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Her handprint on the cold terrace had been made with blood. Alma's breath halted as she looked up into dead white eyes.
The man had been living only a few seconds ago. A dagger that Alma held was stabbed into his heart. Eno of House Dres had become a heavy, husk of meat. When Alma removed the dagger, she pushed that husk off of her naked form. Blood pooled around her.
And, for some reason, that made her smile.
One hour earlier...
Alma drew up her veil as the marriage rights were spat out by the priest. The incense clogged her senses and the words of promise and futures blurred. Her betrothed, Dres Eno, smiled with white teeth as he held her hand waiting for her to mutter her lines to the statues of the three good daedra before them.
The first—Azura. She held the moon and star as if they weighed nothing.
The second—Boethiah. He held his axe poised to strike.
Then, finally, Mephala. Half-man, half-woman yet a spider. Spider of secrets.
"Um…" She glanced away as she almost forgot the words. "Dawn of marriage begins with the invocation. Under the moon and the stars form...the Lady of Twilight. By Azura's mystery does our union begin. Then, by Boethiah's plot the union continues. And by Mephala's secret, the union ends."
The priest finished. "By Veloth's name, the ancestors of Indoril and Dres have been joined."
Incense were passed over their heads. They bowed and Eno kissed her. A million claps descended like the roar from a kagoti and not a word of scorn was thrown at them. They both turned to the crowd and the large hall echoed even more thunderous applause.
The Queen of Mercy almost married that day. It was too bad Alma was also the Queen of Murder. Because before Eno took her sanctity by Azura's mystery, fucked her, ruined her. Before he could take her place as ruler of Indoril, she took his life first.
By Boethiah's plot.
When her guards found her, both she and Eno's corpse were in a bloody state. The sheets had been marked with blood. The table, once upright with foreign delicacies, had been broken due to the struggle. And Alma huddled against the wall. Her world was only the corpse of Dres Eno.
Her old mentor, Indoril Olren ran to her side without hesitation. Tears flooded Alma's eyes so much so that she couldn't see the silver features of Olren's mask.
"My lady, what happened?"
She winced when someone threw a robe over her. Olren took her cut hands and began to heal them. Her mind was awhirl. So much shuffling. Of blood. Of Eno's corpse. It was hard to imagine what had happened. Again.
Once her left hand was done healing, she wiped her tears.
"I was...betrayed." She took another breath. "We were betrayed. Dres Eno tried to…tried to murder me this night."
A calloused hand took off her robe. Exposing her naked form. He took off his trousers.
Olren stopped healing her after hearing those words. "Dres has declared war? Truly?"
Alma pointed a shaky finger at the knife in Eno's dead hand.
"No, he said...that I was a traitor to our Nordic overlords. Eno meant to assassinate me in order to break the treaty allowing Indoril self-governance. He's betrayed both Indoril...and Dres."
Olren finished healing her hand. He took both of them in his wrinkled grasp and looked deep into her teary eyes. She felt like a child again. Being scolded by an iron mask.
"My lady." Her old mentor took off his mask, revealing his scarred, decrepit face. "Leave us."
The silver masked guards stood at attention.
"Muthsera...but—"
Olren only had to look at his men once with a raised white eyebrow in order for them to scatter. A minute passed and only Alma and Olren remained in the room. Her mentor stood and approached Eno. Bending over the corpse, he picked up the jeweled knife.
"How long have I known you, my lady?"
Alma pursed her lips. "All my years, Olren."
"Then why do you lie?"
Heat built in her chest at the accusation.
"I wouldn't—"
"The knife is in Eno's hand. Yet you killed him."
A scoff she didn't want to let out escaped her breath. "He underestimated my strength. I turned it against him."
"I am not a half-wit, my lady, excuse my impropriety. Not only that, but I gave you this knife long ago. Do you remember what you promised? You promised to hide it beneath the bed frame. Eno would have no idea it existed. So, dear Almalexia, please do not lie to me. I thought I had earned your trust."
She opened her mouth as a million thoughts escaped her. Of course Olren would know. He always knew when she lied. When she snuck out of the manor to play with the beggar children. When she lied about snatching too many sweetrolls from the kitchens. Of course. Of course Olren knew.
The shaking in her hands ceased. She sighed.
"I'm...sorry. You're right." More tears formed in her eyes. "I lie to hide my shame." Her old mentor remained silent, waiting for her explanation. Eventually, she had the courage to continue. "I was...afraid. I did not want it. When he...when he put his hands on me. Stripped me...and...fucked me. I couldn't. I couldn't—"
The world became a blur again. The light around her faded. Yet, a warm hand rubbed her shoulder. The warm caress of a father. A father she should have had.
Olren hushed her then whispered in her ear. "I'm sorry, Alma. This is...I promised your mother to protect you long ago. I have failed."
"No! You...no, Olren. This is my doing. The treaty with House Dres required this union. Now...now war, it seems, is inevitable. Once this gets out—"
"Dres Eno tried to assassinate you. Why would this cause war?" A small smile creased Olren's weathered features. "After all, you are the Queen of Mercy. And the Queen of Mercy forgives even the House that tried to murder her."
Her old mentor wiped the last of her tears from her face. Then, he stood, his bonemold creaking. "I will order my men to clean up the scene and fetch the servants to run you a bath, my lady. And I will inform the council of what has transpired."
When Olren left, Alma dried her tears. A sneer of disgust molded her face. So much so, she would probably flinch if she saw her face in a mirror.
She had told the truth, of course. What she didn't tell Olren, however, was before she was bedded, before Eno took her maidenhood, she hid the knife beneath her pillow.
There had only been one lie.
Alma had never been afraid.
Alma hated men. Not just the race of men, though she hated them too. Before, when she was young, when her mother and father had been alive, they propped her up as the breeding guar of House Indoril. Her father hated her for being female. Her mother hated her because of her own failures for not producing a proper male heir. For that reason, none of her council took her seriously. And small mercies she gave labeled her as the Queen of Mercy. A mocking title to those who saw her as weak. She played into that label though kept her true face beneath a mask. It is what Olren taught her long ago.
A day had passed after the incident. She called a meeting of the council that morning in the grand hall. The Indoril council muttered to each other before they realized her approach. She'd make sure to dress extravagantly. White tassels, white robes, a golden sash. She could see the disdain in the eyes of the council once they realized she had entered the hall.
Five lords, each of varying weaknesses. Lord Rithalith pretended to listen to her, yet acted against her wishes on more than one occasion. He sat to the right of her being one of the eldest on the Indoril council.
Lord Haldoth, on the other hand, thought false favor to her would end with him between her legs. She enjoyed playing with him in this way. Showing a shoulder only to grow cold as he grew close. The youngest sat on her left. It was a tradition—eldest to the right, youngest to the left—that her father started. It was to see both perspectives. Old and new.
When she sat at the center of the table, the hall grew quiet. The last three lords, each of them inconsequential, looked between each other as if they wished to resume their fight. Alma heard what they fought over.
War. It was always war.
"Lady Almalexia." Lord Rithalith's smooth voice was false. "We didn't mean to begin discussions without you. But news—"
Lord Eathin interrupted. "The Dres have been imprisoned. The servants tortured for information. Only one has confirmed your story, my lady. He admits to bringing a poisoned knife to Lord Eno."
Eathin, Captain of the Guard and her mentor Olren's brother. The man held no respect to Rithalith. Or to anyone. He desired his place on her right. If he had been the eldest, he would have held the most power over the council. Of course, if Indoril Olren had been the eldest brother, she would have had him sit at this table. Yet, her father made many mistakes.
She didn't look into Eathin's eyes and instead stared up at the statues of the Three. They always watched their proceedings.
"Who told you to imprison the Dres?"
The hall, if it had been possible, grew silent again.
"That is…" Lord Haldoth spoke from her left. "We assumed, my lady, that you would want the conspirators to be punished."
She allowed some of the anger in her chest to show on her face.
"We walk on kwama shells around the Dres. Never mind the Nords who have accused me of rebellion ever since my father's death. What would it look like, Lord Haldoth, if I imprison and torture the people aligned with the one who accused me of treason?"
Lord Rithalith spoke before more of Haldoth's idiocy could continue.
"You misunderstand, my lady. We weren't sure if there was anyone else within Dres Eno's party who could threaten your life." When Alma met Rithalith's condescending stare, the lord coughed. "But yes...I believe they no longer threaten you. They should be released."
Rithalith always did this. Preempt her orders. She didn't fall for it anymore.
"Yes, they should. I believe most of Eno's party had no idea of his plot. Except, of course, the servant who prepared the knife." She glanced at the guards. "I may be the Queen of Mercy, muthseras, but I will not be trifled with. The servant will hang in the morning. The rest of Eno's party will be released back to Dres lands with an escort. Negotiations will resume once they have a new proposal. One that will not stab me."
The council all nodded at her decree. Rithalith, of course, had that bitter expression on his face.
Once the business with the Dres concluded, there was still the business with the Nords. While House Indoril mostly went unscathed under the Empire's rule, the other Houses surrounding them had Nordic Jarls governing their lands. Their people had become like slaves to the lesser men and the other Houses allowed this to happen. Without Alma's marriage and without an heir, nothing was stopping the Nords from instating their own ruler to usurp her.
Lord Ghalth, the Keeper of Drams, brought up this concern as he did with an unrelated incident. "They are making moves, my lady. Some of our caravans in the Nordic territories have been ambushed. My head retainer, Aran Dralith, returns from the West with more dead silt striders. More dead in general. They are attacking our trade routes under the guise of banditry."
The ever naïve Lord Haldoth snorted. "Is there any proof? You send your caravans into Dwemer territory, do not forget. This council has suggested you avoid those routes, yet, drams sing a finer song."
Ghalth's golden face grew red in anger. "This is true. We do send the caravans into Dwemer territory. Yet, the deep ones do not care about our 'false fineries'. Most of my men haven't seen any of their heretical tools in years. Yet they've seen Chimer wielding Nordic steel."
Alma sat back. "The Dwemer are crafty. They would know about our enslavement to the Nords. They could use this to hide their crimes."
Ghalth shook his head. "I believe the Dwemer hate the Nordic scum as much as we do. They may be heretical fiends, my lady, but they are not stupid. I do not believe they are behind the attacks."
Her right, Lord Rithalith, who had remained silent during this discussion, finally sighed.
"It sounds to me, Lord Ghalth, that you wish to speak with the Nords. Well, we could do this, yet our alliance with the Dres has been...temporarily put on hold. Without this alliance, the Nords will not hear us. They have every excuse to raid and pillage because without an alliance we are at war. The Dres were our only solution for a peaceful integration into the Empire. Without it, there will be rebellion against the Nords which will end with the massacre of our House. Lord Indoril Almalex killed himself to avoid—"
"Enough!"
Alma's shout rang through the hall. The councilman all pursed their lips. She had shoved her chair back hard. So hard, the metal thing had fallen to the marble floors.
For once, Lord Rithalith looked perturbed. He bowed his head as if in apology. Alma didn't believe it for a second.
She faced the Lord of Drams. "How much has been lost during the raids, Lord Ghalth?"
The lord stuttered. "Four caravans—"
"Four."
"Four in three weeks. Enough—"
"You would ask for me to declare war over four caravans?"
"Four caravans with ebony, glass, spices—"
"All of which can be replaced."
This caused Ghalth to redden again. "My lady, your treasury—"
"Means nothing next to the lives that would be lost in a war with the Nords. A war we would never win." She stepped away from the table. "I would rather be a beggar queen before we allow the fear of the Nordic Empire take hold within our hearts. The alliance with the Dres has been put on hold. Yet, negotiations will continue. Once we have joined with the Dres, the raids will cease. You can suffer losing four caravans, Lord Ghalth, in the meantime." She glared at Rithalith. "My father died to protect our House, muthsera, do not forget."
After her orders had been decreed, she dismissed the council. The five men left without another word, though the hatred showed on their backs.
When they all left, Alma picked up the chair and collapsed in it.
She thought stopping the marriage would mean her council would rally with her. She thought it meant they would no longer fear the unification of the two Houses. Yet, day by day, month by month, the power she held was slipping away.
The dagger at her side grew heavy. She considered doing as her father did. Taking the knife and ending it all. Leaving the country to someone who could rule better than she.
But no. If she left now, House Indoril would die with her.
And she wasn't a coward like her father.
Alma decided on the day after Mephalan to visit one of the caravans. Disguised, of course, she didn't want anyone from the council to know of her movements. There was still the question of how the Nords knew where to attack the silt strider caravans. Treachery was afoot.
On the outskirts of Mourning Hold in the early hours of dawn, the retainer guards of the minor House Aran prepared the five silt striders with goods. They wore the iron masks of Veloth and were the aspect of Boethiah. Most of them, Alma knew, were mercenaries looking for an easy payout. For that reason, the guards would be influenced by drams. One of them could have tipped off the Nords.
Posing as a client, she asked the guards to point her towards the retainer of this caravan. The caravan-asi she spoke to told her Aran Dralith, Ghalth's retainer, led this caravan. She walked through the encampment, ignoring the lewd stares most of the caravan-asi were shooting her. Alma rarely visited encampments like this. Disorganized, smelly, yet the strum of a lute and the laughter from around the fires almost seemed...quaint. If she was still a girl, she would have wished to join them on their journey.
Still, she kept a hand on the hilt of her sword as she stepped into the tent of Aran Dralith.
The smell of skooma hit her and she winced as the smoke clouded her vision. A thin, wiry form, who she assumed was Aran Dralith, laughed with a woman at his hip. Standing only a few feet away from the scene was another one of those caravan-asi. Probably giving her lewd glances as well.
Dralith took a large bite from a roll of some kind then smiled.
"Another whore? Aren't I spoiled."
If she could stab anyone, Dralith would have been a good choice. Unfortunately, she had to gather information from the s'wit. She couldn't gather information from a corpse.
She crossed her arms. "Is that what you call your queen?"
Fear. It crossed Dralith's face through the cloud of skooma. He sat up and shoved the tattooed whore away like muck. The woman scoffed before running off past Alma. Probably to one of the caravan-asi outside.
Dralith's face turned from merry to mournful. He shoved the pipe beneath the chieftain table, a low table the Ashlanders liked to use, and grabbed a dark bottle that sat on one of the barrels. Surprisingly, he didn't order the caravan-asi to leave the tent and instead poured two cups filled with unknown alcohol.
"Apologies, Queen Almalexia. I did not recognize you."
"Yes, that is apparent."
She did not sit at the chieftain table despite Aran Dralith expecting it with the shove of the cup forward. Oh, how he looked displeased after she refused his "gift."
An uncomfortable silence lasted for a half-mark. Obviously, Aran liked the sound of his voice because he coughed after taking a strong drink from that cup of his.
"What brings you to my plane of Oblivion?"
Rude. Insubordinate. She would keep these traits in mind.
"Your lord has grown concerned over the safety of his shipments. Is it true that four out of the twenty caravans you have supplied to Redoran, Dagoth, and Sotha lands have been attacked?"
Dralith rubbed the rim of his cup. "Has my lord accused me of treachery?"
Interesting how he jumps to treachery. "No, but he has mentioned that each of the attacks could have been done with Nordic backing."
The caravan master took another drink. "Apologies, my lady...but everyone is backed by a Nord nowadays. By Mephala, the whores are backed and fucked by those Atmorans. I wouldn't be surprised if bandits up North had been paid by them as well."
There was a shift from the caravan-asi. Something Dralith said made his servant uncomfortable.
Dralith, ever loving the sound of his voice, continued. "But yes, what my lord says is true. We have been attacked up the pass more frequently these past months. This is not due to the Nord's hatred of Indoril. Rather...the Ashlanders have taken it upon themselves to rebel and the Nords, well, don't see a difference between our silt striders and theirs." Dralith rubbed his chin. "Funny how my lord failed to mention this..."
Yes. Funny.
The Ashlanders, or the Velothi as they called themselves, were the ultra-conservative sect of the Velothian religion. Most thought the Ashlanders took their worship too far in that they disregarded all forms of civilization. Some, like children, idolized their free-spirits. In this case, their free-spirits spat in the face of treaties signed on their behalf.
Aran Dralith began to drink from the second cup. "If you come here worried about traitors, you have nothing to fear, my queen. All of us are Chimer and hold to the Three despite our lot." He snorted, some of the drink spilled on the table, then waved a hand behind him. "Well, except Mora Nerevar."
The caravan-asi flinched again after Dralith ceremoniously called him out. Alma raised a brow at the silver masked guard.
"Mora?"
She'd never heard of this House.
The caravan-asi spoke in a low, dangerous voice.
"I hold to the Three. Sera."
Dralith was quick to ignore Nerevar's protest. "He's one of the n'wah whelps from House Mora. Up in the northern red forests, the Chimer bastards of the Nords made their own 'House'. Pretending to be what they're not."
Dralith spat at Nerevar's feet then took another drink.
Alma stared up into the silver mask of Nerevar Mora. This time, he didn't make a sound of denial or defense against his master's coarse words. Yes, what Dralith said was true. If there was a traitor, which Alma was beginning to suspect wasn't the case, then she wouldn't be surprised if it came in the form of a half-breed. Who else would garner sympathy to the Nords?
The Ashlanders, however, have been attacking the Nords, breaking the signed treaties. For that reason, she needed to speak with them and hear their side of the story. If they tell the same tale, she would demand for them to stop their attacks. Or else.
She crossed her arms. "Thank you for this information, Aran Dralith. I wish you well on your travels."
Dralith snorted. "Wishing does nothing on the road."
Alma ignored this defiance as she left the tent unceremoniously, the scent of skooma clinging to her clothes.
And she'd thought that would have been the last time she heard about the n'wah named Nerevar.