Chapter Thirty-Five: Talking Treason
--SI--
Orphael stopped outside the Sacellum Arden-Sul so abruptly he might have walked into a wall. With the darkness still clinging, Orphael blended in all too well with his surroundings. When Lahallia stopped, he answered her question before she could ask it. "He wants you. Not me. I'm to wait here." This did not bother him much, though given the sudden change in Lahallia's face it bothered her. An Altmer probably would find such a meeting not to her comfort, though it would not bother a Mazken in the slightest. He squelched the usual Mazken pride—it would not do to irritate Lahallia too much before she went in to see Lord Sheogorath.
Lahallia's comfort in Orphael's presence vanished at these words,. Her head cleared further at the idea of another Haskill-Sheogroath-herself meeting. She hated feeling out numbers, and it brought home what she had taken for granted: that Orphael would come with her, since Sheogorath obviously meant him to keep an eye on her. To help her when he could, to keep her from 'getting boring' when he couldn't actually help. Method—or rather routine—in madness, and Lahallia had not realized it until she no longer had it. Aside from anything else, it was nice not to feel wholly outnumbered, even if, technically—and an Attendant lived by technicalities—Orphael belonged to Sheogorath as much as anything else in this realm.
"Should I be afraid?" She could not remember the last time she asked this question, but it came out now. Sheogorath and his lack of predictability did frighten her, to her surprise. She thought life in the Apocrypha suited her to polite meetings with Daedric Princes...apparently not.
Orphael's eyebrows rose. "Does he frighten you?" Such an admission was not only unexpected…it made him wish Lord Sheogorath wasn't insisting so powerfully that this conversation be private. No eaves-dropping. Or someone would find eves dropping. Right square on their heads. Furthermore, it showed progress in peeling off her dusty shell of Apocrypha life.
Lahallia considered lying for a moment, but in the end did not. "Yes." She had not so much pride that she could not admit to feeling fear—although it puzzled her, for she could not remember the last time she felt fear like this.
"He has plans for you. What they are, I cannot say." But it had to do with the Greymarch. It had to do with Order. And why Lord Sheogorath couldn't leave it to his Mazken, or even the Aureals…Orphael's hand buzzed uncomfortably.
"Should I be afraid?" Lahallia asked again, trying to squelch the discomfiture it caused.
He wished he could tell her 'no', truthfully. Lying to her would not help. It might even do more harm than good. "He's a Daedric Prince. Yes. I'm afraid so."
Lahallia gave a nervous laugh. Perhaps she had more pride than was healthy, stemming from her long service within the Apocrypha. Still, the sense of waking up after long dreaming puzzled her. "Thank you."
Orphael nodded, watching her continue up to the heavy oak doors. She did not look back, but vanished into the old building. His eyes returned to the door of the house, which remained fixed in place, unassuming except that it was built into the dividing wall between Crucible and Bliss. On the cusp.
Much like Lahallia herself.
--SI--
The Sacellum was empty. Not even the priests were present. The only light came from the Flame of Agnon on the Dementia side of the chapel, casting greenish light and blackest shadows. Sheogorath stood before the altar, though with his back to her, evidently focused on the Flame of Agnon burning brightly. The sense of some great hulking power using the human shape as a puppet intensified with the deep shadows.
"Well!" The voice boomed from behind Lahallia, making her jump. In the moment of blinking, Sheogorath had slipped around to stand behind her. "Still skittish, still jumpy. Maybe you'd like to be a frog for a few days? Teach you when to jump and when to hold your ground. You'll need to know the difference eventually…" Sheogorath prattled, but his eyes were hard, and the grin he wore for her initial reaction grew hard, menacing.
Someone, Lahallia thought acidly despite her fear, woke up on the wrong side of the bed.
"Pity there isn't time." Sheogorath was back at the altar, as though he'd never moved, balancing his staff in the palm of his hand, wathcing it wobble. "Now, we get to the killing business! The Greymarch is upon us, and the Ordering begins. Armies of Order sweep my realm. Death. Destruction. Then I have to pick up the pieces." He tossed his staff and caught it, as though ready to clobber someone with it. Lahallia suspected he would have clobbered her, if she was in reach. "And there are always lots of pieces."
Abruptly Lahallia found herself standing by his elbow, between him and the Flame of Agnon. The light and shadows cast by it played weirdly across his face, but unlike mere minutes before something changed. She no longer felt as though she regarded a puppet, but a marionette—something on strings, rather than controlled directly by hidden hands. As though the puppet she could see had grown and the puppeteer she couldn't had shrunk.
"I don't like it, having to rebuild my realm every era. I forget where things go. Like New Sheoth. I can never remember where it belongs..." his brow creased. "And maps are only reliable as long as they're accurate…but when all's ash and ruin, what is accurate? And who has maps to begin with?"
Accuracy? In this realm? Not even time stood still…time. Lahallia met Sheogorath's golden eyes, something like a sense of danger prickling up her spine. "It was a very long night, my lord." Unless she merely slept through the daylight hours, but somehow...she did not think so.
"Was it?" Sheogorath's tone, almost serious, raised gooseflesh on her arms. Lahallia had never heard so much innuendo crammed into two words. She immediately colored.
"Distractions later! Business now! Yes, it was a long night. The Long Night. It means things are happening! And not nice things. You'll change that," he poked her sharply in the shoulder with his staff. Vision rose like a dragon ready to breathe fire but subsided so quickly it left Lahallia feeling lightheaded and wishing she'd not had breakfast. Doubtless what Sheogorath intended. "You'll stop Jyggalag, and the Ordering, and I'll have my realm to come back to. I've never actually tried that before."
"Can I? Stop the Greymarch, I mean…" Lahallia could not stop the words. So much so she wondered if Sheogorath hadn't put her under a minor compulsion to say them.
"You mean 'if a Daedric Prince can't do it'. Smart of you not to say it…but I can see what you're thinking. You're thinking this is a chance to make a desperate bid in a mad scramble for power! Who doesn't like power? It's lovely on pastries!" Sheogorath's eyes, shrewd and hard, glittered malevolently.
Never mind the word he wanted was 'powder'. Lahallia did not back up, much as she wanted to, but she did not like the way this conversation was going. And the conundrum of Jyggalag's very existence bothered her. If he was not destroyed—as everyone seemed to think—then...what? Had he shattered some well-constructed prison? Used Mehrunes Dagon's recent activity to hide his bid for escape?
"But, this is all new!" Sheogorath boomed jovially, slapping her over the back. Again Vision rose and subsided. "A fresh idea! Something I hadn't thought of, until I did. It's sure to work, even though it might not."
Rather than assuring him it would work—and risk him threatening her guts—or complaining (and risk him literally ripping off her head), Lahallia sighed. "What can I do?" Just straight down to business. Somehow the statement that she would save the realm did not exactly surprise her.
The fear of this would set in later, she was sure. Right now she merely felt caught between the feeling of having spent all day filing manuscripts, and fear of what harm might befall her during Sheogorath's psychotic moments.
"Now? You'll need the respect of my citizens. They'll need a leader, someone to look up to when I'm gone. They're the backbone of any great land." Sheogorath waved expressively. "Except where the backbone is an actual backbone…"
Lahallia knew what was coming, and why Orphael was not permitted to join this little talk of treason. Because it was treason. Or might be, for a Mazken. She could see where this was going, without Sheogorath having to speak any further.
But she would risk Hermaeus Mora's displeasure before she would risk Sheogorath's, at this moment. Hermaeus Mora was in the Apocrypha, and she was in the Shivering Isles—under Sheogorath's thumb. Put her back where she belonged, her her priorities could go back where they belonged.
"...ever been to Malacath's realm? Nasty stuff. But, back to the business at hand." Sheogorath twirled his staff so quickly it became a blur in his hand. "You'll need to control one of the Courts of Madness." Lahallia stifled a groan, and any outward sign of disappointment. There really were times when a person could hate being right. "Replace a current Duke. Or Duchess. Whichever. That will command respect! The people will rally around you. You'll have their love, their admiration, their complaints! Whatever. As long as it keeps them on our side."
The not-so subtle threat made Lahallia's skin prickle, to the point she shifted and squirmed as though her skin were crawling off. "Won't the current regime be…displeased?" Particularly if they were still…Lahallia shuddered. She did not want pictures of overly amorous Bosmer scuttling about in her mind like cockroaches in a forgotten closet.
"No," Sheogorath sounded absolutely shocked by this question surprised that she might think the current regime would object to a demotion probably involving the severance of soul and body . "No, no, no. Absolutely not."
Sheogorath tittered wickedly after a moment. "Well...all right. Yes. Absolutely. Bit of a shame for them. But, sometimes you need to break a few eggs. Or skulls. Or eggskulls. There are rules, though. Even in the Isles. Rituals and rules."
Thank goodness! Sense and reliability at last! Though Lahallia constrained her joy at the prospect. Doubtless something was left out of this explanation which might otherwise dismay her.
"You need to follow them. Speak to Arctus and Dervenin." Sheogorath waved a hand distractedly. Both priests looked worse for wear as they entered from the doors to their respective district of the city. "They can explain what needs to be done. I will wait for you to choose." Sheogorath obviously meant her to come to a decision quickly for he walked halfway down the middle aisle and sat down, a chair appearing beneath him, Haskill off to one side.
Just like home, Lahallia sighed to herself. Ignoring the intense scrutiny of the Daedric Prince and his caimbrlain, Lahallia made the hastiest decision of her life.
Syl had to go.
There was no way she would willingly surround herself with Aureals. Of course, killing Syl would end up no mean feat—the woman was beyond paranoid. She certainly could not count on the Mazken to help her, whatever they said about wanting someone like her as a duchess. None of them would let her just walk in and enact her hostile takeover. No—they'd be pleased once it was all over, and Syl wasn't threatening to flay the skin off their backs...but they had a duty, and would carry it out, even if it hurt.
No. The realization stopped Lahallia in her tracks. No, Relmyna would flay them alive, Syl would just kill them. If anyone needed to go, it was Relmyna. The thought was so off-topic with regards to her current duties that it worried her far more than any drifting nonsense about cheese, bacon, clouds or clowns.
--SI--
Sheogorath, attended by Haskill, watched as the elf consulted the priests. He was keenly aware of the Mazken—that nosey, wonderful little distraction—poking about outside, waiting not-so-patiently for the elf to reemerge. The boy worried, which was good. The boy had better be more careful, lest he upset all the plans buzzing like little honeybees in the air of the Isles. And he could afford to be a little nicer—but only if he could do it without getting boring.
So many plans—and so many revolved around this Altmer; this painfully mundane creature. Admittedly the Isles were finally starting to noticeably corrode the Apocrypha's influences, but now was a time for worrying. When Sheogorath worried, the whole realm worried, Mania and Dementia alike. He could feel it, like sand slipping through an hourglass. Little moments of stark gray lucidity tearing holes in the mishmash of color and thought usually occupying his mind.
Yes, it was a new plan, and yes, he was right to allow Azura to pick his champion. The only problem was this champion's loyalty. It might have been better if she wasn't a Seer, but even a Daedra's power only went so far. Otherwise he'd have carved that pesky, distracting Inner Eye out with a spoon ages ago. Or minutes.
Or maybe right now.
These foolish Visions distracted her, keeping some plans from moving forward, making her hesitant, wishy-washy. These were the plans he needed moving, too. Distractions came later, after all. And he would need her distracted at some point. For the good of the Isles.
Sheogorath's weathered hands, at odds with the well-tended nails, twirled his staff. It would be different. This time it would be very different…and the time drew near when he would have to see how different.
Or else it was back to picking up all those little, tiny pieces.
"Well? You're back!" Sheogorath stood up, Haskill and his throne vanishing abruptly. "How nice for you. Does that mean you've made a decision? Or are you lost? Suicidal? Just let me know."
Lahallia could not help sighing, though mostly from her upcoming task, not from Sheogorath's inane babble. She expected difficulty in removing Syl. She almost wished she could hire one of the Dark Brotherhood elite, whoever they might be. Come to think of it, she was not even sure the Brotherhood could or would operate in this region. Which meant she had to do it herself. "I'll take the Court of Dementia."
At least her opponent was a Bosmer. The old sense of Altmer superiority reasserted long enough to encourage Lahallia. She had a good advantage at the outset. Syl's paranoia might make her sloppy.
Lahallia did not get sloppy—Attendants learned not to be sloppy. She only hoped she wouldn't need to flatten too much of the Mazken garrison in the process.
Sheogorath smiled, a cunning, twisted smile of sinister plans falling into place. Well, maybe worries over this Altmer not playing her role properly, despite no one having spelled it out for her—mortals were so tiresome sometimes—were overemphasized.
If she'd chosen to remove Thadon, it would have seriously upset things. Imagine Syl without Thadon. Thadon without Syl was like...well, Syl's bad days affected many people. Imagine how a worst day would end up.
"A dangerous choice. I like it! She's gotten to be a bit much, anyway." Everyone thought so, and with good reason. Even Mazken, loyal little stooges to the bitter end, got tired of the Duchess knifing them in the back. The citizenry feared her, feared her inquisitions, and that little toad Herdir. Sheogorath suspected Herdir would not have to worry about anything soon, either. Quite a coup. Out with the old in with the new. "Thinks everyone is out to get her. Which they are, in this case. So be it."
Lahallia's stomach squirmed with apprehension. The idea of killing Syl was not so repellent as, say, killing off a Mazken, or that strung out lecher Thadon. The idea of hacking Syl's death-stilled heart from her body disgusted her. Then, there were the Mazken of the New Sheoth garrison—and whether Sheogorath wanted Syl removed or if he was neutral about the task, Lahallia knew this would not be like Cylarne.
This was something he would not interfere in. She was on her own, proving to him, to the Mazken, to the citizenry she had what it took to seize power, and retain it.
"Off you go. You've got a lot of work ahead of you." Sheogorath grinned. "And time grows short."
What was it with all these conditions, time constraints and hassles? Some days it seemed as though Sheogorath made them up just to inconvenience her. Perhaps why Haskill so often looked so put upon.
Lahallia inclined her head respectfully, turned, and marched out of the Sacellum, into suddenly bright daylight to find Orphael waiting for her. His posture radiated nerves, and she actually saw him bite down a question about what had happened.
Orphael knew that, whatever it was Sheogorath had commanded Lahallia to do, it preyed on her mind. The frequent glances she kept casting in his direction left him uneasy. It was as if she expected him to turn on her suddenly, and without reason. The subtle mistrust stung—surely there was no reason for it.
Lahallia did not speak, as Orphael walked with her back to the house, except to ask—and it was phrased as a request—that he not bother her. She had thinking to do.
Thinking, plotting and possibly shopping. She did not want to fight Syl face-to-face, if she could just poison the other mer. In fact, Lahallia mused, sitting down on the edge of her bed, the more distance she kept between Syl and herself the better.
Orphael gave Lahallia the quiet time to think she wanted, though it frayed at his nerves. He was not sure what Lord Sheogorath's latest task for her was, though apparently it was unpleasant.
A prick of annoyance accompanied the thought she could ask him for help. Blast the pride of Altmers and Attendants.