Coral satin. Red velvet. Now grey silk took its place in the wardrobe, put away for the season, unlikely to be worn again for months.
Pity. The colour was quite flattering. A trend had sprung up among her courtiers, the ladies tripping over themselves in a rush to emulate their Queen, grey appearing on them from their shoes to their stoles. The joke was Wayrest had more tailors than bakers, but was that really so terrible? Better to have a fashionable city than a boring one.
The dull clouds, hanging so low it appeared their underbellies would catch on the city walls, brought no smile to her face. Clouds meant nothing, were nothing. It was the fog, that wonderful masking cloak of secrecy, she truly loved. Only in the suspended dampness did she feel alive, imagination and energy stoked to their peak. Except the wind had shifted, pulling up the warm breezes of Hammerfell, stinking of sun and baked sand, her beloved fog finally lifted. The loss of the grey veil was the signal for the retiring of her grey silk, which she'd worn in hopes the weather would hold for as long as possible.
Tugging off her earrings, ignoring the brilliant sparkle of emerald light in the glow of the candles, Elysana wondered how much longer it would take before the news was announced. Perhaps a week, hopefully not more than two. It would be a relief to get this situation finally resolved. Especially before Edwyn got a chance to ruin it.
That useless, irritating man. She'd held such hopes for him for their future together. Mature, connected, established, absolutely ruthless—he'd possessed so many attractive qualities. There weren't many men who'd indulge her in her plot to assassinate a troublesome Blade. Most tended to balk at risking the wrath of an Empire. But what was a little risk when there was a kingdom to gain?
Except she'd never counted on Edwyn being so bloody stupid. Signing his own name on the assassin's instructions—Arkay's grace, what had he been thinking? The amount of trouble he'd caused her from one little signature...
So much trouble, in the form of a large, cunning, dastardly Orc. Looking back, it was all too easy to see how quickly Gortwog had offered his aid, lending the weighty threat of his warriors to her claim on the throne. Barenziah and her brat had crumpled in the face of such foes. As informed as their spies were, they hadn't been prepared to combat Orsinium with their preferred weapons of misinformation and blackmail.
Which was laughably ironic, considering how frequently the Orc employed them to his own ends. Before she'd even gotten a chance to double cross him, or attempt to re-negotiate his reward, he'd sent her a private little note of congratulations, hand-delivered by his most trusted courier. Oh, how her stomach had knotted to read it. Just one line, one innocent, damning line. She knew those instructions, reportedly destroyed along with the Blade, hadn't been harmed at all. Edwyn's stupid little mistake had cost her dearly, too dearly. Her trust in him had died that day, but not before it had taken out a small piece of her heart. It was foolishness, a weakness she wouldn't repeat, but she'd actually trusted the man, grateful to finally have someone, just one person, in her life she'd felt she didn't have to safeguard against.
And look what it had cost her. The mineral rich highlands of Menevia, the confidence of some of her nobility, not to mention her independence from Gortwog's interference. Gods, she'd have been better off marrying that beast of an Orc. Between them they'd probably be ruling from Daggerfall to the Dragontails by now.
Except she'd chosen Edwyn, dear, foolish, contemptible Edwyn. Unable to trust him, certain there were other horrid little surprises waiting to bite her ankles, she'd sent her most skilled assistant to search the secret dungeons beneath his county estate. Waiting with a congratulatory glass of wine, she'd graciously accepted the diary while toasting to his success. Listening to him wheeze as the poison did it's job had been bitter, losing her best agent because Edwyn couldn't keep quill from parchment.
The contents though—Nine have mercy, there were no words. Even after all these years it still brought a clammy chill to her skin, making her thoughts swirl until she felt she'd faint. Murdering King Lysandus of Daggerfall as one step further in his path to the throne—her throne— then writing about it? If Gortwog, if anyone, got their hands on that information, it would all be over. Nobody would believe she hadn't known anything about it until well after the deed was done.
But it was the words he hadn't written that chilled her blood and steeled her resolve. Reading between the lines, she'd come to only one conclusion—he didn't want her, he wanted her crown. In that instant she'd made up her mind no matter what happened, he'd never get it from her. It hadn't been easy, but she'd finally managed a way to safely hide the damning evidence while still leaving a trail to find it in case of her untimely death.
She fiddled with the clasp of her necklace, fingers stiff with the annoyance of early arthritis, unfortunate legacy of the Wayrest throne. It didn't hurt to wear her red diamonds anymore, the emotional distress she'd felt when her worst suspicions had come true, the dreadful night Edwyn had snapped at being forever the Royal Consort, had faded to nothing more than numb memories. He'd murdered any affection she'd had for him with that one look, his glare filled with nothing but hatred and contempt, the unspoken dismissal of her worth.
Damn it, she was worthy. Worthy of her crown, her throne, her city. Even thinking about it brought a heat to her cheeks. For years she'd fought to prove it to her father, her nobles, her people. They'd all been so quick to dismiss the soft-faced girl, whispering of her gullibility and her hysterical tendancies. Had mourning her mother been too emotional? Bickering with that bitch of a mer who swept in so soon after, bringing her brood and her foreign ways, been so irrational?
No, of course not. Even if she'd been more apt to put her feelings on display back then, that was a childish luxury she no longer indulged. Everything was planned now, carefully controlled and coordinated for the greatest safety to her, to her family. In a few years she could officially name her son as heir, bypassing Edwyn altogether. As far as he knew the child was his, that thought providing her son a large measure of safety, though she sincerely hoped it wasn't true. Gods knew she'd tried hard enough to make sure it wasn't.
But in the meantime, she still needed to do what she could to preserve the dignity of Wayrest's throne. This current demand of Gortwog's, bitterly galling and abhorrent as it was, offered her a prize too precious to resist. That old scrap of parchment with that simple signature—getting it back in exchange would finally give her back a huge piece of her freedom. Oh, she wouldn't be able to harm Gortwog, bound by the Emperor's labyrinth of clauses and codicils, but she would never again be under his control.
Gods, let it be over soon. Let it be done, let her finally undo that horrible mistake of Edwyn's, let her throne finally be safe.
And let it happen before Edwyn could do anything stupid enough to stop it.
There was one thing Daracy hated more than anything. Lateness.
It was bad enough having to sit here in this hole of a tavern, listening to the drunken ramblings of the off-duty guards as they placed bets on how many people would claim to see a dragon this year on the Day of Waiting. The constant repetitions of the most innuendo-filled song he'd ever heard, being taught to a woman who wouldn't stop giggling, certainly didn't help.
Why was it always a tavern he had to meet them in? Why couldn't it ever be a chapel, or a clothing store, or the theater? Why did it always have to be some Gods forsaken hole reeking of stale beer and staler bodies?
These bloody undercover agents, always turning up with an excuse about shadowy figures or dangerous missions. Already the mer was an hour late. If he, Daracy, wouldn't get into so much trouble for it he'd leave this place and head back to Morilliton. There he could sit on his balcony, watching the gentle breezes of the bay stir the fronds of the trees as the sun sank out of sight, the sky turning from lilac to violet before settling into the darkest blue. Tonight the stars would be visible overhead, while the lights of the houses on the lower sections of the city, closer to the bay, would dance underneath them. Spring on the coast of Lainlyn was glorious.
Instead he was stuck here, the reek of dragon's breath—that imported vice from the Summerset Isles, purple smoke issuing from the twisted glass pipes being shared by the patrons—settling into his clothes. And the only sight he'd considered remotely attractive had spent the evening sitting in a corner booth with a bard whose repertoire apparently consisted of only one bawdy tune.
Years of service, years spent running an assortment of operatives, years of learning, sifting, careful reporting, and what did it garner? The continual visits of irresponsible Blades, with their desire to appear important, and their lateness. None of his subordinates would ever dare make their Spymaster wait.
Deciding to step outside for a moment, he threaded his way through the cramped room, dodging wenches carrying loaded trays while snaking past the chairs of the patrons crowded around the filthy tables. It wasn't as if the mer would be hard to spot. Not many Dark Elves found their way to this tiny tavern on the northern coast of Hammerfell. They didn't appear often on the western shores of Tamriel in general.
Casting a glance towards the pretty Redguard as she let out yet another burst of giggles, he wryly noted the odd coincidence tonight not one, but two, Dark Elves would be present in the same tavern at the same time...
By the Rat God! Realizing his error, Daracy slowed his pace, yawning as he passed by the occupied pair. As soon as he saw the mer's hand go to his neck, giving it a quick rub, he knew he'd just spent the past few hours waiting for somebody who'd been in the same room, waiting for him.
Spending a respectable amount of time outside, leaning against the wall, making sure to appear nonchalant, he returned inside to find the mer alone, his lovely companion nowhere to be seen.
"Took you long enough." The Dark Elf grumbled, idly flipping a gold piece over the backs of his fingers. "I was afraid you'd forgotten about me."
"No such luck." The exact details of the mer's assignment weren't part of the message, but Daracy knew enough to understand something had gone wrong, and there were now others involved in the mess. The Grandmaster was not happy, the Emperor was not happy, and the Empress...
Words masked by the judicious application of magic, he relayed what he'd been told. The mer's face grew dark as he set the gold piece to spin on the table's surface, red eyes watching the reflections of the torch light off the glinting metal.
"So Orsinium is being monitored constantly, and anyone who doesn't belong will attract immediate suspicion. His network of spies is big enough for this?" the mer asked with a frown.
"It's almost as large as hers." Daracy shook his head. "He's always kept Gortwog under intense surveillance. In the Orc's court we know who they are, they know who we are, and any unknowns are immediately suspect. I can't see how we could introduce anyone new to the court without attracting the wrong kind of attention."
"What if..." The mer's dusky hand, more grey than blue, slapped the spinning coin flat onto the surface. "What if we sent someone they'd already suspected, but then cleared? Someone with a valid reason to go there?"
"What if the Alik'r was made out of diamonds instead of sand? How could we find someone, get them suspected, investigated, cleared, and then invited to Orsinium under legitimate circumstances? It's a nice idea, but there aren't any of us available who fit the requirements..."
"No, not one of us..."
"It's too dangerous." Daracy immediately protested. "The Grandmaster wouldn't want to involve a defenseless citizen in a mission of this magnitude."
The mer's mouth spread into a satisfied smirk as he leaned forward, tucking the gold piece into his coinpurse. "That's the beauty of it. Because the person I have in mind made a career out of staying alive..."
As the plan was discussed—being questioned, examined from all angles, meticulously pulled apart looking for weaknesses—Daracy came to agree with the mer's assessment. It was risky, certainly, but it was about the best chance they had. The only other option was waiting long enough to try the original plan again, but there was the distinct possibility they'd never get another opportunity as good as this for a long time to come.
And waiting that long wasn't an option. Satisfied they'd hit upon a solid strategy—as good as the circumstances allowed—he prepared to take his leave of the mer. Upon his return to his home in Morilliton he'd send a message to the Grandmaster. Once the plan was accepted or rejected, he'd find the mer again, at which point they'd either have to come up with a new one, or set the current one in motion.
"One last thing. You have a message from her." Daracy mentioned, not wanting to bring up the subject, but ordered to do so.
The mer sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Tell her I'm working on it, and she'll get her blasted staff if I have to take up smithing and make it myself..."
"No, that's not it. It's a...non-verbal message." Surveying the curious Dark Elf, noting the mer's muscular physique while remembering the rumours he'd trained with the Champion of Cyrodiil, Daracy hesitated to continue. Experience was one thing, but the highly developed reflexes of a seasoned warrior were not to be taken lightly. "I'm just the messenger. Remember that."
The mer nodded for him to proceed. Daracy exhaled deeply before beginning the spell. There were many secrets he was privy to, and many he'd love to learn, but the exact reason the Empress of Tamriel had asked he do this to a fellow Blade was not one he wished to know. Sending the mild shock spell into the Dark Elf he instinctively recoiled, sure the mer would retaliate.
But the Dunmer didn't, instead muttering 'silly s'wit of a girl' under his breath while apparently trying to hold in his laughter.
Perhaps taverns were ideal places for this after all— the bleary eyed customers around them hadn't seemed to notice a thing.
"Oh, how nice. You didn't need to dress," Evie twittered at him, noting his new shirt. "Now go on in. Dinner is almost ready."
Gently guided, and perhaps a bit shoved, Agronak found himself in the dining room. The room wasn't like the others, Evie having forbidden the entrance of books on pain of broken spines. As a result it was an oasis of clutter free space.
Her artistic talents stood on full display—a giant mural depicting a pastoral scene wrapped around the walls, extending as a serene sky on the ceiling. Agronak had admired it quite sincerely during the tour.
"Ah, finally. Good to meet you." The elderly Breton made his way forward, using his dark wooden walking stick to minimize his limp. Two dogs—one dark grey, built like a wolf, his muzzle framed with white, the other of a smaller stature, with sleek brown fur—followed along behind him.
"Lord Hawkton. I must thank you for the hospitality of your charming family." Agronak greeted. The offered hand had a firm grip. Apart from the softened midsection and limp, he could tell Cerisse's father had been a very fit man in his prime. Time, however, had taken its toll, white hair ringing his ruddy face and bright smile.
"You are most welcome. Call me Alabyval—Evie insists on first names. She's told me you speak Orcish." Alabyval's green eyes seemingly danced with delight. "I wish I'd known in advance. There's a copy of Deesh-Meeus' analysis of the poetry of Atulg gro-Burbug that begs discussion. Perhaps it's in the second library..."
"Tertiary immigrant," Cerisse added to the conversation, walking up to greet her father with a hug. His face fell at the remark.
"Regional dialect remnants?" A small glimmer of hope lay in the question.
"Situational specific vocabulary," she responded sadly, shaking her head. Alabyval looked despondent for a moment before rallying and he turning back to Agronak with a weak grin.
"Ah, well, perhaps another time. I take it you've met my son, Gondyn," the indicated man leaning against the wall, his back covering a picturesque lake, gave Agronak a conspiratorial wink, "and my youngest daughter, Riraynea..."
"Ria," she corrected loudly from her place at the table, speaking over her father. "It's Ria, Papa."
"Yes, of course. Ria," he murmured with good humour. Dropping his voice, he whispered to Agronak. "Women. It's always one fancy or another. Best to just let them have their little whims. Saves on headache remedies."
"Alabyval, what have I told you about dogs in the dining room while we have company?" Evie called from the doorway, hands on her hips, exasperation in her voice.
"Not to toss them food, I believe." The wink he gave Agronak was very reminiscent of the kind his son favored.
As Evie somehow managed to scold, sweet talk, and joke with her husband at the same time, Alabyval led the dogs out of the room, speaking to them in a language other than Common. Seizing the opportunity, Agronak asked Cerisse what her exchange with her father had meant.
"It saved you from Deesh-Meeus' analysis, the complete collected works of Atulg gro-Burbug, the reference materials that refutes Deesh-Meeus' claims, my father's opinion, and a whole shelf worth of supporting poetry, half of which probably wouldn't be in Orcish or Common," she whispered. "So then he'd have to give you the translations of those, but there are often debates about the authenticity of translated pieces..."
Trailing off, she arched an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth curling in, as she tried to suppress an amused smile. "I told you it was better he didn't expect you."
Moving away to take her seat at the table, Gondyn took the opportunity to speak to Agronak as he passed by. "Let me give you a tip. My father can go on a bit—if he asks for your opinion, just tell him: var var var, rabi."
"Var var var, rabi?"
"You got it." Giving him a pat on the arm and a careless wink, Gondyn headed off to take his seat. Meanwhile Ria waved Agronak over to the empty place beside her.
Dinner was a blend of formal and casual. Rather than being waited on, the cook simply brought the serving dishes to the table, while the family passed the food, serving themselves. Both fine silverware and simple glazed crockery sat upon a pale yellow linen tablecloth. While the atmosphere was relaxed, he doubted eating with the fingers would go over well.
"I understand you're doing a bit of sightseeing in High Rock," Alabyval said from his place beside Agronak, at the end of the table. "Were you planning to stop in Daggerfall?"
"He probably doesn't have time to do that," Cerisse answered, passing the bowl of broad beans to her brother. "It's just a short vacation."
Alabyval nodded at his daughter, then turned his attentions back to Agronak. "What set of circumstances led you here to Menevia? Do you have family in the area?"
Before Agronak got a chance to respond, Cerisse again spoke for him. "He was kind enough to accompany me on the overland route through the escarpment."
"Reesy, I thought you weren't going to travel that way anymore," Evie said disapprovingly from her end of the table.
"Mama, she took the Grey Prince with her," Ria stated. "If anyone should worry, it should be the bandit king."
"Ri Ri, there isn't a bandit king." As Gondyn began to argue across the table with his sister about the existence of a bandit lord as well as his secret town of brigands somewhere in the Wrothgarian foothills, Alabyval tried once more to speak with his guest.
"How are you enjoying High Rock, Agrinak? It must be..."
"Agronak," Cerisse corrected.
"That's what I said. Agrinak." Alabyval gave her a strange look. Seeing as how he'd probably never get a chance to speak with Cerisse constantly interrupting, Agronak resigned himself to simply enjoying his meal.
"No, it's Agronak. A-G-R-O," Cerisse explained.
"Really?" Alabyval's face lit up. "That's remarkable. Tell me, was your mother a Breton?"
Caught with a mouthful of beans, it was a few moments before Agronak could answer. "No, she was an Orc."
"Then your father must have been."
"No, he was Imperial. Lord Lovidicus," Agronak elaborated.
"Right." Alabyval snapped his fingers at the answer. "But he spent time in High Rock?"
Hesitant to dampen the man's enthusiasm, Agronak shook his head. "No. I don't think he left Cyrodiil." Considering his father's unique nature, as well as the contents of the diary, he doubted the lord had been much for traveling
"Astounding!" Alabyval slapped the table, shaking the glasses. "See, Cerisse, this is a perfect example of cross consonant migration."
Agronak quickly lost the thread of the conversation as he listened to Alabyval excitedly discussing etymological theories at Cerisse—since she barely murmured a word back at him, it could hardly be said he was discussing them with her.
"That's so romantic." The dreamy declaration beside him interrupted the consumption of the pork roast on his plate. "Your father defying convention, marrying an Orcish lady."
"She wasn't a lady," he corrected Ria's mistaken assumption. To his surprise her expression became the type he frequently noticed on women when they cooed over babies or kittens.
"Oh, how sweet! How brave! To marry outside of his race and social class, love overcoming the odds..."
"They, uh, weren't married," he said quietly, expecting her to apologize for her unintended gaffe.
Instead she almost swooned in her seat. "Ah, star crossed lovers, fate conspiring to keep them apart! How terribly tragic. And incredibly romantic!"
"Don't mind Ri Ri," Gondyn offered from across the table. "Too many romance novels."
"It's Ria," she scolded. Lowering her voice, she turned to Agronak. "I was named after a celebrated heroine whose love couldn't be stopped, even by death."
"Can't say that I know the name..."
Before he could finish the sentence Ria began her tale. She told him about Ria Silmane, an apprentice of the evil Jagar Tharn. According to her, Ria and the Emperor were in love, but with Jagar's imprisonment of Uriel in another plane as part of his plan to assume the guise of Emperor, the sorceress devoted her life to finding a way to free Uriel. Jagar Tharn learned of her plan to reunite with Uriel and their small son, and so had her killed. But she fought on from beyond the grave, working with Queen Barenziah to defeat the traitorous Battlemage and return the true Emperor to Tamriel.
"Her son?" Agronak had listened politely to the story, trying to ignore Gondyn's sarcastic remarks from across the table, contributed as Ria had begun speaking in louder tones as she discussed undying love and eternal passion.
"The Emperor," she answered in a reverential tone. "I'm named after his mother."
"Ri Ri, you are not!" Gondyn interjected from across the table. "Your name is Riraynea, after a Second Era Dunmeri poetess!"
"Well, I should have been named after her!" Ria protested angrily at her brother, stabbing her fork at him for emphasis.
"Wait, is she a real person?" Agronak asked. Both siblings nodded while maintaining eye contact with each other—Ria glaring, Gondyn smirking. "Then how could she be his mother if she died before he was born?"
"What?" Ria asked in shock.
"Well, Martin was born after Uriel came back. So if Ria was already dead, then she couldn't possibly be his mother."
"Are you sure?" Hope was written on Ria's face.
"Very sure." Knowing Martin was a year younger than Lilia, Agronak was quite certain Ria Silmane couldn't possibly be the Emperor's mother. Though from the rumours he'd heard during his years in the Bloodworks, he didn't rule out the possibility Uriel and Ria had known each other very well.
With a dejected murmur Ria turned her attentions away from Agronak back to her plate, to pick at her beans and sigh melodramatically.
Apart from the occasional murmur of 'var var var, rabi' from Cerisse at her father, and the mournful noises from Ria, Agronak had an interesting conversation with Gondyn and Evie. By asking them about the province of Menevia he was rewarded with several stories of local folklore, history, and geography.
As dinner wound down Alabyval appeared to show no signs of stopping. Cerisse was now contributing to the main conversation, her father seemingly speaking more to himself than anyone specifically. Occasionally calling on one of his family members for agreement about his theories, they'd respond with a polite 'var var var, rabi' before carrying on with their own discussion. From the atmosphere Agronak could tell this was a regular occurrence during Hawkton dinners, so there'd be no hard feelings from Alabyval at being politely ignored, or from his family at being subjected to a continuous stream of intellectual banter.
"...can see the roots of the syntax in both Aldmeris and Argonian. Wouldn't you agree, Agronak?"
Startled by the sudden inclusion of himself in Alabyval's monologue, he answered as Gondyn had advised. "Var var var, rabi."
The table burst into laughter, Gondyn's laugh the loudest of all. Even Evie chuckled, murmuring about Agronak's delightful wit. He felt as confused as Alabyval looked, the man blinking his eyes as if waking from a deep sleep.
"Oh dear, did I do it again?" Alabyval asked his wife. Seeing the nods of his family, he looked down at his plate. "That would explain why my beans are so cold."