It rankled Lathenil to put a single credit to the Ayleids' name. Even Thalmor could never match the first mer of the Heartland for monstrosity. But then, the Imperial City was not inhabited by Ayleids, nor was it a confounding maze to him now. It was the heart of the Empire. Every span of its breadth was in evidence in the city's people. The warmth and conviviality of the common streets; the solemn grace of the Temple and the Arboretum; the jovial affectations of the Arcane scholars, so like his memories of Firsthold... here was a city worthy of those elegant, bone-white pillars.
It was not, never could be, Alinor. Alinor's wonder was wrought of the secrets in every shimmering stone; the splendor here was a panorama of public life. But perhaps – perhaps – an Imperial might look on the crystal spires of Alinor under the violet sky of evening, call his city the fairer of the two, and not betray his heart in saying it.
He often had these thoughts when he exited the palace into Green Emperor Way. For the High Kings of Summerset, and above all the great Sages and Artists, were also entombed near the palace – encased in the blue-glass of the Hall of the Great, row on row, faces to look on though ages may die.
The graveyard of Tamriel's emperors... the first word that had leapt to his own mind was "haphazard." And there was truth in that. Strong rumor had it that the statue of Uriel VII (a bold and vigorous figure, likely a pre-Simulacrum portrait) might not even stand above the Emperor's body: it was said that by the time the Council had got around to erecting a monument, they had forgotten the location of the burial plot.
And yet – there was a comfort here, that no one ever found when they went to look on the repose of Ayrenn herself. These graves were laid on the common way, to be seen by all the City on its routine business. The tombs and gravesites were circled pell-mell about the palace – there were so many tombs, and most from the Third Era alone; the sheer speed of human generations astounded him – but each spoke to whom these Emperors had been.
He walked toward Uriel II's monument, easily the most absurdly comfortable of the lot. It was a beautiful work, but it never failed to mystify him that those who engraved his memory had elected to make his tomb a pavilion, ringed by a circular bench not unlike the sort he'd often sat eating softloaf on at the end of long strolls in the country along Sunhold. Had they expected picnics, on such sacred-
A rather taut voice directly behind him began speaking. Lathenil whirled round and leapt back in one motion to face him.
The offender was a Dunmer with long, full dark hair and a neatly cropped beard. His only weapon was a shortbow, and that safely over his back. What he had said was: "Do I know you from Bravil, by chance?"
"V-vanishingly unlikely," said Lathenil, discreetly withdrawing his hand from his vest, beginning to act precisely as though he was carrying on a natural conversation with a mer he had not mistaken for an assassin one breath before. "I was there perhaps half a day in my life, before the Seventh Champion personally threw me from the county."
The Dunmer opened his mouth, closed it, and then shook his head in bewilderment. "And so she sent you to me," he said finally. "Carrying silver arrows."
Lathenil could not truthfully say he recognized this mer as the archer-captain of the encampment, but then, that gaunt, ragged figure would have filled out considerably if he'd survived the Red Year at all. "I suppose so. I take it they were of use, then."
"After three nights with the arrows," said the Dunmer with a legionnaire's grin, "the wisps seemed to learn to stay away."
Then his face sobered. "I – had to know if it might be you. I can't quite believe it actually is. You wouldn't be able to follow me to Market at the moment? A few cow's-meat pasties is the least I can give in recompense."
The Dunmer of Morrowind were not a sociable lot, as a rule, and they certainly knew better than to thank the messenger boy over the great lady who sent him. This could very well be a trap. But this was the archer from the encampment outside Bravil – Artheyn, that was his name. If he were considering the ley lines that had spiderwebbed under the island of Vvardenfell, arced to the Ministry of Truth, and the force that had jarred it all loose...
"Feed Bag," said Lathenil. A venue with plenty of witnesses, and noisy enough to cover any manner of odd conversation. "Good watercress, they say. Never mind the meat pasty."
Artheyn nodded curtly. "That ought to do."
Lathenil rapidly rehearsed, in his mind, everything that had led to his beliefs on Vvardenfell. Every proof was somewhat covered in the dust of his mind's attic – he had offered them to no one in three years; even Ocato might balk at the idea. Dawn Magic. The crashing waves around Summerset, the calm harbor of Anvil. The Argonian incitements. The way the crisis of Red Mountain drew the eye of the Empire from Summerset – but would that sound like justification enough? was it justification enough?
Having proceeded silently to the Feed Bag but for their orders at the bar, the two of them sat down at a wall table; Lathenil ensured it was in full view of the door. There were scattered Altmer among the patrons, but none seemed interested in their passing.
A very thick silence lingered even after the food came. Lathenil tasted the watercress soup with the tip of his tongue, wary of a burning or a bitterness (there was none, but the meal, once accepted as nonlethal, turned out to fall far short of the Sunhold standard). Artheyn chose his fried crickets (a common concession to Morrowinders) in fits and starts, seeming quietly agitated. But at long last, the Dunmer opened his mouth.
"I must say, I'm surprised you're allowed on Green Emperor Way."
"I-" This fit nowhere in Lathenil's anticipated lines of inquiry. "Who isn't allowed on Green Emperor Way?"
Artheyn snapped another cricket into his mouth. "Seems a common enough thoroughfare, true. But you... I can't suppose the Potentate is too pleased with you."
"I'm sorry?"
"No need to play dumb," said Artheyn firmly. "I saw you come from the Palace. I expect your business there is the same as it was in Bravil five years ago – it was not a cause to be lightly thrown aside, was it?"
"No," said Lathenil. "Not lightly, not gravely. Not for anything." He had another swallow of the woefully bland watercress soup. He'd had far worse, in leaner times. "But Ocato. Why should he be displeased? He is a son of Summerset just as I am."
It was Artheyn who stared now, with a hostility that made Lathenil shift his weight in his seat toward the balls of his feet. "What in Dagon's name is that supposed to mean?"
Lathenil was no longer certain that he and Artheyn had been having the same conversation.
"No. I called that meaningless? It means less than nothing. Only a mage of the Summerset Isles would be displeased to begin with!"
The last sentence hung suspended for a long moment, before it set into place.
"You... you cannot possibly believe that Ocato was involved-"
"Can't I? He starved us of legionnaires, when the daedra were upon us!" ("Softer," said Lathenil nervously; that last shout had turned a few heads.) "He is on record as dead set against Uriel's dispatch of the Nerevarine; he would rather the blight take us. Even now, with Vvardenfell buried and Mournhold fallen, he stokes the fires within Morrowind, that we may slaughter one another. He is a Dawn Mage. I cannot possibly believe- what other possibility is there?"
A thousand possible responses whirled through Lathenil's mind. The Thalmor – but their likely motive would ring flat and false by comparison. The realities of troop distribution against the numberless hordes of the Deadlands – but Lathenil's information on the mainland situation was certainly more second-hand, less visceral, than Artheyn's would be. Was Ocato a Dawn Mage? Did he despise the Dunmer? He could not answer to either. There seemed no firm place to stand against the accusation..
No. There was one.
"Understand first that my aim is to deliver my homeland from a pack of usurpers – an effort in which justice for your people is, I believe, only a part. And so know that Ocato has heard not a word about Red Mountain from my lips – it did not credit me with you at first, and it has not with anyone else, either. Then, when you speak of his stoking fires among the Dunmer... do you refer to the massacre on House Hlaalu in Blacklight?"
Artheyn nodded, his face filled with gall.
"He had intended those staves as aid against the Black Marsh insurgents. When he found out what use they'd been put to, he was disconsolate. He missed a meeting with me on that account, and I found him in his chamber drowning himself in his cups. Artheyn- I heard him that night, every wound of his bared and raw. He wishes only to secure the Empire – all the Empire – to find an Emperor to take his place, and to get himself a retirement where he will never have to look at another official document again. He had no motive to deceive me. I tell you the truth."
Artheyn paused long before answering, presenting perhaps a mirror of Lathenil's own consideration. "No, there may be a very good motive. If he is an ally of these usurpers – the Thalmor; I do know the name –"
"-then he could realize their aims for Tamriel at a stroke," snarled Lathenil. "He could simply abdicate, and let the Empire fend for itself.
Artheyn's mouth worked, as though trying to produce a word his mind could not. But he was silent from then to the end of the meal, and seemed to eat the rest of the crickets more out of duty than appetite. Lathenil spent the time wondering when, exactly, he had begun being calm enough to persuade so easily.
At last, they made their way to the door.
"Thank you for your answers," he said at last, the bent in his posture echoing the desperate scarecrow he had once been. "No, I can only thank Azura that I should chance to see you on Green Emperor Way. Forgive me: I must take my leave now. I must go to Cheydinhal."
He clasped Lathenil's hand.
A sudden surge through that hand knocked him to the ground. His next impression through the blue bolts still raking his skin: Artheyn's hand. Close by. Curiously limp. He rolled backward to his feet. A second lightning bolt missed him by inches; he took a precious glance toward the door, saw the gaping burn hole in the back of the Dunmer's shirt, the bowstring smoldering...
Run.
There was shouting around them. Perhaps the guard would respond in time, but the thing for him was to run. Dip, dodge, run, never stop though his lungs might scream, until the Palace was in sight.
The Agent of North Nibenay would be able to make her excuses to Morgiah without even uttering a lie. She had volunteered to track Artheyn when the Black Queen learned of his desertion; Artheyn had intended to kill Ocato before Morgiah's time; she had killed the Dunmer herself. But there remained the problem of why North Nibenay's prime asset had gone so badly so quickly. The Imperial City Liaison walked the dusty floor of the Liaison attic garret, scanning the shelves for a likely-looking name.
Here.
Dossier: Lathenil of Sunhold
Status: Active (Discredit and Kill), Moderate Priority, Emissary-General Approval
Description: Altmer of small stature, young adult, eyes markedly protuberant. Always observed wearing a leather vest over his garments.
Yes. This had to be the one.
Background: Lathenil of Sunhold is the most vociferous political foe of the Aldmer outside Alinor, having been observed as far apart as Sentinel and Bruma in his efforts to rouse the Empire to new action against us. Fortunately, he is no able speaker, and there is no record that his efforts have met with any success; indeed, they may well serve to undermine similar enemy action in the future.
And yet he had met North Nibenay's asset on Green Emperor Way, and fled straightway to the Palace upon being attacked. There seemed to be dangerous flaws in this analysis.
However, he is a purveyor of Septimate rhetoric such to spit in the face of the Aedra and the Circle alike;
Ah. Must transmit that news to Colovia at once, then: their prime asset would need to be reined in while this obstacle remained.
his knowledge of Dawn Magic is troubling (though believed to originate from a long-eliminated target);
And there was the corruption of the Dunmer asset explained. North Nibenay's plan (or more accurately, Lord Arrinaro's) relied on a misunderstanding regarding Dawn Magic.
So, for that matter, did the task of the Liaisons. But he could stand well assured that when the fighting began, when the storm came, the fine points of abstract cosmology would loom large on no one's list of concerns. No matter how great this Lathenil's standing with the Empire may have become.
and the deaths of an Imperial City Liaison, two Agents in North Nibenay, and one cooperative asset in Colovia lie at his feet. Elimination may therefore be deferred in favor of more pressing questions, but must be enacted should the opportunity present itself.
Very well. South Nibenay, then, would have permission for the next strike. There was too much possibility of failure in their gambit for the Liaison's liking; but then, if the chance were high, the potential strategic loss was vanishingly small. Colovia's plan would make the last resort, and only with Lathenil of Sunhold out of the way.
While he was thinking of South Nibenay and Colovia, it was high time the Liaisons looked into the Prison District. to determine adjustments to the first storm radius. The time of the storm might not, after all, be nigh, but to act as though it were not was foolishness to the degree of reeducation.
"I take it you've got the harbor to yourself," said Maelona the guardswoman cheerfully, soon as Mirabelle opened the door. Mirabelle wasn't remotely fooled by her demeanor or by her civilian clothing. She'd picked precisely the right time to bother her, after waking and before opening the door, and, though she'd kept mainly to her own affairs of late, the Flowing Bowl was very likely to be official guard business.
"Two days now," she said, having no good reason not to comply with this inquiry. "Saw Maenlorn at Lelles'. It must have been just before they left; he was buying half a pack's worth of dried rations. He seemed... well, he's been distracted for a while now, but he seemed particularly distracted then. Said he intended to go to Windhelm, to see a man called Beorn or something of the sort. Windhelm, of all places! Those two have been at that inn longer than I've been alive."
Maelona nodded, seemingly in assent to some calculation of her own. "While I'm standing here, I've been meaning to ask you: do you know of a ship called the Falconbranch?"
"Last docked in Anvil in spring 432," she said. "Shipwrecked off Hammerfell in the First Year."
The smile left Maelona's eyes at once. "That's a good memory you have."
"Well, you're not the first to ask," said Mirabelle. Now was the time for cautious tiptoeing; she had, after all, been quite explicity sworn to secrecy. "The other fellow, he's an on-and-off guest of mine; he's not here now, but when he is, he usually stays for a while. He could likely tell you things more pertinent to your question – he's very cagey, mind you, so he may not wish to. But I know this much: it's not a matter within Anvil's jurisdiction."
"Somehow," said Maelona, "I'm unsurprised."
Lathenil was, of course, likely as not to have been the target of the attack himself. But suppose he weren't. Some pieces of their discussion were still stubborn to fall into place – why the Thalmor might have wanted the Dunmer dead; what his connection to Morgiah, or elsewhere in Cheydinhal, may have been – but, thinking on what Artheyn might have meant to discuss, Lathenil wondered if this meeting in the public-house might not have been the most significant deed he had yet done for his homeland.
In any case, the threat to his own life was unmistakable, and the Potentate's trust in him inviolate, and so he was allowed access to the same passage from the Palace that Ocato had evidently used to find him in the Waterfront. (This, Ocato suspected, had been betrayed to the Mythic Dawn, but the traitor was dead, and its entrance and final issue had been altered since.)
By First Seed, Ocato said he had no need for further information on the Summerset situation (barring, of course, a critical word from Lathenil's allies.)
Lathenil started at that. Not a little disappointment was laced in with the surprise; it had been so good to speak of Summerset to an ear that would listen.
Ocato nodded briskly from behind his great desk. "The crucial thing now, I believe, is to take it up with certain sympathetic councillors and advisors from other provinces. I would start with Valenwood, and save Morrowind for last, if I were you." (The last assassination attempt had forced Lathenil to speak of Red Mountain. Ocato had not discounted the possibility out of hand, either – but even he had to concede that it did not precisely sound credible.)
"Can – can Morrowind spare councillors for this, then?"
Ocato smiled with grim satisfaction. "By tomorrow, I think they will find they must. You see, Black Marsh has not been able to prevent its people making continued strikes against Morrowind. They have forfeited all right to remain in the Empire."
"You..." Lathenil ran a hand across the corners of his mouth. "You don't believe this would set a precedent for Summerset to do likewise?"
"Precedents matter only insofar as the Inner Council gives a fig about them, and they know as well as I do that the stated reason doesn't scratch the surface where Black Marsh is concerned." Ocato began ticking off points on his fingers. "Malarial place – a legionnaires' boneyard. The Saxhleel desire nothing better than to be left to their own resources. What's more, they truly don't need the Empire. Ask them how they fared against the daedra, if you doubt it. And with the Argonians entirely out of the Empire's hands, I daresay there will be no more diplomatic wrangling needed for Morrowind to hold to the Empire and keep King Helseth's abolition policy in force – it will become the only course that makes any sense at all."
"One less ball in the juggling act," said Lathenil.
"Precisely that." Ocato's nose wrinkled on hearing a reference to that particular conversation, but the answer was sincere enough.
"And now," said Lathenil, "and now it's time."
The monstrous lie, the theft of his city before the body was cold, the murder of the greatest Sage alive – the perversion of the councils, his last sister in flight, the Queen and Prince half prisoners in their own palace – the crashing waves and the wasting fires – no more. No more.
"I warn you," said Ocato: "it is entirely likely that these mysterious allies of yours cannot remain secret by the end of this meeting. The nature of your information indicates them too valuable to be thus secluded."
Before Lathenil knew quite what he was doing, he nodded. Eagerly. The end was in sight. Such a disclosure would hasten it.
A stray thought sobered him, made it so he could breathe properly again. "Then – councillors and advisors – with the Summerset council in such disarray – am I to be the only representative for Summerset?"
"Not entirely," said Ocato, with a certain irony to his tone. "There remains the councillor for Artaeum."
"You mean to say... the Psijic Order? I'd thought they never involved themselves in matters political. And – if you know this councillor to take our side – how is it that you never had a word from him?"
"Ah." Ocato smiled wryly. "That would be because he has spent most of the past decade in meditative solitude. You would think he would have tired of it, but even now, he'll announce he must depart and meditate if you try to have more than a quarter-hour for anything of importance."
"So – the Psijic Order does stand against the Thalmor!" This almost certainly meant that Red Mountain had, indeed, been a Thalmor act. It certainly could not be a matter of less gravity than that.
"Not strictly Psijic, no. Nu-Hatta has the right power and philosophy for the Psijic Order, but there are certain flaws in his temperament that made him unfit nonetheless. He took a lower calling on the island instead – pertaining to the cryptic histories left by the local ancestor moths, if memory serves. And even then he was ousted in the end, for imprudent use of... well, if I tell you what he imprudently used, you'd ask for follow-up and we'd be discussing esoteric cosmology for a sleepless week. Which would, at least, give you fair preparation for meeting him."
While it was good to know that the stories of rash mystics going off to Artaeum and never being heard of again might not end as unhappily as generally supposed (even for a race as short-lived as the Argonians!), Lathenil had to wonder what help this fellow would be at council. "Er... are our manners of speaking meant to balance one another out?"
"Not a chance. It took me years to understand his circumlocutions, and now that I do understand them, it's clear he could sensibly speak in no other way. But in that capacity, Nu-Hatta has already proven himself at least as indispensable to the Summerset issue as you have been. Thanks to the Oblivion Crisis, we do retain him as a provincial councillor – which ought at least keep the Inner Council happy. And who knows? After all this meditation, he might be able to point out who in the room would actually listen to you."
Ocato smiled, letting Lathenil in on the joke of the matter.
"Of course, when you asked if you were the sole representative for Summerset, you were thinking of practical representation, not legalisms or wild plunges into Artaean mysteries. That," he said, "would be where I come in."
Colovian Agency Record, 10 Second Seed, 4E10
The Agency stands, in the main, ready to depart. First Agent Serranur, however, has gone to follow some lead at the Wayshrine of Arkay, the nature of which he did not disclose. He has been duly warned of the danger of arriving at port behind the black horse, and indicated his willingness to accept the risks entailed – or, more precisely, his poor confidence in South Nibenay's ability to present such a risk. Should he not return by the critical hour, Alinor is advised to submit all appropriate condolences.
It was a motley procession that filed into the Palace. First, the Potentate and his guard, who wore no livery but only the gear that best suited them. Behind them, perhaps a third wore the robes of the full Council; most, like Lathenil, simply wore the most formal robes they had; a few – priests and the like – did not even go to that stretch. The one Argonian in attendance (since the relinquishment of Black Marsh) was one of these, in a brown robe not far removed from sackcloth, and he came not from Green Emperor Way but from the stair above. Lathenil made his way to his side at once.
"Nu-Hatta," he said, bowing his head with hands crossed over his chest: the prescribed ritual for greeting a Psijic, or one of the Wise.
"Sst!" The Argonian thrust out a gnarled, faded claw to stop any further conversation. He stood stock-still, closed his eyes, slowly raised his arms. Then he let them fall, his expression troubled.
"What is it?" Lathenil whispered.
Nu-Hatta shook his head. "No heart here beats against the Mantic Order. This is... most unconsonant..."
Lathenil had not the faintest idea what the Mantic Order could be. Nothing to do with the Thalmor, certainly – his own heart would easily give that the lie. But if they had nothing to do with the Thalmor, why would Nu-Hatta conduct some sort of Psijic ritual for their sake in the first place? He thought he began to understand why Ocato had so little patience for the councilor.
But best to try. "What, precisely, is this Mantic-"
"I am instructed not to speak overmuch," said Nu-Hatta. "Which happens to be most advisable at this juncture of temporality. Let us keep to our receptive mortal faculties, and keep them closely."
All in all, the situation was visibly improving. Had been since they gave up Black Marsh. Admittedly, this had been all of two weeks ago; it would take at least six months of good fortune before he could hope to parlay the matter into a resignation; but Corran would take his optimism where he could. The presence of Dela in the retinue had a way of encouraging him to reach.
He shook his head at the glasses of wine already laid out on the great Council table, marking every seat Ocato had planned for. (The guards, as always, did not have seats.) Their contents would, no doubt, be Tamika's Exclusive. It was all very well to eschew the Alto once in a while, but to imitate it so closely struck him as a wrong-footed approach to the shortage. Not that it was his lookout, but even so...
His eyes dutifully scanned the periphery. Idly he wondered if he could manage to spot a threat before the weapon was drawn. Not that this was a situation he'd yet had to deal with or ever was likely to – he had needed to act as a true bodyguard only twice, and both incidents had involved perpetrators barely sane enough to charge straight – but he amused himself, while following Ocato in lockstep toward the seat facing the door. There was the table and the rotunda level to make sure of, as always. And – why not – better check the special council for signs of Dark Brotherhood skulduggery. There were a few broad, dagged sleeves. No irregularities in the movement of them, though, nor did any vest hang as heavily as the one worn by "Special Council Advisor" Lathenil in all places but this chamber. But the game of keen-eyed vigilance was quickly exhausted, and from what Corran had caught about this to-do, there must be hours to go.
Ocato, never having had the gift to make a room go silent with a simple raise of his hand, took his gavel and struck the hollow point under his place at the Council table.
"This Special Council is convened for the simple reason that it now can be convened. This is the first opportunity, since the tragedy of Red Mountain, to settle the small question of post-Crisis reunificiation."
Corran already had a yawn tugging at the edges of his mouth, and he wasn't even sitting like most. He minutely shrugged his shoulder just to be sure his flask was still weighing it down.
"You will have noticed, of course, that those assembled here do not make anything like a full council, and that fully half of you are not on the Elder Council at all. What every man, mer and beast assembled here does have in common is this: you are interested in the welfare both of your province, and of the Empire, and know of resources to further both goods at once. The first two are wanting enough in the greater Council, but the rigors of a Council post all but put the last out of the question. Yours, in short, is a task that may be undertaken by no other.
"As such, we are to stay put until concrete plans to re-knit our fraying Empire have begun to emerge. A special delegate of each province shall state the situation at hand, in all details good and ill. The order shall be clockwise from my left."
Well, then. Corran was just about hovering over that Llethri woman's right shoulder, and Dela was sharing shoulders with Nu-Blatha and Laughable. So the seating had been strategic. Morrowind was given the first word, and Summerset the last. Skyrim was naturally lost in the middle, its usual retinue only missing Erek Free-Winter, and only because the Count-Consort of Bruma here fell afoul of conflict-of-interest regulations. Corran fancied that, if not for their generosity to the Dunmer in Windhelm, there need not have been a detachment from Skyrim at all.
It occurred to him that he recognized none of Hammerfell's attendants. But he thought it safe to assume they were all three Lhotunic. Crowns were impossible to please, and as such, Forebears were impolitic to bring to this conference.
Always good to have something to think about.
"...representatives of the other provinces. I, of course, serve to represent Cyrodiil. I strongly suggest that at least one of each be consulted. If you seek refreshment –" (Ocato gestured to the wine glass before him –) "this will be it. The kitchens have been instructed to give nothing but clear water and waycakes from here on. As I say, we do not leave until feasible plans have been formed."
He risked a theatrical silent groan in Dela's direction. She didn't seem to be looking.
Ocato raised his glass; the rest more or less followed suit. Corran, eyeing Ocato to make sure he wasn't watching, opened his flask. He was glad of the warning that he would really need to conserve the stuff today. And at least his really was Alto; if Gellius couldn't make sure of that, no one could.
"In Cyrodiil," Ocato said, "we have come to say these words with about as much feeling as any other evening farewell. But here, we commit ourselves to the real purpose, so let the words have all the weight they deserve:
"Long live the Empire."
A small swallow. It did not taste quite right, Corran thought vaguely, but before any other thought could form, the red mist descended over his eyes and the greatsword was in his hands-
In the decades to come, the moment would be seared into Lathenil's mind. The rage twisted into the guardsman's features by the poison – Ocato's wordless half-shout, cut short within the breath as the longsword hewed him between the shoulder and the neck, the fall of the wine glass against the Council table, the slackness of his mouth when he slid from the sword's edge to the ground.
Lathenil's own wine glass, an inch from his lips.
Somehow – he ceased to remember so clearly at this point – Nu-Hatta was already in the fray, and there were screams from that pretty Breton woman that Corran was to be taken alive, and Nu-Hatta was agreeing, which was good policy, but this was not the time for it, Ocato needed seeing to...
Shouts echoed from every corner, now, panicked and uncertain.
What's happened-
Did that guardsman-
Run! Get the Watch-
-convene the Inner Council-
My flower of the frost was down there, do you understand me? With the daedra. They had her-
Lathenil shook the last phrase out of his head, knowing it to belong to another day than this. He found both his knees had somehow met the floor. They were painful, and warm, and damp, and he was inches from his Potentate, saw the glassy eyes and the way his lips drew back over his teeth, the shoulder hacked apart as a pursuing dremora would have done it, and he knew plain death when he saw it. The big Imperial stood over them, frozen in his grimace of rage, still wielding the sword, unmoved since he had made the fatal blow. The two guardswomen were on either side of him, gripping his arms. This did not register. It was mere nightmare stuff.
He clasped Ocato's hand, no cooler than his own, but looser than Ocato's ever could have been in life. Justice would have him enshrined in the Hall of the Great besides the High Kings and Queens of Alinor. But then justice would have seen Summerset restored this very evening. Justice would never be done: the Thalmor had ensured it. The Thalmor had-
He fell, then, over Ocato's breast, the blood kissing his forehead. A roaring had begun somewhere above his head. There were battle-screams, too, somehow nearer than the roar, but they did not matter.
He tore himself free at last from the paralysis. He leapt back from the grasp of the two captors, and the enemy bore down on him again; he slashed one across the chest, and she fell back, leaving-
The red mist lifted. Corran remembered himself. He saw it was Dela who staggered back, and he who had cut her. Both his hands lost all feeling, and there was a clatter on the ground where the greatsword fell.
"Dela," he said dully, as somehow his right arm bent itself tightly behind his back while pressure fell on the right shoulder. "I didn't mean – are you badly hurt?"
She propped her body up on her right arm, which did not seem to be trembling from physical pain. "What have you done, Corran, oh by Talos what have you done..."
He did not comprehend, at first. But after a moment of sifting through those rage-hued memories, he knew. "I was poisoned," he said, haltingly, knowing it was important. "My flask."
"Who?" The rough voice of Rosenlai, one of the Altmer guards, by his right ear. "Who poisoned your flask? What flask?"
He thought about it. The detachment of shock likely worked in his favor. He had told no one anything of importance. But who knew he would be at Council today? And who knew he would drink from the flask? There was only one answer.
"Gellius. Gellius Terentius. It has to be." And it occurred to him that certain gestures he made, while relating anecdotes harmless in themselves, might have shown that, when on duty, he stood directly to Ocato's left.
"Terentius..." Dela began to laugh bitterly, then clutched her chest, wincing. "I suppose he told you Ocato wouldn't like to hear you were drinking on the docks with Count Terentius' son..."
Actually, Corran had reasoned that out for himself. It was only that he hadn't seen any harm in the secret. It wouldn't help to say so, he knew. It began to dawn on him that he had very likely done a thing Dela could never forgive.
He made himself look at the Potentate's body, managing only flinching glances, but... "Hoy," he said feebly. "Summerset's advisor is interfering... interfering with the crime scene. I did it, you know. I did it, don't let him spoil the... the evidence."
A shaking was inside him, creeping from his lungs to his very skin. He found it difficult to breathe. He was not quite certain he wished to.
"Step away," said the voice of the Altmer guardswoman, barely audible under the rising roar of a fallen Tower.
"I won't," said Lathenil tonelessly, raising his head, still clasping Ocato's hand in both of his. "Hear the Firsthold quarter – they call for him. I must stay with him. I will not fly like a coward. I stand and fight."
"Stand and fight – whom?" asked the Dunmer woman, the councilor of House Redoran. "The Inner Council? An admirable sentiment, but I can't imagine it will work."
The Breton guardswoman, who had somehow got injured and was crumpled on the ground, laughed long and feebly. "Ha. I expect that's exactly what he'd say..."
The guardsman, the unwitting assassin, began to rock back and forth.
Lathenil blinked blearily; the roar was wavering. "The daedra – no, the Thalmor – I won't run. I won't run." He decided he had better stand.
Nu-Hatta stepped forward. "My act-patterns succumb to the physical, I am afraid, and already Aurbis begins to creak on that account. But the shortfall doubles the task-load, and in furtherance of the first of these, two facts must be made known to you, and at once." Words on words, washing over Lathenil without leaving the slightest impression. "First, that in the last throes of the formation of the world were traced by the Tharnatos the analogue of a compass, and that the outline is roughly approximated in Lake Rumare, and that-"
"I take it we must be in haste," said the councillor of House Redoran dryly.
The Argonian swallowed. "Come with me," he said feebly, "if you want to live."
"The Thalmor will come for me, you mean, come to the tower. Yes, it is plain-" he gasped suddenly, hand to his bloodstained forehead- "it is plain that they know of my presence... let them come..." He reached under his vest, which flapped uselessly. "No, I forget. I must get to the antechamber. I must have Lawlike."
"Lawlike," said Nu-Hatta softly.
"My sword. A sword of the Thalmor before then, when they first sought my life." He felt a broken grin spreading across his face, and that sound of the gale in the forest was rising to its fateful crescendo. "Lawlike. You see? So I can't run again."
Nu-Hatta closed his eyes briefly, Lathenil imagined pityingly, but he then turned to lead the way to the antechamber, and his next words were sharp and clear. "You are certain, then, that Thalmor are the immediate architects of this. Expostulate."
Symposium speech. An old and formal mode, if perhaps an overly restrictive one, typically used for matters of philosophy, or theology, or aesthetics. He'd taken part in that in the Pavilion of Sunhold, yearned for more like it in the Academy of Firsthold, before the daedra, before... no, no digressions. In the mode the Argonian had chosen, only the pith of the matter was permitted.
"Overarching all," he said shakily, following in step, "the question of means and motive. There are many whose hearts bear malice toward –"
The name Ocato stopped his throat.
"Many who may bear the will to have... done this. But for all but the Thalmor, such a will precludes the intellectual means to have carried it out. Only the Thalmor stand to benefit; all others stand to cut off the limb they rest upon." A terrible cliché at the symposium, but he had a strangely desperate sense that it was best not to spend any more time on the point. "The Terentii, who stand particularly accused, are hardly famed for their intellect; even if they were the first actors, there was a keener mind laying the way to this guard's flask."
Lawlike hung on the weapons rack under the Dragon banner, among an array of staves and travel-knives which struck him vaguely as a sparse one. He sheathed her reflexively while he finished the expostulation.
"Strong anecdotal support: Artheyn Othril. Another catspaw, I must now believe. He took me aside, knowing me to frequent the Palace, and I must now believe he thought me able to grant him a means to... to grant him the same privilege of confidence that our guard gave to Gellius Terentius. My words, I have no doubt, persuaded him of his folly, and the moment he said words to that effect, he was killed by an unseen magical assailant."
Nu-Hatta nodded sententiously. Thus he showed that he deemed the argument incomplete. But before Lathenil could get too far lost, another example leapt to his mind, leapt from what seemed a great well of time.
"A more speculative support: Narinelle of the Galepoint. High Priestess of Auri-El for almost a century; now almost certainly dead under the Provision of the Thalmor. I did not see this before. It befell her so early, before even Rynandor- no. Digression conceded. Ah – she, too, became their victim in falling to indiscriminate blows after drink. She famously abstained from the study of combat altogether, and so harmed no one. Why, then, would she begin a brawl, a thing she had not done since a small girl, in her third century? And so..."
Lathenil recognized his error too late; it was one he had always fallen into. That was not the place for a rhetorical question. Rhetorical questions, in the symposial form, were to be used to cap off a complete syllogistic seal. All other occasions invited a piercing counterstrike.
But then, he realized, there had been too many errors to count. Most damningly, he had not even framed the context of the events to begin with! The symposia in the Pavilion had taken common background for granted, it was true, but he knew perfectly well that Nu-Hatta had taken to seclusion on the mainland these past ten years. Certainly, he did not know the Argonian's role in this effort... no, what would have been his role... but wait-
"We need to reorganize the Special Council," said Lathenil. Why had he been standing here refining debate form?
"You return to a rudiment-level clarity, then," said Nu-Hatta gently.
Lathenil understood, now. He had come so, so very close to slipping away, as he had done beneath the ruin of Crystal-Like-law. Concentrated reason had been the antidote.
"It is not, of course, possible to reconvene," Nu-Hatta went on. "They are almost all dispersed, and political considerations made Potentate Ocato the sole hub of the wheel, common metaphorical sense. But take my left hand. The Watch will seek to question you as a witness. This must not happen."
Yes. Captivity. The Thalmor would have to be fools not to claim him then, all saving variables removed. They were never fools. If there had been any doubt of that, it had been removed today.
Lathenil extended his hand, but halted midway. "What do you intend?"
"It is the practice of picking out beneath our feet the mesh-work which echoes the pierces in the vault, though of course the initial factor is not a standing-stone but the vestigial shell of the Ayleid..." Nu-Hatta sighed and shook his head. "You may regard it as a kind of way-magic."
Way-magic, as Lathenil understood it, was a lost art of the Dunmer that transported the subject, leaving the caster behind. "Then you – you remain for questioning? For the Thalmor to find you?"
"I remain to complete my other task; there will be time to arrange. All else is irrelevant. But your place is not here."
His place? Yes. Yes, his place, under the soft, clear sky. The haunting sweet song, and the pleasant breath of salt in the air, and the libraries that were palaces seeming grown from the earth, and this blood clinging to his forehead and his knees would return to that fair soil even as he did.
He seized the Argonian's hand.
Nu-Hatta paused for a moment, a tension hanging in the air. "Your birth was under the sign of the Lady. But it must serve."
Lathenil was enveloped by a cold white light, and the next he found himself seated on a plain with his back to a large stone. The air smelled just as he'd dreamed. The grasses... pale and hardy, as they were in Colovia. The sky – harsh blue and far away.
He turned, only to see the gates of Anvil in the distance.
And he understood. The Augur-Stone of the Lady that stood on the western cliffs had been destroyed long ago. No trade vessel would carry him across the Strait, no Potentate could make an escort, and even the arts of Artaeum could not now draw him home.
A scream thrust itself from his lungs, and another. There were footsteps rushing toward him, he knew, but he could not make himself stop to look.
Nu-Hatta set off directly toward the Market District, with Prison District before it. Whether he was made a witness did not matter: his words were never set to the common experiential mode of terrestrial discourse. Whether he was held did not matter either: his mere flesh was failing, far beyond his estimation. His failure of intervention in this great disruption in the Wheel had been a matter not of the sight, but of mortal reflex, and his further intervention would be starkly limited by mortality no matter where he was.
It was, however, essential to the continuance of the Aurbis that he first obtain a good dress and shoes, a comb, perfumed soap, and two tourists' papers.
18 Second Seed, 4E10
Ocato of Firsthold is dead.
It happened before my eyes, his life's blood is upon me even now, I still see his shoulder
Of the circumstances of my dep
I have put as much distance as I can between myself and the Imperial City. It is best that I do not see the funeral procession. The Thalmor need not look for me by description, they need not even know me for an Altmer. If they are to claim my life to add to his, they need only look through the sea of formal solemnity and find the one face bearing genuine grief.
It is a monstrous injustice. To the end, Tamriel never forgave him that he was not Martin Septim. And indeed it would take a fatuity beyond hope to argue otherwise. Ocato managed Tamriel as a cautious merchant would; to lead, to inspire, was not in his makeup. But if we have felt keenly that absence, how much more would Martin's reign suffer without Ocato to implement his towering vision!
How much more will Summerset suffer, that he will never walk in Firsthold again.
He never wanted to be Potentate. He never wanted a seat on the Elder Council, for that matter. Many will say otherwise, but they did not know him as I did. He did his scrupulous best at work he detested, only to find to his horror that it made him indispensable.
And so he is dispensed with, his own bodyguard turned to a murder weapon by Thalmor poisons. That darkness take Summerset, her brightest fires are extinguished.
And that darkness is come. The stroke that took his life felled also my homeland. Only the formalities remain.
No. I have had such notions before – when I learned of Sage Rynandor's death, when
But I must not slip away. I must keep my mind to its highest functions.
Summerset has taken a grievous blow. Other wounds still hamper her. Whether this one proves mortal remains to be seen. The Kings and Queens remain in the old way, and the Thalmor do not dare to touch them openly. There is Lillandril. There is the cabal. Their hope of victory is dimmed, without an Empire to support them, but
See how close I come now to drooling madness. Even a bad historian makes sure to address both End and Means. Even a simpleton considers his own peril when his greatest frien ally is murdered before his eyes. I have done neither.
There are few indeed who gave Ocato his due while he lived. But I was mistaken: many will grieve at the procession. They may not heed my warnings, but they are not fools outright. They have no succession, no regency, and they must know what awaits them.
What awaits me as well. It is a dim and hazy vision, and Ocato's blood is spilled out on the Council chamber floor, and the fall of Crystal-Like-Law echoes drumming within me, but I must see it. I must not slip away.
There never was a funeral for Firsthold's greatest son. There was not even a burial. The last agreement the Elder Council of the Septimate Empire ever made, before Council and Empire were shattered together, was to postpone it.
Long before that decision was made, Corran of Pell's Gate had already broken free from his captors on the prison bridge, to drown himself in Lake Rumare.