The Prize
"I'm sorry, what?"
Shadya stared at the jovially grinning Merard with the gore-stained dagger in his hand directed point-first at her, a growing cold numbness stealing into her body. A mixture of disbelief and terror.
You're going to . . . what?
"Well." Merard shrugged, amused, as thought she'd just said something utterly irrational. "I can't let you live, now can I? You've just made yourself a witness." He gave his head a regretful shake. Blood was still pooling around the corpse of the Court Wizard Calcelmo at his feet, the flow from the yawning gash in his neck slowly winding down. "You just couldn't help yourself, could you? Curiosity . . . that stuff kills, y'know."
Shadya's mouth opened. Then closed again. Not a single congruent thought came to mind. She felt . . . surreal. In the meantime, Merard advanced at his leisure, unmindful or uncaring of the fact that he was walking in the blood of his victim. The blood held such a strong odor. Metallic. Cloying. Nauseating . . . Invigorating. Shadya glanced down and saw that her talons had slithered out of their own accord. What's happening here?
Then Merard lunged. And before she even realized it, Shadya had whirled out of the knife's track and backpedaled clear of the man wielding it.
Merard followed, unhurried. Tracing bloody footprints with each step. "Tell you what, though," he said. "I'll be fair and stow the magic. How's that?"
Shadya blinked, then finally found her wits. Claws hissing though the air, she suddenly pounced to take a swing at the Breton's head. "Mistake!"
Merard twisted back to only just avoid his face getting skinned, then nimbly spun round and repositioned himself. Shadya did not press on him, nor did he launch an immediate attack. She still barely acknowledged that they were actually going at each other, and was somewhat unclear as to the exact reason behind it. The whole affair retained an altogether unreal quality. As if this was only sort of happening.
But it was real. And the sheer immediacy of it all, she knew, would soon hit her.
"Be that as it may," Merard said blithely, hefting the knife in his hand. He still wore that stupid little smirk of his. "I think that I've owed you that much."
Shadya felt the rush of anger then. A feral kind of fury. She snarled, "You owe me nothing!" And surged to take another swing at the man. Once. Twice. And again. Time and time over, Merard evaded the blows. And through it all, he kept beaming like an idiot. Was this a game to him? "I don't know what's got into you," she hissed between blows. "But I'm not about to run if that's what you were hoping!"
Merard dove from underneath a particularly close lash, did a double somersault, and as soon as he was back on his feet, pivoted back into a ready stance. After the sudden gush of raw energy, Shadya needed to catch her breath for a second, so she stayed where she stood. She felt adrenaline pumping hard, coursing through her, bringing sharp acuity to all of her senses. She suddenly felt so . . . alive. More than she could remember feeling in a good long while. She felt strong. She was strong. Hand to hand, this little man would have stood no chance. He barely did now.
Yet he did not seem aware of, or in any case the least bit concerned about it. The grin had gone nowhere. "I wouldn't have dreamt of it. I expected no less than a good fight." He studied her, then cocked his head. "It does feel good, does it not?"
"It'll feel good licking your blood off my claws!"
Merard pursed his lips. "Oooh. Now that's a bad kitty!"
He was toying with her! And to what end? Why was he doing this? Shadya bared her teeth in frustration and in fury.
You can hiss and you can growl, but that won't hide the fact that anger is not all that you're feeling at the moment . . . Ah, won't you get a good deep sniff of that that sweet, sweet blood! Quite puts us in the mood doesn't it?
"Are you just gonna stand there, then?" she spat at Merard, if only to silence her own mind.
He tipped his head slightly, then started toward her in a queer little dance, waving the knife from side to side.
Suddenly strangely giddy, Shadya braced herself. Well come on then!
He felt nothing.
In spite of the antics that came upon him all of their own accord, the playful yet bloodthirsty mummer he was twisting himself into, none of it touched him beyond the affected surface. As was usual, the smile strewn across his lips reached nowhere close to his heart. Looking at Shadya, the interchanging dance of puzzlement, terror, and erratic fury plain on her mien, he could not find any of those emotions in himself. No feeling whatsoever.
Is that precisely the truth, now?
It seemed that something of the ancient Court Wizard's detached cynicism refused to diffuse and kept pushing itself into the surface of his mind—he could tell its indelible flavor apart from his own. For all its timeworn aloofness, it retained passion alien to what he knew of himself, its mockery a sharp needle jabbing through the scar tissue encasing the man Merard had once been. Or, rather, had almost let himself become. And this was slowly but surely starting to perturb him.
So. Not so numb after all.
Pushing away his father's voice, he voiced a hollow laugh. The knife threaded back and forth in the air between them, Shadya's eyes following its point. "Isn't this nice? Just you and I. I only wish the circumstances could be more . . . amicable."
Shadya merely cocked her head at his words, a strange expression on her.
Merard laughed again. "It's just as well, I suppose," he said, shrugging. "One form of carnal passion is as good as the other."
What the hell did that mean?
Shadya, snarling, then hurled herself at him. He smiled.
Just as he had hoped.
Animal fervor stymied more well-proportioned finesse in combat, bringing along with its benefits a specific set of serious failings. And what might have been enough in a chance encounter with a back alley ruffian, fell ruefully short with Merard Motierre. Magic or no.
This feline female was the sort of fiddle he could play in his sleep.
He sidestepped Shadya's plunge, spun, and sought to wipe out her legs from underneath her. But the Khajiit evaded his sweeping leg by nimbly somersaulting over it. She immediately followed this by a backwards lash. Merard once more twisted his face narrowly out of the way of those talons, made to thrust his knife at her chest. Shadya twisted out of the way, and rammed her elbow hard into his face. He was thrown back, and Shadya followed with the intention of driving her claws home. Even as he went down, he managed to thrust out his leg, getting a good kick in her side. He crashed onto the ground, and the feline was sent the opposite way. Then they were both on their backs.
But not for long. Simultaneously, they sprung up, each intent on finishing what they'd started. Yet, as they rushed at each other with respective weapons poised, Merard realized that he wouldn't be able to carry out his offence while avoiding Shadya's. The same went for her, and he could see it in her eyes that she realized this as well. In motion already, however, it was nearly too late for recourse.
Closely diving from under the Khajiit's lashing talons, his own weapon sailing near beside her head, Merard's arm nearly got tangled with hers in the passing. Once past her, then, he drove his heels into the turf and, whirling, launched himself into an immediate follow-up. Shadya had come to a similar halt, he saw, and was going for another spinning backwards slash with her left paw. This time there really was no time for recourse, and a shockwave of pain divaricated all across Merard's face, as her talons tore at the cheek of his sideways-turned face. Blood spattered, and his eyes watered, his vision blurring.
But the knife had already been steadily en route to Shadya, and would not be deterred by the sudden pain on his face. Temporarily blinded, he felt the slight resistance as the blade grazed at her side, and registered with some satisfaction her hiss of pain.
Yet there was no pause. Blinking through the mist, Merard went for another slash from his right. Shadya's instincts were quick, and she slammed her right hand hard into Merard's. Claws sheared the fabric of his sleeve, and the arm was driven to the side. The blow as hard enough to loosen his grip, and nearly knock the weapon off.
Shadya followed his own trajectory by pirouetting to her left, and Merard mirrored this by following his swatted arm, spiraling to the right. As he came back round, he saw Shadya still spinning, as if the small lash at her side made it harder for her to stop the motion; or perhaps she was trying to swirl away from him. Whatever it was, he made use of the opportunity. Flinging the knife into his left hand, he employed all the propelling power in his disposal and stormed forward, crashing into Shadya's exposed back.
And all movement came to a sudden stop.
His knife resting against her throat, his body pressed into hers, Merard felt the female's raw strength, from the heavy, heaving breath to the tensed muscles of her supple frame, thwarted and frustrated. In his power. The whole world ground to a halt, it seemed. In the silence, every pin-drop would have tolled as vibrant as the most portentous of death-knells.
Nothing was said. And for a while, nothing happened.
Until something did. His right hand, pressed on Shadya's belly, stirred. And before he even fully comprehended what was happening, it was sidling upward. It came to stop on her left breast, paused there. And then went on, cupping the underside.
The Khajiit's breath catching was palpable.
Merard, in contrast, was breathing hard. Something that had been lurking underneath the surface for a long, long time, repressed and shackled, suddenly reigned supreme; and for all the might of his will, he could not stop it.
In truth, did not even want to.
Giving the breast a gentle squeeze, he found it firm and springy . . . and most furry.
Kinda funny, don't you think, that the Khajiit should have such hominid mammaries, when—
Quiet!
Merard, uncharacteristically robbed of the ability to control himself, still had to wonder what it was he thought he was doing. But even that curiosity seemed to lack in true fervor, as though the whole affair was a matter of mere passing, lazy curiosity. He felt almost . . . possessed. At least he was able to suppress the urge to go even further, to pinch the nipple between his fingers . . .
Ah, you naughty boy!
Shadya's left arm moved, then, but Merard had no time to react. Not before he felt the warmth closing in about his crotch. Felt the soft squeeze.
Oh . . .
Shadya's breath was once more caught in her throat.
The bastard!
She had felt shocked at first, feeling his hand slither up to her breast, then a surge of indignant rage over the uninvited infraction. But there was more. Much more. And it didn't seem to matter one whit how much she tried to resist it, tried denying it. Her heart raced, and it wasn't solely due to exertion. Not even just anger.
She did her damnedest to stifle the treacherous frustration, the yearning for the man to go even further. To move just a little higher, and catch her nipple between those supple fingers . . .
Stop it! Stop it now!
You know you want it, you naughty kitty!
The solid embrace of his knotted arm around her, holding her in place. The heavy, hot breath on her neck, stirring the hairs and making the skin underneath tingle. She could feel the firm muscles about his torso, tensed and seething with raw, explosive strength.
It was not with a small amount of satisfaction, then, that she felt his breath in turn halt as she foisted her paw between their pressed together bodies, to grasp a handful of his crotch. She clasped, softly yet resolutely, and soon felt a stirring.
She couldn't stifle a small, kittenish smile.
Well, well; looks like we've got a—
Shadya, saying nothing, turned her head slightly sideways, pressing her neck against the shorter man's face. She let out a low, growling sound. Like a kit purring at her mother.
"Well—" Merard breathed.
He got no further. Shadya abruptly gripped as hard as she could, her ear smarting at the man's cry of surprise and pain. The knife came off her throat. Still holding tight, she drove the back of head into the man's nose, both felt and heard it crunching. She released him, then, and even as he was reeling, cocked her arm. "You bastard!" Paw squeezed into fist, she bludgeoned the side on Merard's head, sending him sprawling.
The incensed Shadya pressed right on after him, plunging at his pitching form talons-first, not even sure of what she intended to do. She knew that whatever it was, it had something to do with hurting. And yet, even with his nose busted and gonads mismanaged, the fight had gone nowhere from the Breton, as evinced by his feet which at once struck her midriff. Her motive power had grown too critical at this point, however, for even the strong man to propel her back, so instead he threw her over himself. She landed softly on her shoulder and rolled over it to come to a crouching position. From there, she launched back. By this point, Merard had quickly clambered into a squat as well, and was in turn just about to dive at her.
They slammed into each other. Shadya grabbing the hand with the knife in her left one, Merard locking the strong fingers of his other hand around her right wrist. Both unable to lash at the other. And down they went, on the ground, rolling. Each striving for the upper hand.
And they rolled. Over and over. And over. Round and round.
Then, finally, after who knew how many grunting, cursing barrel-rolls on the cold, hard ground, they stopped. Shadya blinked. Merard was on top of her, his sweating, bleeding, grimacing face a hand span away from her own. And about her throat, resting right on top of the wind pipe, was the sharp edge of his dagger blade. Conversely, the bared talons of her right paw sat contented about his neck with all those bulging vessels, the claws of the index and middle fingers right about exactly where his left jugular vein pumped blood from his head to his heart.
Breathing heavily, eyes turning down as if to observe her claws' position, Merard frowned. And then grinned. To be sure, it did not seem as though the torn skin on his cheek, the broken nose, or his surely hurting family jewels had been deterring him overmuch. In fact, he almost seemed to draw some warped sort of vigor from the pain. "Well," he said.
"Yeah," she confirmed. Staring at his face, not seeming able to make sense of the man.
He let out an abrupt snicker. "Oh you should see your face! In fact, you should have seen it this whole time! Priceless! Absolutely priceless!"
Shadya simply glowered.
Merard sobered. "I was never going to hurt you."
"Yes, of course," she said. "I believe that."
"No really. I was just having a bit of . . . fun with you."
"Fun," she said flatly. "Aye. Well, that was sure what it was." Now, don't go denying you— "I look particularly fondly back at the moment when you nearly gutted me. Yeah, good times, old friend."
"Ah. So I might have gotten a bit carried away there." He shrugged. "It happens. But I do apologize. And at least you got out of the way just in time . . . mostly anyway. Above and beyond, it's nothing I cannot easily heal."
Incredulous, Shadya made a face. "You don't really expect me to . . . believe you, do you?"
Merard withdrew the knife. "I'm telling you, it's the gods' honest truth."
"You must be taking me for a one Alkosh-pissed-on gullible spawn of a fool, if you think that I'll trust—"
He tossed the knife over his shoulder, then, and spread out his hands about his head. Smiling, unperturbed. "I'm at your mercy."
She eyed him hard for a good while, her talons staying right where they were. He was just trying to dupe her, she knew it. But then why had he dropped his weapon? It did not seem to make much sense, she had to admit. And he did look earnest . . .
Earnest, yes, and, despite all the blood marring his strong features, so incredibly—
You bastard! Why are you doing this to me?
Narrowing her eyes at him, nearly—very nearly—driving her claws all the way into his neck, Shadya bit her teeth, wanting to growl. Then, with the sighed release of a long-held breath, retracted her claws, letting the arm drop, tired, onto her chest.
"A most wise decision," Merard said, and calmly stood. As the suddenly exhausted Shadya's eyes followed him, he sauntered off to where his dagger had fallen, picked it up to return to its scabbard.
Shadya closed her eyes, to rekindle her lost vigor, to feel vitality return to her body in a sudden leap of not entirely natural energy. When she opened her eyes again, it was if they'd never fought in the first place.
Well, her slash on the side of her belly still hurt like Oblivion. The man had better make good of her word about healing her. But she would not ask him to.
Kicking her legs in the air, she thrusted her body upward, coming to a crouching position. She eyed Merard with what she hoped came out as utter animal distrust. He was still smiling.
"So, what now?"
The smile widened. They had posed the question univocally.
"Who sent you?"
Same thing.
"You first," said Merard.
"Nu-uh," replied Shadya. "You're still trying to earn back my trust, funny-man. Remember?"
"Fair enough." He nodded, and rivulet of blood shot out from around his busted nose to run down his cheeks. He seemed to almost not even notice being hurt. "I was commissioned by the Nightingale," he said without preamble. "You next."
"The Nightin— . . ." Her heart jumped. Rajhin curse your name, Shadya Da'kheavek, what have you gotten yourself into now?
Merard, simpering, "Oh, so you've heard of him? A suave fellow, him. A most charming smile." His brows rose. "And your patron . . . ?"
Recovered from the minor shock, Shadya gave her head a trivializing shake. "A nobody. Not anyone youda heard of, anyway. A Bosmer of no significance."
The Breton regarded her a while through narrowed eyes, then simply nodded.
"So." Shadya spread her arms wide then let them drop. "What now?"
"I'm going to have to assume we're after the same prize here."
A pause. "A precious gem about this size—"
"Vaguely the shape of a heart. Aye. As I thought."
Another pause. Then, "I ain't backing down."
"I did not ask you to."
"So you will?" Shadya wanted to snort.
Merard went ahead and did. "Not likely."
"So." Shadya repeated her earlier gesture. "What do we do about this?"
Merard shrugged. "I don't see many alternatives. Clearly we're going to have to work together."
Shadya nearly choked. "Say, what? I must have misheard you."
"You heard me just fine. We work together. Once we procure the stone, we work out the rest."
"Another scrap, Merard? For real this time?"
He laughed. "I don't think that is going to be necessary, dear Shadya. After all, we are both civilized beings, are we not?"
Was that another jab at her? "Told you I ain't—"
"Backing down. Aye. And I told you I was not asking you to."
Her eyes narrowed, and she felt her tail shifting on the ground behind her. What was he planning?
Well, whatever it is, he's not going to succeed. She would go with this foolish proposal of his, she decided, use him for what she could, and when the time was right, snatch the gem right out from underneath his arrogant, smirking nose.
"Alright," she said with appropriate doggedness. "I suppose that's what we'll have to do then."
"Excellent," he beamed. "You won't regret it. We'll figure something out, you'll see."
"As you say." She gazed down at her uncovered body. "Now, we have a slight problem." The invisibility potion. She was fresh out. And couldn't well be seen walking around like this about the palace premises, now could she?
"None that I can see." Merard jerked his head toward the dead guard. "You've worn one of those before, if I'm not mistaken. He's about your height. Try 'em out."
A sudden distaste at that, what with the memory of that ice spear sinking into the man's eye socket and all. Yet, had she not disposed of another such as him, and worn the clothes without blinking too much? In any case, there wasn't much choice for her if she was going to take the Breton up on his offer. With a sigh, she walked over to the supine corpse, swallowing hard against disgust, removed a boot first, then another. They looked about right. She went for the breeches next. The helmet would come off last. She'd have to clean off the blood and the . . . eye-stuff before donning it.
She felt bile rising at the mere thought.
What made you all lily-livered all of a sudden?
Meanwhile, Merard was looking completely contented, unceremoniously disrobing the deceased ancient High Elf. In fact, the man looked damned closed to breaking into a whistle. Blood was still seeping out of the talon-marks on the side of his face and out of his busted nose. Those didn't seem to bother him none, either. Certainly not enough to hurry with the healing.
Who . . . no, what are you, Merard?
"So," she said, unbuckling the guard's belt, not looking at his head, "If we're doing this, I need to know. You're not gonna go all . . . crazy on me, are you?"
Merard looked up, giving her an innocent look. He had stripped to his waist, the muscles of his torso gleaming with sweat, and Shadya wasn't going to let her eyes linger on those either. "Me? I'm sure I don't understand what you mean."
She could have punched that simpering face all over again.
Bet you'd like to take another roll too, while he's— "I need your word. You're going to act normal and not launch into some other bizarre act of humor." The word tasted sour in her mouth.
A small pause. "You have my word," he said soberly.
She considered him for a moment. Damn you, you bastard! "Fine. Guess I'll have to take that."
"You won't regret—"
"And no more killing!"
Now it was Merard's turn to regard her for a while. Then he raised his hand. "I promise."
Shadya sighed. Good enough. And she went back to her macabre work.
It seemed that no words were going to be wasted on what had transpired earlier. Their little . . . moment together. She could still feel his hand on her breast. The intrusion.
And the shadow, still, of that uninvited, treacherous lust . . .
Bending down to continue stripping the dead guard, she winced at the stab of pain about her midriff.
Now, are you gonna do something about this damned burning gash or not, you bastard?
Before her traitorous mind had a chance to jump at the poorly chosen wording of that thought, she silenced it with firm determination.
Gotta hand it to you, son, you play a clever little game. Even I can't figure you out on occasion. I have to assume you plan to—
Merard, not even wanting to respond to the persistent voice in his head anymore, directed his attention for the umpteenth time to tactile sensations instead. The pain about his face lingered even after the healing spell. He could have done away with that too had he so chosen, but he had not. The pain, he rationalized, kept him attentive, gave him an edge. It also provided a focus point, to keep his mind from wandering into unsafe territories. So he did not try to push it away or deny it. No, he would cherish it, let it feed him. Make him stronger.
You truly are even more twisted than I had imagined. Not my doing, for sure—
Calcelmo's robes had proved cumbersome. A taller man by at least a head, the Court Wizard's garb was obviously far too big on Merard. The sleeves, despite careful tucking, still kept dropping down past his hands, and the hem kept finding its way under his feet, continuously threatening to trip him. Fortunately none of this showed to the watches, who, thanks to the clever illusion spell he was under, would see nothing amiss. No, as far as they were considered, there was just the Court Wizard accompanied by a personal guard, cutting through the Dwemer Museum to return to his laboratory.
Shadya, on the other hand, saw him just as he was: a squat thief comically drowned in outsized clothes, like a child attired in his big brother's school robes. And though he wasn't able to read anything on her face, the position of her ears told him loud and clear that she was indeed smirking. He pretended not to take notice of this.
The feline had her own worries. She kept shying her conspicuously hairy arms behind her back, despite all of Merard's assurances that the obscuration spell he'd cast upon her would render such gestures meaningless. Truth be told, only after she'd donned the whole getup had it occurred to him to suggest making her completely invisible, with a sturdy spell which would last for a good while. The utter contempt in her bearings that had followed, he'd had to admit, he couldn't figure out.
Females of any species, it seemed, were an enigma. An enigma with no answer, so there was absolutely no point in wasting energy thinking about it.
As he and his not-invisible follower passed them, the museum guards stiffened in a deferential—or perhaps, he considered, simply cagey—manner, which Merard, despite all his anti-authoritarianism, found strangely pleasing. This ignominious emotion was then dampened by the bemusement about the way they looked over his head in search of his eyes. As Calcelmo had been considerably taller than Merard, in the eyes of those who'd known him he would ever remain so. So that is how they now saw him. Although it made sense from the Illusion magical point of view, in practice it nevertheless spooked him out. A most unwelcome reminder, perhaps, that he still held on to the image of an identity to a distracting degree.
From Someone, through Anyone, we grow into No One. Again, his mentor Alabistair Adrognese's words springing back to him. The mage travels home toward the gates of Nothingness, until but his Will reigns absolute.
A contemptuous snort in the back of his mind. Adrognese's obsessions, not yours! You are Merard Motierre, the son of—
Someone, Anyone, No One. According to his mentor, key concepts in the creed of an arcane cult that had held some sway in Tamriel centuries ago, and whose teachings had greatly influenced him. The Order of No One, they called it. An ancient cult—perhaps the most ancient one of them all—they had supposedly worshiped a god they called No One, claiming him the One True God. In him—or perhaps it—they had believed were found the answers to the greatest questions. Such as, who created the world? No One. Who is our ultimate authority? No One. Who shall judge us once we're dead?
Who hears and answers our prayers? Who offers us solace?
And not only was No One the ultimate truth about the universe, but about each individual as well, residing in the deepest recesses of one's soul, or lack thereof. It was then the holy religious duty of the acolyte to find the No One from within himself, in order to return to the Nothingness from whence he came.
According to Adrognese, the order was around to this day. Invisible, unassuming. Worshiping, if indeed such a term could even be applied, their anonymous god, the only one there ever was or would be. Or would not be . . . In any case, persisting. He'd even said he had run into members of the cult. Gray, unimpressive folk, but as real as any other sect. That's what he'd said.
But then the old man was always spewing lies.
In any case, how exactly all this No One and Nothingness business tied in with magic was a complicated matter, the ins and outs of which were a mystery to all but the old man himself; and, truth be told, likely more or less so for him as well. But it wasn't academic system building the admittedly genial wizard had been interested in. No, his goal had been no more or less than becoming the greatest mage who had ever lived. And he had not kept this ambition of his under wraps, either. If anything, it had been the exact opposite. Most people called him a madman, either behind his back or straight to his face; and he'd never once bothered trying to deny this, either. Instead, his usual reaction had been a private little chuckle, which had not gone far in dispelling those initial estimations. Not that he'd cared.
You're rambling . . . to yourself!
"To become as nothing."
Shadya, by his side, started at his sudden, grated utterance.
He gave her a grave scrutiny. Her looking him flush in the eye was strangely reassuring. "Have you not ever wondered what we, as thieves, are?"
"I don't . . . I don't follow."
"We exist ever in between." He motioned with his hands in a way he hoped conveyed what he thought he was saying. "Between two instances of possession, between two expressions of the illusion of permanence. Always in the middle, always in the gray. What does that make us?" The Nightingale's, or rather, Bashnag's, words coming out of him now. There was some truth in them, one that he'd bypassed before, and one he could not even now put a finger on. It spoke to some inner part of his, one that he'd purposely ignored for a long time. Could he ignore such things indefinitely? Had the unbecoming already commenced?
Shadya was quiet for a while. "The Gray Maybe."
"Huh?"
"Isn't that what they call it, the world? A slice of ambivalence, teetering between Aetherius and Oblivion. Lorkhan's sick little joke. Seems to me we belong just fine."
Merard tipped his head. "Your learnedness impresses me."
She snorted. "I've read here and there when bored. Listened to drunken priests yammer on, awaiting the chance to rip them off."
"Robbing priests, Shadya? Tsk! What admiration you might have just gained from me, you now lost."
She snorted again. "Like I care a shit for your admirations."
Saying no more, Merard eyed Shadya for a moment longer—all poise and self-possession even with her arms still coyly hid behind her—feeling a sudden surge of admiration, spiked by a sting of something like . . . remorse.
Why remorse?
He shook his head to clear all emotional involvement, to void himself of this needy, neurotic heap of flesh called the human being; to once more embody one thing and one thing only, his objective.
The final thought as they moved away from the museum toward Calcelmo's lab, one which flickered out of existence almost as soon as it emerged, pertained to the hulking Dwarven Centurion dominating the museum's middle floor. What would it be to control such things? To have them in your command to do your bidding? Why, it would indeed be power, would it not?
Power inexorably enslaves its wielder.
As his mind once more took on the aspect of void acuity, Merard sighed silently. Mad as he might have been, Alabistair Adrognese had seldom been wrong.
Cursed be his very memory!
Then, just as soon as he'd managed to settle his mind anew, something else happened. At the entry room from which a gateway led to where the Court Wizard's quarters had to be, standing arms crossed in the dead center, waited another guard. Differently attired, this one, in a full set of heavy steel plate armor, the tall bastard initially took no notice at them entering. Then, as he casually glanced above Merard's head, a deep frown marred the gray-bearded Redguard's already lined aspect. His eyes dropped to meet Merard's real ones, and then went wide.
Uh oh.
After a split second's hesitation, the man's hand shot out for the axe hanging on his hip, heralded by a guttural curse out of his mouth. Too late. By the time his fingers had reached the hilt, the heat of flame had traveled out of the crown of Merard's head to the tip of his fingers, and a large fireball rapidly formed in the space between his upraised hands.
With a squeal, Shadya lurched the other way as the fireball sprang forth from the Breton's fingers. The guard tried in vain to bring his arms up in protection as the flaming projectile hit him. There was a resounding explosion, and Merard felt the blast wave on his face, even though the heat did not injure the caster. Shadya, on the other hand had done wisely to get out of the way just in time, as her fur would have been subject to incineration. The guard was lifted clean of the ground and sent flying through the air, coming to slam into the wall beside the gate. Smoke rising from his senseless body, the man collapsed, boneless, to the ground.
Shadya nimbly picked herself off the ground, fury twisting her features. "What the fuck was that!"
"Somehow he was able to see right through the glamour," Merard replied absently, feeling his brow crumple. "A special sort of guard, I suppose, so perhaps he shared a special bond, also, with the Court Wizard. Curious."
The Khajiit was not satisfied with this. "You said no more killing! You promised!"
Merard glanced over. "Huh? Oh, yeah. Um, well, he'll live." He switched his attention to the heap of guard on the ground. Face badly burned under the helmet, as were his bared arms, skin starting to blister. Breathing shallow. "Most likely."
"Merard!"
He rolled his eyes. "Alright, then."
He walked over to the man, converted the direction of his own internal vibration, reversing the intention. In place of flame and conflagration, instead of destruction and death, he felt health and vigor overtake his entire being, a glowing lightness and ease, like a buoyant light dancing all about his insides. There was something deeply unpleasant about the sensation. Hands emitting a radiant glow, he then placed them above the man, felt the low buzz and hum of his vital functions, heard in his own ears the feeble beat of his heart. Recognized the deep damage to his skin, the profuse bleeding of his internal organs. This was a man mere minutes away from his own death.
Did not Merard on some level nearly envy him?
Softly shaking his head, he let the curative energy flow from himself into the other man. Slowly, the damage was undone, the healing process coaxed and accelerated. Life, previously hanging by the thinnest of threads, slowly returned, robust, into this strong and formidable warrior. Merard was careful, on the other hand, to not let it return too strongly, and used his arcane expertise to ensure that the Redguard would remain unconscious for a good while still. Even then, there was always the chance he would come to prematurely anyway.
Oh, Shadya. The risks I'm willing to take for you. I hope you find it in yourself to at least be thankful. He glanced up to find her standing with her hands on her hips, legs belligerently wide, scowling. He sighed. None too likely, that.
"Alright," he said, standing up. "He'll be right as rain once he comes to."
Shadya nodded. "Good."
No "thanks"?
She nodded at the gate. "This way?"
Guess not, then. Merard nodded. "Aye. That way."
Shadya went to rattle the gate. "It's locked."
Merard walked over to the guard, kneeling to pat him down. And just as he guessed, he soon produced a key. He then went on to undo the lock. A bit tight, but the right fit.
Shadya frowned, regarding the unconscious Redguard. "I dunno," she muttered.
"What?"
"Hope it'll go smoother from now on. This didn't exactly start out well."
"Oh, not to worry." Merard beamed at her, swinging open the gate. "I've a very good feeling that it will be a short search indeed!"
Shadya flinched as the incensed Merard hurled a blazing orb against the wooden door of a tall wardrobe. The door exploded into splinters.
"Goddammit where is the damned thing!" he fumed.
They had spent at least a good hour rummaging through the Court Wizard's quarters. Merard had kept having these hunches, inspired by the memory traces that he'd picked up from Calcelmo's mind or somesuch, but it sorely seemed as though those were doing sod-all for him. So far, not a single whiff of any precious gems. And they'd ransacked each and every one of the many chambers in this damned wing of the palace, this here personal bedroom of Calcelmo's twice now.
Chagrin was painfully gnawing at Shadya as well, though she had to keep hers under wraps, faced with the enormity of Merard's frustration. At the moment, there was simply no room for her emotions.
But they were undeniable. Worry, anxiety, and, yes, budding anger were rapidly making home within her breast as well. Could it be the old codger of an Altmer had been craftier than they'd given him credit for? Maybe he had sensed that this stone was more valuable than they'd thought, and had found a fool-proof hide for it, one that no one but himself could possibly guess? Might he have somehow even shielded the knowledge within his own mind, as though anticipating such a deeply unforeseeable infraction as Merard had perpetrated? He had, after all, been around the block a few times, several centuries in this world as he'd had. Could he have—
Wait a minute! Abrupt comprehension, then. Thinking back to those frustrated, tooth-grinding moments of listening to Merard and Calcelmo drone on and on. One particular subject matter they'd briefly touched upon . . .
Suddenly Shadya had a pretty good idea of where to look next. And it wasn't here, for certain.
"Merard," she said.
"Unbelievable!" he growled, hefting up a four-poster bed to shatter it against the wall. "That crusty fucking leprechaun! If I hadn't killed him already . . ."
"Merard!"
He spun, face contorted with rage. "What?!"
She waited for him to calm. "If you're quite done wrecking the place?" She had to admit, though, there was something about his fervor, not to speak of his brutal strength, that made the sight of him at the moment not all the way repulsive to her. Not at all, actually. In fact, most . . . zaji.
Focus, you!
Merard scowled at the husk of bed, as if the hapless furniture was to blame for all his ill fortune.
"Well?"
"Yeah," he muttered. "I'm done."
"Alright, then. Well, I just had a thought."
He shot her a chary glance under his eyebrows. His black hair was matted with sweat against his scalp.
"I've a pretty good idea of where the thing might be. If you care to listen, that is."
It seemed so very obvious now. So much so that Merard could not help but feel deeply ashamed at his earlier outburst of temper. Completely unacceptable, that. All control of his own mind, gone in a flash. Overtaken by sheer blind rage, the need to destroy.
Lesser oversights had seen mages sent spiraling into the abyss of their own psyche, on a road culminating in utter, irrevocable self-destruction. And not the good kind, either.
Let's find you a scourge, shall we, so you can properly flagellate yourself. How's that?
He stopped at the entrance, closed his eyes. The voice had a point, this time. What was past was past, no matter how recent, and now he needed to gather himself once more so that he could take this charade to a satisfactory conclusion.
Bottom line was, thinking back now to his conversation with the late Court Wizard, it suddenly seemed so clear to him where the gem was hidden. A divulging detail that Calcelmo had dropped almost unawares. Perhaps a touch embarrassingly, it had taken the eavesdropping Shadya to point this out to him.
Opening his eyes, he realized he had unconsciously descended the flight of stairs to the Treasury House. A flicker of disquiet. Never mind that! He promptly slid over the large, u-shaped counter dominating the middle of the main room, adroit again having changed back into his own clothes. Going over, he knocked over a candlestick, and the pewter bowl holding apples went clanging onto the floor. In two strides, he then loped up the set of nine stone stairs leading to a gate, behind which loomed a sturdy safe. He jammed the tip of his dagger into the lock mechanism, then a lockpick. A particularly secure lock, this one, but after about five seconds of gentle but precise probing, he heard a satisfying click accompanied by a smooth turn of the mechanism. He slid the gate aside and went to work on the safe. The lock on that one was about the same level as the gate; yet with this one he snapped one lockpick, followed by a curse under his breath.
He was letting the anticipation get to him, he noted with disapproval.
Finally the heavy safe door came open with the soft groan of hinges. Merard's ensuing smile was a voracious one. The safe was overflowing with precious stones of all shapes, sizes, and colors. Now it was simply a matter of finding the right one.
And so to work he went.
Some quarter of an hour or so anon, a very quiet Breton slowly stalked out through the gate. Had anyone born witness to the restrained promenading, they would have readily decided that the silence surrounding it was a remarkably ominous one, and would then have no doubt proceeded to clear as far away from the man as was possible and in as short an order as the laws of physics permitted.
It was not there.
A deep, dark, and measurelessly cold rage took ahold of Merard as he quietly studied the tips of his boots. At the moment, he was afraid to let his eyes linger on anything else, as that which he next saw would most certainly be object to a most vile bout of rage and destruction. This, now, was a moment as close as any he'd had so far when he threatened to come apart at the seams. So very close, now.
Don't you dare to fold on me now, you—
A soft sound broke through the extremity of his amassing ire, and his head snapped round. A silent, rhythmic hissing sound coming from the deeper chambers. The Treasury staff. They not only worked here, but claimed their home in the living quarters built at the back. Dedicated folk, one might say.
How unfortunate for them.
Unable to form a single cogent thought, Merard unsheathed his dagger and started toward the sound.
Some minutes passed, and he once more returned to the main room. Cleaning his knife with a handkerchief, he returned it to its scabbard. Dropped the stained cloth onto the floor. Everything was completely quiet now, including his mind.
There, did that make you feel better?
Not really.
Time to think once more. This was another dead end. Despite her perceptiveness, Shadya had been wrong. Perhaps, Merard thought as he scaled the stairs leading to the door, she'd have another suggestion.
She'd better!
Opening the door, he bristled against a frigid gust of wind greeting him. He stepped outside into the night's darkness.
And found Shadya gone.
The guard's sneezes ringing behind her, she hurried up the wide staircase with the eerie Dwarven metal sentinels standing their eternal watch. Invisible once more and wearing nothing besides her small messenger bag, Shadya couldn't get this done quickly enough. After all, despite Merard's assurances of the sturdy quality of the invisibility spell—she still tingled all over from when he had cast it over her—she didn't know when it would crap out and leave her naked and helpless—and quite humiliated—in the hands of a bunch of bored and doubtless ill-tempered guards. And in the case of at least one of them, bearing a personal grudge against her.
For, much to her initial frustration, she had belatedly realized there had been a considerably more convenient way into the Keep—a door leading straight from the Hall of the Dead to the cavern holding the entrance to the Nchuand-Zel. Now, if only she'd not been so squeamish and taken the time to study the accursed hall! But in any case, she'd noted the door when following Merard, and put two and two together later. This time, at least, things would be easier. The single guard watching the door she'd knocked out cold, and the rest would not know anything was awry. But she'd better take care clearing out from the premises before that one came to.
Reaching the landing, she was glad to see no dogs about. Her biggest source of anxiety, then, swept away. Could be the pooches were currently being prepared for tomorrow's banquet of hound haunch. She scuttled back to the Jarl's chambers, looking over her shoulder once more at the door, then pressed in.
The room was silent, the soft purl of the water, the slow and heavy breathing carrying down from the Jarl's bed dais, and the crackle and hiss of the ebbing fire—someone might soon be here to stoke it!—made for a soothing, droning ambience. Shadya felt a wave of tiredness, which she combatted with a weak regurgitation of skooma. Her repositories were running down. Just enough to see her finished here.
She scaled the stairs up to the dais and stopped for a moment to study the Jarl's slumbering form. Graceful even in her sleep, if with that added touch of innocence people seemed to work so hard to keep at bay when awoke. And who could blame them?
Faleen seemed restless, having shoved aside her blankets, with her brows knitted and mouth working vaguely.
Maybe she needs to pee.
An innocent enough deduction, but one that carried a certain urgency. The woman could be stirred awake at any moment, so there was no mucking about. Shadya turned round to face the nightstand at the foot of the bed. And, sure enough, sitting in an open jewelry box, was Faleen's pendant, the one Shadya had briefly noted during the day's meeting. Attached to it was a large jewel, ruby in color and shaped like a slightly malformed heart.
Well, hello there.
Shadya's hand shot out, but something stopped it midway. How did I not think of it right away?
It had been an almost overlooked point in the two men's meandering and largely pointless dialogue, one where the subject matter of the Jarl had been broached. The palpable darkening in the already morose Court Wizard's manner had struck Shadya with ephemeral curiosity. It had reminded her, then, of other talk on the streets, subject matter which she'd forgotten as inconsequential and uninteresting. Supposedly Calcelmo and Faleen had been lovers once, if only for a short while. This had been in the days before she'd become Jarl and had still played the part of the then-Jarl's housecarl. Theirs had been a clandestine romance, they said; or ostensibly at least, as at the time there had scarce been anyone who hadn't known about it. But then Igmund had croaked and Faleen's new duties had slowly but surely prized them apart.
Perhaps the gem had been Calcelmo's parting gift to her, or perhaps he'd given it to her before, but it seemed their onetime love had not entirely faded from her heart, as she still had kept the thing close to it.
Before entirely unbeckoned and unwelcome emotions managed to cripple her, Shadya stopped mulling over random shit he'd heard vermin spit out on filthy street corners, and seized the jewel, closing it tight into her first. She spun, and prepared to dash out pronto. Before she set out down the steps, however, a muttered word from the Jarl stopped her cold. For a split second, she was convinced that she was caught. She mouthed a curse. Too much time wasted on the irrelevant!
But Faleen yet slumbered. The woman was fidgeting about in her sleep, her brow creased and mouth working harder now. She was mumbling, a word here and there making sense. A bad dream.
With a mental start, Shadya belatedly comprehended the word that had brought her to stop. "Calcelmo."
She regarded the woman's distressed sleeping a moment longer. Couldn't help but feel a jab of compassion.
He's gone, old lass. Forever gone.
Then she spun around once more, and was gone as well.
Minutes later, she was finally out of the stone abomination, with firm resolve to never again set paw in such a place. She scurried back up the tiers without a single glance around or behind herself, to soon arrive back at the abode that she was squatting in. Quickly through the halls and in the bedroom. She lit a single stub of a candle. Just grab her satchel here, then climb to where her cloak was still stashed under the rock beside the narrow cave, and she'd be ready to—
"So."
Shadya jumped at the voice behind her. Shut her eyes in frustration—so close!—then turned to face Merard Motierre, standing there with his arms crossed. "Merard! What a surprise!"
"Yes," he mused. "Surprise."
"How did you know where I'm staying?"
"Been in this town before, remember? I know it well. I know that this place has been empty for a while, owned by some rich person who can't be bothered to do anything to it. Deduction, Shadya."
"I see."
"Well, you are clever. Speaking of which . . . you made . . . a discovery? All by yourself?"
"Ah, well about that. In fact, I was just about to—"
His hand shot out to close about her fist. Then, slowly but firmly, he prized her fingers open. "And what have we here?"
"I was—"
"Yes," Merard cut in. "You were. But it didn't work, now did it?"
Before she could stop him, he had snatched the gem for himself. Lifted it in front of his eyes to study it in the faint candlelight. Recovering her wits, she made to snatch it back. Merard was quicker, closing his hand around the stone and taking it behind his back. The bastard smiled. Then shook his head with a clicking of his tongue.
"Give it!" Shadya hissed. "I was the one who—" She was struck mute. The index finger of Merard's free hand was suddenly resting on her lips. Then a surge of indignation. Who does he think he—
Merard brought the prize back in between them, held it atop his fingertips. Then, locking eyes with Shadya, he tossed it over her shoulder. It landed on the bedding with a soft thump. She felt the urge to dive after it, but something kept her where she was. Their eyes remained fixed on one another, Merard's hand moved so that the palm rested about the place between her jaw and her neck. A stretch of silence that seemed to stretch on.
Merard was the one to break it. "So what do we—"
Shadya suddenly grasped his head into her hands and pulled him close, almost violently. A flicker of amusement over his bulging eyes.
Then they were kissing. A human and a Khajiit, the latter quite a bit taller than the former, it had its . . . complications. Yet they seemed to be doing just fine at it. Holding onto his head, Shadya thrust her tongue deep in his mouth. Completely overtaken by animal hunger. Merard's hand slid down her back, squeezed around a buttock. Then it continued on to settle in her crack, tips of fingers brushing at her vulva. A rumbled groan worked its way through her.
He shoved her, and she was on her back on the bed. He followed, undoing his breeches. Shadya pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it aside. She let her hands wander all about his muscular upper body, while he finished undressing. Then, both naked, Merard lying on top of her, they were kissing some more. His hand closed around a breast, thumb and index finger squeezing a nipple in between them. Her hand held on to the muscles of his upper back.
A small—a very small, at this point—part of her wondered what it was that she was doing.
It didn't stand a chance.
Merard's hand left the breast to travel south, worked its way between her thighs. Fingers dipping into the moisture in the midst of fur. Another low, feline moan. After a while, he removed the hand, leaving in its place a palpable yearning. He pulled back some, as if to get a better look at her laying there. She got a look of him as well, and was well pleased by what she saw.
Merard was not a large man—a strong man, firm build and musclebound for sure, but not big in stature—but Shadya was satisfied to find, as well as she'd suspected, that he had . . . compensation in other areas. She smiled as she regarded at him there, all battle-ready.
"Well," she finally said, "what are you waiting for?"
Without hesitation, he climbed back on top of her, then entered. A deep wave of pleasure from head to toes. The final trace of the civilized animal, out the window. No one left here but the beast. And she loved it with the whole of her being. No more pretending. Not until—
Thought dispensed with. Acting on instinct.
A deep, loud, feral growl from the bottom of her being. She held tight as he moved inside her. She hadn't felt this sort of good in a good, long—
"Ah!" Merard's hissing between clenched teeth broke her out of her trance. He was wincing, as if in pain.
Her eyes wide. "What?"
"The . . . claws," he managed.
"Oh!" Shadya, in chagrin, retracted her talons. "Sorry!" The intensity of feeling remained, but the content had shifted. Embarrassment now.
A curious look came upon the man then, a sideward smile accompanying the deep flame in his eyes.
"I didn't say stop."
End of part three. Thanks for reading!