Chapter 11:

Horace stood in the background of the room as Ruined Cloak and his assistants prepared themselves for the ceremony, regarding the mute work with mild interest. He almost thought that this wouldn't work, for the procedure seemed rather simple for opening a gateway to Oblivion, but then again, he knew nothing of magic. He had no contribution to make to the hocus-pocus, and it wasn't even necessary that he be here, which he'd rather not be. For one, they were in the sewers, standing in a large chamber beneath his house, and he hated the sewers. He could even hear a rat scurrying down a corridor to his left, and he wondered if the rumors of vampires inhabiting the sewers were true. Two, he disliked these Mythic Dawn members, and he was skipping a very lavish meal with a lady friend for this.

Horace might have been sorely tempted to leave, but he kept his misgivings to himself, for if this ceremony did work, he'd have a daedric prince in his home. The idea was so abstract at this point that he didn't treat it with the prudent severity that it deserved, but he was quick to adapt to any situation, so he didn't worry. Just in case he was faced with his master, he had prepared the quest room with special care, and he'd done exactly as instructed regarding rumors of his impending visitor. Above all else, he didn't want to appear disloyal by not being here when the lord arrived. That would be the height of idiocy, and so Horace remained where he was.

The flickering light of several lanterns turned the three cloaked mages before him into phantom-like figures, their long arms extending and drawing the symbol of Oblivion on the floor. White chalk scratched cold stone while Ruined Cloak removed several objects from a bag at his feet, and then the man waited until the others had finished their work to set a bowl down at the edge of the circle. To Horace's annoyance, the bowl was one his serving dishes—make that ex-serving dish, for he'd never use it again once he saw what Ruined Cloak was doing with it.

The leader uncorked a glass flask that held some dark liquid, and with a few muttered words, he poured the contents into the bowl. Blood, Horace realized, and he wondered who the poor bastard was that had lost his life. Then again, he wouldn't put it past these fanatics to bleed themselves for the ceremony. He had actually brought a dagger with him, just in case a sacrifice was needed for this and he was selected as a volunteer. He wanted to roll his eyes as the Mythic Dawn members seemed to fidget with excitement, and a second flask was emptied. Horace could care less about who had died, so rather than the blood, he closely watched Ruined Cloak's hands, for he was hoping to catch a glimpse of skin—anything that might hint at identity, but the hands were gloved in black.

Next came the bonemeal, which was added to the blood with equal patience and mumbling, and Ruined Cloak began offering a pray to Mehrunes Dagon as he stirred the concoction with...his fingers? He'll never get the stain out, Horace absently thought, and concluded that there was a reason that daedra worshippers kept to themselves, because they were clearly odd individuals. And Horace was allowed to think that, because he wasn't here because he believed in Mehrunes' right to rule or some mumbo jumbo about righting the word by unleashing Oblivion. No, he wasn't a nut like these people, who he personally thought had ingested too much skooma or something, but he did know an opportunity when he saw one. The promise of Oblivion was compelling after the assassinations had occurred, and so he'd made a few subtle inquiries. Then the first Oblivion Gate had opened, and that's when he knew that playing both sides might be beneficial. He hadn't ever expected to be called on for more than spying, but here he was.

"Hear us, daedric prince," Ruined Cloak was saying. "Hear our call and summons. We open the portal for you." He was adding something to the bloody bowl at his feet, but Horace couldn't tell what it was. It looked like some kind plant, and then there was a black substance that looked like ink in the faint light. More words were chanted by the other two Dawn members, and then Ruined Cloak pulled out a scroll, and the words dripped from his lips with near ecstasy. These people were definitely not in a right state of mind, but as the chanting grew louder, and the scroll's magic began vibrating the room's air, Horace found himself drawn to the scene.

The hairs on the back of his neck began to rise, and he couldn't removed his eyes from the chalk circle, for the symbol seemed to glow a ghostly white. It was uncanny and rhythmic, the very air in Horace's lungs seeming to swell with dark promise. He had never seen such a ritual first hand, and as the room began to warm, he wondered if Oblivion drew closer.

Were those sparks of red that he'd seen jump about the symbol? He looked closer and almost took a step forward, but he kept himself still. The reality of his situation was crowding his mind, and as he came to accept that he might really house Mehrunes Dagon, he began to contemplate how he should speak and act. Be smooth and compliant. That was the best that he could come up with, and while he knew that his charms might work on his fellow mortals, would a daedric prince with years of experience buy his act? Of everything that he had to consider, he knew that whatever happened, he must not let Mehrunes question his devotion. He could gain from this, or he could lose his head, but life was filled with risks, and where he stood to prosper, there were also the deepest pitfalls.

The symbol now glowed like hot embers, and Ruined Cloak's voice was reaching a crescendo. The spell was working. It was actually working, and with a sharp snap, Horace found himself staring not at a darkened room, but a black palace that stood like a fortress against mountains.

Oblivion.

Apprehension gripped Horace, but he maintained his composure as the image sizzled and sent heat across his face. Every bone in his body felt the approach of a presence the likes of which he'd never seen, and he searched for its source. There was something dangerous about what was coming, as if chaos itself rose toward him, and as the portal flashed and then vanished, he narrowed his eyes, trying to see again in the sudden darkness. Some dark figure stood in the circle, but he could not make out who...

"My lord," Ruined Cloak respectfully greeted, and the man dropped to his knees. His head touched the floor, as did the other two Dawn members, and Horace prudently followed suit even if his vision hadn't cleared. He did not touch his head to the ground, for he'd never be so subservient, but he did lower his head as if in reverence, all the while peering up through his bangs to see if the lord of Oblivion looked anything like his statues.

"Where am I?" a deep voice questioned.

"The sewers beneath the Elven Gardens district in the capitol," Horace boldly answered. He heard a snort of derision.

"That explains the smell. Get off the ground, humans. You have done well, so there's no need to grovel. I save that for people whom I dislike." Horace raised his head, and there stood Mehrunes, but it was not what he expected. The prince looked oddly like...well, not exactly like an Imperial, but that was as close as he could generalize. The prince was human in form, with lightly tanned skin and the blackest of hair. It was pulled back into a ponytail that exposed a handsome face and black eyes that Horace avoided looking into because of their disquieting nature. A rich, green outfit adorned the prince's body, and even with the clothing, Horace could tell that the man was muscled, and apparently ready for action, for there was a sword at his waist.

"Who is this?" Mehrunes asked, referring to Horace as Ruined Cloak rose from the floor.

"Horace Pantrov, my lord," the Imperial answered, "and your host for the duration of your stay. As I understand it, you are a diplomat from Morrowind, and trust me, the court is anxious to receive you."

"Good," Mehrunes smirked, and then he returned his attention to Ruined Cloak. "How long have you been here?"

"Many days, my lord. We have been in hiding, preparing for your arrival. We shall remain here and await your pleasure while you live on the surface."

"I certainly wasn't planning on staying here," Mehrunes grunted with a glance around the sewer. "And what progress has been made on locating the artifact?"

"We cannot find it, my lord. I apologize, but it remains lost to us. With your lordship here, I'm sure that it will be recovered soon."

"And the heir?"

"We," Ruined Cloak began, but Horace was sick of being a spectator.

"He is not in the city, wherever he is," he broke in. "That much is certain, and from what I've heard, he's a bastard, so he won't be living well."

"That's all?" Mehrunes questioned, and the room was silent. "Get me out of this filthy sewer." Horace motioned toward the flight of stairs to his left and offered a small bow.

"This way, if you please. We've been expecting you." He had ensured that every servant was gone for the night, for he didn't want any rumors about Mehrunes' mysterious arrival. Instead, they would assume that he'd come through normal methods since they'd been out, but Horace had seen that they prepared food and drink before leaving. He wasn't sure what a hungry daedric lord was like, but he didn't want to find out.

"This is my home, and the servants shall return tomorrow," he stated. "They've already been told to treat you well, so they will be at your beck and call." He led the way, Mehrunes behind him, and he wondered if he felt hidden power within his visitor because he knew what lay beneath the disguise or because even in this form, Mehrunes emitted otherworldly strength. Either way, he was on his most cordial behavior as he paused outside of a bedroom door. "These are your quarters, my lord."

"The guest room," Mehrunes mused, and Horace momentarily stiffened. Black eyes dug into his, and the prince gave a cold smile. "You're ambitious, direct, and like control—very admirable, but see to it that you don't overstep your bounds, Imperial."

"Of course," Horace said with an apologetic bow. "If you'd like..."

"It would not do to give me the master bedroom," Mehrunes continued. "It would look suspicious, but I'm sure that you already knew that." He chuckled darkly and opened the door. "How soon am I expected at court?"

"Tomorrow or the next day would be best. There is a party tomorrow night that would be an excellent means of introduction, and I dare say that the most powerful people in the city will be there. They might be of use to you, and there is the matter of formality."

"Then we go tomorrow," Mehrunes agreed.

"Is there anything else that you require for the night, my lord?"

"No. I have...adjustments to make. We will discuss our work in the morning." Horace nodded and gave a short bow in parting. He did not want to spend more time than necessary around the prince, especially when he needed time to test how best to act around the daedra.

"It was an honor to meet you," he said as he rose from his bow to find Mehrunes examining his newly acquired room.

"Flattery won't get you anywhere with me, human," the prince stated. "Just a warning before you try that Imperial charm with me, because it won't work. I sense that you want something out of this arrangement." Horace stood silently, not denying his interest, and Mehrunes stared at him with a blank expression. "Do your job well, and I don't care what your personal motivations are. I want that artifact back, and I will get it. What do you want, Imperial?"

"Power and influence, my lord," he answered, and Mehrunes nodded approvingly.

"You'll get it if you serve me well." There was nothing else to say, and Horace sensed that he had silently been dismissed, so he left the prince to scrutinize his surroundings. There was a daedric prince in his house, and the idea still seemed foreign, but the lord of destruction had just offered him power, so he'd tolerate anything. Tomorrow the ruse began, and he wondered if Mehrunes would play his part well, for the prince did not seem patient or friendly. Hopefully no one offended him, and Horace would need to make sure that his reputation escaped any incidents intact.

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

Mehrunes Dagon studied his new surroundings with interest. There was a large bed at the room's far side, two windows either side of the headboard, and thick, red curtains obscured his view of the city below. The furnishings were obviously expensive, and a rack of wine had been moved into the room, as well as a wardrobe packed with the necessities of his fake identity. Compared to his own palace, it wasn't much, but it would be comfortable and suffice his needs, and luxury had never been high on his priority list.

Curious as to what the city looked like, he moved toward the window and observed the night sky, locked homes, and patrolling guards. It had been a long time since he'd witnessed such a domestic scene, and even longer since he'd lived among one. He would favor his martial society over this any day, but there was something about the air in Tamriel that he had always liked. It didn't stink of ash and fill his lungs with hot air as in Oblivion, for it was crisp and cool, and he rather liked it. The color of life was also drastically altered, but he had no preference on such things, for he was more likely to examine what kind of armor and weapons were in common use here. He was sure that they were inferior to dremora arms.

With interested eyes, Mehrunes would have stayed at the window and enjoyed the night air if his stomach hadn't growled. With a frown, he rested a hand on his torso and urged the sensation to stop, but it would not. Ah, the inconveniences of taking on a human form, for he was not used to hunger, and feeling something so mortal irked him to no end. At least Horace had put a platter of fruit in his room, which Mehrunes devoured in a matter of minutes. It wasn't that he never ate when in Oblivion, but he didn't need to, so he rarely indulged.

The red one is good, he decided as he ate the last apple. He'd forgotten what the fruit was called, for it wasn't seen in his realm. Many of the daedric princes designed their worlds to mimic that of

Tamriel, but he was not one of them. He was not Nocturnal, who had a love of mortal instruments and music, or Molag Bal, who liked Redguard dancing girls. No, he didn't need such things, and besides the lovely, cool air, there was nothing here to envy. Even when dremora came to Tamriel to explore and fight, they always returned to Oblivion, for most people here were soft and easy prey, whereas Oblivion's lands teemed with wild dangers. The lava and black halls were perfectly suited to their kind, as they were to Mehrunes, for he designed the land to reflect the brutal nature of his power.

He flexed his muscled arms and practiced a few dagger twirls to accustom himself to his new body, and then he looked over himself in the mirror. Perhaps someone might recognize this form, or even the chaos sphere dangling from his ear, but he doubted it. It had been centuries since he'd appeared like this: a man in his prime—no older than thirty-five—with features that were handsome if not a bit common for Imperils. He would blend in except for his tanned skin, but that could be explained away.

Mortals, he mused, considering what he must do here. He wanted to go outside and hunt down the thief right now, but he couldn't be seen acting suspiciously. Instead, he had to act like a diplomat, and even mingle with the upper class. Perhaps it would be amusing, although the word 'mingle' left him wanting to cringe. Even when he 'mingled' with the other princes, he wasn't terribly social, mostly listening and making blunt comments on their stories. Perhaps he'd get animated about a battle story or two of his own, but that brought him back to his main problem: boredom and bent up energy that was looking for a release. It had been a long time since he'd rained destruction on anyone, and he craved it like nothing else.

He might be closer to full release into this world if he had the other chaos sphere, which would amplify his power by untold measures. The sphere at his neck glowed intensely as he mentally reached out to find its twin, for neither were complete without the other, and he was their master to call them home. He probed the sleeping city, but there was only a faint glimmer of energy somewhere to the west, and it quickly vanished.

Why was it so difficult to find the other sphere? He did not understand, even as its presence tugged at the back of his mind. He had to get the artifact back, and not just because it was his and he was angry, but because it would make a difference in his battle for freedom. Being in Tamriel and being in Tamriel in full strength were very different, and he was faced with the former at the moment. If only he had...

"Damn," he hissed, feeling his anger rise, but it was late. Perhaps he might give his disgustingly human body a rest before tackling his mission tomorrow. Horace seemed very capable, but slippery. He wouldn't trust the Imperial with his sweet words, but he could use him to find leads on the artifact. Yes, he would soon be in possession of what was his—both the thief and the earring, and then he'd return to his domain, but only after having some fun. There was no cure for boredom and his tendencies like meddling in human affairs.

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

Portia was in the middle of pouring water into a mug when she felt the energy. It affected her with pain like when she was pulled toward Oblivion, but she did not feel sleepy or disorientated. It was a startling change, and suddenly her head snapped eastward. There—whatever was calling her was somewhere in that direction, on this plane.

Oh gods...

"Ma'am...ummm," a servant mumbled, and Portia realized that her cup was overflowing, sending water across the table and onto the floor.

"Sorry," she apologized, setting the pitcher aside. She didn't even drink what she'd poured as she rushed toward her bedroom. She had a very bad feeling that something terrible had just happened.