7 Hearthfire, 3E 433
Grey Mare, Chorrol
"Are you Reynald Jemane?"
It seemed as though the voice was miles away, though the courier was standing directly in front of him. Reynald had to squint to make him out. The youth might have been an Imperial, but it was difficult to tell. Everything looked watery, unstable.
"Aye, the one and only," Reynald slurred. Talking made his head hurt. So did the light. It pained him to keep his eyes open because of this, so he stared down at the unswept floor. But the ground beneath his feet was moving, undulating like ocean waves, and he felt seasick even though he was on solid land. There was a fair amount of ale on the floor. Some ninny must have spilled it earlier.
In all likelihood that ninny had been him.
"I've a letter for you. From Brother Piner at Weynon Priory."
All at once the darkness seized Reynald's chest. He wanted to vomit but he couldn't even breathe. Weynon Priory… Weynon Priory… oh, by Talos, what had he done? He'd heard of the attack this morning and wondered when he would wake up from this nightmare.
Like Kvatch, this was all his doing. His foolish, selfish doing.
He had told them everything about some sorry bastard in Kvatch. Out of sight, out of mind. That's what he'd thought at the time when he was broke and hungry. What did he care about a man he'd never met in his life?
But it was a lot more than that. He'd sold out his friends, nay, his family. And for what? For the sack of gold he was boozing away?
The courier spoke over Reynald's inner torment.
"You heard about the attack this morning? Dreadful business. Who would want to hurt that lot of peaceful monks, I want to know."
It sounded as if the boy were shouting into his ear. Each word pierced through his skull, stabbing his brain.
Reynald slowly turned around, though the walls didn't stop moving when he did. "Really, do you have to be so loud?"
"Huh? Err, I'm sorry…"
Reynald began to massage his temples. He tried to speak but his mind was a jumbled mess. He just wanted the courier to put the letter on the table and leave.
"I never realized - you must have known them. I'm sorry for your loss."
"I grew up at the Priory," Reynald said vaguely, though it felt as if these words had come from someone else. A different Reynald, a different time.
He betrayed the only people in this world that meant anything to him, that he had ever cared about. Well, aside from Finna, but she hadn't spoken to him in years. He wondered if she was still wasting her time with that filthy barbarian Holgar. Not that Reynald could claim to be a better man.
The courier was still standing there, shifting his weight awkwardly. Reynald realized that he was waiting for a tip. Grumbling, he placed two Septims into the boy's palm.
"Divines bless you-"
"Go away," he snapped.
The unopened letter rested on the edge of his table, filling Reynald with despair each time he glanced at it, at the red wax seal with the draconic emblem of Talos.
With the help of another drink he finally mustered the courage to break the seal, taking several deep breaths. His hands were trembling as the paper unfolded.
The words swirled as if the ink were running. He squinted harder at the page. Without a doubt that was Brother Piner's careful hand, as precise as print, not a word blotted out because he must have written three drafts of the same letter already, just so that it would be perfect. Piner was like that.
My dearest friend Reynald, the letter started. Gods, Reynald was already sick.
By now, I know that news of the attack on Weynon Priory has already reached you.
Reynald, Prior Maborel is dead. I would have called on you in person were my hands not tied with preparations for his burial on the morrow. A shadow looms over the Empire, and we must all put aside our disagreements and come together to support one another. I understand that the asceticism of monastic life was not your calling, and I respect your decision to seek a different path. But if one good thing may come from this tragedy, it would be a reunion with the man I once knew as brother. I have always loved you, and always will, no matter your indiscretions.
Talos guide you.
Piner
"Reynald?" That was Emfrid's voice sounding remarkably soft, rather than the much shriller tone she used to remind Reynald to pay his tab. "Are you crying?"
Reynald's face felt numb. He did nothing to hide the tears dripping out his eyes. One droplet landed on the paper he stared down at, blurring the word "brother."
Being a strong-minded Nord with no regard for privacy, Emfrid snatched Reynald's letter away and skimmed it quickly.
"Ah… goodness, Reynald… that Prior Maborel, you told me of him. He was like a father to you, wasn't he?" she said, placing a thick hand on her chest. Then, mercifully discarding her sympathy for practicality, her eyebrows knitted together and she glanced at him sternly. "You ought to leave now if you're going on foot. That is, if you want to reach the Priory before sundown. No, wash yourself up first. You look a right mess, you do."
"Yes," was all Reynald could manage to croak.
A cold bath and two cups of tea later, Reynald began his journey to Weynon Priory. It was not too far away, less than an hour on foot. He spent most of that time half-stumbling, until his drunkenness faded, leaving nothing but a splitting headache.
Any other traveler may have appreciated the beauty of the Great Forest in autumn, the leaves beginning to turn vibrant shades of yellow and orange, but this only reminded Reynald that winter would soon be here, and this beauty would shrivel up and die.
Nestled deep within the forest was Weynon Priory, the steeple of the chapel piercing through a canopy of trees.
The two-storied house he grew up in was just across from the chapel, a stone dwelling with wood-timbered gables, ivy creeping nearly ten feet high. It looked much the same as he left it. Except now the front wooden door was splattered with blood.
Moving behind the house Reynald noticed four bodies propped against the wall, wrapped in burlap. Smokey incense burned in an iron censer to keep the flies away. It was just so that the monks of Weynon Priory would treat even the bodies of their enemy with at least the barest amount of respect.
Eronor was out in the yard with his sleeves rolled up, fiercely digging a hole. Yet as soon as he saw Reynald the stablehand dropped the shovel and ran to greet him with a big, sloppy hug.
"There, there," Reynald said, unsure how to comfort the dark elf towering nearly a foot above him, sobbing into his shoulder. He was mostly trying to concentrate on breathing.
When Eronor finally pulled away to retrieve his shovel, Reynald noticed two people seated on the chapel steps, both looking a bit ragged and travel-weary. He'd never seen them before in his life. One was a Redguard woman, young and hale. She wore over her armor a bloodstained white tabard with a wolf emblem in the center. The symbol of Kvatch. But she didn't look like a common guard.
Her sharp eyes were already examining Reynald. The intensity of her stare put him ill at ease. It felt as if she could read his thoughts, and if they made eye contact for too long, she would know all the terrible things that he had done. Reynald quickly looked away, at the other person.
A man. Imperial. Not as young as the woman, though not exactly old, either. Wavy brown hair, skin somewhat tanned like a farmer's. Dressed in dirty gray priest robes.
There was nothing about his appearance that suggested he was someone extraordinary. He just looked like a priest who had gone a few days without shaving, and perhaps sleeping.
And yet… Reynald had a feeling he knew who this person was...
"I do not know if the enemy followed us from Kvatch, or if they had an informant here all along. I thought you would be safe here, Brother Martin, but we may be treading about a hornet's nest," the Redguard woman was saying.
The realization hit Reynald like a brick to the face.
This… this was the bastard son, the priest from Kvatch that Jauffre mentioned in all his letters? The one that those men were after?
The one that Reynald had doomed with a word?
He was... alive?
The priest was unaware that Reynald had been staring at him for nearly a minute, and replied to his travel companion. The conversation sounded like it was getting heated.
"You truly believe that someone at Weynon Priory is consorting with these assassins?"
"I'm saying the enemy knew things that only Jauffre and the others should have known," the Redguard answered smoothly, not missing a beat. Was she looking at Reynald when she said that? Oh, gods, she was looking at him.
Thankfully, as soon as Martin spoke she turned back to him.
"Look at the faces of the people around you. The entire Priory is in a state of grieving."
The woman scoffed. "Yes, I can make myself look sad too, if I want." She then scrunched her face into a look of believable despair, her lower lip quivering as her eyes widened desperately.
"Stop that," the priest scolded, looking away with a barely-hidden smirk. The woman gave him a playful punch on the shoulder.
"See? You're too trusting, Brother Martin. That's not becoming, especially not if you want to stay alive long enough to be crowned Emperor. Until we find out who talked, we ought to assume everyone here is a potential threat. I should ask Jauffre for permission to interrogate… you know, interrogate possible leads..."
"Interrogate? Leads? Mona… this is all too much. You're exhausted, and I think it is affecting your thoughts. You should rest while we still have time."
"Right, so that the traitor can slit my throat while I sleep?" she snapped.
"You told me in Kvatch it was me they were after," the priest said. "Besides, I wouldn't allow them to hurt you."
The Redguard woman let out a short laugh.
"What are you going to do, watch over me as I sleep?"
"Would you like me to?" he asked. "Or... is that improper? Shall we ask Brother Jauffre what he thinks?"
Mona clamped a hand over her mouth as she laughed through her fingers, glancing over her shoulder to ensure that stodgy old Brother Jauffre wasn't listening. Even Martin chuckled lightly.
"I'll be fine," Mona finally said. "Just… cast another healing spell on me, or something."
Eronor stood beside Reynald, now leaning against the shovel. His ash-gray skin was shiny with sweat.
"Jauffre says they're his friends," the elf said in a hushed voice. "I think they're important, but he won't say why. The woman came here alone last week. She and Jauffre talked for a long time behind a locked door. I heard him shouting. And Jauffre never raises his voice. Maybe this has to do with the Emperor's death? I don't know… no one tells me anything around here."
Reynald exhaled. He smiled feebly up at Eronor.
"Here, let me have that shovel. I'll finish digging the grave," he said gently, setting a hand on the elf's shoulder.
Eronor's red eyes widened.
"What spirits have possessed you, Reynald Jemane? You, offering to do work? Never thought I'd see the day," he said, almost sounding amused.
Reynald forced a chuckle.
"Go tell Brother Piner I've arrived, would you?"
"Yes, yes, of course."
Indeed, Reynald had only dug a few shovelfuls of dirt before his soft hands began to blister. Eronor was right. He'd always been a lazy good-for-nothing, avoiding work at every possible turn. Yet now he continued to dig as the late afternoon sun beat down on his head. Beads of sweat rolled down his neck and he stabbed the earth with the shovel again.
He knew he was nowhere near finished. Prior Maborel had been a portly man, and would need a larger grave. Morbidly, he wondered if the carpenter would be working overtime to finish a special order for his coffin. Undoubtedly that had been part of Piner's frantic arrangements.
By the time Brother Piner emerged from Weynon House carrying a jug of water, Reynald had established a sort of rhythm with his digging. All the same, he was grateful to take a break. He drank a long sip of water, then splashed a good amount over his head to cool himself.
"It is good to see you," said Piner, brow furrowed, looking especially worried, more than usual. Reynald wondered if he had given himself an extra forehead crease or two from frowning so much during the past day.
"And you, Brother," Reynald answered, not meeting the monk's eyes.
He felt as if he had swallowed an apple, whole.
An uncomfortable silence fell on the both of them.
Reynald stepped into the hole and resumed digging.
"Reynald…" Piner started, frowning even deeper. He was clutching his prayer beads in his left hand, knuckles turning white. "I worry for you."
"You worry about a lot of things."
"Well, yes." Piner smiled. He looked very tired. "I have been thinking about you since you left the Priory. I fear… I feared that Prior Maborel's death would affect you strongly."
"Of course it does. I imagine it has affected all of us," Reynald said, his voice sounding hollow.
"We all were fond of him, of course. He was a kind man and an admirable Prior. But to you… Prior Maborel was the closest you ever came to having a father. And now…"
"He's dead. I'm fine."
"But Reynald-"
Reynald slammed the shovel into the earth. It hit a rock, hard. He felt the shock tingling up his spine.
"What do you want from me, Brother Piner? What do you want me to say right now? I'm all out of words, all out of feelings. I can't do this-"
Reynald choked. Brother Piner knew nothing. "I must resolve my struggles alone," he concluded with finality.
Brother Piner shook his head.
"I will leave you to your thoughts if you desire it. But… you are never alone. Talos is standing beside you, even if you have turned your own back on him."
"No," Reynald said. "No, the gods have abandoned me. Of this I am certain."
"What ever do you mean by this? Reynald, your words are troubling. I have heard… stories, of your condition. I shall not admonish you for succumbing to drink and idleness, for the gods would surely forgive you these sins."
Reynald dropped the shovel. His hands were bleeding from the blisters, but it was this pain that distracted him from his turmoil. He climbed out of the hole now, brushing the dirt off his pants.
He did not want forgiveness where it was undeserved.
Yet he was in too deep, far too deep. There was no getting out of this now; the others would kill him if he talked. And they would know. They knew everything.
"Brother Piner… do you believe the gods forgive the weak and cowardly?"
"The gods are here to protect those that cannot fight for themselves. Weakness and cowardice are not sins alone."
That was pious Brother Piner's answer. Reynald wondered if he would be so mealy if he knew the truth, knew why the Priory had been attacked in the first place.
"And those that have committed sins as a result of their weakness?"
"Well…" Brother Piner stopped to think for a moment. "That is for the gods to decide. What troubles you?"
Reynald looked up at the house. The two guests must have already retreated indoors, but he couldn't know if that Redguard woman was still watching him. By now it was dusk and the crickets were beginning their nightly chorus.
"Cut from a different cloth, you and I," Reynald muttered. It was too late, far too late to tell him anything. What good would that do? "Even when we were young, I knew I was not the same as you."
"It doesn't have to be this way," Piner still insisted.
Reynald didn't say anything.
Reynald waited until nightfall when everyone else was asleep, before heading to the chapel. There were no stars in the sky, for it had been cloudy all day.
Prior Maborel's body was wrapped in a dark silk cloth, though his head was still visible and stiff hands clasped over his chest as if in prayer. The prior looked unusually peaceful for a man that had suffered a violent death, but Reynald could only guess what was under the cloth. The only light came from the many votive candles flickering around him. Reynald knelt between the pews in front of the altar, staring at one of the tiny, whispering flames.
He didn't want to believe that this pale, shriveled corpse was once Prior Maborel, though it undoubtedly was him. Reynald closed his eyes, thought of the Prior he had known in life. A stout, ruddy-faced Breton, almost as wide as he was tall, shuffling into the blank spaces of his mind.
Pipe tobacco. The Prior always smelled of pipe tobacco. Even when he wasn't smoking the scent was carried on his robes.
Maborel had a sort of working-class roughness about him in his speech and attitude, regaling them with tales of his upbringing in Daggerfall, in a leaky house with no windows right by the West District Gaol.
"A right morass you've gotten yourself into this time, boy. Have you any idea what this means?" he would have boomed, raspy and livid, were he still alive to chastise Reynald.
Reynald always listened when Maborel spoke. For the Prior had a rare voice that immediately commanded attention. He could rouse even the sleepiest congregation with his powerful sermons and allegorical anecdotes.
And his scoldings were just as emphatic as his preaching.
Each time young Reynald was caught stealing a meat pie from the kitchen meant for the paupers, or sneaking out at night to meet Nelly Odiil, Prior Maborel was the one who kept him in line, frightening him with the fires of Oblivion that awaited the souls of all the wicked boys and girls who did not beg the Nine for forgiveness.
But this time, Reynald would not beg the Divines for forgiveness.
He did not deserve it.
What did he have to fear? The fires of Oblivion? Eternal torment?
He was already there.
But why, of all the cruel ways the Divines might have thought to punish him, why had they taken Prior Maborel?
Prior Maborel, the great big man who sketched pictures of foxes, tossed seed for the crows and would get misty-eyed when holding a newborn? Prior Maborel, who could even see the good in a delinquent like Reynald Jemane? Who only ever was angry out of love and concern?
A sharp, choked sob escaped Reynald. He bowed closer to the ground until his forehead was touching cold stone. His chest was aching terribly and he wanted to die right here on the hard floor. But if he plunged a knife into his belly right now, he'd be leaving a mess behind for Brother Piner and the others to clean up. It would be better if he died alone, in the woods where no one would find him.
Several paces behind him, close to the chapel door, Reynald heard a pair of feet landing on the ground, as if they had leaped from the belfry ladder.
No...
Reynald sat up straight, but he didn't dare to turn around.
"It's too bad for the fat priest," came a distinctly urbane sneer Reynald could guess belonged to an Altmer male. Why did they all have to sound so arrogant?
Thump.
A lighter set of feet hit the ground.
"But why the tears, sera? Cheer up. We'll pay you double if you help us again."
That was an equally mocking voice, deep and feminine yet slightly gritty, like a Dunmer.
One of them was jangling a heavy coinpurse. The two advanced towards Reynald. He still did not turn around to face them, but he saw their candlelit shadows growing longer.
"What more do you want from me?" Reynald growled.
"Oh, it's simple," started the Altmer. "Even for you."
The Dunmer explained further. "You saw Brother Martin? The priest?"
"And the lioness that guards him day and night," muttered the Altmer.
"Earn Martin's trust. Not a difficult task; he's a good-hearted fool."
Now they were just going back and forth.
"The woman keeps a supply of potions, to stave fatigue."
"We'll give you concentrated Daedra venin – tasteless, odorless, colorless in this state," cut the Dunmer excitedly.
"It won't kill her, but it will knock her unconscious in minutes."
"The priest will assume she merely passed out from exhaustion. Then..."
"Oh, he doesn't need to know the rest," interrupted the Altmer. "Fear not, we'll take it from there. What say you?"
Reynald scowled.
"Do I even have a choice?"
The Dunmer let out a terrible shriek of a laugh, but quickly corrected herself after the Altmer hissed at her.
"Aha ha, ha – well, we thought you'd be a good sport," she said. "It would be a shame if something happened to old Jauffre, and that sheep-brained n'wah in the stables. You like gold, don't you? See, everyone's happy."
The chapel door burst open.
Reynald hustled to his feet. Turning around, he saw the red-robed cultists react quickly to the newcomer by charging flame spells.
The Dunmer suddenly screamed, doubling over, and Reynald saw a flash of steel wrenched through her chest.
Without thinking, Reynald rushed forward, tackled the Altmer to the ground. The elf wriggled beneath him, but the stranger brought the sword down on his gold-skinned neck and that was the end of him.
Reynald rolled over, off the Altmer's body, hitting his head on one of the pews. He laid on his back, chest heaving in short, frenzied breaths, eyes wide.
The newcomer wiped their sword clean on their robes. Reynald could not distinguish their face in the near-darkness of the chapel, but he did see a bare hand reaching out to him, a familiar gold band around the thumb. Maborel's ring, Reynald thought.
Reynald took the hand, but instead of being gently helped to his feet he was yanked roughly upwards and pushed against the wall. His head was still pounding from being banged on the pew, and spots darkened his vision even further.
"You knew these people?"
That voice, trembling with barely-contained rage.
Jauffre. Brother Jauffre, keeper of many secrets. The secrets that Reynald should not have known.
The monk was not so meek and soft-spoken now. He used one hand to keep Reynald pinned to the wall, while the other gripped the hilt of his sword, the curved point just an inch from Reynald's neck.
Before Reynald could gather enough breath to answer, Jauffre assaulted him with even more questions.
"Who do you answer to? What do you know? What did they say to you? What have you DONE?"
Reynald still couldn't speak – he wasn't certain if it was Jauffre's anger that frightened him so much, or if it was the tip of his longsword at his throat.
"I... I don't know..." Reynald mumbled.
"Speak up." Jauffre was so close that spittle flew onto Reynald's face.
"I don't – didn't know them, not these two. There were others. I was approached... not long before the Emperor was murdered."
Reynald swallowed before continuing. He was dead either way, he may as well give him the full story.
"They knew... knew that I had connections to Weynon Priory. To... you, Jauffre."
"What did they want from Weynon Priory? What did they know?"
"They didn't know much. Someone – I don't know who – someone very close to the Emperor told them about a hidden bastard. By the Nine, I had no idea any of this would happen. I thought – I thought it was politics, you know? Royals off each other all the time, you know?"
Jauffre was silent as Reynald rambled, and he remained silent for a long while after.
"What did you tell them?" he finally said, through clenched teeth.
"To be perfectly honest, I didn't know much. I saw some of the Kvatch letters – I swear I wasn't looking on purpose, I was looking for an inkwell and – begging your pardon, the bundle was right there out in the open on your desk. Couldn't help but read it. At the time I suppose I thought you had a son you never told us about, but there were no specific names or locations I could give them... didn't expect them to, to burn it all, Kvatch..." he trailed off.
Silence again. Not the sort of peaceful quiet in a tomb. This was the terrible, static silence right before a hurricane. And Jauffre was dangerously calm, though Reynald knew a great storm was brewing within him.
"And if only this man had died, rather than an entire city, you would have slept soundly at night?"
Reynald's head bobbed up and down dumbly.
Yes. Yes, he would have.
"And for what?"
"Gold. Lots of it. Five hundred drakes, up front. You don't understand, sire. I was desperate, couldn't keep a job, had nowhere to stay at night and winter was fast approaching-"
"You could have come back to the Priory," Jauffre said, his eyes cold steel.
Reynald had no answer. There were no excuses. Even now, he had a hard time explaining why he did it, but it was done, and too many people had to pay the price for that blood money.
Jauffre released his grip on Reynald. Then, curiously he began rifling through the robes of the dead with intent, as if searching for something in particular. He tossed a coin purse in Reynald's direction, but it landed on the ground in front of him. Gold spilled out the opening.
"Is that not what you wanted? Is that not what you have betrayed us for?" he muttered, now turning the Dunmer's body over and searching through her pockets, patting down the robes methodically. Had he done this before? "Oh, if only you knew the chaos you have unleashed on Tamriel for five hundred drakes, Reynald Jemane."
Clearly, Jauffre knew a lot more than he was letting on. Reynald wondered if he was even a real monk.
He dared ask a question of his own.
"That Martin fellow, the priest in the dirty robes, is he truly the son of the late Emperor? What does he have to do with... with all this madness?"
Unsurprisingly, Jauffre chose not to answer.
Reynald took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly.
"What are you going to do with me?" he asked, hesitantly.
Jauffre stepped away from the bodies, sighing in frustration at not finding whatever it was he was looking for. He crossed his arms over his chest and turned to face Reynald again. He was unsettled that he could not see his expression in the darkness.
"Good question. I could have you executed for treason, but that wouldn't solve anything, would it?"
Reynald didn't know what to say, so he only shook his head.
"I know you loved Prior Maborel. Obviously not as much as he loved you, but you cared for him all the same. I know that deep down, somewhere in that blackened heart of yours, you regret what you have done. I am prepared to spare you for now, under certain conditions."
Reynald's nose stung. He squeezed his eyes shut. "Just kill me," he pleaded. Whatever Jauffre had in store for him, it did not sound pleasant at all.
"No. I still have a use for you." Jauffre glanced over at the Prior's body, which had not stirred despite all the commotion in the chapel. "He was fond of you, you know. After word came around of your... reputation in town, despite our teachings, we both were saddened that we had presumably failed in bringing you up. I had the nerve to suggest you may have simply been a bad seed. Want to know what he said?"
Reynald waited for Jauffre to continue.
"'If a seed does not grow, no matter how lovingly it is nurtured, look at where it has been planted. There is a beautiful white orchid that blooms amidst the arid sands of the Ali'kr desert. But would we be able to plant it in our garden between the Wormwood and Lady's Mantle? Nay, it would wither and die in the wet, cold soil. Reynald lost his parents when he was just old enough to miss them, along with the home he once had. He is not a bad seed, and we are not lousy gardeners. He resented the Priory and all that it represented for him. The only way that Reynald can thrive is if he finds a calling that truly makes him happy, a place where he can finally lay his roots. I believe in him, as should you, Brother Jauffre.' That's what he said to me. Alas, he was a better man than I am, but I believe he would have wanted me to give you another chance."
Reynald found himself shaking his head, silent tears streaming down his cheeks.
He'd let everyone down, hadn't he?
He too would have agreed with Jauffre, assumed he was just a bad seed, compared to perfect Brother Piner. Reynald had never been able to explain why he had turned out like this, when the monks had treated him so kindly. It was in his nature to be bad, so he thought.
And yet Prior Maborel still believed in him? He felt a warm hand on his shoulder, and he realized it was Brother Jauffre's.
"Well then," Jauffre said, the sardonic bite returning to his voice. He squeezed Reynald's shoulder, tighter. "Are you ready to bloom, orchid?"