Chapter 29: Just Out of Reach
Breaking her had been the initial goal, and it still was, but Mehrunes Dagon found himself sitting and pondering a shift in his plans—an alteration to the tone and context of his desire for revenge. Breaking someone meant seeing them crack under pressure, beg for mercy, and forsake hope. That was how he'd always understood and applied the term, but there were other ways to break someone, and for entirely different reasons.
No, Mehrunes frowned. The reasons hadn't changed, but the blind wrath that had compelled him to dream of torturing Portia was waning, and in its place, something else grew and gnawed at him. To destroy her spirit and see her dead had a certain appeal to it, but once he killed the spirit, she would just be another contemptible mortal, and there were enough of those as it was—way too many. If only there was a way to bend her to his will or somehow tame her for a lesson in humility!
Mehrunes paced across his bedroom floor with a thoughtful frown, the idea of taming Portia tantalizingly ludicrous, and for that very reason, death would likely be the only acceptable end result if he wished to preserve his sovereignty and honor, unless...Molag Bal. Memories of sitting about with his brother in Coldharbour surfaced, the two having had many discussions when sharing a mutual interest in Jagar Tharn.
"Mehrunes, you and your harping on destruction and death get damn annoying. I love pain and suffering as much as you, but look at the spirit over there. He hates me with everything that's left of his being, but he still bows to me. I make him bow, and for that, he respects and fears me. His soul belongs to me, but it's not broken. You like to break things once and dance on your enemies' graves, but with the way that I do things, I have satisfaction for eternity."
Mehrunes hated when one of the other princes had a point. He despised listening to them, but occasionally, some of his equally chaotic kin expressed interesting sentiments. Of course, he wasn't obsessed with capturing souls like Molag Bal, but there might be one soul worth keeping, and the thought of her head bowed before him was absolute bliss. His mind drifted over the scar on her hip. She was his, wasn't she? The thought made him smirk as his boots dropped to the floor. Let mere death be delivered to other, less deserving beings.
They're all annoying mortals, his mind whispered, and he growled softly as he imagined the ignorant, secure world in which these humans dwelled. Soon his name would lift from quivering tongues, and the blood of the last Septim would flow from the Imperial walls. Indeed, what could stop him? The emperor and his kind had proven a disappointing challenge, for a few assassins had all but destroyed them, and faced directly with the prince, they'd probably cower or attempt to hold their heads high while he lobbed them off.
So many weaklings, so little time.
Not her, Mehrunes reminded himself, removing his shirt and tossing it onto his bed.
"My lord," Horace politely interrupted, stepping into the room. "Ruined Cloak will return shortly." He'd better. The amount of energy that Portia had released today was astounding, which convinced Mehrunes that she had worn the sphere for some time, and maybe she still did. But she was naked. If she'd been wearing the sphere during their encounter, surely he'd have seen it. What if the sphere had someone fractured during her teleportation between dimensions? Travel between planes could have extremely adverse effects, and with pure chaos being thrown into the mix, it was a recipe for disaster in a common mortal's case. If a piece of the sphere was stuck inside of her, or if its energy had diffused into her...Damn, but that would be a nightmare to solve, but it would explain why he couldn't isolate the artifact when she channeled power.
"Be prepared to house new company when Ruined Cloak returns," Mehrunes ordered.
"As you wish, my lord."
"Good. And the elf's body?" Horace remained neutral but for a slight curl of disgust to his lips.
"It's being disposed of as we speak," the man announced. "Although its condition is questionable." Mehrunes glanced at the man with an indifferent attitude, knowing full well that Ruined Cloak had habits that most deemed...unsavory.
"Just get rid of it," he dismissed, and while Horace gave a light bow, Mehrunes knew that the relaxed expression was well-trained. If the empire was destroyed by his forces at the end of this, opportunists like the Imperial would exploit the situation, and in that sense, Horace did have much to gain from the current arrangements; however, Mehrunes could offer him nothing concrete except money until then. The greatest rewards would not be given but taken by those who managed to survive the onslaught, and Mehrunes could not guarantee that Horace would not be mistakenly killed during the upcoming battles, unless the man openly sided with Oblivion, that was. Mehrunes had a distinct feeling that the Imperial would never do such a thing unless victory was assured.
"My lord, I must ask you question," Horace said, straightening from his bow. "If Ruined Cloak is a vampire, why doesn't he feed like a normal one would? By normal, I mean puncture wounds. The elf's body was drained through cutting, and I wouldn't have questioned it except for the goblet of blood found in my basement. If your servant is feeding, kindly tell him not to leave evidence where my employees might see it. There is already gossip."
"He's not a vampire," Mehrunes shared, sitting on the edge of his bed with elbows resting across his knees. "And I thought that your servants were forbidden from entering the basement."
"They are," Horace bristled, but voice kept steady and amiable. "But servants will play when the master's away." Mehrunes snorted. It wasn't his problem if Horace couldn't control his own workers. The prince had never had major problems in that area. "Very well," Horace finally spoke, understanding the silence. "I'll personally see that the matter is handled."
"Good," Mehrunes said, looking at his human toes with their lack of sharp nails. He was coming to be comfortable in this body, although the lack of four arms was still an inconvenience.
"Not a vampire," Horace mused aloud as he turned for the door. "Something worse I imagine." Mehrunes smirked and picked dirt out from beneath his fingernails.
"Something undefined that should have died long ago," he answered. "You're dismissed, human." The door shut behind Horace as Mehrunes reclined on his bed, a knife twirling between his fingers as he thought about upcoming events.
***************
The body was unceremoniously dumped into an open sewer canal, Gilthan's once richly colored clothing floating like a garish ornament among half-eaten foodstuffs, broken boxes, and rags. Dead eyes stared at nothing as the corpse began its journey, and the two cloaked men who had so carelessly disposed of the former mage dismissed the tragedy as so much trash.
"What about this?" one of them asked, holding aloft a silver ring that bore the strange seal of a wreath encircling a splay of feathers.
"Get rid of it," the other replied. "There's to be no evidence that he was here." Wordlessly, the ring was tossed into the sewer along with the corpse, the jewelry landing on a puff of fabric near the elf's head, blond strands of hair brushing against it. Then the Mythic Dawn turned their backs without a thought as to where the corpse would end, and Gilthan became a meaningless memory in their bloody history. The rats would probably gnaw on the flesh as the body decomposed, or perhaps a beggar would dare to pull it from the canal to search for money. It didn't matter, and so they left, and the body floated onward.
The corpse did not have far to go, for the grating at the end of the sewers would not allow it to continue into the open waters beyond. Golden skin pressed against bars, and a large mud crab tentatively picked at one of the hands. The movement jostled the corpse, and with the shifting of fabric, the silver ring dropped from its perch and hit the crab's head, bouncing free to pass through the grating and into a shallow drivel of fouled water. The water moved but slowly, and the ring with it, light becoming brighter as the hours passed until with a small clink, the ring was exposed to fresh air and dwindling daylight as it tumbled onto a rock.
"What's this?" a shy voice asked, and a thin hand reached out to snatch up the ring. "You're pretty." Ragbag Buntara kept tossing the ring from hand to hand as her wrinkled face beamed in delight. Her luck was looking better all the time, and as she made her way back to the Temple District, she was convinced that nothing could ruin her mood. This trinket would fetch her a nice sum, maybe even several day's worth of food, and so long as none of the other beggars stole from her, there were no worries to be had.
"And where did you find that, citizen?" Buntara froze, her eyes widening in stunned horror as she turned to find the infamous Captain Lex staring her down. The man could make the blood freeze in her veins with one look.
"I...I..."
"Captain!" The officer groaned, and Buntara took the opportunity to toss the ring to the ground in surrender and run. If she didn't have it, he'd leave her alone, and what did a single ring matter anyway? It lay forgotten as she sprinted as fast as her weathered legs would allow, and behind her, the sounds of argument assured her that she'd escaped.
"Mandila, I don't have time for this."
"But, sir..."
*************
Horace was annoyed by the whole situation, but Ruined Cloak would never defy his master to humor the man. With the Imperial diplomat, it was always: "Be subtle. Find the sphere without drawing attention to ourselves." However—and Ruined Cloak suspected that even Horace was coming to realize this—the sphere would elude them if they didn't exert some force. Subterfuge had narrowed their search, but now that it had, there was little else to be gained by making contacts and asking questions, for the only people with useful answers were those who were most dangerous to their goals: namely Arelius and Portia. Mehrunes wanted to take Portia, and even though time still remained before the ideal departure window, his master was convinced that the woman personally kept the sphere, and the servant was inclined to agree. So he would search the house and see if the sphere could be found, and if not, Mehrunes was determined to act. Whatever had happened at the baths had certainly solidified his lord's intentions.
Ruined Cloak stood in a heavily shadowed corner of a courtyard as he pondered the state of his master, for the prince had returned from the palace with a troubled and aroused air. There had been a comment about the woman harnessing chaos, then nothing but an order to investigate the enemy manor, and despite his lord's control, Ruined Cloak sensed the prince's frustration. He had, of course, magically sought the chaos sphere, and while Portia possessed an abnormally charged spirit similar to Mehrunes, he could never pinpoint the artifact on her. It was possible that she'd merged with the chaotic force until distinguishing the two became impossible, for that was how Mehrunes' aura functioned, but the only way to know for certain would be to interrogate Portia.
Horace knew nothing of this. The human didn't even know the extent of the sphere's power or why Mehrunes did not just want it, but needed it. The prince had never spoken of it directly to Ruined Cloak either, but the man could put the pieces together himself, and he knew the spheres' history. Yes, it was a complicated matter, and Portia was the key to solving the theft, as the last few days had proven. She either had the sphere or knew where it was, and risking exposure by taking her wasn't nearly as problematic as before since his subordinates had reported a disturbance in the house.
The dunmer assassin. There was no proof, but Ruined Cloak trusted his instincts, and they were telling him that the enemy was closing in.
He waited as most of Arelius's servants departed for the night, and Lucretia was also preparing to leave, the shadow watching her as she threw a cloak about her shoulders and went to visit her sick sister. Horace had done his part well then—not that food poisoning was a very difficult task, but the man liked to elevate his contributions. That same Imperial bravado had been lacking when he'd seen Ruined Cloak cleaning bloody hands in the kitchen, which made the hooded figure smile as he recalled tilting his head to allow Horace a glimpse of the blood running down his jaw. A blanch and grimace later, Horace had left to complete his errand. Arrogant fool.
Ruined Cloak strode up a set of stairs toward the balcony where he'd seen Portia spend her evenings, and entered her room with little trouble. A few, quick words and the doors unlocked themselves, allowing him access to her belongings. Deft fingers examined each surface in a thorough manner that Tamil would have appreciated, but nothing was found except for a few books on Oblivion and Mehrunes Dagon. Ruined Cloak was surprised to find that many of the books were written in daedric, for his master rarely spoke of the woman's talent, but he could see why the prince had a budding obsession with the female.
With his usual stoic patience, Ruined Cloak realized that there was nothing to find in Portia's chambers, and a quick spell revealed that the area was devoid of powerful artifacts. The lack of progress would be scoffed at by Horace with his desire to keep clean hands, but Ruined Cloak only offered a thin smile as he entered a hallway, several of his fingers quietly twitching as he wondered what else could be found in the manor.
It wasn't long before he was facing an unmarked and locked door—not the study, he quickly recalled from previous observations, but a part of the house he'd rarely seen accessed. An image of a dark shadow slipping from the walls came to mind, and he quickly entered the vacant room, curiosity and predation curling lightly about his muscles. He smelled brandy and the sour taint of a restore-fatigue potion, which he quickly located sitting uncorked on a mostly vacant bookshelf. Knives littered a nearby table, a black outfit was flopped over the back of a chair, and bandages and ointment lay on the unmade bed. Clearly the servants didn't enter here, and the occupant had a penchant for violence if the few reading selections and copious equipment were any indication.
His eyes were drawn toward a broken wax seal that was pinned to the desk with a knife, and in a rare display of emotion, his mouth pressed into a thin, displeased line. He knew that seal with its boar's head, and that Lenicon would dare to betray his master brought on a bout of indignity that had his blade itching for use. What an unfaithful follower, but the man would soon learn his lesson, for there was only one reason that this seal would be in the hands of Blades.
He was seen with a dark elf at the theater.
Ruined Cloak tilted his head to the side and ran a gloved finger over the wax's raised rim. The elf had been at Horace's, and now this. He could imagine the woman's blood on the tip of his tongue, just as the Altmer's had been only hours before, but the desire did not make him anxious. No, things happened in their own time, and the Dawn was destined to win this conflict. If he remembered anything of his mother before she'd died, it was her telling him that good things come to those who wait. She had been correct, for once, and Ruined Cloak stepped away from the seal, now seeing Tamil's identity on everything in the room.
He left the manor with his newfound knowledge, already planning the swiftest way to reach Tamil's room in a conflict. His master would not deny him a personalized target, and perhaps the dunmer would return tonight in time for the shock. Portia could be secretly taken from her room, and Tamil could be killed in her bed. He was counting on the element of surprise, but what he did not notice was that he'd disrupted the woman's room. A thread had been gently strung across the foot of the door, but not anymore.
*****************
Mehrunes leaned against the alley wall with Ruined Cloak at his side. The other two assistants were keeping an eye on the opposite side of the manor, and with the stars twinkling above, they waited. The plan was simple: Ruined Cloak and Mehrunes were going inside through the courtyard, whereupon Portia would be ensnared in a spell, and Mehrunes would carry her out. There would be a lookout from below, and Lucretia had just returned looking haggard. Given another few hours, the women would be asleep or at least in their respective chambers. No one would hear anything.
"The dunmer isn't here," Ruined Cloak commented.
"You can always come back for her head later," Mehrunes answered, far more interested in watching the light inside Portia's bedroom. He could imagine her undressing and rewrapping her wound, climbing into bed with one of her books to study until her eyes drooped. Head tilted against the wall, and arms folded across his chest, he extended the scene as he watched a guard ignorantly pass the alleyway. It was a quiet night, and no one would be the wiser to the prize soon to be slung over his shoulder. He could only dream about the woman's reaction when all was revealed, but perhaps he'd let the others question her first before making himself known. He enjoyed his banter with her as Cassius.
"My lord," Ruined Cloak spoke, but Mehrunes' response was delayed as he dwelled on images of Portia's bare body with its crisscrossing collection of scars.
"What?" he roughly asked.
"There are guests." Mehrunes' eyebrows rose in question as he noted the three robed figures knocking on the manor's front door. This was not part of the plan, and he hated unwanted mortals, especially snotty mages, which these three resembled. Sharp canines grazed his lips as they pulled into a frown, and he glared as if the new arrivals would be warded off by his unseen anger.
"The University," he snarled, the idea of delaying Portia's defeat grating against his nerves.
"Perhaps they are looking for the Altmer," Ruined Cloak suggested.
"At this time of night?" Mehrunes huffed. "Unlikely." He didn't need to mention Traven, because both of them were already thinking about the man and his preparations for an artifact.
"If they're going to move the sphere, this might be an opportunity," Ruined Cloak continued, and Mehrunes felt his annoyance spike, but not at his servant.
"No," he staunchly refused. "She wouldn't hand it over. If she's had it this long..." He couldn't believe that Portia would surrender her claim to Traven. She'd taken the sphere in personal retaliation, and the artifact was powerful, so no one in their right mind would easily release it, least of all someone with her willpower. There was something else at work here, and he didn't like it. "Let's see how long they stay."
*****************
Portia nibbled on a sweet roll as she approached her room, and heard Lucretia berating a servant for tracking dirt into the house. The argument was lost on her as she worried over where Gilthan could be, for she'd been unable to contact him, and nothing that she'd done to locate him had worked. After seeking him at the University, she'd asked several beggars for help, but they were so high strung that they'd either shied away from her or mentioned murder. Her peace of mind would have been better off having never asked them, and even the sight of a waiting bed did nothing to instill calm as her door gently swung open.
A hand traveled upward toward her ear, the fingertips brushing against a smooth orb, and her stomach tightening in discomfort. She wasn't even going to think about today—not with Gilthan's absence hanging overhead, and there was also Arelius, who'd mentioned worsening relations with the University. The man was still out at this hour, and Lucretia had just returned from her sister's home—something about food poisoning.
Portia settled into a chair and loosened her hair, trying to focus on absolutely nothing as the candle beside her burnt lower and lower. It was late. Perhaps she'd best turn in for the night.
Crack. Crack. Crack.
The urgent knocking startled her, and Portia automatically leapt from her seat, the pounding continuing in harsh demand until she whipped open the door. One of the younger servants stood before her, hands nervously fidgeting with the hem of his tunic, and Portia vaguely recalled something about Lucretia having taken him in after an accident.
"My lady says that you need to leave," the boy hurriedly conveyed, and then Portia heard it: the sound of conversation drifting up the stairs. Lucretia was talking with someone, or multiple someones. "Please, ma'am," the servant continued. "She says that you mustn't go downstairs."
"Thank you," Portia replied, sending the boy away with a nod. Goblin's gall, but what the hell was happening now? She rushed into her room and strapped her sword to her belt, followed by throwing her books and some clothing into a bag that she slung over her shoulder. She wondered if Lucretia was safe, if maybe her sword would be needed, but no, if Lucretia had told her to leave, it was for an important reason. The woman wasn't one to overreact.
"My husband isn't home, gentlemen," Lucretia's voice floated through Portia's open door, the woman's volume amplified for her benefit. Men? Mythic Dawn? Guards? Portia was about to leave by way of her balcony when the same servant from before burst into her room, freckled face flush from running.
"Not that way, my lady," he gasped, holding a cloak out for her. "Come with me."
"Is Lucretia alright?" Portia demanded, wrapping the cloak about herself.
"She's fine," the boy assured. "But the mages aren't too happy with her." Portia paused, but only barely as the boy led her down a small, spiraling stairwell built for servant access to the kitchen.
"What do they want?" Portia questioned as her guide cracked open a side door. It was the entrance that servants used when coming and going from work.
"My lady didn't say," the boy apologized. "She merely told me to get you out like we discussed." Portia frowned and looked over her shoulder to gauge her options. So Arelius and Lucretia had made arrangements without her knowledge again. Well, perhaps it was for the best this time, even though she hated to admit it. "You're my mum, okay?" the boy said, sounding terrified at the thought of her refusing.
"Is Lucretia alone with the mages?" Portia asked.
"Please, ma'am," the boy pleaded. "I don't want to get in trouble. We must leave."
"...Okay..." Portia reluctantly agreed, taking the boy's outstretched hand in her own. They exited the manor holding hands, a hood pulled up over her face as the boy nervously chatted about a frog that he'd recently caught. When they were a safe distance from the house, Portia kneeled and placed two hands on the boy's shoulders while attempting to give him a reassuring smile.
"You did a wonderful job," she told him. "Was there another part of the plan?"
"No, ma'am," the boy shook his head. "My lady said that you'd know where to go from here." Portia puzzled over the comment before she remembered the old, iron key that she always kept on her person for emergencies. She could still hear Arelius's warning as she stood and rummaged about her belt for it.
"Give Lucretia a message for me," she instructed. "Tell her thank you, and that I'll be waiting to hear what happened."
"Yes, ma'am." And the boy scurried off to retrace his steps to the manor while Portia prepared herself for a night among the dead. The days of a comfortable existence might be gone for some time.
********************
"You do not come into my home and make demands!" Lucretia crossly declared. The front door was again open, and the mages stumbled outside. "You tell Traven that if he wishes to talk, he can come personally and not send his dogs at an inconvenient hour." The mages began to argue, but the woman would apparently have none of it. She placed hands on delicate hips and held her head high, a condescending sweep of her eyes silencing the unwelcome visitors.
"Ma'am, we are following orders of the highest degree," one of the mages said. "And we merely wish to speak with Lady Augustine. She is needed at the University." Mehrunes snorted as the words barely reached his ears, the heated argument being kept to a minimum volume for the sake of propriety.
"You'd best leave before my husband returns," Lucretia continued. "He will not be as lenient as I for your intrusion, and no one by the name Portia Augustine lives at this house. She's been gone for days." Really? Mehrunes wondered at the lie and almost laughed at how pathetic the mages were when the woman sent them away. She neatly spun on her heel and shut the door in their faces, but the visitors did not leave. Oh, they appeared to vacate the area, but Ruined Cloak's sharp eyes said otherwise.
"They're staying," he warned. "And they're fanning out—casting spells."
"Fetchers," Mehrunes growled. "We can't have an audience."
"Death is a sure means of secrecy, but I don't recommend it in this case." Ruined Cloak was correct in his assessment, causing Mehrunes to inwardly fume at the University's meddling.
"We'll wait to see if and when they leave." But they didn't. For the entire night, the mages kept their vigil, and when dawn came, both sides were left empty-handed. There had been no signs of life in the manor but for the exit of two servants, a woman and child, and that was hardly noteworthy. Mehrunes and his servants returned home as the dawn began to creep into the sky, but the mages remained, making themselves an enemy that no one in their right mind would want.
