Chapter Text
Haskill has reservations about his Master’s new champion. For one, she reeks of the Evergloam. He expressed this concern to Sheogorath almost as soon as she set foot in the palace, suggesting that the woman might be an agent of Nocturnal, but He would hear none of it. It is a fine thing, the Madgod replied, to have a hand in the enemy’s pocket. Haskill couldn’t discern the meaning of that, and was already losing the will to protest. Once his Master had latched onto an idea, it was nigh-on impossible to sway Him from it. Very well. The elf would be His champion, would mantle Him when the time came. The likelihood of her stopping the Greymarch was slim at best. Order would come; the cycle would begin anew. So it ever was.
Since her position here is now secure—or as secure as anything is, in the Isles—Haskill has been attempting to discern what it is that drew her to the realm. Though her demeanour is one of almost eerie calm, no one who comes to this place is of entirely sound mind. He suspects that she is more inclined towards Dementia than Mania, though she is not given over to histrionics. It is precisely that lack, he thinks, that holds the key. She is a thief and a killer, but does not seem driven by wealth nor sadism. She is cold. Calculating. Ruthless. Almost entirely devoid of conscience. Pragmatism without morality.
Her name is Cadi. She hails from Valenwood, as Thadon and Syl once did, which feels significant somehow. She holds herself statue-still, blinking only rarely. Her countenance is impossible to read. He does not trust her. This does not matter. All that matters is Sheogorath’s will, as always. Haskill’s only function is to serve.
In truth, he wasn’t expecting her to successfully revive Xedilian. It seemed likely that the Grummites would slay her before the Resonator of Judgement was activated, and that the Madgod would conjure up another plan. That was the way it usually went, in the days before the Greymarch; a string of schemes proposed and abandoned in quick succession, no single one ever reaching fruition. But instead of being cut down Cadi returned, bearing reports of the Knights of Order. Sooner than expected, insofar as anything in the Isles could be ‘expected’. To say that Haskill was impressed with her work would not have been accurate, but he was surprised. A rare enough experience, these days.
After she had made her report to Sheogorath—and He had bestowed upon her the summoning power, much to Haskill’s dismay—the Madgod departed his throne room, and the chamberlain was left alone with Cadi. Again he was struck by the utter lack of emotion perceptible in her eyes; the colour of hoarfrost, and just as cold. She stared at him as if he were a specimen in a jar.
‘Can I be of assistance?’ he asked, irritated.
‘What are you?’ she said.
‘Did you perhaps receive a blow to the head in Xedilian? I am Lord Sheogorath’s chamberlain.’
‘That isn’t what I meant,’ she said. ‘You’re not mortal, are you?’
‘Not in any significant sense, no.’
‘But you’re not a deadra, either.’
‘How observant of you.’
‘Then what are you?’
‘Have you developed a sudden interest in ontology? I am here because the Madgod wills it. That is all you need know.’
‘Can you be killed?’
The question catches him somewhat off-guard. ‘Some have tried,’ he says. ‘The occasional misguided fanatic has made an attempt to assassinate me, over the years. It never holds.’
‘What happens to you?’
‘I simply return. Sometimes after seconds, sometimes days. Never much longer than a week.’
‘So you are immortal.’
‘For all intents and purposes.’
Cadi unsheathes a wicked-looking dagger from her belt. She flips it idly between her fingers, those cold eyes still fixed upon him.
‘Would you bleed, if I cut you?’ she asks. ‘Would it hurt?’
He is tempted to deny it, but suspects that she would see through the lie.
‘It depends,’ he says. ‘I believe that I am impervious to harm when my Lord wills I be so. But He is prone to forgetfulness.’
‘Can I try?’
Something flickers in her eyes then—the first sign of emotion he has observed in her so far. Intrigue. Interest. It is this that gives him pause, prevents him from outright denial. Sheogorath has placed him at her liberty, after all. He supposes it is not his place to turn her down. Better to get accustomed to her whims now, in case the mantling succeeds.
‘Very well,’ he says. ‘Perhaps once your curiosity is sated you will cease posing these asinine questions.’
Cadi says nothing. Instead she takes his wrist and lifts it upwards, then turns his hand so she can grip firmly at the base of his thumb. Carefully, almost clinically, she presses the point of her dagger to the fleshy pad. The blade is needle sharp, and at first he feels nothing. Then there is a tiny spark of pain, and when Cadi pulls back the weapon he sees that he is bleeding. She squeezes the flesh around the wound and blood wells there, a perfect sphere of scarlet that clings for a moment before breaking to run down to his palm. Cadi stares at her handiwork for a long moment, then blinks three times in succession. The most he has ever seen her do it.
‘Did it hurt?’
‘Somewhat. My Lord must be neglecting his wards today.’
Haskill resists the urge to rub the blood with the cuff of his shirt. The pinprick wound burns more than it should.
He never should have permitted it. Foolish to indulge her. Such a small act, to have had such a profound effect upon him. It has been days since Cadi spilled his blood, and the wound has long since healed over, but still he can feel it there. The sharp nick of steel against his skin. Why it should have left such an impression, when over the centuries a string of would-be assassins have stabbed, immolated and poisoned him, he cannot say. Perhaps it was the intimacy of the thing. Or the fact that she, as one who may one day take His mantle, commanded it be so. Whatever the case, it has left him feeling more like a mortal than he has in time immemorial.
He was mortal, once. Though he can barely remember it now. All he recalls are dim echoes of feelings; pride, ambition, avarice. He knows that the reason he holds his position now is that he once attempted something great, and failed. If he does not remember the details it is in part because he chooses not to. But the emotions that drove him as a man belong to another time, and another life. He has not given them serious consideration in many years. But when he felt that spot of pain, it awoke something in him. He remembered what it was to hurt, to bleed, to understand and fear his own mortality. A potent sensation. One that has now become tangled up in other feelings, other mortal concerns—ones he had long thought himself above.
He finds himself thinking about her. Excessively. Obsessively, in truth. About her hand gripping his wrist. Her blade against his thumb. When he thinks of it the memory bleeds into imagination, and in his fantasies she doesn’t stop with a single cut. She slices into his flesh. Draws her dagger through his skin like silk. Branding him like livestock. These thoughts leave him nauseous with shame, dizzy with arousal. Is this, he wonders, what it would be like to serve her? If she had dominion over him, would she carve her curiosity into his very meat?
He cannot look her in the eye when she visits the palace. Although Haskill knows the Madgod could read his thoughts if He so chose, to his knowledge He has never done so. Still, he fears that Sheogorath will pick one such moment to invade his mind, and in doing so discover what he thinks of when she is close to him. It is different, on the occasions that she summons him elsewhere. When they are alone, he is as direct and curt with her as he is with anyone else. He holds her gaze as though he has no reason not to. It is only when she turns away that he allows himself to exhale, to let his eyes wander over the shape of her.
He is certain that, had she not cut him that day, he would never have thought of her so. But now he can barely help himself. He wonders what her body looks like under her leathers. Whether she is scarred from former battles. What the skin of her thighs would feel like to touch. What her cunt would smell like, taste like, if her lips would grow plump with blood if he were to bury his face there. He thinks of serving her on his knees while she draws her dagger across the nape of his neck. The world is coming to an end, and somehow this is all he can think about. It is, aside from anything else, quite astonishingly inconvenient.
When he is summoned to the tunnels beneath the House of Dementia, at first he believes there has been some sort of mistake. He cannot see Cadi anywhere. But then a shadow in a corner shifts, and she melts out of it. She is cowled and cloaked, barely perceptible in the darkness. He glances around the tunnel, and sees the bodies of three slain Mazken marking the way she must have come. He wonders if they even saw her.
‘Yes?’ he says, keeping his voice low. ‘This hardly seems an opportune time to be calling upon me.’
‘I need to know what to expect,’ she whispers. ‘How well-armed is Syl likely to be?’
‘As well as she can mange,’ he replies. ‘She favours a hammer, if I recall, but it has been many years since she has fought. I would be more concerned about her Royal Guards, if I were you.’
Cadi nods, as much to herself as to him. Beneath her cowl all he can see of her face is her mouth, her lips set in a grim line. Haskill has known many killers in his extended lifetime, but few that have possessed her natural affinity for the art. Living in the Court of Madness, it is commonplace to come across those with tendencies towards homicide and torture. It’s Cadi’s very detachment that sets her apart. She seemingly lacks any interest or relish in the bloodletting at which she so excels. And is that not more frightening? That your killer might give no more thought to ending your life as she would swatting a fly?
‘You can go now,’ Cadi says. ‘I have work to do.’
Haskill barely manages to conceal a start. He had almost forgotten the context in which she summoned him. Cadi is having this effect on him more and more, these days. He departs, stepping back into the Madgod’s hall as if it were the next room.
Later, when she arrives back at the palace bearing Syl’s still-warm heart, she tells him how the former Duchess died. An arrow—from an enchanted bow gifted to Cadi by Syl herself—sent her into such a frenzy of rage that she attacked her guards, who were forced to slay her in self defence. Syl died without ever knowing that Cadi was in the room.
When Cadi recounts this, she smiles. The first time Haskill has seen her do so. She may take no pleasure in killing for its own sake, but it seems that she has a certain fondness for poetic irony.
Haskill had not anticipated a summons that evening. When he finds himself transported to the private quarters of the House of Dementia, he primes himself for a bloodbath—Thadon come to wreak his revenge, perhaps. But he finds only Cadi in her new chamber, dressed not in her usual assassin’s garb, but in a silk gown trimmed in raven’s feathers. He was not present for the Ritual of Ascension, and has yet to see Cadi in the finery of her new office. The sight of her bare throat and the smooth line of her collarbone is… discomfiting.
‘I believe congratulations are in order, Your Grace. How may I be of service?’
The corners of Cadi’s mouth twitch, just for a moment.
‘Help me out of this,’ she says, gesturing to the back of her gown. ‘These buttons are a living nightmare.’
Haskill has to bite down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep his composure.
‘Anya Herrick would surely be more suited to the task, Your Grace.’
‘Anya Herrick was involved in two plots to assassinate the last Duchess. Mine included. Do you think I want to be alone in a room with her?’
‘I doubt that Ms Herrick poses much of a threat to Your Grace.’
‘Maybe not,’ Cadi says, turning her back to him. ‘But you’re here now.’
He swallows. ‘As you wish.’
Haskill hesitates briefly before beginning. It feels as though he is being baited into a trap, somehow. But he cannot refuse her. Nor does he want to. He sets about unfastening the buttons—each one a tiny pearl carved into a screaming face—unhooking each from its loop as carefully and efficiently as he can manage. From where he is standing, it is impossible not to stare at the back of her neck, the shifting musculature of her shoulders. Honeyed skin scattered with freckles. She smells like copper and nightshade. Like a new death.
When the last button is unfastened Cadi takes over, pulling the garment down over her hips. The shift she wears beneath is gossamer-thin, clinging to her body where she has sweated through it. When she turns around Haskill can make out the dark peaks of her nipples through the fabric. He averts his eyes.
‘Will that be all, Your Grace?’ he asks.
‘Sit.’
To his horror, Cadi sits at the table and gestures to the chair beside her. She pours two cups of dark wine and places one before him. Unable to conjure up a reason to refuse, he sits. Does she mean to torture him? If so, would that turn of events even be unwelcome?
‘Sheogorath is preparing me for something,’ she says. ‘What is it?’
‘I am sure that in due time—’
‘Stop that. You know what he intends. Tell me.’
‘Your Grace, Lord Sheogorath may have lent you my assistance, but my duty is still to him.’
‘I’m not stupid. I know the Madgod has plans for me. He’s said as much himself. Why keep me in the dark?’
‘You ask me to comment upon the motives of the Prince of Madness, Your Grace. Need I explain why such an endeavour would be futile?’
Cadi shrugs, conceding the point.
‘I don’t appreciate being used,’ she says. ‘I’ve carried out his orders. All of them. But I won’t be a pawn in someone else’s game. Not again.’
‘You have been used in such a manner?’ he asks, surprised that anyone without the protection of godhood would risk manipulating one such as her.
‘Back in Tamriel,’ she says. ‘I was tricked into killing the leaders of the guild I worked for. I picked off five of them before I found out what was happening.’
‘I see. Need I ask what happened to the one pulling the strings, once you discovered this betrayal?’
‘What you’d expect. So bear that in mind, Haskill.’
‘You needn’t fear,’ he says. ‘Sheogorath may reveal his plan at his own pace, but I do not believe he wishes to deceive you. Of all of us, you stand to gain the most from this. That is all I can say.’
‘And what of you? What do you stand to gain?’
‘I do not tend to think in such terms, Your Grace. I exist only to serve.’
‘To serve Him?’ Cadi lifts her bare foot, rests it on his knee. ‘Or me, as well?’
He clears his throat, resisting the urge to push her away. It is not that he doesn’t want her to touch him; it is that he wants it so terribly that it is almost unbearable for her to do so.
‘Sheogorath has placed me at your disposal. One precedes the other.’
‘I’ve seen the way you look at me,’ she says. ‘I told you. I’m not stupid.’
Haskill freezes. He knew this was a trap the moment he entered the room; now he has caught himself on the tripwire. He forces himself to meet her gaze. Eyes like an iced-over lake. The kind that cracks beneath your feet when you’re far from shore.
‘I would never presume to claim you were, Your Grace. Will that be all?’
Cadi doesn’t respond at first. She arches her foot, digging her toes into the meat of his thigh.
‘It’s like you said. Congratulations are in order. I think I've earned a reward for all my hard work. Don’t you?’
He resists the urge to shift in his seat. To swallow. If he did not have the advantage of centuries of practice in keeping his composure, he would certainly be losing it now.
‘Did you… have something particular in mind, Your Grace?’
‘I did, as a matter of fact.’
Cadi flows to her feet, and before he has had the chance to miss the warmth of her skin she has grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him upright. The beating of his heart—how long has it been since he was even conscious of it?—is rapid, blood pounding in his skull. She yanks on his shirt again, pulling him forward so his brow is pressed to hers. Her breath is wine-sour, hot against his mouth.
‘You “live to serve”?’ she purrs. ‘Prove it.’
She drags him the few steps across the room to the bed. Pushes him back onto the covers. Only a scant few hours have passed since Syl’s double was slain here, but that doesn’t seem to discourage Cadi. She straddles his hips, pins his arms to the mattress. Not like a lover. Like a predator.
‘I’ve seen you,’ she says, a sing-song lilt to her voice. ‘Watching me. As if I wouldn't notice.’
And he had thought himself so subtle. The hubris of immortality. It is almost impossible to think past the closeness of her. Knees bracketing his waist. Fingernails digging into the flesh of his wrists. He feels like an insect, pinned to a board. Cut me open.
‘Is there a purpose to this?’ he snaps, falling back on the comfort of acerbity. ‘Or do you take pleasure in taunting for its own sake? This is hardly becoming conduct for a courtier.’
‘Tell me to stop, then. If this is so distasteful to you.’
He almost does, just to spite her, but his traitorous flesh stills his tongue. She is prideful as a cat. If he rejected her advances now he has no doubt that she would never deign to glance in his direction again. Whatever brief victory he might claim by resisting her would become hollow soon enough. He forces himself to take a breath. Relents.
‘Far be it from me to deny you,’ he says. ‘As I said. I am at your disposal, Your Grace.’
‘Much better.’
Cadi releases her grip on his wrists then, shifting forward to kneel astride his head. She lifts the hem of her slip and she is naked beneath it. Dark thatch of curls at the apex of her thighs. He tilts his face towards her as she lowers her cunt to his lips, smothering the low cry that escapes his throat. Though he has tried to imagine the smell of her, the taste of her, he has been too long without reference to conjure up anything close to the reality. His senses are flooded with it, sharp and earthy as overripe fruit. He runs his tongue over her folds, the motion clumsy and unpracticed, and is relieved when Cadi takes charge. She rolls her hips, grinding roughly against his mouth, and he gives himself over to her. Yes. Better for her to use him as she wishes. As an instrument, a tool. Is that not what he is, after all? What he has ever been?
He steals a glance at her face. Her eyes are closed, her head tipped backwards. Rapturous, but still entirely in control. One shoulder of her slip has fallen down, partly exposing her breast. The smooth curve of it, a sickle moon of areola just visible above the pale fabric—centuries, since he has been stirred so. Something magnificent about her. He understands then, perhaps for the first time, why his Lord chose her.
Cadi comes with a sound that is barely human, letting out a sharp, animal bark as she shudders through her climax. It is over too swiftly. Before Haskill has time to revel in the slick heat against his lips, she is moving away from him. The sudden absence of her is jarring. She slips off the bed, stands facing him. Her cheeks and throat are flushed pink, but that cool detachment has returned to her eyes. She looks him over impassively, her gaze settling between his legs. He resists the urge to cover himself. It would only draw attention to the state he is in.
‘Finish yourself off, if you like,’ she says. ‘I suppose you deserve that.’
He fumbles at the fastenings of his trousers, the moment for dignity long since past. The motion of his hand against his cock is artless, born more from desperation than pleasure, but it offers some small relief. Several seconds pass before he realises that Cadi hasn’t moved. She is still standing there, watching him. Arms folded across his chest, eyes daring him to challenge her. He knows better. Both recoils and flushes under her scrutiny. It isn’t long before he’s close to release, but the peak evades him. His thoughts keep slipping back to that day in the throne room. Sharp blade. Sharp pain.
‘Cadi,’ he chokes out, all propriety forgotten in his haze of arousal. ‘Please—I need—’
‘I’m not going to fuck you, Haskill.’
‘No.’ He shakes his head. ‘No, can you please—cut me.’
She raises her eyebrows slightly. Caught off guard. For a moment she thinks he might refuse him or, worse, ridicule him. But then she reaches down to the table beside her bed, where her dagger lays in its sheath. She pulls it free. The surface of the metal catches the candlelight.
‘Really?’ she says, sounding more intrigued than shocked. ‘That’s what you want?’
‘Please. Please, Your Grace.’
She comes to kneel on the mattress beside him. Tugs down his trousers to expose more of his skin. He feels feverish now, sick with need. His cock is hot and painful in his hand. So long since he has wanted anything for himself. He had forgotten what longing could do to a person, how it could pull one apart at the seams.
Cadi lifts the dagger. Presses the tip to the soft flesh between hipbone and belly. For one awful moment Haskill thinks it won’t take, that the blade will pass through him like a phantom, but then it breaks skin and pain rushes through him. She drags the blade in a slow arc, the movement almost elegant. Pinpricks of blood blossom in its wake. The cut is not deep, but it is enough. He comes gasping, every muscle in his body spasming as the wave of ecstasy crashes over him. The room fractures into a hundred pieces; blood on his skin; blood on the sheets; blood on her hands; her mouth, smiling; the buttons on her dress, screaming; the wine; the light; her eyes.
So this is it, he thinks. So this is what madness feels like.