Chapter II: The Lady

The city of Wayrest stretched to the horizon, where it met the glimmering waters of the Iliac Bay. Ships drifted lazily in and out of the harbor, all but one, The Arm of Convention, sailed with canvas, mainstays decorated with the heraldry of the Iliac Bay. Camlorn. Sentinel. Daggerfall. Wayrest. The Arm flew no banner. None would have difficulty knowing her allegiance. Glass-green sails veined like the wings of an insect. A hull built from lacquered, cherry-red wood. Levoline could remember the way sap still leaked from the fresh paint, running down like rivulets of sticky red blood.

Ashlar homes decorated the townships, further from the palace than the red-roofed market quarter, where she'd passed through the day prior, observing all manner of shops, taverns, and guildhalls swollen with sellswords and minstrels. The crowds flowed through the streets like lifeblood, even in the distant reaches of the city. Everywhere she could see, there was movement. The walls had been built and rebuilt over centuries of growth, a palimpsest recording centuries of failed conquests. Levoline imagined that if one could see as a dragon, Wayrest would look like the stump of a great tree: hewn at the roots, ring after ring radiating from its center, ants crawling through miniscule valleys almost naked to the mortal eye.

Alas, that the dragons were no more, she sighed.

Her own reflection stared back at her; a stranger catching her gaze from the outside world. The woman she saw was dressed in the attire of Eadwyre’s court—an ensemble she'd never have chosen for herself. No high elf would. The dress was green brocade silk—which, though elegant in itself, was marred by ostentatious trimmings: puffy sleeves that broke the silhoutte of her tall, elegant form. A waist cinched till her shoulders appeared broad as a man's. Tassels dragging the ground, gathering dust from every corner of the palace. A simple gown—even the brocade she was wearing—was far more befitting an Altmer noblewoman. The only parts of her she could still recognize were the pricks of her golden ears, peeking from beneath a curtain of jasper-red hair. Her eyes, “green like chrysoprase,” as her father had always said, were the only thing in the reflection that told Levoline the stranger she saw was herself.

“Consider it to be in the interests of diplomacy,” her retainer, Uuelmo, had said. “The Bretons of High Rock’s courts are as demanding as the sapiarchs, and prone thricefold to treachery. It is best to... defer to their tastes, for the time being.”

Diplomacy, she’d scoffed. Was the concession worth it? It was one thing to feign deference—she knew that could be useful. It was another to supplicate. At the suggestion she adopt the vestments of a courtier of Wayrest, her faith in the mer began to wane. He was the only informant even close enough to Eadwyre to proffer her an invitation to his court, stationed there only twenty years prior—and only to investigate an inventory of goods lost to smuggling. She'd hoped for someone more experienced. Though he’d maintained an air of composure the last two days, there was no doubt in her mind that Uuelmo was just as underequipped for the task at hand as she was.

Decades of planning. A century of effort on the part of her father. All reduced to hurried, desperate execution. The plans had changed. Uuelmo was the axis that bore the weight of it all.

And here he was, about to place all of that weight onto her.

Levoline herself was only one hundred and twelve years of age—and still little more than a fledgling of House Morimacil. Uuelmo, though nearly a century her elder, seemed little older than she.

”I require your answer on the morrow. We cannot delay.” He said to her, interrupting her thoughts. The words pulled her attention away from the window, where she’d been surveying the city below, and into the cramped chambers of his office. The Office of Altmer Relations the Bretons called it. A crude joke, but not an unfitting title for their cover story. Uuelmo had tolerated the disrespect for years.

He stood opposite the desk from her, on the same side she’d stood at only yesterday. Though he too was Altmer, Levoline thought him only just tall enough to be stately. His face, so evenly divided that his nose, brow, and chin comprised it in equal portions, eroded any other notion of nobility. He was clad in the garb of a Breton courtier, just as she was. A quilted doublet over a suede shirt with puffy blue sleeves. Hosen, swollen at the thighs like a netch's bladder, to match. An ugly form of dress, she thought to herself. Inelegant and gaudy.

”You will not have to wait that long,” she answered him right away. She’d made up her mind on the voyage from Alinor. This was her chance at last to demonstrate her mettle. She'd been a last resort—a recommendation considered only at the behest of her father; something she'd come to resent, no matter her gratitude to him. How thin the options had to grow, before the council was willing to heed it. She would offer them no chance to rescind her assignment.

”I understand you are eager to begin, Lady Levoline. But the court of Wayrest is no place for temerity. Here there is no shortage of brigands or savages, and not all of them outside the palace walls. If you accept this assignment, you alone will be responsible for your failure. No one may know that you are working for us.”

”I am aware. I wish to serve, as my father and his served.” Levoline’s hand came to rest on the hilt of her rapier—a habit she'd yet to rid herself of, even after decades of training in the courtly disciplines. It was an instinct—as though her hand found Thorn of its own volition. Quickly, she feigned that she was only brushing the pommel, letting her hand drift back to her side. Uuelmo gave no hint that she’d been convincing.

“No doubt you do, my lady. No doubt you do. House Morimacil is renowned for its bookkeepers. I am told you are among the finest they’ve had in some time—despite your limitations.”

“We are a fine House. My grandfather is sapiarch—”

“And yet, you are not your grandfather—nor do you possess his abilities. The council is far away, in lands fairer than these. His authority will do little for you here. Do not believe otherwise. The Bretons will offer you little help—the urchin Dunmer of their court will offer even less. The reputation of your House means little here. In some quiet corners of the city, it may even bring you harm.”

Levoline took a breath, masking the anger she could feel rising to meet his admonition. “I presume little, ser. Only that one who wishes to serve will be given the chance. I believe this is mine. I care not for the danger of the assignment—only that I am offered it in faith.” She resisted the urge to place her hand on Thorn’s hilt again.

Uuelmo leaned across the desk, his odd face folding into a scrutinizing squint, as though he could measure the depth of her conviction. She kept her gaze locked to his, as though she could convince him through the channel of her mind. Suddenly, satisfied with his appraisal, Uuelmo withdrew. Levoline held back her sigh of relief, face still as stone.

“Then you will have our faith, Lady Levoline. Until your mission is completed, or you meet your end.”

”By their blades or our own,” Levoline answered with the words she’d been taught as a girl. Though she said them with conviction, something about the way they left her lips felt weak. She made no effort to shrink from them, no matter how desperate she felt to do so. At that at least, Uuelmo seemed pleased.

“Indeed. And I will remind you that it is ideal that you die by the hand of our enemies—paternal connections or no, the sapiarchs will not be kind in rendering their judgement, nor will our spymaster. But I digress, clearly you have considered these things, since you are already so eager to begin… Very well. A coded parcel arrived this morning with the specifics of your orders. I have taken the liberty of deciphering for you. Emperor Uriel himself has sent a letter to Queen Mynisera of Daggerfall. The intelligence is old. Nearly four years, before the death of Mynisera's husband, Lysandus. We have reason to suspect it never arrived, though we do not know when or where the courier was intercepted. This letter is… of a scandalous nature,” Uuelmo said the final words with a smile, as though they’d been delicious to say. “Retrieving it is of the utmost importance to the council—and so shall it be to you.”

In truth, she'd expected more for her first assingment, both in breadth and direction. A scandalous letter? Was this truly key to toppling the Septim regime? All Uuelmo offered in guidance was that the letter was likely still located somewhere in the province of High Rock—which meant it might as well be in Sentinel, or the Wrothgarian Mountains. The Iliac Bay was a vast place. What could be so ruinous the council was willing to overturn the whole of it for a single letter?

No, that matters little. This is your chance. Your mission. Lead or no, Morimacil Levoline will show herself worthy of her line.

“What connections do you have among the court? What names can you give me before you depart? Surely there is something?” Though twenty years was no time at all for herself or Uuelmo, the mannish courtiers of Wayrest would no doubt have made their connections and rivalries in haste. Uuelmo would know their connections, even if he had few of his own. He would have something for her. He must. It was an idiosyncrasy of the lesser races, one she’d learnt long ago. So eager to live, and in such a hurry to die.

”Ties are taut in the house of His Majesty…” Uuelmo answered her. “His wife, Barenziah, seeks to place her own son—Eadwyre’s stepson—on the throne. Helseth is the oldest of the royal children, but the people of Wayrest will not take kindly to a Dunmer ruling over them. Most support Elysana-including the law itself-though she is the youngest of the three; child to Eadwyre and his late wife. Something tells me that Helseth and Barenziah care little for the law in this matter. Infiltrate the lower court. Seek an audience with the king. That is all I can grant you.”

All I will grant you, Levoline realized.

”What is our stance on the matter?”

”Our stance?” Uuelmo’s smile curled in mock surprise, before his already squished face squished further into a knowing look. “We are neutral in this matter—in support of the one most well suited to maintaining Wayrest, as a powerful and prosperous nation.”

Helseth, then. Levoline allowed herself to mirror his smile, though she felt he held her gaze a little longer than was necessary. “I understand,” she said, letting her eyes drift down to the desk, where she pretended to be lost in contemplation. “I can make do with this, Uuelmo. You have my gratitude.”

He gave her one last appraising look, answering her thanks with only a huff of haughty satisfaction. “I will offer you one final chance to decline this assignment, Lady Levoline. There will be no shame if you return now. I am certain House Morimacil has no shortage of… cousins to take your place.”

She knew what he said was not entirely true, though it had not been entirely wrong either. There would be no shame in returning—not for any other Altmer. For her, it would be the greatest shame of all. “What you say is true, but I am the one this mission requires. I accept this assignment, in full knowledge of the consequences for failure. I will not fail you, nor the spymaster.”

“If you are discovered, we will never have spoken.”

“Let it be so.” Her hand gripped Thorn’s hilt till her knuckles grew white.

"If you fail, you will die a stranger to your House. If you succeed, history will never learn your name.

"By either path, I am consigned to silence—that is what is required of a bookkeeper, is it not?"

Uuelmo nodded solemnly. “I see your mind is set. Good. Resolve will be the foundation of what lies before you. The task is yours, Morimacil Levoline. Find the letter. Return it to us. The Light of Auri-El will show your path... or take you to glory.

Levoline stood a little straighter, drawing herself to her full height. She'd done it. At last, she could follow in the footsteps of her ancestors. Of the father she so greatly admired.

Uuelmo slid a book across the desk to her, offering only the barest congratulations.

“Welcome, at last…

…to the Thalmor.”