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World of Tamriel Books - The Real Barenziah, Part IX |
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Return to Part VIII of this series.
As Symmachus had predicted, the theft of the Staff of Chaos
had few short term consequences. The current emperor, Uriel Septim, sent some rather stiff messages expressing shock and
displeasure at the staff's disappearance and urging that Symmachus make every effort to locate its whereabouts and
communicate this to the newly appointed Imperial BattleMage, Jagar Tharn, in whose hands the matter had been placed.
"Tharn!" Symmachus snarled in disgust and frustration, as
he paced about the small chamber where Barenziah, now some months pregnant, was sitting serenely, knitting a baby
blanket. "Jagar Tharn, indeed. I wouldn't give him directions for crossing the street."
"What have you against this person, husband?"
"I just don't trust that mongrel elf. Part wood elf, part
dark elf and part only the gods know what. All the worst qualities of all his combined races. No one knows much about
him. Claims he was born in Valenwood, of a wood elf mother. Seems to have been everywhere since--"
Barenziah, sunk in the contentment of pregnancy had only
been humoring Symmachus thus far, but this piqued her interest. "Nightingale? Could he have been this Jagar Tharn,
disguised?"
"Nay. Human blood seems to be the one missing component in
Tharn's ancestry." To Symmachus, Barenziah knew, that was a flaw. Symmachus despised wood elves as lazy thieves and
high elves as effete intellectuals, but he admired humans, especially Bretons, for their combination of pragmatism,
intelligence and energy.
"Nightingale's of Ebonheart, of the House of Mora, I'll be
bound -- that house has had human blood since her time. Ebonheart was jealous that the Staff was laid here when
Tiber Septim took the Horn from us."
Barenziah sighed a little. The rivalry between Ebonheart
and Mournhold reached back almost to the dawn of history. Once the two had been one, all the mines within held by Clan
R'Aathim, whose royal house held the High Kingship of Morrowind. Ebonheart had split into two separate city
states, Ebonheart and Mournhold, when Queen Lian's twin sons, Moraelyn's grandsons, had been left as the heirs. At
the same time the office of High King had been vacated in favor of a temporary War Leader to be named by a council in
times of provincial emergency. Still, Ebonheart remained jealous of her prerogatives as the eldest city state of
Morrowind, still first among equals, and claimed that guardianship of the Horn should rightfully be entrusted to
the elder. Mournhold responded that Moraelyn himself had placed the Horn in the keeping of the god Ephen, and Mournhold
was unarguably the god's birthplace.
"Why not tell Jagar Tharn of your suspicions then? Let him
recover the thing. As long as it's safe, what does it matter where it lies?"
Symmachus stared at her without comprehension. "It
matters," he said softly, "but not that much," he added. "Certainly not enough for you to concern yourself further
over it. You just tend to your -- knitting."
In a few more months Barenziah produced a fine son, whom they
named Helseth. Nothing more was heard of the Staff or "Nightingale." If Ebonheart held it, certainly they did not
boast of it. The years passed swiftly and happily. Helseth grew tall and strong. He was much like his father, whom he
worshipped. When Helseth was eight years old Barenziah bore a second child, a daughter, to Symmachus' great delight.
Helseth was his pride, yet little Morgiah held his heart.
Shortly after Morgiah's birth word came that a plot
against the Emperor had been unmasked and that the chief co-conspirators Jagar Tharn and Ria Silmane were dead.
Symmachus rejoiced at this news. "I told you so," he crowed. Yet thereafter relations with the Empire slowly
deteriorated, for no apparent reason. Taxes were raised and quotas increased with each passing year. Symmachus felt that
the Emperor suspected him of having had a hand in the plot and sought to prove his loyalty by making every effort to
comply with the increasing demands. He lengthened working hours and raised taxes and even made up some of the
difference from both crown funds and their own private holdings. Yet still the demands increased and commoners and
nobles alike grew restless.
"I want you to take the children and journey yourself to
Imperial City," Symmachus at last said in desperation. "You must make the Emperor listen, else all Mournhold will
be in revolt come spring. You have a way with men, you always did." He forced a smile.
Barenziah forced a smile of her own. "Even you."
"Yes, even me," he said dully.
"Both children?" Barenziah looked over toward the corner
windows where Helseth was strumming a lute and singing a duet with his little sister. Helseth was fifteen, Morgiah just
eight.
"Perhaps they'll soften his heart. Besides, it's time that
Helseth was presented at the Imperial Court."
"Perhaps, but that's not your true reason. You do not think
you can keep them safe here. If that's the case, then you're not safe here either. Come with us," Barenziah urged.
He took her hands in his. "Barenziah. Love. Heart of my heart
if I leave now, there'll be nothing for us to return to. I'll be all right. I can take care of myself, and I can do it
better if I need not fear for you and our children."
Barenziah laid her head against his chest. "Just remember
that we need you. We can do without the rest if we have each other. Empty hands and empty bellies are easier to bear than
an empty heart. My foolishness has brought us to this pass."
"If so, 'tis not that so a place to be." His eyes rested
fondly on their carefree children. "And none of us shall go without. I cost you everything once, Barenziah, I and Tiber
Septim. Without my aid the Septim dynasty would never have begun. I helped its rise. I can bring about its fall. You
may tell Uriel Septim that, and that my patience is bounded."
Barenziah gasped. Symmachus was not given to empty
threats. She'd no more imagined that he would ever turn against the Empire than that the old house wolf lying by the
hearth would turn on her.
"How?" she demanded, but he shook his head. "Better that you
know not," he said. "Just tell him that, if he prove recalcitrant, and do not fear. He's Septim enough that he
will not kill the messengers."
The late winter journey to Imperial City was an easy one.
One of the things the Septim Empire had accomplished was the building and maintenance of good highways throughout
Tamriel.
* * * *
Barenziah stood before the Emperor's throne, explaining
Mournhold's straits. She'd waited weeks for an audience with Uriel Septim, fobbed off on pretext or another. "His
Excellency is indisposed." "An urgent matter demands his attention." "I am sorry, your Highness, there must be some
mistake. Your appointment is for next week. No, see..." And now it was not going well. He did not even seem to be
listening to her. He hadn't invited her to sit, nor had he dismissed the children. Helseth stood still as a carved
statue, but little Morgiah had begun to fidget.
He had first greeted the three of them with a too-bright smile
of welcome that did not reach his eyes. Then, as she presented her children, he had gazed at them with a fixed attention
that was real, yet inappropriate. Barenziah had been dealing with humans for nearly five hundred years now and had
developed skill at reading their expressions and movement that was far beyond that any human ever learned. Try as the
Emperor might to conceal it, there was a hunger in his eyes, and something more. Regret. Why? He had several fine children
of his own. Why covet hers? And why look at her with an intense, though, brief yearning? Ah, well, perhaps he was
tired of his Lady. Humans were fickle minded. But after that one long, burning glance, his gaze had shifted away as she
began to speak of her mission, and he sat still as stone.
Puzzled, Barenziah stared into the pale set face, looking
for some trace of the Septims she'd known. She hadn't known Uriel Septim well, having met him only once when he was
still a child and then at his coronation twenty years before. He'd been stern and dignified then, yet not icily remote as
this man was. Despite the physical resemblance, he didn't seem to be the same man at all. Not the same, yet something
about him was familiar to her, more familiar than it should be, some trick of posture or gesture ... Suddenly she felt
very warm, as if lava had been poured over her. Illusion! She had studied well the arts of illusion since Nightingale
had fooled her so badly. She had learned to detect it and she felt it now, as certainly as a blind man could feel the
sun on his face.
Illusion, but why? Her mind worked furiously even as her
mouth went on reciting details about the Mournhold economy. Vanity? Humans were oft as ashamed of the signs of age as
elves were proud of them. Yet the face Uriel Septim wore seemed consistent with his age. Barenziah dared use none of
her magic arts. Even petty nobles had means of detecting, if not shielding themselves from these in their halls. The
use of magic here would bring down his wrath as surely as drawing a knife would. Magic. Illusion. Suddenly she thought
of Nightingale and briefly he sat before her, only saddened. Trapped. And then that vision faded and another man sat
there, like Nightingale and yet unlike. Pale skin, red eyes and elven ears and about him a fierce glow of
concentration, an aura of energy, a shrinking horror. This man was capable of anything! And then, once again she beheld
the face of Uriel Septim. How could she be sure she wasn't imagining things? Perhaps her mind was playing tricks on her.
She felt a sudden vast weariness, as if she'd been carrying a heavy burden too long and too far.
"Do you remember, Excellency, Symmachus and I had dinner
with your family shortly after your father's coronation. You were no older than little Morgiah here. We were greatly
honored to be the only guests that evening, except for your best friend Justin, of course."
"Ah, yes," the Emperor said. "I believe I do recall that."
"You and Justin were such friends. I was told he died not
long after. A great pity."
"Indeed. I still do not like to speak of him." His eyes were
wary. "Ah, as for your request, my lady, we shall take it under advisement and let you know."
Barenziah bowed, as did her children. A nod dismissed them,
and they backed away from the presence. Barenziah took a deep breath. "Justin" had been an imaginary friend, although
Uriel had insisted that a place be set for Justin at every meal! Not only that, "Justin" had been a girl, despite the
boy name. Symmachus had kept up the family joke long after "Justin" had gone wherever such childhood friends go,
inquiring seriously after Justin's well-being whenever he and Uriel Septim met, and being responded to as seriously.
The last Barenziah had heard "Justin", after an adventurous youth, had married a high elf and settled in Lilandril.
The man occupying the Emperor's chair was not Uriel Septim! Nightingale! A chord of recognition rang through her and
Barenziah knew that she was right. It was he, indeed! Symmachus had been wrong, so wrong ...
What now, she wondered. What had become of Uriel Septim,
and, more to the point, what did it mean for her and Symmachus and Mournhold? Thinking back, Barenziah guessed
that their troubles were due to this false emperor, Nightingale, or whoever he really was. He must have taken
Uriel Septim's place shortly before the unreasonable demands on Mournhold had begun. That would explain why
relations had deteriorated so long (as humans judged time) after her offense. Nightingale knew of Symmachus' famed
loyalty to, and knowledge of, the Septims and was making a pre-emptive strike. If that were indeed the case they were
all in terrible danger. She and the children were under his hand here in Imperial City and Symmachus left alone to face
the troubles of Nightingale's brewing.
What must she do? Barenziah urged the children ahead of her, a
hand on each shoulder, her womanservant and guards trailing behind. They had reached their waiting carriage --
even though their apartment was only a few blocks from the Palace, royal dignity forbade their walking, and for once,
Barenziah was glad of that. Even the carriage seemed a kind of sanctuary now, false as she knew that feeling to be.
A boy dashed up to one of the guards and handed him a letter,
then pointed towards the carriage. The guard brought it to her. The boy waited, eyes wide. The letter was brief and
complimentary and simply asked if King Eadwyre of Wayrest, High Rock, might be granted an audience with her, as he had
heard much of her, and would be pleased to make her acquaintance. Barenziah's first impulse was to refuse. She
wanted only to leave this city! Certainly she had no inclination for any dalliances with a dazzled human. She
looked up frowning and one of the guard said, "The boy says his master awaits your reply yonder." She looked in the
direction indicated and saw a handsome elderly man on horseback, surrounded by a half-dozen courtiers and guards.
He caught her eye and bowed respectfully, removing his plumed hat.
"Very well," Barenziah said to the boy, on impulse. "Tell
your master he may call on me tonight, after the dinner hour." The man looked polite and grave, and rather worried,
but not in the least lovesick.
Continue on with in Part X of this series.
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