A/N: Thanks again to my ever faithful reviewers and readers - you make my day! Hello and thank you to new followers! And happy September to everyone (aka, where has the summer gone I start school in a month ahhh!) One thing that's clear from the reviews I've got is I'm definitely not portraying Almalexia in a sympathetic light at all! Llovesi and Julan's views may not necessarily reflect my own ;) But at least their views are coming across! Also, I hope I'm not portraying Julan and Llovesi as too co-dependent! They can definitely be apart and work separately when needed but kidnapping... that's a different story! Now onto today's chapter!
A minor warning for language.
Chapter 13: Fractured Blade
It felt like an age, sitting on the Temple steps in the storm, her head bowed and her mind reeling. Llovesi thought Mournhold had drained her of every possible emotion–grief, anger, frustration and guilt. But this was all of them and more, a great, confusing lump in her throat choking her. And rage too, more rage than she had ever thought she might feel after the past week, because now that cold-hearted, snake-faced bitch had taken the one person who meant anything to her in this cursed place.
Julan, Julan was gone. It was an absence she couldn't bring herself to believe; she kept expecting him to run free of the Temple with a grin on his face. A grin that said 'it's okay, I got away! Now, where were we?' How could he be gone? How could she have failed to stop them? Her gaze fell again on the strange weapon in her hands and she brought it closer to her face as she stood up. There was one thing she could do now, one thing that would make this all okay. She would kill the golden harpy in her own Temple. And then she'd go after Sotha Sil too, and anyone else deranged enough to threaten the safety of people she cared about.
She felt a hand on her shoulder. The pilgrims had come as a crowd, up behind her. Their leader, his hand still on her shoulder, shouted over the winds:
"Nerevarine! We must serve the Goddess, as you do! What must we do?"
She glanced once more at the dagger in her hands.
"I need a master weaponsmith," she said. "You can tell me where to find one."
Llovesi burst through the doors of the Craftsmen's Hall to find it deserted. That didn't deter her though, and she strode through the empty corridors towards the smithy. She flung open the carved metal doors to find the workshop was empty, the embers of the forge were dying and no hammers were clashing on anvils.
A half-naked Dunmer ran into the room, struggling on a pair of breeches, but stopped when he saw her standing there.
"We're closed," he said hesitantly, somehow managing to work 'what do you want?' and 'go away!' into the small phrase as well.
"I need to–"
"Didn't you hear me? I said: 'we're closed'. None of the apprentices are here. Everyone is at home, waiting out these storms."
"You're here," Llovesi said pointedly.
"Yes, well." Then man shrugged desperately, his muscled shoulders rising up and down in a comically exasperated motion as he fought with the ties on his breeches. "Me and Yagak rent the side room. What of it?"
Llovesi unwrapped the strange dagger and held it up. "I need to speak to a master craftsman about a blade."
The man sighed, rubbing a weary hand over his bald pate.
"You're really not going to go away, are you?"
"No."
The man sighed in apparent frustration again, then seemed to give in.
"Fine," he said. "Well you've come to the right place. And you're even luckier Yagak is in. We're both smiths, but I'm the armour guy, and he's weapons. Hey Yagak, get out here!"
An Orc walked through the same door the Dunmer had, slowly and already dressed in some dented steel armour that he wore like clothing. Unlike the Dunmer, he looked perfectly ready to face the day.
"What is it, Bols?" he asked. "Don't tell me we've got a customer!"
He caught sight of Llovesi.
"Huh, looks like we do. Well, whaddaya want. I'm here to make blades, not conversation."
"I want you to make a blade," Llovesi said, and showed him the piece Salas Valor had given her.
He took it, turning it round in the light of the dying forge, testing the point with his calloused fingers. Then he handed it back to her.
"Looks like you already have a blade. Bit of a strange dagger, old design to boot, and all those angles probably won't hold up in the long term. Whaddaya bothering me for?"
"It's part of something bigger," Llovesi said. "Have you ever heard of Trueflame?"
Something like realisation dawned on Yagak's face, and his eyes opened wide.
"Follow me," he said, leading her past the confused Bols, who'd finally managed to lace his breeches.
The Orc led her through to the back room, a neat if lonely-looking place. Two un-made beds were the only mark of scruffiness. Elsewhere there was a single table with two chairs and a few unwashed dishes, parchment with several sums and scrawlings, and some shelves with a few personal effects. It all spoke of quiet bachelor-dom. Yagak crossed to the shelf of books above one of the beds and withdrew a slim, dusty volume.
He blew the dust from the title, and showed her. In neat, spidery, Daedric lettering were the words: Kogo gah-julan: On Dwemeri Weapons.
"Julan," Llovesi said. "It means benefit'." Her heart felt as if someone had tossed it into a pestle and mortar. If Yagak noticed her discomfort, he didn't say.
"Yeah," he said instead. "Altogether it means something literally like 'unbreakable great benefits'. It's a catalogue of Dwemeri weapons created by a Chimeri scholar in the time where they were allies. Very rare book."
He placed it carefully on the wooden table, and opened it with even greater care.
"I tracked down a copy for my interest in Volendrung. I come from a long line of Malacath worshippers, ya know. But there are other weapons in it. Like the Twin Blades: Hopesfire and Trueflame."
He turned the book towards her, and there they were: detailed woodcuts of two scimitars. One slim and elegant, one larger and with cruel spikes on its hilt, both wreathed in flame.
Llovesi held out the blade piece she possessed. It matched part of Trueflame's hilt exactly.
"The blades were presented to Nerevar and Almalexia at their wedding by the Drawf-King Dumac. They are described as the best of Dwemer craftsmanship, and each burnt with an enchanted fire. But no one's heard of them since the First Era. And here you are, holding part of Trueflame's hilt. How on Nirn did you come by this?"
Llovesi didn't answer, but instead held the blade piece out. He took it from her in wonder.
"I can do something with this. S'not like I have anything else to do. It would be an honour to reforge the Blade of Nerevar. That is, if you can find the other pieces. I could make a replica with the information I have, but it would be nowhere near as good as the real thing."
"Any idea where those pieces could be?"
"I'm not an artefact hunter, just a weaponsmith. Ask someone with a historical interest, maybe a writer–if you can find anyone willing to talk in this weather. And maybe Torasa Aram in the Museum of Artifacts will know something. If I know her, she's probably been tracking the blade since birth."
Llovesi thanked him profusely and left him poring over his book and the piece of the blade. She already knew where she was heading first. The Museum of Artifacts was in Godsreach as well. After that... A writer and a historian? Maybe Plitinius Mero would know something about Trueflame. It would mean going back to the Palace but, Llovesi figured, it was probably too late to worry about that now.
To her great surprise, a few guards were now patrolling the streets when she left the Craftsmen's Hall–perhaps looking for those injured or worse by the storm. One managed to give her directions to the museum district, after lecturing her for being out in the storm. She ran over, pushing against the storm, knowing that every moment wasted was a moment where something unthinkable could have happened to Julan.
The Museum of Artifacts was nestled between the far larger Museum of History and Culture and the Mournhold Art Gallery ('Special Exhibition: Rythe Lythandas, The Landscape View–One week only!') It was small, but no less grand for it, with its marble pillars, sloping green roof and intricate gables.
Llovesi pushed on the door, and found it open. Inside the museum was dark and dusty, a few lit lamps cast shadows onto the face of one bored-looking Ordinator. There were many carved greenstone plinths set with faded red cushions and covered with glass screens. Most were empty, but some bore objects–a few rings, some quite unique looking pieces of armour. The objects all looked infinitely more cared for than the rest of the museum, with its threadbare rugs and peeling wallpaper. Llovesi approached one of the larger plinths to examine the dark ebony cuirass in the case. A small yellowed piece of card read: The Lord's Mail. (Armour of Morihaus/Gift of Kynareth).
"Found anything that interests you?"
The bright voice came out of shadows, and Llovesi nearly stumbled into the glass case in her shock. She turned to see a Dunmer woman with frizzy brown hair and wearing rich golden clothes that were just as fussy and faded as the woven rug beneath her feet.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," the woman said. "I wasn't expecting any visitors in this weather. Not that we get many anyway. Lucky that the storm trapped me here, or you would have found the door locked! So, the Lord's Mail? It is an ancient piece, said to grant protection against magic and most poisons. A high-ranking member of the Imperial Legion brought it here only a few weeks ago. Is there anything else you're interested in knowing about?"
Llovesi held up a polite hand, cutting the woman off.
"Sorry, I do tend to go on," the woman said with a smile. "I just love talking about Tamriel's artefacts. Please. You have a question?"
"Are you Torasa Aram?" Llovesi asked.
"Why, yes I am. Curator and proprietor of the Mournhold Museum of Artifacts! How can I be of assistance?"
"Do you know anything about the whereabouts of the pieces of Trueflame?"
Torasa's eyes went perfectly round, like little red pearls in her face.
"Pieces of the Blade of Nerevar? Why, if I knew where any part of the Fractured Blade was hiding, it would be on display here I assure you! I'm afraid I cannot help you. I do have something from roughly the same era, if you are interested."
Slumping, but seeing Torasa's desperate enthusiasm, Llovesi agreed, deciding to extract herself as soon as possible.
Torasa led her away from the main area of the museum, down a back corridor.
"I don't even have it on display, because I haven't been able to positively identify it yet," she said, unlocking a door at the end of the corridor, revealing a small office with a desk and some crates. "It's a shield of Dwemer make, but not traditional in any sense of the word. The pieces of it just don't seem to match, and I've wondered if it isn't some sort of a fake."
She lifted the lid off one of the crates, and rustled around in the straw before withdrawing a large Dwemer metal shield and setting it on her desk, pushing papers aside to make space.
"I'm classifying it as a Dwemer Battle Shield," she said, with a hint of pride. "As I said, I'm not sure what to make of it. The spike attached to the front of the shield seems to be loose"–she took hold of it and twisted to demonstrate–"but a competent smith could take care of that. I haven't wanted to spend the money without a positive identification, as the funding we receive is entirely for purchasing artefacts. And really, nobody seems able to identify it. Those clowns at the H&C next door have been no help. They don't seem to take my work seriously at all!" She sniffed indignantly.
Llovesi half-listened to the woman's impassioned speech. She was transfixed by the spike in the centre of the shield. The spike that so closely resembled the blade piece she already possessed.
"Can I have it?" she asked breathlessly.
Torasa's eyes were round again. "Ah, so you're interested? I don't see how it can help you, but I'm afraid I can't just part with it like that anyway. I'll need some compensation."
Llovesi sighed, annoyed with herself for being so clearly eager, and unloosed her coinpurse from her belt. Of course Torasa wasn't just going to part with a piece from her collection for free.
"How much?" she asked.
Torasa shook her head. "Oh no, like I said, we already receive some funding. I'd only need more if I wanted to identify it, and I won't be able to do that if you take it off my hands, will I? No, I'm more interested in new pieces for the museum. Unique items, amour, weapons of lore–things like that. If you would be willing to donate a couple, I'd be willing to part with the shield."
"I don't know what I could have that would be good for the museum," Llovesi said slowly, but her heart was sinking. She knew that Torasa might be very interested in what was currently sheathed on her belt. The direction the other Dunmer's eyes were taking seemed to confirm this.
"May I?" Torasa asked, gesturing towards Llovesi's daggers. Llovesi drew them both and placed them on the desk nest to the battered shield.
"Incredible!" Torasa breathed, examining them both from a distance, as if she didn't dare touch them.
"The ceremonial dagger of General Symmachus? How did you come to possess this? What a local treasure! And, ah yes, The Fang of H–well, the blade forged from a dragon fang, surpassed in its wonder only by its difficulty to pronounce. Are you willing to donate this pieces in exchange for the shield?"
Llovesi felt another pang in her chest. Helseth had said she should use the Dagger of Symmachus in defence of the city should she need to, but she wasn't sure this was what he had in mind. And the Fang... it had protected her more times that she cared to think, since she had prised it from the hand of Dagoth Araynys. But, and she knew she had been resolved in this decision from the start, they were more than worth giving up if it meant getting Julan back. And saving Mournhold.
"Yes," she said.
"Then we have a deal," Torasa said, and her smile suggested to Llovesi that maybe a shrewd mind hid beneath the dizzy exterior after all. Perhaps she'd had her eyes on the daggers ever since Llovesi had walked in.
Never mind. Llovesi picked up the shield and slung it over her shoulder, over the strap of her pack and her spears. She would get Yagak to look at it later, but first...
"Good luck to you!" Torasa called, as Llovesi left the cramped office. "If you're able to recreate the Blade of Nerevar, I'd love to see the finished product!"
Llovesi didn't waste another moment, and as soon as she took her leave of the Museum of Artifacts she hunted in her bag for her amulet of divine intervention. Squeezing it to draw the spell out, she disappeared.
She reappeared in front of a large altar with statuettes to each of the Nine Divines, in a simple green stone room. The Palace's branch of the Imperial Cult, she presumed.
Over Zenithar's anvil and Stendarr's horn, Llovesi saw a dark-haired Imperial woman in a green robe run over.
"Are you hurt, sister?" she asked, coming round the altar to Llovesi.
"I'm fine. Do you know where Plitinius Mero lives?"
The woman looked puzzled. "Plitinius Mero? I can't say I know the name... Crito?"
An Imperial in a blue robe came into the room through a side door, his arms full of potions.
"Yes, Laurina?" he asked.
"This Dark Elf is looking for Plitinius Mero."
"The writer who keeps to court? I can't say I know where you'd find him, but anyone who was in the main courtyard took shelter in the entrance hall when these storms came. Perhaps he is among them. We're taking supplies over there now. That's where all the other priests are."
Llovesi offered to help and, taking a box of gauze while Crito collected potions and Laurina filled her arms with preserved food, they all made their way through the Palace to the entrance hall.
It too was transformed in the aftermath of the storms' arrival. Llovesi placed the box of gauze on a nearby bench, and surveyed the hall in shock. There must be nearly fifty people in here...
The large flagstones were littered with blankets and ash-worn figures with blank faces huddled together. Imperial priests were moving through the crowd, bathing scrapes and offering sips of healing potion. Already people seemed to have accepted they would be there for a while. A couple of Dunmer children were sitting on the edge of the large planter, staring at the flowers and cacti numbly.
Llovesi spotted Plitinius Mero the side of the hall, nursing a large scrape on his forehead, and she rushed over.
"Ah, Nerevarine," he said. "These ashstorms do not bode well. What can the Goddess be thinking?"
Llovesi knelt down beside him. "Whatever she is thinking, it will only bring more harm to Mournhold. I mean to stop her somehow. What can you tell me about Trueflame?"
"The Blade of Nerevar?" Plitinius's eyes opened wide in shock, and he winced, adjusting the cloth he was holding to his forehead. "They say it was lost many an age ago, shattered into three in the Battle of Red Mountain. Why?"
"I wish to reforge the blade. I have two pieces: to make the hilt. I need the blade as well."
"An attempt to reforge the blade of Nerevar. Interesting... and you believe the blade is somewhere in the city? I wish I knew where to tell you to look, but my knowledge of the sword is somewhat limited. Perhaps you could consult the Lady Barenziah. One never knows what she has heard."
"Thank you, your advice is appreciated," Llovesi said, hoping beyond all hope that the blade would be in the city. She hadn't considered the alternative, and now she felt she might be grasping at straws. Gently, she took the cloth from his forehead and touched his scrape with two fingers, healing it.
Plitinius touched his forehead and, seeing that his fingers came away clean, he smiled. "Thank you. The Cult are worried that with their limited provisions they will not be able to help everyone in the Palace. Few are willing to venture out for supplies. We must make do."
"I'll bring an end to this, I promise," Llovesi said, standing to go.
A page accompanied her all the way to Barenziah's apartments. When Barenziah herself opened the door, Llovesi had to fight a strange urge not to run into her arms.
She had never known a mother or a father. The comfort of a parent's arms was not something freely available at the Imperial City Orphanage. Her master, Aulus Ambustus, had been kind but just that: her master. She supposed Mashti might have been a mother to her... And the sight of Barenziah standing there, queenly and powerful yet possessing something soft and kindly, and the fact that Julan could not be with her this time, made all these long-buried feelings rush to Llovesi's head and pricked tears in her eye.
Barenziah said nothing, but stood aside and let Llovesi into the room. Haltingly, regaining her strength with every word, Llovesi told her everything that had happened in the past day: Almalexia, Julan, Trueflame. Barenziah watched her, her eyes glittering strangely. She looked almost gratified, but that couldn't be right, Llovesi thought.
When Llovesi had finished, the Queen Mother spoke one word. A name: "Karrod."
"Your son's bodyguard?" Llovesi asked.
"The very same. He carries a blade that is of ancient Dwemer design. But he is more than just a bodyguard. In fact, Helseth has made him his champion. I do not think he will give up his blade on request. You may have to challenge him for it. A duel."
Llovesi swallowed, remembering the last time she had challenged someone to a duel.
Wow, Llovesi! You're going to fight a duel to the death? Honour and all that stuff?
An echo from the past. And remember what happened last time...
Karrod's face swam before her eyes, and she didn't want to kill him. But then she saw Julan, borne across the room by the Redguard. How smoothly the blade had found his throat. The curved blade. Like a scimitar... She needed it, desperately, and if besting Karrod in battle was required she would go willingly into the fight.