"You're either up early, or very late."
"Amusing," Edwistyr answered dryly as he entered the room. His eyes widened as he walked over to the wall, running his hand over the surface as if he couldn't trust his sight. "Frostfire, did Ysausa have the murals changed again? Are those dwarves riding unicorns?"
"I try not to contemplate it," Theodyrick replied tartly, the beginning of a headache creeping around the edges of his brain. It was hard enough trying to think without having to contend with the spectacle of jousting dwarves performing for a crowd of ants. The decorator must be having a joke at Ysausa's expense. And his expense. Working the cost out based on the covered area meant his room must be decorated with the richest group of insects ever painted.
"He didn't have it," Edwistyr said, and it wasn't a question. Smirking, the young man walked over to his favourite settee. "And you still haven't found where he's staying."
"It must be a private residence," he said flatly. It unnerved him whenever his cousin knew things he'd only learned minutes ago. "It's just a matter of time."
"It's a waste of time. He's not the one." Edwistyr reached forward to grab a grape from the tray on the table, tossing it up into the air and catching it between his teeth. The man's arrogance could be infuriating at times, and now was such a time.
"I seem to recall you sitting in my study yesterday, convinced he was, indeed, the one. What exactly has changed since last night?"
"My source. Seems you've targeted the wrong noble." Resting his hands on the cushion, he leaned back and stretched out his legs.
"Really? Now, after all that work, after confirmation from others, after getting Lady Yeomsley involved, you try to tell me he's innocent, that Elysana invited an Orc to dinner because she wanted to?" His voice was steadily rising, anger building at the smirking man across from him.
"I told you not to bring Karethys into this. Course, I told you not to touch her."
"I will not have you lecturing me on my choice of lover," Theodyrick warned, his face flushed with annoyance. They'd had this discussion enough times already.
"She's a necromancer!"
"They've never proven that!"
"She keeps Lord Yeomsley locked up in the cellar! Her tea is served by skeletons, and they say she even has a pet..."
"Enough!" he shouted, cutting off the argument. "What proof does your source have it isn't him? Or am I supposed to take your word for it?"
"You should take my word for it," Edwistyr stated coldly, "but there's more to it than that. Do you know where he's going next?"
"Orsinium, of course." With Gortwog's involvement there was only one place the agent could go.
"No. Menevia."
"Menevia?" Theodyrick scoffed. There was nothing worthwhile in Menevia, at least not after Elysana had already given away the best parts. "Why would he go there?"
"He's got a job. Seems your help stole all of his money, so he's been forced to earn his passage home. He's a bodyguard now," the young man said with amusement.
"Who would be foolish enough to hire an Orc with delusions of nobility as a bodyguard?" This was ridiculous—Edwistyr must be joking again. No self respecting noble would ever employ an Orc for protection.
"Cerisse Hawkton," was the grinning reply.
Oh.
The land rolled away, lost to the curtains of rain and encroaching darkness. While they'd left the fog behind, there still wasn't much more visibility to be found. The occasional brilliant flash of lightning outlined the spindly trees, interspersed between the twisted wreckage of an old forest, large burnt stumps obstinately refusing to yield an inch of ground to the usurpers.
Another bump and jostle further inflamed the irritation on the back of his body, and he sighed softly. While it wasn't as bad as traveling by boat, riding in the carriage over the roads of High Rock couldn't be termed enjoyable either. Trying to get comfortable, he drew the grey cloak T'os-i had given him further around himself as he settled into the cushioned seats. Cold air rolled off the glass windowpane, and a slight draft floated over his feet.
"Just another hour or so," Cerisse stated without looking up from her book. The woman was a complete mystery, and Agronak still didn't understand what role she played in the situation. Not that he'd been able to determine what the situation was, having the vaguest understanding they wanted to kill him. Or her. Maybe. And somehow it was Synderius' fault.
She'd revealed nothing further in the secret cellar under the inn. After re-introducing herself, and asking Agronak a few questions, she'd urged him to pack up and come with her. Once more she'd assumed the appearance of a withered old crone, and he still had no idea how she did it. From what he'd heard, illusion skills merely created the appearance of something other than the truth. But he'd felt the wrinkles in her hand turn into smooth skin, which was beyond any illusion magic he knew.
To his surprise she'd guided him to Gondynak's Shields, both of them pretending to be aged old women. Durog had locked the door behind them, and Cerisse had looked normal as she'd asked the blacksmith to get Agronak appropriately armed.
"Are you feeling alright?" she asked, pulling his attentions from the ceiling, covered in black leather, where he'd been idly watching her light spell. It wasn't like any he'd seen before—the orb of illumination wandered about the roof of the carriage, occasionally drifting along the walls, and he'd once found it floating above his head, as if investigating him.
"Fine," he answered.
"You're sure? No pain in your head, stiffness in your joints?"
Her green eyes were sweeping over him again, and it disconcerted him she apparently expected him to feel poorly. "It's a bit cold."
"It always gets cooler closer to the mountains," she said, giving him the barest hint of a smile. Holding out her hands, she waited for the orb of magical light to float down in a circuitous route, eventually coming to rest in her palms. Bringing it in towards her face, she cupped it with both hands and whispered something just under the edge of hearing. The light shifted colour, from a pale yellow to a soft orange, and with a gentle push she sent it back up to roam along the top of the carriage.
"What did you do?" Agronak demanded, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck slowly settling down. Little goosebumps coated his body, as they did whenever she used magic around him.
"I though you wanted a little warmth." Her eyebrows crinkled together, creating a furrow in her brow.
"No," he said, "what did you cast? What school of magic is that?" With the very strong natural resistance he possessed most magic didn't affect him, powerful destruction spells being no more than an annoyance. His career in the Arena would have been much shorter if he'd needed to resort to enchanted items, or complicated spells, to help keep him alive.
"It falls into no school, because it can't be taught to everyone. It's the oldest form of magic, replaced by newer spells that almost, but don't quite, do the same thing. Few mages remember it. Even fewer share the knowledge," she answered in that calm, quiet voice of hers. Everything about her seemed languid, and he couldn't picture her rushing for anything. "Why do you ask?"
"I feel it. I'm almost immune to magic, but every time you do something I can sense it," he explained, sitting up.
"Your father was a shaman?" she asked, tucking a small piece of emerald ribbon into her book to mark her spot. From what he could determine it was written in Ta'agra, the language of the Khajiits. According to her it was a romance novel.
"My father was an Imperial."
"Then your mother must have been," she said while placing the book onto the seat beside her. It bounced up and down on the upholstered bench, rocking with the motion of the carriage.
"No. She was a maid."
Cerisse studied him for a moment, before pointing an arm at him and whispering a soft incantation. He gasped as once more every hair on his body stood on end.
"You must have one somewhere in your family tree. You're especially sensitive to nature magic. Did you never learn to see the fae?"
"I don't even know what those are," he answered truthfully. The heat from the ball of light had chased away most of the chill, and he freed his hands from underneath his cloak. "But I know some spells. Watch." With a bit of concentration, he floated her book off the bench and over to land beside him. "Telekinesis."
"What is the point of that?" she inquired, looking rather unimpressed with the demonstration.
"It's very useful," he protested, mildly annoyed she hadn't been amazed by his skill. The book had barely wiggled, unlike the shaky results he'd had when he'd first learnt it. "You could use it on something too high to reach."
"Or you could just levitate," she added gently, while playing with the trim of her coat sleeve, one fingertip idly tracing the pale green satin piping edging the dark green velvet. Everything she wore was a shade of green, from the muddy green brown of her shoes, to the apple coloured gown, to the dangling jade earrings that bobbed with each motion of the carriage.
"You could pick up something too heavy to lift," he stated.
"There are other ways to carry heavy loads," she retorted with a shake of the head.
"You could use it to fetch little items, like an inkwell on the other side of the room." That trick had come in handy more than a few times in his study, where he had a terrible habit of switching from desk to sofa to handle correspondence, always finding the inkwell and quill in the wrong spot when he next wanted them.
"Now that's just being lazy." A small smile softened the words, and she reached out to take back her magically stolen book. He passed it to her, feeling the hilt of his new sword press into his side as he leaned forward.
It was too much, and yet she'd brushed away all of his protests, claiming it wasn't her generosity he should be thanking. Except she'd been the one arranging payment with Durog, and he'd been the one walking out with an adamantium shield and the most beautiful sword he'd ever seen, as well as a set of leather armour. According to Cerisse if he felt the need for heavier armour they could arrange for it once they arrived at their destination, but they hadn't the time to get a full suit fitted for his use in Wayrest.
Something felt off about the situation. While she'd urged him to arm himself with the best Durog had to offer, she'd refused to even consider a weapon. For someone he'd been told was in great danger, she seemed remarkably unconcerned about protecting herself. And he still wasn't sure why the blacksmith had laughed so hard when Agronak had suggested she try using a shortsword.
The carriage hit a dip in the road, causing him to bounce heavily on the seat. "Are we taking the back road?"
"This is the smooth part," she answered while staring out the window. "It gets worse after Kirkwood."
"Why is it so rough?" He couldn't imagine roads in a poorer condition than the one they were currently on.
"The Bay. Everyone uses ships to sail around. It takes less than a day by water to get to Chesterburgh, on the coast of Menevia, or at least three days by carriage," she answered, turning to face him. "But we couldn't wait for the next boat, so we're going by land."
"You can see more of the scenery this way," he joked, before staring out into the pitch black night. Beads of water ran down the glass, tracing thin patterns reminiscent of spiderwebs.
They lapsed into silence again, but it wasn't uncomfortable. Cerisse's calm demeanor was somehow familiar, her quiet presence easily forgettable.
Another flash of lightning lit up the world, allowing him to catch sight of the new forest growing up around the devastation of the old one. The burnt stumps and charred landscape had been present for most of the journey. "It must have been a large fire," he offered. Noting her curious look he explained. "The forest fire. It burnt for miles."
"It wasn't a forest fire. It was war," she said quietly. "Nobody knows why, or how it happened, but Gortwog's forces managed to take Ripcart Moor during the Warp in the West. Eadwyre's army beat them back to the borders of Orsinium. It was a very hard fought campaign—the last one to end. The wounds are still healing."
"Where's Ripcart Moor?"
"We rode through it already, a couple of hours back."
"I didn't notice." He'd been watching the world pass by, occasionally marking the sight of lights through the fog, or the sleeting rain, but there hadn't been anything for a long time.
"You wouldn't have. It was completely destroyed," she answered, her words barely more than a whisper. One delicate finger was drawing patterns on her window, little feathers of frost trailing behind, melting away in a matter of moments.
Agronak shivered, and it wasn't because of the cold.
"Don't say anything, don't do anything, and try not to look threatening," Cerisse softly commanded, opening up the carriage door beside him. "I've arranged everything. Just follow me."
Stepping down, careful to avoid the large puddles of muddy water collected in the ruts of the dirt road, he tried to catch a glimpse of Kirkwood. It wasn't easy to see anything through the torrential rain, but he noticed several wooden buildings, most of them fairly new in appearance. Cerisse was walking towards the oldest looking of the lot, made out of rough hewn grey stone blocks. One section near the corner was black, as if stained by the soot of a powerful fire. It appeared Kirkwood had not escaped the war unscathed.
The carriage driver was cursing loudly, trying to handle their baggage with the assistance of a young Breton, probably a relative of the innkeeper. Resisting his impulse to help them, he trailed along behind Cerisse, attempting to somehow hold his new shield in a casual fashion. It was already polished to a bright sheen, but he wanted to give it another thorough polishing before he went to bed. With the constant damp he'd experienced in Wayrest it couldn't hurt, and he wasn't sure if adamantium was prone to rust. It would be a shame to let such a well fashioned piece get ruined because of some rain.
"Your meal, milady..." The innkeeper, a tall man composed of angles and suspicion, halted mid-gesture towards a small table. The room had fallen silent, Agronak very aware everyone was staring at him, and not out of curiosity.
Ignoring the tension, Cerisse walked over to the simple dinner—stew, bread, and milk—and sat down, her back to the door and her face towards the handful of patrons. A sharp glance bid Agronak to join her. Sitting down across from her he could hear the noise behind him as chairs were pushed back and men began grumbling to each other. He made sure he could reach his sword easily, certain this situation wouldn't end well.
"You can't bring one of those in here," the nervous innkeeper whispered to her, dark eyes staring at the room behind Agronak. Remembering Cerisse's instructions not to do anything he resisted his desire to shoot the man a hateful glare. One of those? Did the man fail to notice his ears, or the fact Agronak was sitting right in front of him?
"Beg pardon, ma'am, but it looks like you've picked up a stray. You'd best put it outside, before we put it out of its misery." A loud voice, bolstered by a fair share of ale, came from behind his right shoulder. If he rolled left while slashing sideways, he could probably gut the speaker...
"Leave us be," Cerisse responded, her voice calm, no trace of concern on her face as she stared up at the man. Counting the chuckles, Agronak was sure there were no less than six men behind them. They were probably simple folk—farmers most likely—and rather drunk. It would be an awkward fight, in this room cluttered with tables, chairs, and support beams, but he'd probably do fine on his own. Except there was Cerisse to worry about, and she didn't even have a weapon...
"Wish I could, ma'am, but we don't take kindly to livestock in our inn. Now you'd better be moving on with your pet pig, or we'll have a problem, and we don't like problems." Agronak could see the man as he stepped closer to Cerisse—his stocky body, his cruel sneer, and the hand on his sword hilt. Maybe if he hit him with a chair and knocked him down, then he'd be able to fight in front of her, keeping her safely behind him...
"Nobody likes problems," she said, while putting her finger into her mug of milk. "Especially ones that won't go away. Maybe we should talk about this over a drink. Here, have mine."
She offered the man her mug, while wiping her damp finger absently on the handkerchief in her pocket. Completely bewildered, Agronak watched the man blanch, his eyes wide with fear, as he looked into the cup.
"Not needed. I, uh, can't stay. Got to get home. Wife's sick," he stammered while fumbling with his coinpurse. "Let me, uh, pay for your meal. Sorry for the, um, interruption." The coins he flung onto the table jingled brightly, the noise lost under the confused murmurs of the other men as the frightened farmer hissed at them to get out of the inn.
Between the arguing whispers, heavy footsteps, and pouring rain, Agronak managed to catch the insult witch before the door swung shut, leaving the nervous innkeeper, the calm lady, and the highly confused Orcperial alone.
"Delicious stew," Cerisse said politely to the Breton, who'd retreated behind the bar to watch her warily as he continually dried the same mug over and over again.
Tilting the mug towards himself, Agronak peeked at what had frightened everyone away. It didn't make any sense to him—unless she'd put a fear spell on the mug, he couldn't figure out what was so terrifying about curdled milk.
