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Chapter 7

"Casperian, be careful not to throw yourself off balance!" Portia called from the sidelines of the training room. The large, grassy yard was enclosed by tall, white walls and a stone walkway. It was part of the palace grounds, and had been used by upcoming noblemen for decades. Portia had never openly roamed these grounds before or cared about doing so, but she found that being able to stroll as she pleased with her new title of swordswoman was pleasant. She currently had five pupils, and she was conditioning them as protectors for future families. Fighting was an expected skill for these young men, and on the whole, she enjoyed teaching them. They treated her with respect, even if some of their fathers looked down on a female teaching their sons to fight.

"Parry left!" she called. Too late. The kid got a crack across the head with a wooden sword. "No. Try again, and do it the way that I showed you." The practice continued for another hour before she dismissed them and packed up the training gear. Locking it inside of a storage room off of the yard, she moved toward her favorite part of the palace: the library loft. It was a small and seldom-used sitting room in a corner of the library, and to reach it, one had to climb a narrow flight of stairs. In such a place, she was left alone to research Oblivion and its lord without threat of interruption. Gilthan was helping her in that respect, for he had already sent a person by Arelius' house to drop off a book on ancient languages. He thought that her plan to spy on Mehrunes was brilliant, but also risky. He didn't like that she was feeling stronger vibes from Oblivion, and not just when she was sleeping.

Portia thought back to her morning routine, and she too wondered whether she was perhaps pushing the limits of what she should do. She had been walking to the palace earlier today when she had heard the voice, disembodied and faintly recognizable. Then the burning started, from a pinprick of energy to a roaring inferno. It hadn't precisely hurt, but it had made her body throb, the power shooting through her so quickly that she stumbled and nearly fell from the overpowering force. Never had she felt such strength, and then her vision flashed red. She was looking at Mehrunes' dark palace, and then him, and then everything went black before someone on the street finally snapped her to her senses by asking if she was okay. It was a wonder that she wasn't a crispy piece of flesh, and being cautious by nature, not knowing what the artifact had been doing gnawed at her mind

Akatosh guard her, but she hadn't told Gilthan about that yet, and the elf was already worried. He didn't like that the chaos sphere sometimes made her feel warm and sleepy, as if beckoning her to Oblivion, and here she was, getting the rush of a lifetime on a street in broad daylight. She didn't like it either, but her course was set, and she was both prepared and dreading a worsening of her condition. If the mages took much longer, she couldn't imagine what she'd be experiencing; although, she had yet to suffer physical harm. What was happening now was far less painful than what had transpired when she'd been captured in Oblivion, and so she would use another draught tonight, even if she was nervous. Her last encounter with Mehrunes had given her doubts about seeing him again. If looks could kill...but she had to do this.

Here it is.

Portia sat down in her favorite, padded chair and cracked open the large tome that she'd hidden beneath it. The ancient runes inside no longer appeared as unintelligible squiggles, but she was still a long way from easily reading them. She was searching for the page that she'd left off on when her hip gave a sharp stab of pain. She didn't need to look to know that the chaos sphere was glowing, for this had started yesterday—a pulling sensation and an internal burning that triggered pain in her hip. Gilthan warned that it might be an unavoidable effect of the sphere's presence, but Portia had a feeling that it was more, for when the warmth began to spread, she could feel Mehrunes' mood. Sometimes she intuitively knew that he was angry, and sometimes he simply seemed to be channeling power. The draw was almost unstoppable either way, but it never lasted long. She'd be left in a cold sweat but otherwise whole, and she often found her side bleeding in the aftermath.

"Damn body," Portia said to herself, forcing herself to focus on the page before her. Her eyes scanned the symbols, and she stifled a yawn. She had forgotten how much energy it took to both run Blade business late in the night and rise early for a regular job. Thank the gods that Arelius didn't ask her to work every night, but if he did, she would do it. She had sworn to serve him as she had before, and she treated oaths with the same severity that he did. As a guard, she had taken them to heart, and largely because she had lost everything and was free to fully dedicate herself.

Sitting in the library, she thought back to how she had lost her parents and been kicked off of their former property as a teenager. Afterwards, she'd been searching for something to make her life less empty and groundless, for with no home and no one to take her in, she'd been miserable. Service to the empire had promised to change that, and as she thought about her past decision, she realized that if she'd never accidently killed that man, she probably would have turned into a younger version of her mentor. Her entire identity had been centered on her occupation at that point in her life, and she supposed that without it, she really had lost part of herself—a part that she hadn't been able to find outside of her Blade role. Funny, how it had taken Oblivion and the most painful and dangerous event of her life to make her realize that.

Portia yawned again, and her eyes briefly drifted shut. She had been up all night and teaching all morning. Perhaps a nap would be a good idea, but what if someone saw what she was reading? She didn't want anyone to know, especially when she and Gilthan had been so careful thus far. And that mage, what was his name? Traven—yes, him. He was watching Gilthan so closely that Portia only contacted the elf by short messages passed along by a servant. The cleaners tended to be overlooked by the Arcane University. Well then, it was settled: no sleeping.

Portia gathered her belongings and headed straight for Arelius' home where she could study in relative privacy.

**************

The bell rang a second time, and Gilthan rolled his eyes. This customer needed to learn some patience, and that thought was reaffirmed as he ran eyes over the male Imperial. The man breathed blue blood and the attitude that accompanied it, but the high elf had long suspected that it was mostly for show. Surely these people couldn't maintain such a facade in the confines of their own homes.

"This shop is open, isn't it?" the man sarcastically asked. Then again, maybe he was just a jerk. Gilthan was used to their sort, for some of the mages were absolute snobs, and while he mostly brushed it off, he sometimes couldn't help making a comment or two. After all, his cheerful disposition allowed him to get away with statements that would usually offend or anger other people. Even when he was caught breaking the rules, he tended to laugh it off in such a way that his superiors merely shook their heads in exasperation. There were advantages to being as free spirited as he was.

"I believe that the owner is fetching me some stinkhorn caps," Gilthan told the Imperial. Why did his boss need the fungus? He didn't really know, and he didn't particularly care. The details of the project always eventually made their rounds, and in the meantime, it was a lovely day for a walk through the city. Plus, the alchemy shop that he now stood in smelled heavenly—like research, rare ingredients, and careful preparations, all of which he respectfully adored.

"I ordered ahead for my supplies," the Imperial continued. Well aren't you special, Gilthan smiled to himself. Then it occurred to him that it was odd that this man should be doing his own shopping. Perhaps the Imperial wasn't as high born as he acted...? Gilthan looked the man over again and noticed the slightly worn edges of his doublet and the scuffed toes of his boots. This man was definitely out and about on a regular basis, and so he couldn't be at the top of the class ladder. There were plenty of Imperial families that were prestigious but whose old money had dried up, and he figured that this might be one of them. Then again, perhaps the man was simply a bit different from his social comrades, for Gilthan knew of several very rich noblemen and women who were active in everyday life just for the hell of it. He liked those sorts.

"I'm coming!" the annoyed alchemist shouted from the back room when the Imperial rang the bell for a fourth time. An old, wrinkled Altmer emerged from a nearby doorway with a huff of indignation. She was stooped with age, and her dark eyes flashed in anger when she saw the Imperial. Gilthan could only imagine her thoughts, for here she was, a notable professional and easily twice as old as this impatient customer, and the Imperial had the nerve to completely disregard respect. He stood there with his sleek black hair, brown eyes, and fine if worn clothing, and stared at his elder like she was there to serve him. Coming from Summerset Isle, the action irked Gilthan, who had been taught to respect older Altmer, which was wise since they were often dangerously potent with magic.

"Mr. Pantrov," the storekeeper scowled. "You will kindly wait your turn like every other customer in my shop." Gilthan nearly choked to prevent himself from laughing at the Imperial's bored expression. The arrogant ones had a tendency to do that: look indifferent when they realized that they couldn't get their way. Now, Gilthan didn't normally associate with people like that, but he had it on good report from other mages that some noblemen had perfected boredom to such an extent that you could commit suicide in front of them and they'd barely bat an eyelash. Few as those Imperials were, he did not doubt their existence, and that fact that they so closely resembled a high elf when they cast such expressions amused him. This Imperial would have even been able to give his Altmer father a run for his money.

"Ah, Gilthan," the alchemist greeted when she saw him. "I was expecting you. Here you are," and she handed him a bag of stinkhorn caps. "I'll charge your boss for it, but I'm afraid that he has a rather long list of unpaid for goods. You'd best remind him that I'm starting to charge interest." She gave him a meaningful look, and Gilthan grinned.

"I'll tell him, but he's not likely to listen to this humble messenger." The Imperial wasn't even looking at them, although Gilthan sensed his attention. He had an inkling that this man was sneaky, and he hadn't even been in the same room with him for more than ten minutes. "I'm going to look at your mushrooms over here," Gilthan told the shopkeeper. "Maybe you'd best take care of fancy pants," he added in a softer tone, but not so soft that the Imperial would miss the comment. He then turned his back on the scene and pretended not be eavesdropping.

"Here's your daedra heart," the shopkeeper was saying. Daedra heart? That was an interesting need. Gilthan didn't recognize the Imperial, and he knew every skilled alchemist in the city by name and face, so why would this man need an ingredient usually reserved for upper level potions? Now his interest was peaked. Coins exchanged hands, and he listened for the Imperial to leave before turning around.

"Who was that?" Gilthan asked, and the old woman placed hands on her hips.

"Horace Pantrov," she answered. "He's a real class act."

"I wouldn't have guessed," Gilthan said, face turning more serious than normal. "Why did he need a daedra heart?" If an amateur tried using the recipes that called for that ingredient, it could spell extreme pain and trouble when a mistake was made. He'd once seen a friend's face burned off by an exploding potion, and so he didn't take the matter as whimsically as he might have.

"You'd have to ask him, but good luck. The man is only a minor noble, but he likes to lord it over us commoners on his bad days. He's polite and even winning if he feels like putting forth the effort, but..."

"He obviously wasn't in the mood today?" Gilthan guessed.

"Clearly. It's a shame too, but I suppose that a diplomat can't keep up the act all the time. I hear that he's less condescending and demanding with his fellow aristocrats, but what can you expect? He's not the big fish in the pond when he's at the palace. Everyone's got a place, but get him around a few beggars, and it's a massacre. He's verbally ripped apart Simplicia the Slow to the point where she cries. Makes me want to throw a stink potion at him some days, but then he'll turn on that Imperial charm, and he's got it; trust me. Half the time I hate him, and half the time I forget he's a prick."

"Hmmm," Gilthan mused. "I suppose he acts differently for the audience; although I am fairly consistent."

"No, you're inconsistent to the point where it becomes consistency."

"That makes sense...in a strange way," he mused. "I must be going now, but I will keep my promise to sing for you one day."

"Oh, get out of here. I've had enough of you for the day. You're horribly talkative for an Altmer!"

"Your wish is my command," and Gilthan left with a chuckle. Daedra heart...Well, if the man blew himself up, it might at least impart some humility. He whistled as he moved along, thinking of returning to work and his current experiment. He might have found the Imperial interesting, but he did not dwell on the matter as he walked, and so did not see the man moving in the opposite direction of himself. If anyone had been looking, they might have noticed that Horace Pantrov was testier than usual, and that had everything to do with the heart clutched in his hand...

**************

He did not appreciate these Mythic Dawn members having him run their errands, but it was rather inevitable since they could not risk being seen, and they needed this heart for some kind of ritual. Horace strongly believed that it had something to do with Mehrunes Dagon's arrival, but they only told him that he would know in a few days. He wasn't surprised by their curtness, for they were much higher in Dawn rank than himself, but he had expected some appreciation for allowing them access to his stores. They were a damned nuisance, and yet part of him was impressed with their leader: Ruined Cloak.

Don't ask him what kind of a symbolic name that was, but the man was the same enigma who'd visited him before, and just as cooly taunting. Still, the bastard had earned Horace's grudging respect by proving himself cunning, for he was the key, onsite ringleader in executing the emperor, and, as it turned out, the first one to suggest that Horace be admitted into the Mythic Dawn. Horace handled the man well enough, and he gave all three visitors the proper formalities, but he didn't have to like it. His master ordered it, and serving his master had always been his priority...well, most of time. When Dagon grew weaker in this plane, he tended to shift his attentions elsewhere. He wasn't fickle; he was pragmatic, and it worked well for him.

In truth, he had his doubts about whether Dagon would be successful in his bid for power, but it didn't matter. He played his part well but kept it hidden, ensuring that he'd come out unscathed no matter who won. He might sometimes seem like a mere pawn, and he might boss someone around only to bow to someone else within a span of minutes, but he knew what he was doing. He stood to the side and watched other chess pieces moving, even Ruined Cloak, and his mind was always turning, judging his next step. It really wasn't much different from what he'd been doing his entire life, whether going to Skyrim to broker deals or down to Black Marsh to assure the lizards that no more land would be taken. The difference was that he was usually the one that earned respect or at least the camaraderie of his fellow Imperials, but the Mythic Dawn ignored such distinctions. To them, he was only a nobleman who might earn a piece of the pie.

He entered his house and thought about grabbing some wine, but resisted the urge. He was attending a dinner later tonight, and he didn't need to drink so much, even if he felt driven to it. Instead, he moved down to his basement and through a heavy trapdoor. He hated the filth, and more than that, he hated getting it on himself, but he would survive. He descended a ladder into a stone room sealed off from the rest of the sewers, and found himself standing in the faint light of a fire that produced no smoke. As he had learned, Ruined Cloak was an accomplished mage.

"Here's your heart," Horace stated, holding out the bag for one of the cloaked figures to take. Their robes appeared blood red in the firelight, and shadowy faces turned toward him in acknowledgment.

"Were there any difficulties?" the tallest figure asked, and Horace knew that it was Ruined Cloak. The man carried such an Argonian name, yet his voice didn't sound like it hailed from Black Marsh.

"None at all," Horace offhandedly replied. "Is there anything else that you require for this ritual? I've already sent a servant for the bonemeal." That at least could be handled by a regular worker. The daedra heart had been too delicate an issue to delegate in such a manner, for it would have raised questions since he was no alchemist. The bonemeal, on the other hand, was readily available from certain poor peddlers who sold the ashes of the freshly buried as good luck charms against disease. Silly belief, but useful at the moment.

"Our lord will be pleased," one of the figures stated.

"One can hope," Horace commented before giving a curt bow of his head. "I shall see you at some later time. Your food will be left in the usual place." He happily turned to go, not hearing the whispered conversation at his back. They sounded excited about something, but what, Horace didn't care. He was far too occupied with wondering if his accommodations would suite the lord of Oblivion. He had a lot to live up to in the next few days.