TSSC, Ch 6 – Careless Whisper
AN: I found out after writing most of this that my guess on the order of the jarl's children was backwards, but for the sake of the story, let's pretend Nelkir is the oldest. He seems like he would be, doesn't he?
Syn nursed her third pint of mead, wondering if the news of Anoriath reached the city. Sure enough, in the next half hour she heard his name mentioned by the slurring fools she had only half listened to until that point.
"He was killed by a bear!" one of them said.
"There aren't no bears around these plains, you daft bastard."
"A saber, then. All I know is he was mauled something awful."
"That really is all you know," the sarcastic drunk quipped.
"Ysmir's beard, man. Get off my arse!" When their grumbling subsided, the conversation between two women beside her picked up. With a glance to her left, she noticed it was Uthgerd, the brawler with a real chip on her shoulder, and Hilda.
"Is it the Jarl's daughter?" Hilda inquired.
"No, Jarl Balgruuf's daughter isn't a problem, except she's spoiled. It's his son." Uthgerd would be the one criticizing the jarl's family. She thought she was good enough to walk in and receive an offer to replace his housecarl.
"The youngest?"
"No, he's the least troubled of the children. Nothing interesting about him, he's all in his head like most children are. It's his eldest – now that boy is a real puzzle. I've seen more personality in a frost troll than in that boy. He's not exactly spoiled like the daughter, but he's got a definite air of superiority. He may be a mage, they're always the ones that want to watch the world burn."
"By the Nine, what do you think makes him act like that?" Hilda was watching Uthgerd with alarm, partly from the nature of her account and because the warrior dared speak of the jarl's family in such a way.
"No clue," the warrior answered. "All I know is he's not normal. Probably never will be." Syn had stopped drinking near the beginning of their conversation and hovered above her nearly empty tankard, deep in thought. She never noticed the jarl's eldest son, apparently. She only knew of two children, the spoiled little shit and the friendly but rambunctious boy. The dark child had not been in the throne room anytime she was there to collect bounty rewards.
"Claire?" Hilda's voice snapped her out of her thoughts. "Do you need a refill?"
"No, I'm good for now. Have the jarl's men dropped off any bounties lately?" It was an excuse to get out of the city – to the Void with Astrid's order to stay put – and report back to Dragonsreach to poke around for the intriguing child. Hilda responded with an 'aye' and bent to shuffle through the parchments under the bar, keeping one hand on the dirty rag she idly wiped the dampened wood with.
"Here, this was dropped off two days ago. No one's too interested in clearing out these poachers, apparently." She handed Syn a folded parchment, inside it gave the location of a troublesome bandit – Halted Stream Camp. Syn set a small handful of coins on the counter and left after a stop to her room to retrieve her pack with the shrouded armor in it. If she remembered correctly, there was a tall fence surrounding the camp she could hide by while she changed.
The entire purging of Halted Stream Camp was a blurry dance of death. She felt like a rabid predator, her vision fogged by bloodlust in an already ill-lit mine. It was hard to make out anything but the moving shadows of pacing poachers. The blackness separated for spurts of red when she attacked, then it engulfed the corpses again when she moved on, nearing their unsuspecting and doomed leader.
Their leader wasn't isolated, which made the final leg of her mass killings more fun. Syn perched at the edge of the ramp above a slain mammoth, where two lackeys hacked with difficulty. Drawing the last poisoned arrow, cocking it and taking a slow, careful aim was done with unnatural slowness. Since the trip there was so hasty, she wanted to savor the climax. The arrow loosed, its iron head sunk into the female poacher's shoulder and traveled to the other side. The bandit was left staring at half of its bloodied length in complete stupefaction. The expected seizure began, when she fell onto her back, the arrow was pushed further until the feathered tip was buried in her flesh and the shaft stuck out far above her clavicle. The other poacher watched her with his head cocked, the axe was still raised in his hand until he brought it down on her head, ending her life himself.
Their leader was at the far end of the room, standing on the raised platform they slept around. He watched with as much bewilderment, if not more, than his remaining accomplice. The latter shrugged at his leader.
"She was gonna die anyway." The leading poacher scanned the area, satisfied with the man's explanation and searching for the offending archer. Syn sat still behind a pile of flour sacks that piled near her sniping position, leaving her bow on the ground beside her and placing a hand on her sword. The henchman was close to her, standing in the pool of oil from an overturned lantern. Syn wished she had at least minor destruction spells, to see him go up in flames would be immensely satisfying. Instead she looked to the torch on the sconce a few yards away from her. Getting that would reveal her position to the leader, who was facing where she was, but she could live with that.
The leader turned to the table behind him, Syn didn't know what for since he wasn't so stupid as to ignore the threat, but she darted to her right to take the torch. The lackey saw the movement out of the corner of his eye, shouting 'over there' and pointing with the eye of the axe. Luckily, it didn't occur to him to move from his spot. Syn took the torch, aware she was fully illuminated, and tossed it below. The torch landed on the opposite edge of the pool and the flames swam along the oil, licking at his left boot, then traveling up his leg to engulf the shaggy furs he wore.
The man uttered several panicked grunts, hopelessly slapping the fire after he dropped the axe into the fire he stood in. Syn lost concentration on the battle while she watched, the roasting poacher was mesmerizing until she noticed the leader sprinting across the flames with a massive warhammer in hand.
She drew her sword, unsure how she would handle close combat with the hulking orc. He was near enough for her to see the sparks of lightning dance on the edge of the warhammer, and the supplemental magic infusing the rest of the weapon, adding more strength to a man who didn't need it. The bearded orc bared his teeth in a mute snarl. Despite the fact Syn felt like a housecat cornered by a wolf, she wasn't afraid. A plan was budding in her mind. She raised her sword and swung at him halfheartedly, expecting him to block with the handle, which is exactly what he did. The poacher used the vulnerable seconds while she recoiled to swing his hammer. Syn dodged, continuing the direction of her rebound. The orc used the weight of his hammer to build up momentum, the face led zigzagging arcs as he stepped forward to trap Syn between himself and the edge of the ramp. When she could take no further steps back, she squatted, shooting her hand backwards to grab one of the sacks of flour and tossed it in the air he would soon strike.
There was an explosion of white between them that engulfed them both, Syn skirted the orc, hugging the edge to his right as he inhaled flour and coughed heavily, resulting in him sucking more in. The sound gave away his position to the assassin, she knew she stood behind him and could make out his shape since the heavy flour settled on the ground around them. She raised her sword and cleaved the back of his head, causing the orc to fall. Spasms showed he wasn't dead yet, so she followed with several more chops- well past the amount she needed. When enough blood spilled onto the wood and when her muscles protested against another swing, she stopped, deciding to shake off as much of the flour as she could.
A dusty white trail was left in her wake. By the time she finished ridding the corpses of their gold and got outside, enough of the flour was off so she didn't leave a ghostly vapor with every step. Truth be told, she kind of missed it. Lucien might have even been amused by her phantom impersonation.
After bathing in the stream, she returned to the camp. Dawn approached and she needed rest for her return to Whiterun.
Does that damn priest ever rest? It was early in the morning and Heimskr was before the statue of Talos, raving in his usual way. Syn rolled her eyes as she walked past him, up the steps to the Cloud District. At least Ysolda – the next local she passed – was a quiet one. The aspiring merchant was picking flowers from the grounds around Dragonsreach for Arcadia's potions. The girls gave one another a friendly greeting before passing each other. Soon the great doors of Dragonsreach loomed over Syn.
The guards posted on either side paid her little mind, aware of the purpose behind her occasional visits to the keep. Once inside, she headed to the pompous steward, Avenicci. The steward likely knew why she was there for there had been only one reason thus far. Nevertheless, he acted unassuming and politely listened to her report.
"I've dealt with the bandits at Halted Stream Camp."
"Yet another service to our hold. Here is your payment." He handed her the meager sum and took note of the small deduction in the treasury's funds in a small journal. Syn moseyed out of the throne room, scanning the area for the jarl's children. She was about to descend the stairs above the atrium when a monotonous voice chided her from nearby.
"Another wanderer, here to lick my father's boots. Good job." She saw the boy to her right, he sat at a small round table in the corner glaring peevishly from his vantage point. All too easily could she imagine a black hand stamped on his burgundy tunic, claiming the child for Sithis.
"So you're the dark one I've heard about." Syn leaned on the banister, openly scrutinizing him.
"The dung beetles down in the city talk about me?" He couldn't have asked with less interest.
"Yes, though I can't imagine why. Such contempt is hardly noticeable." She was amused by the child, so she didn't patronize him. He looked close to fourteen, soon to be a man but not quite there. If he was a few centuries older and still in that form, he would make a charming match for Babette.
"How could I not have contempt for everyone around here," he grumbled. "Better yet, why shouldn't I? I know more about what really goes on than anyone except the Whispering Lady. For instance, I know my father still worships Talos. That I don't have the same mother my siblings do. That one of the Grey-Manes hired an assassin to avenge the man she cheated on her lover with." Syn raised a brow at his flood of information and how forthcoming he was about it considering the nature of his trivia. She also had to wonder how this Whispering Lady knew of her contract and how much detail she gave the boy about it. He didn't seem to know anything about Syn being the assassin, or else he perfected his impassive mask.
"Where might one find this Whispering Lady?" The woman seemed intriguing – and dangerous. It was curious how she knew all these things and Syn thought a network of spies would be over the top in such a location, unless it was related to the war. There were Thalmor spies everywhere, though she couldn't think of any Altmer in the city, or no one outwardly supporting them. The only other possible identity was Olava, who Syn knew had connections with the Dark Brotherhood and often drowned herself in a pint. Perhaps she was a chatty drunk, or at wits-end. Either way, Syn needed to have a talk with her.
"She's behind the locked door in the basement. Just put your ear to the keyhole and listen. I bet she'll talk to you, too." He gestured with his thumb toward the basement, which is where she went. The others around the throne room paid her no mind.
She found the door he spoke of in a storage room, half concealed from the entrance by a cabinet. There was nothing suspicious about it at all, until she squatted to peek through the keyhole and heard a voice.
At last. I've waited long for a suitable champion. The voice had an immortal energy and seduction no human or elven woman could ever hope to match. It was certainly not Olava.
Syn could see nothing within as the room was completely dark. "Champion? Who are you that you demand one?" A shuffling sound to her left made Syn start. The child entered the room and waited at the threshold.
I forgive you for not recognizing me. Few can hear my whispers anymore. I am Mephala. I need not explain that further to one such as you, do I, child of Sithis?
Syn gaped in disbelief. Not only did the Whispering Lady claim to be a deity, but the one who founded the assassins guild that gave birth to the one she was a part of. "How could you be held within this place? I cannot imagine this structure housing a shrine to you."
I am bound within, but not completely. There is a piece, enough for my essence to be present yet I cannot see past the seals. I need you to open this door so you may claim this piece. I would prefer it to be in the hands of an ambitious and talented person, such as yourself.
"How do I get past the seals?"
The jarl trusts few, and they will be his undoing. The dark child knows of what I speak.
The voice behind the door grew silent. Syn looked once more inside to see if she could make anything out in the dark. A faint red glow shone from within, one that had not been there before. Knowing there would be no further answers from there, she stood and approached the boy, who still waited patiently.
"She spoke to you, didn't she? What did she say?" The first emotion she saw from him crossed his face. It was clear he was intensely interested.
"She told me to open the door and that you knew how to."
"There's a special key. I think it's even enchanted. There are only two copies – held by my father and Farengar. He's the court wizard. No one would notice if he went missing, I promise you." He hinted so nonchalantly Syn couldn't help but chuckle.
"I like the way you think. I never caught your name, anyway."
"It's Nelkir."
"Nelkir, do you know who the Whispering Lady really is?" It was intriguing that Mephala contacted someone so young, though He clearly thought Nelkir lacked something He needed.
"No, she won't tell me her name. Do you?"
"Yes, and I will tell you when this is all over." Before he could inquire further, she passed him. Whether the mage would be missed or not, she could not kill him. The bodies around Whiterun were piling up as it was, she was on the verge of attracting too much notice.
The mage was sitting at his desk and seemed to be engrossed in a book until she came near. He sighed at the intrusion as if she were a mere annoyance.
"Might I use your alchemy table?" Farengar frowned deeply and looked as if he was on the verge of refusing her request.
"If you think you know what you're doing and clean up your mess after, I guess there's no harm in it." Though he gave her permission, he squirmed restlessly in his seat when she stood behind him. The click and grind of the mortar and pestle was a grating sound when anyone other than himself caused the racket. In seconds he leapt from his seat and hovered over her shoulder. "What is it you intend to make?"
"A general poison. The bandits around here are starting to gain a bit more intelligence. They've nearly got the IQ of a walnut now – a vast improvement. I need a way to dispose of them more efficiently." She had a weak grasp on the rules of simple alchemy, having usually left the field to Babette, and played her incompetence up so he could become focused enough for her to search for the key without knocking him out.
"With this concoction you'll hardly cause a rash on the insipid outlaws. I can help you make something more potent, for a price." He stared disdainfully at the crushed nightshade and deathbell petals in the mortar. She let go of the instruments and let him flaunt his expertise. He abruptly did an about-face, going to a drawer full of ingredients and retrieved a mushroom and a small pinch of dust, which she guessed to be void salts. Farengar added the extra ingredients to the mixture in the mortar and began to crush everything together. Syn hovered over his shoulder as he did to her, glancing over his robe to see if she could empty his pockets.
"So," she began with a soft tone. "Can you make a love potion?" Her fingers lightly grazed his back, causing a tickle near his ribs. His muscles tensed immediately and he turned to give her a curious look that slowly melted into a smile.
"As lovely as you are, do you even need one? Or is the lucky man already taken?"
"I don't know, are you?" Her hands roamed more freely over his body, massaging his back and following the rope he used as a belt. A blush colored his cheeks, he cleared his throat awkwardly.
"No such potion exists, I'm afraid." He mashed the pulp with as much violence as her brothers and sisters did with their victims. Syn used the moments she knew his mind raced to take the key, and another object that wedged itself in the key's bow. Farengar reached for an empty bottle that sat behind the alchemy table and scraped the contents of the mortar into it. "This should do the trick."
"Thank you." She took the bottle from his grasp, while intentionally brushing his fingers with hers. "How much do I owe you?"
"N-nothing this time. But I hope you watched carefully." He scampered back to his seat and pretended to continue reading.
As she headed back to the basement, she realized Nelkir watched from the kitchen. He ducked partially behind the staircase leading to the basement and gave her an inquiring gesture, to which she responded with a subtle nod. Both descended the stairs when she reached him.
"What did he give you?"
"A poison. It was my cover for being in his space." Nearly at the door, she stopped, turning to the lad and retrieving the bottle from her satchel. "I wonder, would you be interested in this?" She held the bottle in her hand and swirled it slowly so the red liquid within stained the neck of it.
Nelkir hummed as he thought, staring at the poison for inspiration. "None of my family, they're too high profile. Unless… my mother still works here as a servant. Her death would teach my pig of a father not to be so careless with his affairs." A cold glint in his eye made Syn realize how easily she could imagine a young Lucien Lachance to be like Nelkir. The thought made her breath hitch, though she tried to hide it. "But I wouldn't use all of it, she's weak and I'd be left with more. So maybe I'd put it in the steward's food. Or in Farengar's wine. I don't know why you didn't just kill him."
"Because," she stated as she took his hand and placed the poison in it. "It is imperative that my presence doesn't arouse suspicion." Before she finished her explanation, she withdrew the key from her pocket and unlocked the door.
Excellent work. Mephala's hushed tone did nothing to hide her elation at having the seals broken and the door opened. Nelkir grabbed a candle from the storage room and, after feeling the wall for the sconce, lit the candle just within. The room was empty except for a table on the opposite wall, which only had a journal and a katana lying upon it. Both lad and woman approached with wonder. As Syn reached for the blade, Nelkir reached for the journal and hungrily flipped through the pages.
"It's called the Ebony Blade. It's like a vampire, feeding on the blood of its victims." His lips kept moving as he skimmed the journal's contents, though nothing but whispers escaped for some time. "Amazing! This says if you use it to kill the people that trust you, it will grow stronger." The red glow from the object bathed his awestricken face, illuminating it in an ominous light.
That's right, Mephala affirmed. It has languished too long outside the winds of alliance and betrayal. A silence stretched while Syn grasped the blade, but Nelkir's eyes were raised and blank as though he was being addressed separately.
You, my champion, already feel the threat of betrayal tugging at you, do you not?
"Not as much as some," Syn muttered. How could she forget the look on Astrid's face when her suspicions began. She could practically hear the Daedric Prince salivating for their relationship to further unravel. The blade made her bones itch for her superior's blood, though with that suspicion how much would it nourish the leeching weapon's power? If she were allowed to carry out that Purification Lucien fantasized about a week prior, that would certainly feed Mephala's relic's power.
But no, Syn's will was strong. It would take a command by the Night Mother herself to convince her to strike a member of her family, and nothing short of that would make her disobey. Not even a Daedric Prince she highly revered.
The child was still in another zone, staring at the wall and responding to prompts not meant for Syn's ears.
Indeed. Let the Ebony Blade take the final pluck of her misguided heartstrings. Together, they will lead the song of your grandeur. Mephala's voice died into silence a final time. The urge to take lives she could not without breaking a tenet was still strong. She hurriedly grabbed the sheath for the blade and walked out of the room as she strapped it to her back.
The blade was mostly concealed under her cloak so the guards outside Dragonsreach didn't take any special interest in it. Hasty footsteps followed her to the edge of the bridge, and Nelkir called to her.
"Wait! Who are you, really?" He stepped closer to her, hushing his voice. "The Whispering Lady said you are her champion, that I should follow you. And you said you'd tell me who she was." He expected much from her, it seemed.
"Someday, child. I will remember you, but I can do nothing for you now. Even I am lying in wait." A growl escaped his throat when she started to walk away, but he was far from grown. It was like the growl of a pup.
"Just give me something! I'm losing my mind in this place." His voice raised and several guards took notice. Syn whirled, dropping to one knee to get close to him and speak under her breath.
"Learn to blend in. You will never be able to remain unnoticed the way you are now. So brash, so obvious. Learn control – let your rage fester, but keep it hidden. This whole city will be on their guard against you if you do not. And the Whispering Lady is Mephala – Daedric Prince of deceit and betrayal." She rose, stepping backwards to descend the first few steps. "One day I'll return and give you the means to channel your rage. When you impress me, this blade will be yours."
Nelkir was far from happy with her advice, but he intended to take it. His lip was curled and he bit out, "I'm holding you to it."
"Good." Her cloak whipped around when she headed away from him, giving him a final glimpse of the Ebony Blade. He stomped back inside, lightening his steps when he remembered Syn's advice. He worked to appear calm, taking deep breaths and trying to clear his mind. When inside, he saw everyone moving to the dining tables to have lunch. He silently slipped into his usual seat between his brother and sister. Most of their chatter, he ignored.
"Absurd you can't get good sweet rolls in this skeever hole of a city!" Dagny poked at the stale bread with a fork.
"You're a skeever hole!" Frothar leaned against the table to eye her with a big grin, thoroughly impressed with his own retort. Between them, Nelkir puffed a long breath out, knowing he faced a cruel trial having to remain in his personal plane of Oblivion indefinitely.
AN: Whoever said, "Goodness speaks in a whisper, evil shouts," has never met Mephala. ;)