Chapter 11: Throne of Bones

Lumen and Cicero arrive at Karthspire on a miserably cold day. The wind rattles the bare trees and howls through the mountains. Dunes of snow collect against the edge of the wooden palisade, and on top of the guard towers. A lone guard is perched on the tower, covered from head-to-toe in heavy furs. The day may be cold, but not cold enough for the Forsworn guard to give her any reprieve, and so the miserable man shouts, "Ah, if it isn't the mighty Dragonborn. What brings you here on such a lovely day?"

"Business," she snaps. "Let us in."

Within the shadows beneath the guard's hood, she can see the flash of a smile. "Aye, I might. But only if you ask nicely."

Lumen's patience is negligible under the best circumstances, and it's practically non-existent after hours of riding horseback in a mix of sleet and snow. But she is here on official Dark Brotherhood business, and she is forced to reign in her temper. "Let us in. Please." She spits out the word like it's the most vile curse she's ever uttered. "We have business with Madanach."

The guard doesn't respond, but the large, wooden gate rattles open.

"Perhaps we should have started with that," Cicero mutters— only to receive an elbow to the ribs.

Once inside the gates, Lumen attempts to bribe Shadowmere into good behavior with a handful of sugar cubes. A plume of steam rises from his nostrils when he snorts at the offering. Heavy hooves stomp in the snow as if to complain about the miserable weather. But he eventually accepts the bribe after Lumen soothes him by scratching his neck.

"You spoil that beast," Cicero says with some amusement. "What does poor Cicero have to do to get such attention? Perhaps he wants to be fed sugar and have his neck stroked."

"I stroke other things," Lumen says as she falls into step beside him.

Cicero hums. "This is true. But could you feed Cicero sweet rolls next time?"

"No." She glances at him, and when she sees the face he's making — his brown eyes wide, lips pursed — she bursts into laughter. "Stop that! We're here on business! Be serious."

"Poor Cicero is not doing anything! His sweet Listener is the one who's cackling like a madwoman," he says, a devious grin curling his lips. "Cicero is clearly the sane one, here."

The two giggling assassins snap to attention when a stern-faced Forsworn guard approaches them, and motions for them to follow. They do as they are bid, walking through the empty footpaths of the usually bustling camp. Today, though, most of the residents of Karthspire are huddled in their tents and huts, and only the guards and those desperate for a privy dare to brave the cold. The guard does not lead them to Madanach's tent, but to the edge of the camp. They come to a stop at the opening of a long, rock-lined pathway with the mouth of a cave at the end of it.

The Sacrament has definitely been performed there. Lumen can feel it calling to her, and she is urged onward by the invisible tether that links her to the unholy offering. Her legs feel unsteady as she steps ever closer, but Cicero is at her side with a reassuring hand on her back.

The cave is warm and inviting. Heated by some magical means, no doubt. Orbs of magelight float along the ceiling, defiantly bright against the darkness gathering in the unlit corridors. The Sacrament is lovingly laid out in the center of the cave. A mixture of ancient bones and a newly stolen heart are ensconced in candles. The ceremonial dagger is on the ground, and the Nightshade anointed blade glinting in the candlelight. That strange feeling building within Lumen's chest eases when the magical tether gives one final tug and then disperses.

Madanach's makeshift camp is nearby. Animal pelts are scattered around the dirt floor. Fat, comfortable-looking pillows surround a low table, which is laden with food and drink, and covered in stacks upon stacks of papers— reports from Madanach's spies, most likely.

"Well, that didn't take long," Madanach says by way of greeting, and he gestures for the assassins to join him at the table. "Sit. We have a few things to discuss, and you can be on your way."

Lumen is close to complaining, only because she spent hours on horseback and her aching muscles are going to bark in protest when she lowers herself to the floor. But she does as she's bid. Eager to hear the details of this contract and see it through. "This is different," she says, looking around.

"It's only temporary," comes his gruff reply. "It's one thing for my people to know about my friendship with the Dragonborn. It's another thing for them to see their leader performing the Black Sacrament."

"Fair enough."

Without warning, Madanach murmurs a spell. Static snaps in the air, followed by the sharp scent of ozone. The sensation of invisible fingers on her skin and that horrid tang of magic nearly has Lumen surging to her feet. "It's a ward," Madanach says, his voice surprisingly gentle in the wake of her panic. "So we're not overheard."

Cicero tilts his head. "You do not trust your men?"

"With my life. But I can't risk this information. You would do well to remember that the Reach itself cannot be trusted. Not when the stone beneath our feet has ears. Even the wind has been known to betray secrets."

The Reach is a place of mystery for the people of Skyrim. It's one of the reasons why the Reachmen are so feared. Anyone who would make their home among the misty mountains and rolling hills of the Reach must be crazy or utterly fearless— or both. Even as someone who isn't a native to Skyrim, she's heard the tales. Mothers often warn their children to avoid sprawling junipers, to never disturb a ring of mushrooms, and never under any circumstance, enter a bargain with a Reachman. The tales are widely regarded as scare tactics to keep children from straying too far. But Lumen wonders if there is some validity to them.

"I assume this is about Igmund," Lumen says, her voice calm despite her shaken composure.

Madanach's eyes glitter like shards of ice. "It is. I want him killed. Which is easy enough considering all the ways you can kill a man. However, there are Thalmor stationed in the city, and I want them killed as well."

Lumen is immediately interested. "Go on."

"As I told you before, Igmund refuses to give up his throne, even though you so rudely handed Markarth to the Stormcloaks. Thanks to Thongvor, Igmund has been steadily losing the support of his people. But even though he lacks that, he's got the support of the Thalmor. The people are afraid to speak against him. So I need you to take out the Thalmor and kill Igmund. But you need to make it look like the Thalmor turned on him, which will strain relations between the Dominion and the Empire."

"But won't it look suspicious if all the Thalmor are dead, too?"

"I don't know. Will it?" He grins maliciously. "Figure it out. You're the assassin, not I."

Lumen sighs, her mind already turning over the logistics of the hit. "So what can you tell me about Igmund and these Thalmor? I need all the information I can get."

"I'll give you the notes I've compiled. However, I recently discovered the Justiciar has been harassing the priestesses at the Temple of Dibella. He wants them to bring in an acolyte of the elven persuasion. Altmer, preferably. But he's desperate enough to settle for a Bosmer. So there's your in."

"You've gotta be shitting me," she says, her tone utterly flat. "And his— evening company has to be a Dibellan Priestess?"

"There's no shame in men and women of import communing with the priestesses. It's a common practice."

"Well, it's not the first time I've had to debase myself to complete a contract."

"Cicero is not sure about this…" He instinctively reaches for Lumen.

She grabs his hand. "I won't be alone," she says, caressing his cheek. "You'll be with me."

His brow wrinkles. "There are no male priestesses, Listener."

"This is true. But I think with a little kohl around your eyes and some red on your lips, you could pass as a lovely lady." When Cicero's eyes meet hers, she cannot help but smile. "I'm a new acolyte, you see, and I'll need to be chaperoned, as I will be quite nervous about my first time."

A manic giggle peals through the air and Cicero lunges at her, hugging her fiercely. "Oh, Listener! This will be so much fun! May Cicero borrow a pair of your lacy underthings, as well?"

Madanach makes a noise that is something between a laugh and a groan. "I would hope you're not planning to take the ruse that far. You only need to get close enough to stab the bastard."

"You may," Lumen whispers, somewhat distracted by the mental image of Cicero in frilly undergarments. "Why haven't we thought of this before?"

"There are things I really do not need to know about you two." Madanach grimaces. "And while we're on the subject— don't do anything weird while you're working for me. It's too damn risky! And I realize that's probably your kink, but if you screw up my contract because you were fooling around, I will feed you to a hagraven.

Cicero straightens up. He squares his shoulders when he faces Madanach. "Cicero and the Listener take their jobs very seriously! We would never do anything to compromise a contract!"

"I'll have to take your word for it," he sighs, clearly wanting to be far away from the manic jester and his lover. "So, Listener, do you need any more information from me?"

Lumen doesn't know how she's going to deal with the Thalmor, kill the jarl, and make it all look like a Thalmor plot to take over the city. Even so— this will be fun. "Oh, I think I have everything I need."

"Good." The wards vanish with a wave of his hand. "I'll give you half your payment today. You get the rest when the deed is done."

Madanach tosses a coin purse on the table between them. It could fit in Lumen's palm, and she opens her mouth to complain about how small it is, and how that couldn't possibly be half the payment for killing a bloody Jarl. But the make of the purse halts her complaints. She smoothes her fingers over the luxurious black velvet, and peers inside.

Glittering gems of various shapes, cuts and colors sparkle in the dim light. They would bring in a small fortune when sold. If the Forsworn have this kind of wealth, then what in the Void are they doing living out in the wild? They could probably buy Markarth if they wished.

Rather than ask questions Madanach won't answer, Lumen says, "We'll return when the contract is completed." She then motions for Cicero to follow her, and they leave the warmth of the cave.

"Cicero does not like this plan." The Keeper is hot on her heels as Lumen breezes into the Sanctuary. "It is too dangerous. Please reconsider, Listener."

"I thought we'd come to an agreement," she sighs, leaving her muddy boots in the foyer before stepping into the overlook where the Night Mother rests. The weather is unseasonably cold, even so far north, and her fingers and toes are achingly numb.

"I did not wish to argue the point in front of a client," Cicero snaps, struggling to remove his boots and follow Lumen at the same time. "It was one thing when you dressed like a tavern wench to fool that Blackthorn bastard— but this? This is too dangerous. We cannot risk you."

A ragged sigh escapes her. "If we can think of a better plan, then we'll do it. But there's only one way into Understone Keep, and very few are let in after hours. No one will look twice at a Dibellan priestess." She turns to face Cicero, and her indignant anger fades at the worry in his eyes. "We've done riskier things, and I would know why you're so upset about this."

"Cicero does not know," he admits, his shoulders sagging beneath the weight of that truth. "But if something happened to you—"

"Nothing will happen because you will be with me." Lumen grabs his hand. "Come on. Let's call for the others and figure out a plan. We'll be fine, and we will be careful."

He holds onto her hand like it's a lifeline, and his feet remain rooted to the spot. "Cicero is sorry. He does not know why he's so worried. He cannot think of any reason why this would go wrong, and at the same time, he can think of a million. Something feels— wrong. The hunters were dogging our steps a few weeks ago, but there's not been a whisper. Where have they gone? What are they planning? Cicero would prefer to lay low until we know something. Anything could go wrong during this contract. This Thalmor could be one of many stationed in the city. Madanach could've unknowingly sent us into a trap!"

Lumen lays her hand upon his cheek, hoping to quiet his mounting anxiety. "Cicero." Her voice is feather light. "Trust your family, and trust me. We will not be walking blindly into Markarth. We'll have a solid plan before the night is through, I promise."

He leans into her touch, his rapid breaths slowing. "Cicero is sorry. He knows you hate it when he gets like this."

"Only because I hate to see you so upset." She looks him over, wondering why he chose to wear his armor rather than his motley. But she knows such questions would be deflected. Something is bothering him, and it has nothing to do with the Thalmor hunters. Perhaps he will confide in her later, but she'll not get anything out of him now. Not with their family fast approaching to welcome them home. "Come," she says, tugging on his hand. "We have work to do."

Cicero shadows her as they descend the stairs to meet their gathering siblings. The assassins are eager to hear about their newest contract, and they quickly take their seats at the table. Even the bleary-eyed vampires awoke from their daytime slumber for the meeting. So Lumen tells them of Madanach's plan— to kill the Jarl, pin his death on the Thalmor, and kill them as well. Then, to add to the excitement filling the room, she tosses the velvet coin purse on the table. The gems spill out across the wood and sparkle in the firelight.

"I have a contact in the Thieves Guild who will pay us a premium for these," Nazir says, inspecting a large, glittering sapphire. "They'd be difficult to sell otherwise."

The room fills with the murmur of quiet conversation as the assassins inspect their payment, but Babette is the only one not entranced by the jewels. Her infernal eyes are on Lumen, and when she meets her gaze, the vampire asks, "How are you going to get inside the Keep? There's only one way in, and it's well-guarded."

It's a leading question if there ever was one. Lumen wonders if the little vampire overheard the argument with Cicero. "The Thalmor Justiciar has need of a Dibellan Priestess, and seeing as I'm the only female elf here, I will disguise myself as one. The guards won't think twice about letting me in."

"I'm not comfortable with you offering yourself up as bait," Arnbjorn growls.

"Finally!" Cicero heaves an exasperated breath. "Someone is finally on poor Cicero's side!"

Lumen opens her mouth to argue, but Pontius beats her to it. "Normally I would agree," the Imperial says, drawing glares from both Cicero and Arnbjorn. "But the priestesses are highly respected for their work. If the Justiciar is a faithful follower of Dibella, he'd know better than to harm one."

Arnbjorn's jaw tightens. "I'm not willing to trust a wanting man's faith in anything. The Listener is strong, and a skilled fighter, but even the best warriors can be caught unawares."

Luka clears his throat. "Correct me if I am wrong, but aren't these priestesses— um— aren't they prostitutes?"

"Prostitutes get paid," Lumen comments. "The priestesses do not."

"It's not just about sex," Pontius says, somewhat irritated. "The priestesses serve many purposes. They do teach the Dibellan arts, yes, but they don't sleep with their patrons as much as people think."

Feeling only a little ashamed of her rude comment, Lumen takes a seat, her attention on Pontius. "The Justiciar specifically requested an elven priestess. So I just assumed…"

"Probably because he's more comfortable with elves. Think about it. He probably lived in Alinor all his life, and now he's here, in a strange land full of strangers who hate him— with reason. But you can see how lonely that would be." Pontius gives her a cursory glance and smirks. "Then, you come in, and you're familiar and beautiful and sweet, and maybe all he wants is someone to talk to. Maybe someone to hold him for a little while. That's easy enough, isn't it? And when he's dropped his guard, and you're able to get close enough, you stab him in the throat."

"I can easily procure a robe similar to what the priestesses wear," Eola chimes in. "And I know we've got an Amulet of Dibella somewhere. Sithis, I probably have more than one. Cyril is like a magpie. He sees something shiny, and he brings it home."

Lumen can't help but grin at the flat look Cyril is giving Eola. "We'll need two. Cicero is going to be disguised as a priestess as well."

Eola nods. "Give me a day, and I'll have everything you need."

"You're going with her?" Arnbjorn looks to Cicero. "Dressed as a— priestess?"

"I am." Cicero folds his arms across his chest. "But that doesn't mean Cicero is in favor of his plan. It just means we don't have a better option. It will still be risky, even with Cicero there."

"I have complete faith in your ability to protect me," Lumen says, hoping to stop the argument before it begins. "It will be fine."

Arnbjorn looks doubtful, but he wisely keeps his mouth shut. Cicero, however, does not.

"Cicero would say his sweet Listener's faith is sorely misplaced," he says, his voice quivering with emotion.

An awkward tension fills the room. Rather than respond, Lumen turns her attention to the others gathered there. "So we know how Cicero and I are getting in, but this job is too big for two assassins, so that's where the rest of you come in."

A solid plan forms as the night wears on. Cicero does not speak again. The family as a while seems thrilled with the prospect of killing a Jarl and framing it on the Thalmor, and they're in good spirits when the meeting concludes. Arnbjorn heads to his forge, while the vampires return to their beds. Cicero slinks off to their bedroom, his mood darker than before, and Lumen follows him with a sense of impending doom.

She leans against the door as it closes, and she does not move. Cicero heaves a sigh as he begins to remove his shrouded leather armor.

"Cicero should probably apologize," he grumbles as he tosses his belt over the back of a chair.

"You are worried for my safety," Lumen says thickly. "You never have to apologize for loving me."

He casts a grateful look in her direction but quickly turns away. "Cicero knows he is trying your patience with his constant worrying." He swallows audibly, struggling with the words. "He is driving himself mad, as well."

Lumen hates to see him like this; the laughter stolen away, and his shoulders weighed down with regret. "Help me understand, then. Tell me everything. I want to help, but I can't help if I don't know the whole story."

"Cicero cannot." The leather jacket slips from his arms, and he gently lays it on the back of a chair, along with his gloves. He sits on the edge of the bed, suddenly weary. "There is just a creeping feeling of dread that has taken hold, and it will not abate. Something is wrong. Cicero can sense it. His every instinct is telling him that danger is near, but he does not know what that danger is."

"Is it this contract?" she asks, pushing away from the door to sit next to him. "You've never been so vocal about me acting as bait in the past. Thalmor or no, the danger has always been the same."

"Cicero is never in favor of this type of plan, but he understands the necessity of it." He presses his shoulder against hers, seeking affection, but needing distance at the same time. "No. Truly, it is not this contract. Cicero has been on edge for some time now."

She is uncertain of what to say. If she doesn't know what is troubling him, then she cannot help him. Even if she did know, she doubts she could provide a solution. Whatever this is, it is something Cicero will have to work through. "I noticed you did not wear your motley," Lumen says at length. "Which isn't odd considering how cold it is, but what is strange is that you did not wear your hat. You always wear your hat. I'm surprised the thing isn't permanently adhered to your head."

"Ah, that. It is— complicated."

"I will listen if you wish to talk about it."

His lips thin. "It is Pontius," he says reluctantly. "He has questioned me about it, and he looks at me oddly when I wear it. Cicero thought to wear it today, but— it does not comfort me as it once did." Cicero falls quiet. But Lumen does not speak, fearing she might interrupt whatever he's working through. "I do not know what to make of him. I am glad to see my brother alive and well, but things were easier when I thought he was dead."

Lumen drapes her arm across his shoulders. "You are being forced to face your past. It isn't an easy thing."

"I believe he wants things to go back to the way they were," Cicero says without prompting.

"Ah, so you two did talk."

"We did."

Lumen nearly cringes at the accusatory note in his voice. "I wouldn't have pushed if I'd known it would cause you so much pain. I thought it would help."

"You had Cicero's best interests at heart. Your intentions were good, sweet Lumen."

"The path to Oblivion is paved with good intentions," she says bitterly.

Cicero smiles at her, but it does not meet his eyes. "When Pontius returned to us, I thought him weak because he ran. But now, Cicero wonders if he is the one who is weak. I hid in the Sanctuary, too terrified of the world beyond. When I think back on that time, it feels like a dream. It's foggy, and I cannot grasp any memories. I only remember the fall, and then I remember the day I decided to leave and come to Skyrim. Everything in between feels like a fever-dream."

"You are not weak," Lumen says quickly. Cicero may be guilty of many things, but she would never call him weak. Though she has often wondered about his time alone in Cheydinhal, she's not asked for more information than he's willing to give. Sometimes she wonders if his madness had come from the Night Mother— if she needed him to become her dedicated lunatic in order for the Dark Brotherhood to survive. Strange though he may be, he is not mad. Not entirely. It comes in brief waves, followed by clear, cunning lucidity.

"Cicero is tired," he whispers, flinching as if he is admitting to a grievous sin. "But Cicero does not wish to be alone."

Lumen presses a kiss to his temple. "Sleep, then," she says, hoping to soothe him. "I will stay with you."

Cicero's usual high spirits return in the following days. And he is cheered into a nearly manic state of elation when Eola delivers their disguises. Eola had not needed further instruction when Lumen told her Cicero was to be a priestess as well, and so along with robes and amulets, she provides them with cosmetics and all the necessary materials to turn a male into a passable female.

Cicero admires his reflection in a full-length mirror. A padded brassiere provides the illusion of breasts that are proportionate to his frame. His waist is accented by a — what did Eola call it? — a cincher. It is similar to a corset, but not as bulky or uncomfortable. But it gives Cicero the illusion of feminine curves. He pulls the thin, linen robe over his head, and turns to face Lumen.

"Well? How does Cicero look?"

Finding the words is difficult. Lumen doesn't know where Eola acquired such items, but she could kiss her. Cicero's body looks flawlessly female. The makeup on his face is expertly applied to soften his sharp features, kohl lines his eyes, and a red stain colors his lips.

"You look beautiful," she says, her voice a touch too breathless. She likes women just as much as she likes men. It is only by chance that her current lovers are male. But this? She doesn't quite know how to reconcile how she feels— only that she likes what she sees.

"Oh?" His lips pull to one side. "It has been a long time since someone told Cicero he was beautiful."

"Should I leave?" Eola fans herself and casts a mocking grin in Lumen's direction. "It's getting a little hot in here."

"I— I mean you look like a priestess. I doubt the Justiciar will have any suspicions." It's unbecoming for the Listener to behave so foolishly. But she knows she's blushing all the way up to her ears. Luckily, a knock on the door saves Lumen from continuing to make an ass of herself.

"Are you ready?" calls Luka's voice. "We're dying of curiosity."

"No, 'we' are not," Arnbjorn grouses.

"They're both decent," Eola says, still grinning at Lumen. "Come on in."

Lumen fusses with her robe, feeling suddenly self-conscious about the thin, form-hugging linen. The robe is made to cling to every curve, and when one walks, it flows across the body like water. While her shrouded armor may be form-fitting, it serves a purpose. She supposes these robes serve a purpose as well, but it's not a purpose she's comfortable with. Lumen has never shied away from her sexual desires, but she does not wave her sexuality around for all to see— and she's not fond of showing off her body.

As with most things, it all cycles back to Malrian. He would dress his little pet in Altmeri fashion, which left very little to the imagination. She always hated the feeling of his eyes raking across her skin. Even now, she cannot shake the feeling of phantom eyes, and she prefers to dress in men's clothing when she's not wearing armor.

Arnbjorn's face is unreadable, but he nods at her. It is his subtle way of telling her he approves of her disguise. Luka, meanwhile, wolf-whistles at her and Cicero, which does lighten the mood somewhat. And it is a welcome distraction because Pontius' gaze is far too heated, and is lingering longer than it ought to. If it didn't violate a tenet, Lumen would Shout him into Oblivion for staring.

"What are you looking at?" she snarls.

"I'm just wondering if you're able to wear your armor beneath those robes," Pontius says, his eyes slipping down her form. "They look thin."

"No." She distracts herself from her irritation by fidgeting with her belt. "The material is too thin. So one of you will have to carry our armor for us. We'll change once we've dealt with the Justiciar."

"With any luck, armor won't be necessary," Luka says. "We should be able to get in, do what we need to do, and get out undetected."

"What is the plan on getting us into the city?" Cicero asks while fluffing his hair.

"You'll be escorted in," Eola says, an Amulet of Dibella swinging from her hand. "Cyril and I have looked into how priestesses move from one temple to another. They never leave unless they are on a pilgrimage, and they travel with guards who have sworn themselves to the service of Dibella. I have disguises for your 'guards' as well. Just robes. But much thicker than what you and Lumen are wearing."

"Why can't I have one of the thicker robes?" Lumen whines. "I didn't realize how thin and clingy the priestesses robes are."

Eola offers her a sympathetic smile. "I'm sorry, Listener. Those robes are meant to show off the beauty of the female form."

Lumen snorts in irritation. "What about the beauty of the male form?"

"I honestly have no idea." Eola passes out robes and amulets to the others. "It doesn't make sense for the temples only to have female priestesses. But I don't make the rules."

"Do not worry, sweet Lumen." Cicero loops his arm around hers. "Cicero will be with you."

"As will we," Arnbjorn says. "I know you're uncomfortable. But you don't have to wear that thing forever. You'll be back into your armor before you know it."

Lumen sighs. "Thanks," she says weakly.

"Are we traveling in these robes?" Pontius takes his disguise from Eola, draping the robe over his arm.

"Yeah," Lumen says. "Eola has contacts in Markarth who would have housed us while we changed, but I didn't want to involve anyone outside of the Brotherhood. So we will have to wear our disguises all the way there. Bandits will be an issue until we're in the Reach. But then we'll have the protection of the Forsworn and it should be an easy journey."

"You can keep those robes if you want. I don't need them back. Cyril has enough junk."

Lumen casts a look around the room. "Why do you have so many on hand?"

"Who doesn't like a little 'dirty priest' roleplay?" Eola says with a shrug. "Don't worry, though. We haven't done anything in those robes. Those were extras in case the others were, uh— damaged."

"Oh, this is giving Cicero ideas..."

Arnbjorn sneers. "We need to leave soon if we hope to make it to Markarth by sundown." He ushers Luka and Pontius from the room, grumbling all the way. "Go get ready. No lollygagging. We're on a strict time limit."

Eola watches them leave, smirking. But the mirth fades from her face when she turns her attention back to Lumen. "I could disguise myself as an elf. Cyril could cast a glamor—"

"I know he could," Lumen says quickly. "But there's a chance the Justiciar could see through the glamor. It's a chance I'm not willing to take. Not only would it risk our contract, but it would risk you as well. I'll not put my siblings in any unnecessary danger if I can help it."

"I would give my life for the Brotherhood and for you, Listener."

"I know." Lumen offers her a tight smile. "But the only people dying tonight are the Thalmor and Jarl Igmund. Now go get ready, and stop fretting."

Eola, thankfully, does as she is bid. Lumen can feel Cicero's gaze on her, but he is withholding his objections to the plan. He's already voiced them. There's no reason to have the same argument twice.

"Come, Listener," he says, shaking her from her brooding. "Let's go kill a Jarl."

Notes: I'd actually meant for the assassination plot to happen in this chapter, but it was getting long and I think breaking it up was for the best. It also means that the next chapter is half written and hopefully I will finish it soon! I'm reaaaaally pumped for the next chapter. I have plans. Evil plans.