodded assent. Surely the Night Mother had reason for sending him the Breton as his Silencer. The Night Mother's words were not to be questioned, though, so he would just have to tighten his grip on him. "Yes, Listener."
"I hope you were not planning any personal excursions, Lucien. The Night Mother has spoken to me."
At the mention of his Unholy Matron, Lucien pulled his hood over his dark hair in reverence: none should speak of the Night Mother while bathed in the light. "What does the Unholy Matron require?" He asked, bowing his head.
"Two things: first, you are to return the payment to your contact. Sithis will not allow us to accept the gold of an incomplete contract."
Lucien fingered the small item in his pocket, glad that his intuition not to sell the pearl stickpin for gold had been correct. It was not often that a Speaker returned a payment, but cheating those who found the courage to pray to the Night Mother was detrimental to the interests of the Dark Brotherhood. "And the second thing?"
"The Night Mother wishes you to recruit the one who took Jillik from your Silencer. Her name is Ilshalys Kennedorn. Shadow her and approach when the time is right."
Lucien smiled broadly as the Listener described the new recruit to him, reveling in his secret desire come true. Ever since Sylves told him of the elf who bested him he hoped that it would fall to him to find her. The thought of her dedication to killing Jillik and the marvelous poison she used to do it, not to mention that she had beaten his own Silencer to him…he felt…exhilarated. "I understand, my Listener. Where should I begin my search?"
"You won't have to search long. She is currently in the Imperial City, celebrating her success. Just listen. You'll find her," murmured the reflection of the Listener. His message delivered, the image began to ripple and fade.
"Listen… for what?" asked Lucien, focusing his thoughts to hold the conduit between them open.
It was no use. In mere moments, the Listener vanished, his whisper barely heard above the chatter of the forest, "Listen…"
Mulling over what his Listener meant, Lucien walked up the hill to the entrance of Fort Farragut. He could wonder on the way. Closing his eyes, he turned his focus inward. In the recesses of his mind, he saw a tendril of darkness beckoning to him. Reaching out, he grabbed it and felt the magical sentience pulsing in his grasp. "Shadowmere…come to me, dear friend."
In response to his call, a pool of blackness bubbled at his feet. It roiled and churned like an angry sea, surging upward into an equine shape. From within, a purplish black hoof burst up, leading the way for a magnificent creature that emerged with a whinny that sounded like thunder. Her thick, inky mane tossed about in its own wind as she pawed the air. Two intense, crimson eyes burned brightly, like red stars in the deep night. Smiling, Lucien extended his hand to stroke her nose, earning a pleased rumble from his friend.
"Come, Shadowmere. The Night Mother calls us." He swung himself up into the saddle, pulling gently on Shadowmere's halter. His eyes, shielded from the glare of the sun in the shadow of his cowl, fixed on the shimmering waters surrounding the Imperial City. There she waited: a beautiful Bosmer, hair of copper, eyes of gold.
"Listen…hmm…" he mused as his steed trotted along through the pine forests. To what, he was not sure, but something told him that it would become apparent once he reached the city. The Night Mother's words were not to be questioned.