Trey in Mournhold, Chapter 9 Options

[treydog]

Chapter 9

The makeshift carrier I had built for the sword seemed light as a feather compared to my footsteps as I made my way to the Temple and the High Chapel where Almalexia waited. She cast her other-worldly gaze upon me and asked in that cool voice,

“Have you forged the blade of Nerevar? Does it burn with the flame of righteousness?”

It was in my mind that what it burned with was the essence of Dwemer alchemy, but I decided not to say so as I uncased the blade and showed it to the goddess. She levitated upward and spun about in her delight as she proclaimed,

“The blade is reforged! Our time has almost arrived. There is but one obstacle that stands in our way, though it pains me to believe it is so. Sotha Sil. I cannot count the times I have fought by the Magician's side. It was he who stood with me the day I fought in Mournhold and banished Mehrunes Dagon to the depths of Oblivion. It was Sotha Sil who was able to delve the mysteries of Kagrenac's tools, and raise me to my rightful station. Now, though, the Tinkerer has become unstable.”

I found it interesting that she admitted that her “divinity” was actually the result of Sotha Sil’s meddling with these “Tools”- whatever they were. And if the source of his power was the same as Almalexia’s, I was willing to believe that he had become unstable. Of even more significance for my immediate purposes was the fact that this was just the sort of information Helseth had asked me to uncover. Therefore, I pursued the issue, inquiring as to the goddess’ reasons for being concerned about Sotha Sil. Her voice became distant, as if she contemplated things only she could see or recall.

“Once, Sotha Sil was like we are, the Lord Vivec and I. He spent time among these mortals, instructing them, counseling them, protecting them from harm. He may have loved them more than any of us, though I know not why. It has been many years since any have seen the Sorcerer, though. Many more since he took initiates into his service. I believe he grew weary of mortal imperfections, and retired to his Clockwork City, where he reshapes life, and some say the very world, into an image he finds pleasing.”

After a pause, she continued,

“His lair is as puzzling as the mind of the Sorcerer himself. Ever-moving, ever-changing, its levers and gears responding to its master's will alone. It is here he performs his profane experiments, aided by his magic and tainted by his madness. I have suspected for some time that the Lord Sotha Sil had entered Sheogorath's realm. His visits have been more and more infrequent, and punctuated by violent fits of anger. He began to speak of the fall of the Tribunal and the return of the Old Gods. But Sotha Sil is not a Seer; he is a Maker. He shapes the Here and the Now, while only I have been privy to what is to come. I know this...he is no longer the man he once was.”

It was disconcerting to hear Almalexia speak at such length and so frankly, when her pronouncements were normally cryptic. In one way, it was as if I was hearing one side of an argument that had raged for many years; in another way, it was as if she felt compelled to unburden herself of all her fears and suspicions, but had found no one in whom to confide. And yet, even if her words were true, they still seemed carefully crafted to show her in the best light. For example, the phrasing about “violent fits of anger” was such that it could apply to either Sotha Sil or the goddess herself. And Galsa Andrano had told me that Almalexia had changed, had become angry and vengeful. Even as I contemplated the implications and undercurrents, Almalexia seemed to reach a decision. She straightened herself and brought her gaze back from whatever distant sights she had considered. Her voice harsh with emotion, she said,

“He is completely mad. It was his creations, these Fabricants, that attacked my city. This once great man is now a danger to Mournhold and to all of Morrowind. He must be stopped, Trey.”

She looked at me steadily and continued,

“I believe it is your calling to stop Sotha Sil's mad schemings. I do not know that he can be reasoned with, Trey, but it is possible. If he cannot be, you must end his life. Though the idea saddens me, it is best for Morrowind...and it is best for him, as well. You have the power to do this. The Trueflame can kill a god, if wielded by one of noble intent. Steel yourself, Trey, and do what must be done. I will send you to his Clockwork City now, if you are prepared. Good luck, Nerevarine.”

[treydog]

The king awoke in darkness, uncertain of what had disturbed his rest. He reached toward the lamp on the bedside table- or rather, he tried to do so. For some reason, his arm would not move. And when he tried to call out, he found that he could not speak, either. A whisper of sound came to his ears and a dark-clad figure moved into his field of vision.

I watched Helseth quietly for several minutes before I spoke.

“It was not easy to come up with the proper combination of ingredients, your majesty. It was a difficult matter, finding a poison that would paralyze the vocal cords and limbs, while leaving the victim free to breathe.”

His eyes darted from side to side and I anticipated the question that he was unable to ask.

“You wish to know how it was done? Very well, we have some time, and I am not a cruel man. In the throne room, I noticed that you have a habit of tipping your writing quill with your tongue. That is not a good idea for someone who has reason to fear poison.”

Seating myself in a chair beside the bed, I continued:

“Your staff is very careful to check all of your food- but they don’t bother with your ink. As I imagine you are aware, ink-making, alchemy, and poisons have many features in common. And that may be a fortunate thing for you. I say ‘may’ because you now have a choice.”

I removed a by-now familiar rolled parchment from my pocket and showed it to the king.

“Perhaps you recognize this? It is a writ for the murder of a certain Breton by the name of Trey. You will notice that I have added a line- the bit that says, ‘I hereby rescind this order.’ And now we arrive at your choice. I don’t wish for you to sign this paper- after all, how could you? No, what I desire is your agreement. If you give me that agreement, you will live. If not, you will die. I talked earlier about the difficulty involved in compounding the poison you ingested. I should probably point out that it will stop your heart and lungs eventually … unless you receive the antidote. Nod your head if you understand.”

When he gave a jerky nod, I continued.

“You sent the Dark Brotherhood to murder me because you believed I might be a threat to your control of Morrowind. You assumed that, because the Emperor had taken an interest in me, that I might be dangerous. And now you have discovered that you were right- I am a threat and I am dangerous. But the irony is this- if you had not sent your pet assassins after me, I would never have set foot in Mournhold. All I ever wanted was to be left alone! What I am now is what the Emperor and you have made me with your paranoia and your endless plotting!”

My voice was rising, and I took several breaths to calm myself.

“So. The agreement. I want you promise to leave me alone. And if I am ever so fortunate as to have a family, you will also leave them alone. I have already demonstrated that I can breach your defenses if I must. If another assassin comes after me, I will finish this. On the other hand, if you accept my terms, I will leave Mournhold and never return. If you agree to this bargain, I will give you the antidote. Do you agree?”

Helseth fixed me with a glare and considered my words for some time. Though I hated him, I had to grant that he did not lack courage. He had no way of knowing how long he had before the poison’s final effects took hold, and yet he waited as if he had all the time in the world. At last, he blinked his eyes and nodded once. I released the breath I had not realized I was holding and said,

“Very well. The antidote is in the ink I used to amend your writ of execution. I am afraid you will literally have to eat your words. However, I will tear it into small pieces. As I said, I am not a cruel man.”

And one other thing happened- the most important thing. After my last “interview” with Helseth, I went to Ebonheart and from there to Vivec. As I walked, I considered the perversity of love. Almalexia had loved being a goddess, had loved the power it gave her. At first, she had tried to serve her worshippers. But, as the power waned, she became more and more obsessed with her own mortality. Even so, the people of Mournhold loved her- or at least, their image of her. Sotha Sil loved the idea of perfection, and tried to make himself so. In the end, he lost all sense of what it meant to be alive. In that, at least, I agree with Azura- I think he welcomed death when it came. Barenziah loved her son, Helseth, and expressed that love by manipulating the Emperor into making him King of Morrowind. And she wanted him to be safe, so she filled his head with stories of plots and intrigues and knives in the dark. So well did he learn her lessons that he became paranoid and murderous, afraid of every shadow and willing to believe any story of a nefarious plot. And what of me? Who did I love? And who loved me? No one- save my poor, dead mother, lost to me all these years. In that fragile state of mind, I wandered back to Aurane Frernis’ Apothecary shop, hoping the sight of a Breton girl and the sound of her voice would cheer me. Let me be honest- I hoped that she would perhaps see me as more than an errand boy. But when I walked into the shop with a tentative smile and a friendly greeting, she just glanced at me coldly and said,
“I have no further tasks for you at this time…. What was your name again? The Roland’s Tears you brought me were quite sufficient.”

The smile died on my lips and I turned quickly to the door, sightlessly blundering into the passage beyond. I slammed into someone, who spoke sharply, saying,

“Watch where you’re going, you idiot! If you’ve spilled my paints, I’ll use you to mop them up!”

Recovering, I saw a woman with green eyes and red hair- red hair and a temper to match, if the look on her face was any indication. Still, there was a hint of a smile on her face, along with lines that said she laughed often- but there was sadness, too, hidden deep. And if you think that no one could have seen all that in a single look, I am sorry to have to disagree, for I was there and know what I saw. When I did not respond, she glanced at the closed door behind me and softened a bit. Again with that slight smile, she repeated,

“Oh, yes, you are an idiot. Aurane is shallow; all she will ever see in you is a poor Breton she can manipulate and then cast aside.”

Stung by the accuracy of her words, I bent to gather her scattered packages and mumbled, rather rudely,

“And who might you be and what do you see?”

With a laugh she said,

“Baria Portia Doyella at your service. And as to what I see, that is for me to know. Now good day.”

I groaned. An Imperial! Of course she would be an Imperial! Who else could be so arrogant, so rude, so blasted right about everything? And as I stood fuming, she took her packages from my unresisting hands and disappeared down the hall. But she had given me her name and it was not hard for a thief like me to find out where she lived in the St. Delyn canton. And I found reasons to visit the city and to go where I might see her- from a distance. And of course a great many other things happened, of which I have written elsewhere. And I still found excuses to look for her and, eventually, to speak with her.

Until this day, I have told no one but the king of the death of Almalexia, who called herself a goddess. Whether any in the Temple know or suspect that she is gone, I cannot say, although I imagine Fedris Hler knows exactly what passed. Obviously, the politics of the situation will ensure that the priests deny any rumors. As for Helseth, he is a Dunmer, a member of a race with long lives and long memories. Although there has been no formal acknowledgement of our agreement, I think we understand one another. At least, the Dark Brotherhood has not troubled me in all the long years since. I stay away from Mournhold and he stays away from Vvardenfell. And I am careful of what I eat and have friends who let me know of any strangers that come around. It is not the most restful way to live, but I like to imagine that the king loses the odd hour or so of sleep over me, as well. As to why I commit these volatile words to paper at last, it is because I have a son now, one who carries my name and may someday carry the burden of my deeds. He has a right to know.

As I close my journal at last, the woman who- beyond hope, beyond reason, beyond imagining- came to love me; the queen of my heart, calls me away from my writing and I have to ask her,

“So, sweet, do you still think I am an idiot?”

A smile lights her face and warms my heart as she says,

“Sometimes. But you can’t help it. You are a man, after all.”

Here Ends the Story of Trey in Mournhold

This post has been edited by treydog: Feb 10 2007, 12:52 AM