Sayma was pacing, up in the top level of the work building where they had their alchemy ingredients and where, on the bottom level, she could hear Brynjolf pounding away at the dagger he’d still never gotten finished to his own satisfaction.
That was the best thing she could do, under the circumstances; in fact it was very nearly the only thing she could do at that particular moment. Sitting still wasn’t a possibility. Sleeping or reclining was only marginally more comfortable. She’d gone into Riftvale’s tiny lake several times to float, the water adding buoyancy to her body and relieving some of the pressure from carrying about the extra pounds of the baby; but it was clear to her from every sign her body was providing that Qaralana, daughter of Sayma Sendu and Brynjolf of Riften, was impatient to make her appearance in the world.
It’s too soon, little one. It’s too soon. She’d whispered this to her child over and over. Even if she considered the outside chance that they’d begun Qara’s life in the tiny house in Ben Erai, and not the much later evening at Honeyside when Brynjolf had almost shyly replaced her wedding band on her finger, it was still too soon by several weeks. And she was worried about that.
When wee Bryn had been born, she’d been alone and yet in the company of her other chosen family. When the first signs had begun – the long, slow tightening across her back and beneath the bulge of her womb – she’d been nearly panic-stricken. It must be Brynjolf’s son, she’d told herself. It must be. But what if it isn’t? What if he’s got blonde hair, and blue eyes, and looks like Roggi Knot-Beard? Her other voice had kept goading her.
That’s why we did this, she had told herself. That’s why I am Sayma now, and not Dagnell. That’s why we left both of them behind. That, and… this. She’d been pacing near the Night Mother’s coffin at the time, and she’d heard the dry, drawn-out whispers in her mind.
Babette knows the way. Go to Babette.
She’d listened to the Night Mother, and had a stern talking-to about relaxing from Cicero, who in spite of his madness seemed to know that she needed support even as she prepared to do something that women had done since the dawn of time itself. That had been one of the moments in which she’d been glad that she’d let him live. She’d touched him on the arm, briefly, and he’d shied away as he always did; but she had gotten the sense that Cicero was pleased – dear, sweet Cicero – that he’d been able to offer her some strange form of comfort at an hour when she was nothing but terrified.
It had seemed the strangest of all possible things to go to Babette – a child in outer form, a three hundred year old vampire in reality – for her skills as a midwife. And yet, Babette had been calm, and encouraging, and had mixed some concoctions that were soothing to her so that she stopped fighting against the pain as it built in wave after wave but rather let it do its work. She’d known the things to say to help her endure the hours of labor as her body readied itself to deliver a child. She’d shooed Nazir and his recruits out of the Sanctuary for those last few hours as Sayma tried, with various degrees of success, to keep from moaning audibly. It was one thing to have torture subjects moaning loudly at all hours of the day or night. It was another entirely to have the shrieks of childbirth agitating people who were already highly attuned to screams. She herself had left Sayma, just briefly, stepping out of the area to slake her own thirst; for childbirth was a bloody event, and she was, after all, a vampire.
And Babette had been there, quietly encouraging, as Sayma’s world had contracted to the small point of focus which was her pain and her need, and had pushed her child into the frigid air of Skyrim with a howl of pain and relief. She’d wrapped the boy and handed him to her, and calmly attended to those matters that needed to be attended to, while Sayma’s heart had broken into a million pieces at the sight of his vivid red hair and green eyes and had then begun to beat again with a love the likes of which she had never known before.
Brynjolf, she had said to him. Your name is Brynjolf, after your father. It’s a good, strong name for a good, strong boy; and even though you’re only half Nord you are going to be a good, strong boy like your uncle. I can tell.
That had been the moment she’d begun healing. It had been a long, slow process, years in the doing, while the infant had grown, and changed, and stretched up into a toddler, reminding her more every day of his father whom she had betrayed and left behind in Riften. She could still remember the day she’d decided that she couldn’t stand it any longer and that Brynjolf at least had to know that his wife was still alive. She remembered the day when Babette and Andante had moved her into the small house in Dawnstar, the day when she’d decided to send her answer back to Brynjolf with Andante, not knowing that the two of them were lovers.
It was all so unnecessary. And yet somehow, maybe I had to do it and we had to be apart in order to come back together. Now I know that we will never be apart again.
She rubbed her belly yet again as it tightened up into a band of muscles that felt as though it would rival the strongest shield Balimund could forge. There was no help for it and no mistaking it for anything else. She was going to have to have help, and soon.
She grabbed the handrail and began picking her way down the stairs one at a time. One foot down, then the next onto the same step; then a deep breath against the discomfort and repeat. She’d made it as far as the first landing when a particularly strong contraction left her no further room for doubt.
“Bryn?” she called out quietly.
He was hammering, humming a mindless tune as he did so; and he obviously didn’t hear her. She waited, closing her eyes, forcing herself to breathe and try to relax and wait for an opening.
Clank, clank, clank…
“Bryn!”
There was a pause.
“Yes, lass?”
“Can you come here for a moment? I need some help.”
She heard the dagger clatter to the floor and the sound of Brynjolf’s footsteps thundering up the few stairs between them. His hands grasped her shoulders.
“Are you alright, lass?”
“No.” She opened her eyes and smiled into his, brilliant green and huge with concern. “Well, yes, I guess I am, but it seems that our daughter has decided to make an early appearance. I’m going to need help getting down the stairs and into the house.”
“Right away.”
Before she knew what was happening, Brynjolf had scooped her up into his arms. Even as big with child as she was, she was far from a heavy load for a man of his bulk; and it took only moments until he was kicking the door open and bundling her into the bedroom.
“Iona!” he bellowed as he laid her on the bed.
“Bryn, it’s not at that point quite yet. I was just afraid that I was going to fall down the stairs.”
He ignored her, turning to the door as Iona pushed it open.
“Yes, sir?”
“Iona, it’s time. I’m going to need you to take wee Bryn over to Honeyside for the night.” He fished into a pocket for the keys and tossed them to her. “I’m sure everything will be fine there, but if anything goes wrong…”
“Go to the Flagon. I know. Delvin will protect us.”
Brynjolf laughed. “Yeah, old Delvin will take any excuse to see a pretty face.”
Iona chuckled. “It’s not just me, sir. He likes little Chip a lot.”
Sayma had been squinching her eyes shut against another strong pain but popped them open at that.
“Chip?”
Brynjolf gave a low, slightly embarrassed chuckle. “Yeah. He said he was getting tired of having to specify which Brynjolf he was talking about. We were in the Flagon visiting one day while you were gone and the boy walked right up to his table and tried to snatch a septim off it, right in front of Delvin. Got caught, of course, but Delvin said he was a chip off the old block.”
Iona snickered. “And then leaned over and said ‘Well, Chip, I can see we’ll have to start training you pretty soon. I’ll talk to Vipir about some pickpocket lessons.’” She’d done an admirable job of imitating Delvin’s accent.
Sayma started to laugh, and then stopped as Qaralana kicked her squarely in the bladder. “Ouch that hurt. I’m going to need to get up again for a minute.” Brynjolf helped lift her up off the bed.
“Alright then. Listen, Iona, stay with Sayma for a few minutes before you leave. I need to run a quick errand. I’ll be back in just a bit.” Without waiting for a response, he dashed away and slammed the door behind him.
Sayma sighed. But he wasn’t with you the last time, either, and you did just fine. Nothing bad is going to happen.
Except for my son suddenly being Chip. Not Brynjolf the Younger, not Red, but Chip.
I suppose it will be easier to tell who I’m mad at, huh.
Iona kept a close watch on her for the next little while, calling “Chip” in from playing in the yard to tell him to get a fresh set of clothing and a couple of toys.
“We going ‘way?” he asked.
Sayma bundled him into a hug and ruffled his increasingly shaggy red hair. “Well you and Iona are going to go to Honeyside for tonight, sweetheart.”
“Why?”
“Because, my little one, your baby sister wants to come out into the world now.” She took Chip’s hand and placed it on her belly, just in time for Qaralana to do the impatient dance she’d been doing for the past several weeks. “Can you feel her?”
“Uh-huh.” He looked very somber. “Can we play tomorrow?”
Both Iona and Sayma giggled. “Probably not tomorrow. She’s a very little girl and she will need time for her legs to get strong like yours are. But it won’t be too long.” She held his face in her hands and kissed the top of his head. “So can you be a very good little Red for Iona tonight?”
“Chip!” He said, grinning. “Delvin says I’m a Chip offa bwock.”
She started to laugh and then winced a bit as her muscles tightened again. My gosh this is going so much quicker than I remember. I hope Bryn is back soon.
“You’re definitely a chip off the old block, little one. Just like your daddy.”
Sayma paced the room a bit more, growing a bit more concerned by the moment. Maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea to let him leave. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to send Iona with … Chip. Iona was a soldier, through and through, not a midwife; but at least she was a woman. She would know some things.
Just when she was starting to settle down to a serious moment of panic the door opened again and Brynjolf barged through it.
“I’m back. Is everything alright?”
“Da! Baby sister is coming to play!” Chip ran to him and Brynjolf, laughing as he did nearly every time he saw his son, scooped him up and settled him on one hip.
“Is that so.”
“Aye! It is!”
“And I suppose you’re going to teach her how to get into all the mischief in the world, aren’t you, you little monster,” he asked, grinning.
“Aye. Of course.”
“Bryn, don’t encourage him,” Sayma snickered.
“It was a difficult enough task to keep you from getting in trouble, Brynjolf, and you were nearly grown,” a warm, dark voice said from the doorway. Sayma turned to find Karliah standing there, smiling at her. “He really was incorrigible, even as a child.”
“Karliah! I’m glad you’re here!” Sayma breathed. Of course he went to get Karliah. She’s been around a lot longer than any of the rest of us. She’ll be perfect.
“What’s ‘corrigible,’ Karliah?” Chip asked.
“It means,” Karliah said, walking to him and poking him gently in the nose with one finger, “a little boy who likes to take things that don’t belong to him. Like septims that belong to big people like Delvin Mallory.”
Sayma chuckled again, meeting Brynjolf’s gaze. He was smiling at her, gently, warmly, and at that moment she felt as loved as she ever remembered feeling.
Yes, Bryn, this is your family. It’s a strange one, but it is a family and you’re at the center of it.
“Did you take Delvin’s septim Da?” Chip said, pretending to look cross but failing miserably at it.
Brynjolf mock gasped. “How dare you accuse me of such a thing, young man! What do you think I am, a thief?”
Chip giggled.
“Alright, give me a hug and go say goodbye to your ma,” Brynjolf told him. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”
Chip threw his arms around his father – or at least as far around him as he could reach – and squeezed. Brynjolf closed his eyes and kissed the top of his son’s head. Sayma’s heart never failed to melt just a bit more each time she watched the two of them together like that. He set Chip down on the floor; Chip ran over to her and gave her a matching hug.
“Love you, little one. You be a good boy, ok?”
“Ok, mama,” he said. Then he surprised her. He leaned over and put his small face next to her belly, and said “See you tomorrow baby sister. Be a good girl.” Sayma felt the infant wriggling in response to the sound.
She giggled at him. “Thank you, little one. I’m sure she will be. I’m pretty sure she heard you say that.”
Iona and Chip left, and Karliah approached Sayma.
“So, Sayma, how are you doing?” She reached out and placed a hand on Sayma’s belly just as another contraction started. Sayma winced and tried to breathe. “Ah, I see things are proceeding apace.”
“I’m a little surprised at how apace they are coming,” she said. “I’m actually a bit worried. It’s still too soon.”
“Well, sometimes these things happen on a schedule of their own,” Karliah said calmly. I think we should prepare, though. Don’t worry, Sayma. I’ve attended several mothers over the years and I am certain you’ll be just fine.”
“Is there anything I can do, lass?” Brynjolf said, hovering around them as Sayma returned to the bedroom and sank down on their bed.
“Yes, there is,” Karliah said, smiling at him. “A number of things, actually. You can boil some water. I think Sayma could do with a nice cup of warm tea to relax. I have brought along some herbs that will help. Let me know when the water is warm. And we’ll need…”
Sayma smiled as Karliah followed Brynjolf out into the main room, giving him a list of things to gather. While they were busy she changed out of her black robes and into the most comfortable thing she could find to wear. She went past the end of the bed to hang the robes up in their closet; and as she passed by she felt a warm sensation coming from nearby.
“What?”
She looked around the room, seeing nothing there that should be radiating heat. There was no fire there, no lighted candles yet, nothing that would be providing a sensation of warmth and comfort; and yet as she passed the tall table at the end of the room she felt it again. She looked down at the table and realized that she was facing the ornate vase in which they’d placed the ashes of Vitus Perdeti.
She’d felt very odd about having him in the room with them when they’d first brought him home. Brynjolf rarely if ever addressed the fact that the ashes were there with them. In fact, he rarely acknowledged the vase’s presence at all. Soon enough, it had become just another piece of the background of their lives. And it was, after all, just a vase with ash inside.
Or so she thought.
She placed her hand on the vase and jumped to feel that it was in fact, quite warm.
I must be hallucinating. This isn’t real. I’m just having pain and it’s doing things to my head.
She touched the vase again and was surprised to find that she hadn’t been imagining it. The vase was warm.
“Andante?” she whispered. Qaralana wriggled frantically in her womb.
“How can it be? Are you… somehow…”
“Who are you talking to, lass?” Brynjolf said, coming in behind her to place his warm hands on her shoulders and begin massaging gently. She sighed and closed her eyes.
“Wow. Didn’t realize how tense I was,” she said.
“You are. And you were talking to someone,” he prodded once more.
“Well, you’ll think I’m crazy.”
“Maybe. Probably not.” He kept rubbing her shoulders; she was about to relax fully into his hands when another contraction started. “Whoops, here we go again. By the gods that hurts.”
“What can I do?” Brynjolf sounded almost frantic.
“Here.” She placed both hands on the table for support and leaned forward. “Rub my back. The lower part of it.”
Brynjolf began touching her lightly, and then snorted as his fingers ran across the exceptionally tight muscles on either side of her spine. “By the Eight, lass, you’re tight as a drum!” He started massaging her back. It was almost more the warmth than the pressure that made her feel better.
“Thanks, Red,” she told him as the wave passed again and she was able to take a deep breath. “The last time – with Chip – this went on for just hours and hours. But it feels like it’s moving faster this time.”
“And you were still talking to someone,” he said.
She turned around to smile at him and laughed. “You’re worse than a hunting hound when you get an idea in your head, aren’t you? Here. Feel this.” She took his hand and laid it on the vase; and she watched his eyes widen before he looked back at her.
“It’s…warm!”
“Yes, it is. I can’t explain it. It’s never been warm before. Call me crazy, Bryn, but I think he’s wishing us luck.”
A whole parade of emotions ran across the face of the man she’d grown to love so much as he gazed down at the vase. Then he raised his hand and stared at it.
“I won’t call you crazy, lass. Feel my ring.”
She entwined her fingers with his, squeezing his hand. The ruby ring Andante had made for him not long before his death was usually warm simply by virtue of being on Brynjolf’s hand ; but at this moment the ruby itself seemed to be radiating heat. He stared at their hands and then raised them to his mouth, kissing her palm and smiling at her with his eyes.
“I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have thought such a thing possible. I hope it isn’t distressing to you. I can move the vase if it is.”
Sayma smiled back at him. “No. It’s not distressing at all, now that I’ve realized I’m not insane. It’s …” She shrugged. “I’ve missed having him around. It’s like he’s not really gone at all.”
“Aye,” Brynjolf murmured.
Then his expression changed. One eyebrow rose into an arch and he laughed.
“You know, lad, you haven’t changed a bit.”
Sayma was puzzled. “What do you mean he hasn’t…” She trailed off as the implications of having, somehow, some portion of Andante’s consciousness there in their bedroom dawned on her. “Are you saying that he’s been listening? Every time we… Bryn!” She whirled and glared at the vase. “Andante! Really!”
Brynjolf tossed back his head and laughed again, the big, hearty laugh she loved to hear. “Well he’s certainly gotten an earful if he has. Something tells me it’s not quite the same as really listening in, but…” He rubbed her back some more. “Lass, Vitus knew that you and I were meant to be together. He really did. One of the first days we ever spent together, he asked me if I was married.”
She bent over again, panting as the pain resumed. “And what…” she said between gasps, “did you tell him?”
“I told him I was. And that the thing I wanted most in the world was to bring you home and hold you.”
“I’ll bet he was pleased to hear that.”
She smiled, even as her eyes closed, focusing on Qaralana’s steady progress toward joining their lives. He chuckled.
“No. He wasn’t. But do you know what he told me? ‘I’ll help you find her.’ Right then, even when he’d finally gotten close to me after trying for a long time to get my attention. He always knew.”
She was surprised when he leaned forward and kissed her on the neck. “I love you, lass. Tell me if there is anything I can do to help.”
As the pain receded, she straightened up and turned to him. “You’re already doing it, Brynjolf. Just by being here.”
She was about to lean in for a kiss when Karliah came bustling into the room and set, on the side-table, a tray with three steaming mugs on it. “This one,” she said, picking up a mug made of a more ruddy-colored clay than the others, “is for Sayma. You may have had some of these herbs the last time, Sayma. They’ll help with the discomfort.”
Sayma took the mug and sipped. “Yes, I remember this flavor. Thank you, Karliah.”
Karliah handed one of the other mugs to Brynjolf. “Something warm for you, my friend. There’s nothing special in it; it’s just tea. Some for you and some for me,” she added, taking the third mug. “I think it will continue this way for some time. The important thing for all of us will be to relax and let nature take its course as it will. Brynjolf, I’ll need to examine Sayma and while I know you two are acquainted with each other’s bodies…” She trailed off and smiled.
“I should be a good incorrigible lad and scurry off for a bit, is that what you’re telling me? All right, Karliah. I can take a hint. I’ll be just outside if you need anything.”
And so it continued, late into the night. The pains came closer together, and her ability to keep the extent of it from Brynjolf diminished with each new wave. She felt her consciousness drawing inward, ever inward and downward, and her eyes closed; but she focused on their voices, Karliah’s and Brynjolf’s: Karliah’s calm, steadying instructions and Brynjolf’s murmurs of reassurance. At one point, inexplicably, the warmth of his hands rubbing her back almost had her dozing off; and then she realized that he was singing, softly, as he massaged the painful muscles in a slow rhythm.
“Sing me a song of a lad that is gone… say, could that lad be I?”
Her eyes started to sting. She listened quietly, trying not to scream her pain as he made his quiet, beautiful way through the song because she didn’t want to interrupt him.
Finally she heard Karliah say, quietly, “That was lovely, Brynjolf.”
“Bah. I’m not a singer.”
“Yes, you are,” she whispered. “I told you that a long time ago.”
“You did,” he said, leaning forward to kiss her neck once more. “I didn’t believe you then, lass, and I don’t believe you now. But I’m happy if you enjoyed it.”
And before too much longer had passed, she found herself crying in relief as a tiny, but vehemently squalling little girl with a full head of flaming red hair entered the world. She looked up at Brynjolf and smiled as she saw the look of wonder on his face.
“Here, Brynjolf,” Karliah said, handing him the sharpest-looking dagger Sayma had ever seen. “As the father, it is your prerogative to cut the cord. Go ahead.”
Brynjolf looked at Sayma in amazement. She nodded at him as she stroked their daughter’s head and then watched him do the task with Karliah supervising. He was shivering when he was finished.
“I didn’t… hurt you, did I?”
Sayma laughed. “No, dear. Of course not. You’d have heard me screaming if you had. Now stop shuddering and say hello to your daughter.”
He moved closer to her arms and looked at Karliah, as if he was asking for permission.
“You silly boy. As many years as I have known you, and you still haven’t learned to take direction. Pick up your new daughter, Brynjolf. Here. I’ll show you how to hold her.” Karliah took the baby from Sayma and handed her to Brynjolf.
He dwarfed her. She had arrived early, and therefore was smaller than most newborn children; but she was perfect in all respects and had let it be known that she was quite tired of being squeezed and shoved. When she looked up at Brynjolf, though, she quieted. Her eyes, unfocused as a newborn’s eyes always were, squinted and blinked, and she looked at him with one of the most somber expressions Sayma had ever seen.
Brynjolf cleared his throat several times before reaching up to stroke her tiny cheek with the back of one finger.
“Hello, my wee little lass,” he said quietly. “Welcome to the world. I’m your da.”
Qaralana gurgled, and squirmed in his arm, but otherwise seemed to simply be studying his face. He laughed.
“Oh you and yer brother are going to be a right handful for us, aren’t ye?”
Sayma giggled. “You definitely were from Falskaar, weren’t you, Red?”
“Aye,” he said quietly, never taking his eyes off the tiny form in his arms. “I was.” He heaved a great breath and smiled. “And I never thought I’d ever have a moment like this in my life.”
“All new fathers feel this way, Brynjolf, or so I have observed,” Karliah said. “But I’m sure this moment is especially lovely for you.”
“Aye,” he said again, nodding. His hair fell forward across his face and a strand of it brushed the baby’s face. The next thing Sayma knew, he was laughing and saying “ow, ow, ow, little one, you have quite a grip for someone so new!” and she saw that Qaralana had grasped that hair quite solidly and was pulling it.
Sayma scooted herself back up against the head of the bed and held out her arms. “Here. I need to feed her. That’s hard work for everyone involved.”
Brynjolf very carefully transferred the infant to Sayma’s arms, bending over until she was safe and then very gently pulling the errant strand of hair out of the baby’s fist. Qaralana looked disgusted for a moment; but then Sayma helped her find her breast for the first time, and the baby gave a comfortable burp and began nursing.
“And there you have it,” Karliah said. “All is well. I’ll stay here for the night, Brynjolf, so that the three of you can take rest as you’re able. In the meantime I’ll leave you to it and clean up.”
“Thank you, Karliah,” Sayma murmured. It had been a much easier birth than Chip’s had been – much quicker, and much less painful; but the calming influence of an older woman had once again helped her a great deal. Karliah and Brynjolf bustled about, taking care of those things that needed doing and chatting happily to each other. Karliah had known Brynjolf for so long that it must seem to him almost as though she was a mother – or at very least a much older sister. She knew Karliah’s presence had made a huge difference in this day’s events, for both of them.
“Where’s she going to sleep?” Karliah asked, reaching for the child.
“One moment,” Brynjolf said. “I’ll be right back.”
They looked at each other, puzzled, as his heavy footsteps retreated and the door banged. Karliah rocked the baby in her arms, humming quietly, and Sayma smiled, thinking how Karliah had been a surrogate mother of sorts for so many young people because she’d had no children of her own. Then the door banged open again, followed by a thump and the sound of Brynjolf yelping.
“Shor’s beard! Got my finger.”
A moment later he maneuvered through the door of the bedroom with a tiny cradle, elevated to the height of their bedside but constructed in such a way that it would rock side to side, easily.
“There. She can sleep there. Give it a moment or two to warm up and, uh… we’ll need to put some blankets in it or something.” He smiled at her. “Is that alright?”
“Bryn,” she said, her heart swelling once more. “Did you make this?”
“Aye, lass,” he said, smiling. “It seemed like the least I could do, especially since I wasn’t around to help you the last time.”
That was my fault, Brynjolf, not yours. But this is the most beautiful thing anyone has ever done for me.