Tara raised her eyebrow, caught herself, and put it back down.
She bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from laughing.
She heard Marius draw his sword. She rested her hand on the hilt of hers, but left it sheathed. The sword was beautiful, the hilt a mix of red and dark silver, matching her armor. A perfectly balanced, one-handed affair, there was no denying the swords issued to all Penitus Oculatus agents were some of the best crafted in all of Tamriel. It wasn’t her axes, though.
Again, Marius had insisted she equip her issued sword and not her axes.
“Appearances, Tara,” Marius had told her this morning.
All to look official for the ambassador of Morrowind. The home of the Dunmer, known as dark elves. The former province of the Empire that lay northeast of Cyrodiil and bordered Skyrim’s eastern side.
The land covered in ash since the explosion of Mount Vvardenfell, known as Red Mountain, two hundred years ago.
Most residents of the province had since moved to the various islands surrounding the land. Solstheim, also once under Imperial control, now being a key island.
Dunmer were named for their blue gray skin, and, history hinted, also called dark for the Daedric gods they favored.
Like all elves, they were long lived, three hundred years on average, and were known for their magical prowess.
The ambassador was probably wishing he could teleport right now, Tara thought.
“IF ANYTHING HAPPENS TO ME OR MY BABY, YOU HAD BETTER RUN AND HIDE, BECAUSE THE WRATH OF THE DRAGONBORN WILL MAKE THE NUMIDIUM LOOK LIKE A DWEMER CHILD’S TOY!”
Rigmor was yelling at him. Perhaps Tara shouldn’t have found it funny, but it was an incredible spectacle.
Neither the ambassador nor the Dragonborn had been prepared for Rigmor in all her glory.
Marius had drawn his sword at the ambassador’s aggressive tone. A warning to him.
There was no real danger, though. The man had no weapons, outside of his puffed out chest and attitude.
The Dragonborn and Rigmor had summoned him after the events in Bravil.
The assassins that had attacked in Bravil, killing Alana, and attempting the same on Rigmor and the Dragonborn, were members of the Morag Tong.
Much like the Dark Brotherhood, the Tong were the assassins’ guild of Morrowind. Their existence and history was long, dating to at least the Second Era.
Someone had hired them, and their writs were known to be gray. The Tong committed to killing whoever the writ was against, until the job succeeded. No matter how long it took.
Writs against Rigmor and Kintyra were still unfilled.
The Dragonborn had demanded the ambassador arrange cancellation of them. Warning him of the severity of such orders against the queen and princess. How the Empire might see it as an act of war.
The ambassador had bloativated, insisted it was a private affair, the Tong a business, a “law unto themselves” with the King of Morrowind having no authority to stop the writs.
That hadn’t sat well with Rigmor, hence the glorious outburst.
Rigmor was a woman quick to temper. A woman with no patience for politics. This had been obvious since Bravil. She did not play these noble games.
The Dragonborn had little choice but to. Ruling an empire required a balance of strength and diplomacy.
As an empress, though most called her Queen, Rigmor could have her say in the running of the Empire, especially since she was the closest living relative to Mede I. Some might argue she had as much claim to the throne as the Dragonborn.
Tara sensed Rigmor was relieved the Dragonborn had ascended. Whether intuition or something else, it was clear to Tara the burden that seemed to rest on Rigmor’s shoulders came from her noble history. She didn’t need more piled onto her.
Listening to her shut down the ambassador, though, Tara wondered about her as a leader. While she’d not been her bodyguard for long, she’d already picked up that Rigmor cared. Cared about the citizens of the Empire. She’d been upset over Alana, knowing a woman was dead because of her and Kintyra. That she and the Dragonborn had not been in time to save her. That the writ existed because of her in the first place.
Rigmor was not like any other noble Tara had met. She did not have an attitude, an appearance of thinking she was above those around her. It was refreshing. She had her temper, and there were ways she spoke to the Dragonborn that left a sour taste in Tara’s mouth. Of course, the Dragonborn had their moments, too. More than once, Tara had thought them dismissive of Rigmor. Others, too, seemed to ignore Rigmor at times.
Had Rigmor earned that treatment? Tara didn’t know. Time would answer what the reports on Rigmor’s history hadn’t.
“This isn’t the last you’ll be hearing of this…” The ambassador said. Tara had not seen someone more offended. His jaw was so tense, Tara thought it might rupture. He turned from them and stalked away.
“Good…good. Bring it on!” Rigmor retorted.
As the ambassador reached the doors of the throne room, Rigmor continued, “Now run along. That’s it, scurry away and go back…”
Tara bit the inside of her cheek again to stop from laughing. Marius put away his sword.
“…acting out a gray writ outside of Morrowind is an act of war!” Rigmor finished. The ambassador left the room and palace.
For a moment, the throne room was quiet. Rigmor’s voice had echoed in the large room, bouncing off the domed ceiling. Now faded, there was a stillness, as if no one knew when to breathe.
“So, how did I do?” Rigmor had turned to the Dragonborn.
Tara adjusted her armor, shifting her sword, now that she no longer needed to keep her hand on the hilt. Maybe she should change to her axes, no matter what Marius said next. Let him yell at her, if he must, she wanted them on her hips, where their weight provided a comfort the sword did not. Where a piece of Freta sat. She had Freta’s Talos amulet, too, but the axes, those precious gifts from Freta, belonged with her.
“…Rose isn’t doing so well. After Alana, she’s taken it badly and Uravasa is worried about her well-being.” Rigmor was still talking to the Dragonborn.
Tara listened. Rose? Where had she heard that name?
The report on Bravil. She was the proprietor of Silverhome on the Water, the inn Rigmor and the Dragonborn had stayed at. They knew Rose, it’d been noted. Rose, it turned out, had been the person who found Rigmor injured in Skyrim in 4E 201 and approached the Dragonborn for help saving her.
The report said Rose had been taken prisoner by the Thalmor and escaped. Nothing else was known until she turned up as the proprietor of Silverhome.
“…I blame myself for this. I just want to put things right going forward,” Rigmor was saying.
“Rigmor, it’s not your fault. It is what it is,” The Dragonborn said.
Both of them sounded tired. No, sad. Bravil weighed heavily on both of them.
If only they’d let Marius and her go ahead of them.
What would she have done in their position, Tara wondered. Been stubborn, too, and believed she could go alone? Probably.
“Go and find Rose. I know she didn’t want to come back with us, but she can stay here at least until she’s feeling better,” Rigmor said.
“Don’t worry,” the Dragonborn said. “I’ll bring her home. She can stay with us…”
Someone else coming to stay in the palace? Would Rose need a bodyguard? Be considered part of the royal family and require protection? A question to ask Marius. A decision for him to make, really.
Cerys didn’t have an assigned bodyguard, though all guards in the palace knew to protect her, if anything happened. Tara was usually near her, anyway, so she considered Cerys another member to protect at all times. Rigmor’s mother, Sigunn had Bruma guards, as she was now the countess there.
So many people to protect.
The Dragonborn left and Rigmor started with the tasks she’d told them she’d handle. That she’d start organizing around the palace. She and the Dragonborn hadn’t lived in the palace for long, and it showed. Tara’s room in the royal suite still wasn’t ready.
They traveled throughout the palace, Rigmor giving instructions to various workers. Later, Rigmor headed back to the royal suite, took over care of Kintyra, while she gave Cerys a few errands to run.
The next few days went much the same way. Rigmor and Cerys spent time discussing ideas, Rigmor valued Cerys’ input and they talked back and forth on ideas for Rose’s room. Blackwell came by a few times to advise Rigmor on a few events, what with the Dragonborn gone.
There’d been former New Imperial guards from Sethius’ reign that had escaped at his fall. They’d gone back to their bandit ways. Blackwell had sent Imperial soldiers throughout Cyrodiil to flush them out and dispose of them permanently. Quintus, captain of a legion stationed near the Hammerfell border to the northwest, had sent news on his elimination of Redguard bandits in the area. Many things in Cyrodiil were improving, Tara thought. The Dragonborn returned with Rose the day after her room was ready.
When Rose first entered the throne room, Tara caught her breath. By the gods, Rose was gorgeous.
Like Freta, Katla, and even Rigmor, Rose was a Nord. Maybe that was a factor. Tara couldn’t help it, she loved Nord women.
Tara doubted it was her attraction to Nords, though. Rose had to be one of the most beautiful women ever, of any race.
Like Tara, Rose had red hair, but hers was a blond red, a shade that trended towards orange, unlike Tara’s own dark red that leaned to the browns. The color was lovely. Her eyes were a bright blue that pulled you in. Like Katla, like Rigmor, there was a deep strength in the woman’s eyes. She was not one to mess with. Her face was strong with high cheekbones and a jaw that tapered down to a small chin.
If I were single, Tara thought. She’d ask Rose out in a heartbeat.
Her voice matched her beauty. Rich, strong, yet lilting.
As introductions were made, Tara gave her a deep nod and smile. The Dragonborn announced Rose was to become the palace’s new imperial court physician. Rose had training in healing, it seemed. She would provide healing as needed and help care for Kintyra.
Tara wondered if Rose would be more nanny than physician. She made a mental note to ask Rose later about her healing knowledge. Had she served in the Imperial Legion? She didn’t seem a mage, so Tara assumed her healing would be practical, not magical. The Legion taught everyone the basics of how to bandage wounds and handle broken bones. If she had alchemy skills, perhaps Rose knew how to make healing potions. Tara needed to understand what she could do, especially if she helped care for Kintyra. Kintyra was Tara’s responsibility to protect, not nanny. Knowing what everyone around Kintyra could do to protect her would be important.
The next weeks flew by.
Rose settled into the role of nanny and general healer, as if she’d always been here.
The genuine love between Rigmor and Rose was obvious. The story came in bits and pieces, but between the two, Tara learned the details of Rigmor’s harrowing escape from the Thalmor back in Skyrim. Her escape included jumping off a cliff, the tree branch not holding, Rose finding her, and flagging down the Dragonborn to help her get Rigmor to her nearby camp. Rigmor’s wounds had been serious. Rigmor confirmed she had the scars to show for it. Rose’s healing abilities had been proven early.
Rose touched on her subsequent capture by the Thalmor, and then her escape from them into Cyrodiil. She’d eventually made her way to Bravil, earned the trust, and love, of the locals, leading to her taking over Silverhome on the Water. This had happened years after Tara and Freta lived there.
The bravery and cunning Rose had shown through it all. Tara admired her. Her no nonsense approach to things and wicked sense of humor helped, too.
Something struck Tara as she spent her days guarding Rigmor and Kintyra. When the three women, four when Cerys was around, spent time together in the royal suite, Tara felt comfortable, almost relaxed.
She felt separate, pacing the rooms and focused on her duties, but listening to their conversations, one could not avoid overhearing them, felt peaceful. Normal. Rigmor started to command Tara to relax, too, and join them in conversation.
Tara resisted.
“All your pacing is making me nervous,” Rigmor would say.
“I’m doing my job, my Lady,” Tara would counter.
Today, after a week of this back and forth, Rigmor changed things up. All four were in the suite, Rigmor holding Kintyra, Cerys repairing a tear in a dress, and Rose reading a book on the history of Anvil.
“Ugh. I hate all these titles,” Rigmor said. “When it’s just us, Tara, call me Rigmor. Not my queen, empress, or lady. And definitely not ma’am.” At this last part, Rigmor imitated Tara’s voice. Tara wasn’t sure if Rigmor was this bad at imitation or mocking her.
“I do not sound like that, ma’am, uh, Rigmor.” She pretended to be offended.
Cerys giggled.
“I don’t know,” Rose said. “Your voice is that deep sometimes.”
“You’re not helping,” Tara said. She couldn’t hold it back, though, and burst out laughing. All of them did.
Friendship.
That’s what struck Tara about this group of women. They were close. Cerys and Rigmor. Rose and Rigmor. Yes, Cerys was Rigmor’s lady in waiting, a perpetual assistant, meant to follow her commands. Theirs was a genuine friendship, though.
Rigmor had two close friends. Two women she could trust and be herself with. Tara realized she didn’t have that. Had never had that. She hadn’t even been close with Mira, her own sister.
Tara had Katla, her love. But, as Rigmor had the Dragonborn, a lover was not the same as a deep friendship. Being romantically involved with someone was different, even if they were your closest friend.
There was a lingering rumor that Rigmor and the Dragonborn were only friends, their marriage a political one, Kintyra a secret adoption, Alana being her birth mother. This being the reason the Morag Tong had assassinated her.
Tara didn’t believe it, though. She sensed the Dragonborn and Rigmor were in love and married for that reason. At a minimum, Rigmor loved the Dragonborn with all her heart. You couldn’t miss the love after spending any time around her. The two had romantic love between them, Tara decided.
There was something special about a deep platonic friendship, Tara realized. People needed it as much as romantic love. Tara needed it.
Rigmor was her job, though. A time limited, though it could potentially last decades, job. She was in charge of Rigmor, and Kintyra’s, safety.
That required professional distance. Didn’t it?
Perhaps with Cerys or Rose, she could form a closer friendship. Rose looked like she needed it. The events in Bravil weighed heavy on her. Tara thought the Dragonborn bringing her into the palace had been the best decision for her.
Yes, maybe the two of them would hit it off as friends. Tara liked the idea.
Cerys, too. She and Tara talked often of High Rock. Cerys hadn’t spent any real time there, adopted so young by Malesam, and raised at the College of Winterhold. She was curious about Breton culture, about Tara growing up in High Rock.
Tara balanced her stories as best she could, avoiding too much talk of home, the farm, why she’d left. Memories flashed too often. The beatings, the calming spells. She wondered if she seemed cold to Cerys, the way she’d cut off discussing living near Wayrest some days.
As the four of them finished laughing at Rigmor’s imitation of her, Cerys said,
“I imagine Tara doesn’t want to call you ‘My Lady’, anyway.”
“Why not?” Rigmor asked Tara. Her eyes made the question feel like a command.
Tara blushed. All of them were looking at her. “When I was a child, my parents dragged me to all of the local noble families in Wayrest. Trying to marry me off.”
“To men? Did they not know…” Rigmor started.
“I’d made them aware of my lack of interest in men,” Tara said. “They didn’t care.” She tried to keep the pain out, but felt her voice catch. Why did this all still hurt?
“I’m sorry,” Cerys said. “I didn’t mean to bring up something painful. I didn’t realize you had such a terrible…”
“It’s okay,” Tara said. “You couldn’t have known.”
She cleared her throat.
“Rigmor,” Tara said and bowed deeply. “I shall happily call you so here, in private. I will address you accordingly elsewhere.”
She winked. “Ma’am.”
“Pfft. Whatever,” Rigmor said. They all laughed.
A clank of metal and knock on the door interrupted them.
Tara had her hand on her right axe, Marius had relented on the sword carrying, as she opened the door to the royal suite.
Before her stood an Imperial palace guard. Not Crispus, the one she’d met on her first day here.
This guard looked slightly out of place, as if some aspect of being a guard didn’t suit him. His armor fit, and was spotless, but the man stood as if uncomfortable.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” he said. Cerys giggled at that.
“Did I say somethin’ wrong?” the guard asked. He had an accent Tara couldn’t place.
“No,” Tara answered. She narrowed her eyes and kept her hand near her right axe. He looked nervous.
“Oh, I, well, my name’s Aenas, and I’ve got a note for ya.” He held out a piece of paper to Tara.
“The message is for me?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Aenas gave her a huge grin. “Said to give it to the Penitus guard. Tora or somethin’.”
“Tara. My name is Tara.” Tara grit her teeth.
“Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am,” Aenas said. “I didn’t reckon to be a courier as part of my job. But another one of you Penitus guards said I needed to give it to you urgent like. And you all scare me, so I figure’d I get it to you right quick.”
Tara relaxed. Aenas seemed more bumbling than threat. The Penitus Oculatus had its reputation, too. Plenty of Imperial soldiers gave them a wide berth.
“Thank you, Aenas,” Tara said. She closed the door on him and turned back to the others.
“Everything okay?” Rose asked.
“I hope so,” Tara said. She opened the note. It was from fellow agent Richton. “I had an agent escort Katla to Chorrol. It’s from him.”
Tara read the message.