Brynjolf was in the study when Andante found him. Sitting silently, staring at the open ledger and maps on the desk, he’d found one of Andante’s spare robes and shed his armor in favor of that, and the sight of him made Andante smile. Brynjolf turned his head slightly when he heard Andante approach but gave no other response.
“You look comfortable, loverboy,” Andante murmured, coming up behind him.
“Looks can be deceiving, lad,” was the quiet answer.
Andante had seen how hard it had been for him to leave the Soul Cairn, to travel from Castle Volkihar to Solitude. He’d been uncommonly quiet all the way, even when they’d been attacked by Dawnguard bounty hunters as soon as they set foot on land, bounty hunters who had been joined by the Thalmor patrols at Northwatch keep.
That battle had been enough to make anyone thoughtful, in Andante’s mind. He had been startled when Brynjolf suddenly transformed, right there in front of him, into his massive Vampire Lord form and began shredding Thalmor, shouting “I! Will! Kill you!” at the top of his lungs, in time with the strokes of his claws. He had, himself, transformed and begun lobbing life-draining spells at the soldiers, only to find himself suddenly back in his human shape and wounded by a silver arrow from the bounty hunter, its poison coating causing him to revert against his will. It had taken him a few minutes to dispatch the hunter and then resume his Lord form to help Brynjolf finish the Thalmor; but as he had done so, the Justiciar they fought cast flames at them and he found himself backing away in a panic.
Brynjolf had finished the battle on his own. He hadn’t seemed to notice that Andante was shaking, by the time it was over, and for that Andante was grateful. All the way down the peninsula to Solitude, he’d gnawed on the thoughts. Why flames? Why am I suddenly terrified of flames? I know we’re weaker to them, as vampires, but fire has never frightened me before.
Nothing has frightened me, before. Not really.
What is going on?
They’d both fed well, but carefully, on the way back to Proudspire Manor, neither of them wanting to attract attention by leaving a trail of bodies. They’d made certain to calm their victims, and only take some blood from them, not drain them dry. Andante had been looking forward to the warm bath, and had enjoyed it well enough, but had, oddly, not indulged in any of the skooma he’d been thinking about.
Brynjolf had joined him in the bath, for a short while, but only long enough to get clean and warm. He’d barely made eye contact, and hadn’t shown the least interest in anything else. Andante wasn’t surprised, really, given what they’d been through in the Soul Cairn. He hadn’t felt especially playful, himself. It just felt good to rid himself of the stench that seemed to have followed them home. He’d even scrubbed both their armor before going to find Brynjolf again. His housecarl would have done that, if he’d asked; but instead he’d sent her off for an evening of her own.
Brynjolf’s face was calm, but set in a mask the likes of which he hadn’t seen since the days before they’d become close. His own was probably its equal, he thought, that professional mask that revealed nothing, a necessity for thieves and assassins alike.
“I know,” he said. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to make light of it. I’m feeling a bit rattled myself.”
He stepped up behind Brynjolf and placed his hands on the neck and shoulder muscles that felt as tight as steel bands, and began massaging them gently. Brynjolf flinched at the first touch, but then began to relax into it, just a bit.
“That whole thing was terrible,” he grumbled. “The whole thing. The only good to come of it was getting the Scroll.”
Andante found a particularly tight knot in Brynjolf’s shoulder and leaned into it with his thumbs, forcing it to release. Brynjolf groaned.
“That’s painful. But good. You know what I mean. I didn’t know how tight I was.”
I did. Before I even touched you. It must have been hard, saying goodbye to Dynny for a second time. I don’t even know what it’s like to have to say goodbye. But I can imagine it, right now, and it hurts.
Andante worked Brynjolf’s shoulders and back in a way they’d both come to associate with an inevitable, playful movement toward the bed. Brynjolf made satisfied sounds as the massage relaxed him. But Andante didn’t feel playful.
He stopped, thinking of the Keepers, with their blue eyes in a field of black vapor, and shuddered. There was something important about that, and he felt as if he was so very close to remembering what it was; but the memory simply wouldn’t come, like a sneeze that refused to release. He did know one thing for sure, though. He was afraid. And he hated it.
He also hated the situation he was in. One the one hand, there’s me. Whoever that is. On the other hand, there’s Dynny, or what’s left of him. And Dagnell. I probably know where she is, but I don’t know for certain. Almost nothing I can do will accomplish anything but tear him apart some more.
Except, maybe, to give him the castle, and the future he said he wanted.
Maybe.
He leaned forward and kissed Brynjolf’s neck, gently, then moved around and seated himself at the foot of the man’s chair, facing away at an angle.
“Hmm?” Brynjolf’s tone was one of surprise.
No wonder. I stopped where I usually proceed. I kissed where I usually bite. I just can’t do that right now. I need to think.
Brynjolf reached out and turned Andante around so that he was facing squarely away from him. It was Andante’s turn to moan as Brynjolf’s much larger hands began kneading away the tension in his neck and shoulders.
“By the gods you’re good at that, Bryn.”
He heard a small chuckle behind him.
“Well now, why are you so tense?”
Andante sighed. I can’t tell him. I don’t know enough to tell him anything and there’s enough on our plates already. But by all the gods I wish I could.
“I don’t like it when you’re upset, Brynjolf. I thought you knew that. I’m wondering what ridiculous thing we’re going to need to do to get that third scroll. And if the truth be told I’m angry at myself. I almost left you on your own fighting the Thalmor. There’s something about Thalmor that makes my hair stand on end.”
Brynjolf harrumphed. “Did I look like I needed any help, lad? I’m strong enough. They deserved every claw they got. I try to stay out of all these politics, except to see where we can turn a profit from it, but I don’t like the damned Thalmor either. There’s something just wrong with them.”
Brynjolf rose to his feet and tugged on Andante’s hand, pulling him up as well.
“Andante.”
“Yes?”
“We have a long trip to make tomorrow. I can think of better ways to spend the rest of tonight than worrying about things.”
To Andante’s complete surprise, Brynjolf led him into the next room, slid his arms around Andante’s waist and pulled him forward to kiss him. It was gentle, utterly unlike either the playful or the fierce moods they usually spent on each other.
When it was finished, Andante smiled and nodded, then followed Brynjolf toward the canopied bed behind them.
This is what I need tonight, too. I just wish I knew who you just kissed, Bryn – me, or Dynjyl.
—
The Arcanaeum comprised an entire floor of one of the towers at the College of Winterhold. Like everything else there, the tower was circular and thus so was the Arcanaeum; and as unlikely as it was to think of bookshelves and secretaries lining circular walls, that was exactly what the Arcanaeum held. The entire place was full. A sunken central study area – pleasantly appointed with chairs and low tables rather than the stiff, formal arrangements of furniture in some halls of learning – was ringed by an inner wall pierced with half-circular openings. Other comfortable, intimate seating areas filled the space between that inner wall and the collections themselves. There were books everywhere: in piles, on tables, lining the window ledges in the central wall, and most importantly at the back of the room, on the main desk, being overseen by an imposing old mage.
Andante looked around with an odd and yet familiar sense of belonging. He liked reading; he felt comfortable around scrolls and books and journals. He’d even spent most of the days waiting to become a vampire, ill though he’d been, engrossed in a book. In spite of not knowing anything about his own past he felt certain that he must have spent a fair amount of time in such places, for he was well-educated enough, knew the histories of things to a decent extent. He grinned and made his way directly through the space toward the chief Archivist.
Urag gro-Shub, the Archivist at the College of Winterhold, was old. Ancient, even. He had no hair atop his green head; what he did have left, on the sides, was grown long and pulled into a knot at the back. His substantial, white beard didn’t quite hide the teeth that looked their great age and definitely didn’t do anything to conceal the appearance of a very long, sharp nose or the great fangs that rose from his lower jaw. It wasn’t an ordinary thing, to find an Orc who was also a mage; not unheard of by any stretch, but unusual.
But an Orc who was also the chief Archivist, the keeper of the great library of the College, now that was a good fit, Andante thought. If I were at all inclined to be intimidated by librarians or archivists, this would be the one to do it.
Urag greeted them in what might easily have passed for a friendly tone in his mind, but which sounded a lot like the warning growl of a carnivore to anyone else. He looked up at them from his chair behind the main desk, and grunted.
“This is the Arcanaeum, of which I am in charge. Disrupt it, and I will have you torn apart by angry atronachs. Now, do you require assistance?”
Andante couldn’t help himself. He smiled.
“Yes. We’re here hoping that you can help us find the whereabouts of an Elder Scroll.”
The Orc gave him a strange look, stranger than the look he might otherwise have expected to get with such a question.
“You think that even if I did have one here I would let you see it? It would be kept under the highest security. The greatest thief in the world wouldn’t be able to lay a finger on it.”
Brynjolf was standing near one of the half-moon openings in the inner wall. He’d been leafing through one of the many books piled up on its ledge, but looked up at Urag’s words, his eyes twinkling. Andante grinned at him. I smell a challenge, Bryn. I have been learning from you, my dear. Watch me work.
He turned back to Urag and smiled.
“Of course. I would hope nothing less than that. This is an archive, after all, and that is your function as an archivist. You preserve the world’s knowledge, and presumably keep it organized. That also means that you, personally, must be an expert on what information has been amassed here and what other information has not been selected or, well, acquired for inclusion in your collections. Am I correct?”
Urag gro-Shub was like anyone else in a specialized occupation, pleased and a bit flattered that someone from outside his profession would recognize its importance; and he’d been at his job for a very, very long time, hundreds of years by some estimations. He made another face that might easily have been the Orc equivalent of a smile.
“You are.”
“Well, then, I’m sure I’ve come to the right person. I was told that you might be able to help me learn the whereabouts of an Elder Scroll. Can you?”
“That seems to be a popular subject lately. If I’d known, I’d have kept the books right here behind the desk to save all the fetching. Well as it happens I can’t help, really. Not since the last fellow was here.”
Andante’s internal alarms started clamoring, and he struggled to keep his expression from showing it. That had been the very last thing he’d expected to hear.
“The last fellow?”
“Yeah. The last guy. You must know him, right? Redguard. Short, but big around. Had blonde hair and mismatched eyes, green and gold. He asked the same thing, and I sent him up to see if he could find Septimus Signus. He’s the real expert on these things even if he’s a bit… crazy. I don’t know whether your guy got the Scroll or not but he definitely beat you to the punch.” He stopped and frowned, realizing that, perhaps he shouldn’t have simply given out such information. “I hope you’re not out to get him or anything.”
“No, no, not at all… wait,” Andante babbled, his mind racing. I know this. Could it possibly be? Blonde hair, mismatched eyes. Dardeh? “Big Redguard? Did he by any chance say something about being Dragonborn?”
Urag’s eyebrows shot up. “Well, now. How did you know that? As a matter of fact, he’s the one. No idea where he is now, of course.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Andante muttered. It’s all the way back across Skyrim but at least we know where to find Dardeh.
“Probably. Now is there anything else I can help you with?”
Andante had been thinking about that very question all the way from Solitude.
He shot a quick glance at Brynjolf to see that he was engrossed once more in the book, and nodded, lowering his voice. “Would you have anything about the Soul Cairn? Old materials, histories?”
Urag snorted. “All of the materials here are old. That’s why they’re here. But yes. I have just the book you need. Give me a moment and I’ll bring it out for you.”
He heaved himself to his feet and walked across the room, directly to the cabinet he needed. There was no referring to indexes, or files, or other materials; Urag simply knew where the book was. He pulled it out, re-locked the cabinet, and brought the volume back to Andante.
“Here you go. Try not to spill anything on it.”
Andante nodded. “I know. Angry atronachs and all that. I’ll be careful.”
He flipped the book open and started reading as he wandered the room, finding a seat outside the inner wall.
Soul Cairn. Ruled by the Ideal Masters, yes, we knew that. Black soul gem, trapped soul, eternity, yes, yes. What else? It was once accessible via the voidgate of the Battlespire, but the link was broken when Mehrunes Dagon invaded during the Imperial Simulacrum, 3E 389 to 399. Ok, so we can’t get him out that way, right? What else? The apprentice battlemage who passed through on a quest to free a fellow apprentice from Dagon…
Wait.
“Wait!”
He found himself leaping to his feet as he stared at the pages.
“What is it, lad?”
Andante jumped again, startled, finding Brynjolf peering over his shoulder.
“I, uh…” He gazed at Brynjolf, wondering how much to say. “I think I found something. About the Soul Cairn. Maybe…” He trailed off, looking at the emotion beginning to dance in Brynjolf’s eyes. “Maybe it’s not inevitable, that souls stay there forever. Listen to this.”
He turned his eyes back to the book. “’This hero freed many trapped spirits, and was aided by the Ideal Masters through the Emerald Gates into the Shade Perilous.’ Well I don’t have any idea what that means, Bryn, except for one important fact – souls have escaped from there, before. I don’t know what happened to them when they escaped, but they have.”
Brynjolf sat down at the nearby table, almost as though his legs were giving out from under him.
“What else does it say?”
“It says: ‘The Shade Perilous is a pocket realm of the Evergloam coveted by many Daedric clans… blah blah blah…” He turned the page. “Ok, here’s another note, in a different hand. ‘Shade Perilous is the main focal point of Nocturnal. It lies in Evergloam. It is one of seven realms Nocturnal possesses.’ And…” he flipped another page. “Here’s another note, in yet another different hand. The apprentice battlemage, the same one I was reading about before, I guess. It says he helped to partially liberate the Shade Perilous.”
Andante sighed, then looked at Brynjolf. His head was inclined upward toward Andante, but had pulled his hood up. To hide his eyes, maybe? Is he upset?
“I’m sorry, Bryn. I thought maybe I could find something useful. This isn’t, really. I shouldn’t have spoken out loud. I didn’t want to get your hopes up. I guess the reference to Nocturnal is interesting but…”
“Lad.”
“Yeah?”
“You did that for me?”
Andante smiled. I’d do anything for you, Brynjolf. “Well, we were going to be here anyway and… I didn’t like seeing him roaming around there, either. I don’t know. Yes, I did that for you. I wish it was more useful.”
“Nocturnal. You know who that is, yes?”
“Well of course. She’s the one we all…”
“Hush. We don’t want Urag to wonder if he has the world’s greatest thief in his archive.” Brynjolf grinned; that much Andante could see even under the hood. “But yes. Eyes open, and walk with the shadows. There’s a reason we say that.”
“And it still doesn’t help us do anything for Dynjyl.”
“Hmm. I’ll need to think on it, lad. Did you find out anything about the Scroll?”
Andante smacked his forehead. “What an idiot. Yes, I did. Dardeh came here looking for it, awhile ago.”
“What?”
Andante related Urag’s description as closely to word-for-word as he could remember.
“That’s him. Well I guess that’s our next stop then. Tell you what; let’s go to Windhelm and get a carriage to Falkreath. Their house isn’t far away.”
“Not Whiterun?”
Brynjolf shook his head. “I don’t get into politics much but I do know that the southern border is safer for people with, shall we say, Imperial connections.”
Andante grinned. “Like Maven?”
“Well if you want to put it that way. She is Thane now, after all. But I’ve also heard that there’s been trouble around Whiterun.”
Andante raised an eyebrow. “That’s more than I knew. I thought Dardeh had gotten all of that settled. At any rate, he’s our best lead for the Scroll. Let’s head out.”
Andante returned the book to Urag gro-Shub and thanked him for both it and the information on the Elder Scroll. Grinning to himself as he did so, he reached into his coin purse and pulled out a fairly substantial amount of coin, sliding it across the desk.
“A donation to the archives, sir. Since I haven’t any research material to offer. You’ve been very helpful.”
Urag thanked him with a toothy grin and scurried off to put away the book and, presumably, the coin. Andante chuckled to himself.
‘You always pay for your information, lad,’ that’s what he told me.
Andante turned to leave and almost bumped headlong into Brynjolf. He was smiling down from under his hood.
“Thank you, lad,” he murmured.
