He could have been flying. He could even have been running. Somehow he felt like doing neither of those things, his mood a far heavier load than he was used to carrying. He’d walked instead, trudging his way east and slightly south, toward the plains. It was fully dark when he passed through Rorikstead and dropped off the roadway to begin the long trek to the city of Whiterun. A heavy fog had settled over the river and spread east, reducing visibility to just the few feet around him; he relied on his keen vampiric hearing to keep him from falling prey to hunting saber cats.
I wish I hadn’t even gone there. I wish I hadn’t gotten my hopes up. Bloodgrass. Why something that only grows in a place I can’t get to and probably wouldn’t dare step foot in, even if I could? One false move and I become a pile of ash.
I wonder whether there’s anything I can do to salvage my marriage. She’s right; I would never hurt her, not purposefully. Maybe it will help if she knows I was actively looking for a cure.
He shook his head.
Maybe I’m a fool.
Not only had he become a vampire again, he had a legitimate claim to be head of the clan. That was bad enough. But on top of that, he’d started what looked like it could become a highly successful skooma operation practically under Sayma’s feet. Even though he’d done it for the best of reasons – to wean the Thieves Guild away from Maven Black-Briar – his wife would have very little patience or tolerance for it if she found out. He sighed and continued across the plains, wondering what he was going to do and why, once more, he’d managed to fall prey to the excitement of change and danger in spite of himself. Mercer Frey would have been sneering at him, telling him that he was never going to be the type of man who could be in charge of anything.
And he’d be right. Some lives just can’t be fixed. Some people just aren’t worth it. The more time that passes, the more I understand why Vitus chose to stand in the sun.
Even as dark as it was he was comfortable with the familiar landscape. This far side of Whiterun Hold, east of the mountainous Reach and south of the spine of mountains along Hjaalmarch’s border, was very uneven, dotted with rocky outcroppings, cave openings, and small groves of pine and spruce. They made excellent hiding places for deer and elk, which meant that they were also excellent hiding places for bandits and large predators; as such Brynjolf always passed them as cautiously as he could. He was in just such a cautious crouch when the fog lifted around the crest of one such hill, revealing a large mound in the center of a grove. Curious, he edged forward until he could discern that it was a large tent.
He listened closely, but heard no heartbeats. He could see a roll near the top of the shape that told him the front tent flap was wide open. There was no light from a fire, no glowing embers shedding a small, protective circle of light. He would have expected at least embers; everyone knew that fire was the best way to keep predators at bay.
Even this kind of predator avoids fire.
He kept pushing closer until it was obvious that there was nobody in the camp. He made his way to the door of the tent, eased inside, and turned on his light.
It had been set up for a long haul, this camp, a fact made obvious by the presence of a full-sized wooden dresser well-stocked with cheese and bottles of mead. A broom fallen over onto its side also spoke of a lengthy stay. Brynjolf frowned, puzzled. There was no good reason for a camp this solid to be in the wilds with nobody there to guard it.
He went through the place, opening drawers and books, getting down onto his knees to peer under the bed. He was pondering taking one of the bottles of mead for himself when he spotted a piece of paper on the dresser’s lower shelf. He unfolded it, hoping that there would be something written there that might give him a hint. As he read, his eyes opened wider.
I’ve done it! I’ve made the greatest discovery of the year! I’ve found several artifacts that may indeed point the way to the Daedric Vault built by the Imperials at the end of the Oblivion Crisis. However, it seems that the fools who own that museum in Dawnstar, the one that idiot Silus founded, have their own plans for my discovery. I’ve fought off two of their goons so far and I am sure that there will be more.
There had to have been someone here. I wonder how long it’s been.
He stepped back outside the tent and started scouting around it for some hint of what had happened. There was nothing in front of the tent aside from a completely cold firepit. On the far side, though, the ground dropped off toward a stream. Just down slope from the tent, Brynjolf found what he’d been looking for. There was a deep hole, the soil around it suggesting that it was a fairly recent excavation. At the bottom lay a chest – open, and completely empty – and a body, face-down. It had clearly been there for some time, for the flies were swarming and the area smelled of rotting flesh; and yet not long enough for the body to have been picked clean. He opted to leave it face-down, not wishing to see what was on its underside. Brynjolf could see a great many dark spots, obviously the remnants of spilled blood but old enough that their scent hadn’t reached him.
I’m a little amazed I didn’t smell the body before I saw the tent, actually. It’s been here awhile. Well this has to be the man Melka was talking about, an archaeologist searching for Oblivion-era items. He’s dead, so he can’t help me.
And Silus is dead, too.
He remembered Andante telling him about Silus Vesuius and how he’d met the man while working to get Mehrunes’ Razor, the Daedric dagger he favored the entire time Brynjolf had known him. He’d killed Silus on Dagon’s orders, then grabbed the Razor and run away from the scene, leaving Dagon’s Dremora on guard for the two of them to encounter much later while looking for Dimhollow Crypt. He chuckled thinking about it, remembering Andante’s consternation at both getting lost on the mountainside and needing to clean up his own mess.
“But that was years ago now,” he murmured. “And this body’s been here for awhile. What are the chances that anyone actually took the things back to Dawnstar?”
He started walking east once more, frowning, his mind working at the problem. The chances of an excavation holding something like a plant were slim to none. But maybe he would find dried leaves, or seeds, or something. Anyone worth his salt would take a rare item out of a place they looted, especially if it was something that could be sold at a high enough price. Before he even realized he had decided to do it he had turned north, toward the pass where Labrynthian lay.
It’s worth looking into; I’m headed east anyway. It’s not as though anyone’s waiting for me to turn up back in Riften.
___
“So tell me, Dragonborn. What have you to report?”
It felt like déjà vu to Dardeh, standing here before Ulfric’s throne, making a report. This time, though, Ulfric was looking him directly in the eyes with an expression of true interest, not looking somewhere out over his head, ignoring his presence, or trying not to snarl at him. And he was happy to be making the report. To his complete amazement, he was actually pleased to see Ulfric.
How far we’ve all come.
“The only Jarls we haven’t spoken to are Jarl Laila in Riften and, well, the obvious one,” Dardeh said.
Ulfric gave him a small smile. “I hadn’t expected Jarl Elisif to vote in my favor, regardless. But perhaps, if she finds herself alone, she might be persuaded. Assuming, of course, that the Archmage will allow it?”
“Well, Ulfric, you won’t have to worry about that,” Roggi said.
Dardeh turned to look at Roggi. He still seemed a bit pale, and a bit weak and unfocused to Dardeh; not surprising, given how close he had come to death. It had been a very long and careful trip for them from Winterhold to Windhelm. At several points Dardeh had felt his nerves starting to fray with the slow pace they needed to take. But Roggi wouldn’t have been in such a bad condition if not for him; so he had swallowed his impatience, lent an arm for Roggi to lean on here and there, and kept them both safe from wolves and ice wraiths until at last they’d arrived in Ulfric’s court.
“What do you mean, Roggi?” Ulfric asked quietly. “What has happened?”
“He’s dead,” Roggi said flatly. “As we suspected, he was after Dar’s blood. He came after us in Winterhold, and chased us up onto the roof of the College. Dar killed him.”
There was a sharp intake of breath followed by a long pause.
“Dragonborn? Is this so?”
Dardeh nodded, answering without taking his eyes off Roggi. “Yes. Lord Edwyn Wickham is no more. He almost killed Roggi, Ulfric, and I think you can imagine what that did to me. I’m afraid that instead of bringing him to justice I turned him into a pile of ash. He may well have flown all the way to the Red Mountain by now, the way the winds were blowing.”
Dardeh spared a momentary glance at Ulfric, who was frowning deeply. “Are you well, Roggi?” he said quietly.
Roggi nodded. “Yes. Thank you for asking. I do need some time to rest, though. I hate to admit it, but it was a near thing, and I’m not nearly as young as I used to be. I was glad I had my own private dragon to protect me. So yeah, I’ll be around to complicate your life a while longer, Ulfric.”
“That’s very good,” Ulfric said. “I’m relieved to hear it. So I shall make arrangements for the Moot, at last. I hope to convince Elisif that it will be better not to stand in our way, especially now that she is a widow again. I’ll send word when the affair is to happen. Both of you will be my honored guests at the…” Ulfric trailed off.
Dardeh was vaguely aware of the fact that Ulfric had stopped speaking, and could feel his gaze on the two of them. But he couldn’t stop looking at – and smiling at – Roggi.
I came so close to losing you. But you are still here. And everything’s going to be all right.
“Thank you, Ulfric,” he said. “I believe I am going to get this big Nord of mine home and into a comfortable chair in front of the fire. With a bottle of mead.”
They said their goodbyes and left the castle. Dardeh helped Roggi up into the carriage and then, after paying the driver an exorbitant amount of coin to make an extra stop at their house rather than make them walk from Falkreath, climbed up into the cart with his husband.
He kept watching Roggi, all the way back. Roggi was clearly tired, and subdued. Dardeh realized that he hadn’t – not for a single moment – felt the usual twinge of jealousy and anger he usually felt when speaking to Ulfric.
Huh. It’s almost like it doesn’t matter anymore.
About halfway home, he found himself speaking.
“Roggi, can I ask you a question?”
“Of course. What is it?”
He should have thought better of it, but for some reason it seemed important to get the issue clarified. Before he could stop himself, the words spilled out.
“Did you and Brynjolf ever…”
Roggi blinked, three or four times, and stared at him. “What? What are you asking me?”
Dardeh felt himself flushing. “I know it’s a strange thing to ask but I always wondered. He’s a good-looking guy, you spent some time together, the two of you, and you’ve always been close, as long as I’ve known you. I just thought… well… I don’t know what I thought.”
Roggi stared at him for a moment and then broke out into peals of laughter, slapping his knee. It was the most animation Dardeh had seen from him since the rooftop in Winterhold, and in spite of how embarrassed he was to have asked the question, he delighted in hearing Roggi’s laugh.
“You’re asking if we slept with each other, Dar?” He laughed loudly for a while longer, loudly enough for the carriage driver to turn and give them a curious look. Roggi waved him off even as he snickered. He turned back to Dardeh and shook his head with a smile.
“No, Dar. Bryn’s like a brother to me. He was very ill when I went to take care of him and, eh, I don’t know. We’re not each other’s type. It honestly never even crossed my mind. I’m sure it never crossed his. We slept in the same bed a couple of nights, like you and I did before we got together. He needed someone to be nearby. But that was all.” Roggi leaned forward and took Dardeh’s hands in his. “Dardeh, my love, when are you ever going to stop worrying about this? I’m not going anywhere. Not ever. I’m yours.” He sat back up and chuckled again. “But I have to say I needed that laugh. I have a feeling he’d laugh about it too.”
Dardeh smiled. He hadn’t really been concerned about it; it was just something he’d always been curious about. In fact, he felt a lightness in himself that hadn’t existed since before his mother had died. It felt odd, not being tied up in knots on his way back from seeing Ulfric Stormcloak. Maybe things would be alright after all.
___
It was, mercifully, an overcast and very quiet afternoon when he arrived in Dawnstar. Mercifully, because Brynjolf knew he was going to have to break into the museum in order to look around, and he preferred to attract as little attention as possible while coming and going from the place. He made his way to the porch of Silus’ house – the place that had doubled as a museum while he was alive – and carefully waited until the town guards were at the far ends of their patrols before letting himself in.
It looked as though the home had been decently cared for in the time since Andante killed its former owner. There were no great accumulations of dust; the embers of a fire warmed the space, and he could both see and smell food. Someone still lived there; he needed to move quickly.
He went to the rear of the home first, and looked around at the display cases: old, faded Mythic Dawn outfits, books, tattered scrolls and a few empty spots where parts of the Dagger had been according to Andante’s stories. All of them had the look of things that had not been touched or moved in many years. At last he returned to the front of the place and squinted into the first case. A Daedric-make dagger, a note, and a key lay inside the display.
Hmm. Daedric? Maybe someone’s trying to pretend that Mehrunes’ Razor is here after all. Let’s see…
It wasn’t an especially difficult lock to pick. When he lifted the lid, he could feel the enchantment on the dagger; he took it more out of habit than anything else. Of more interest, though, were the key and the parchment, which, he noted, had no dust at all on them when he scooped them up. He opened the note and found four lines of Daedric lettering. He sighed in frustration.
I can translate this, but not right now. I need to get out. These things were placed in this case recently or they’d be dusty; but what does this key open? Is this what that archaeologist was talking about? How on earth am I supposed to…
It was then, as he slipped the key into a pocket and closed the case, that he noticed the tapestry on the wall just above it. He’d seen it when he approached, of course; but now he took a moment to truly examine the thing. It depicted a scene in the forest: a circular building with a statue of Talos on its roof stood in the midst of the pines, before what looked like a rocky background. In the foreground of the tapestry was a faint scroll pattern, annoying in that it was faint enough to let the scenery show through but opaque enough to obscure some of the details.
Even though he grew more anxious as the moments ticked by and his need to escape grew greater, Brynjolf stared at it. He thought he recognized the place. He hadn’t ever spent a great deal of time at the western end of Falkreath Hold where Dardeh and Roggi lived. Most of his trips through had been just that: trips through, made as quickly as possible without stopping to become intimately acquainted with the area. Only Mammoth Manor itself was a place he knew well. Still, he thought that he had seen a building like the one in the tapestry, somewhere in that area.
I guess I’m going to Falkreath before I go to Riften. If this key opens something there at least I’ll be on the right track.
I’m not sure what I’ll be on the track to, exactly, but it’s better than having no options at all.
He took one last scan around the room to be sure he hadn’t left anything behind that a recent excavation might have turned up. Then he slipped back out the door, skittered away from the home, and straightened up to make the long trek south once more.
___
He wanted desperately to stop at Roggi and Dardeh’s home, to see whether they had returned yet – to perhaps have a moment of sanity with people he considered family before he had to finally admit that he had ruined his life, and Sayma’s, and the children’s. As he pondered the state Roggi had been in when he’d last seen them, though, and the time it would have taken them to take news to Ulfric and then return to Falkreath, he realized that he shouldn’t waste his time. Roggi had nearly been killed. They’d be moving slowly.
At least if this is a dead end I won’t end up raising their hopes too.
That in mind, he slipped down the road past Mammoth Manor and past the mill as well. Across from the mill, set well back from the road but next to the brook that powered the mill’s water wheel, was a place that matched what he’d seen in the tapestry. Round, with a statue on its roof and a huge dead stump next to it, the Imperial-make building was covered with thick green vines and dark mosses. Around its base at regular intervals were inset niches, more than a man’s height, places where adversaries might easily hide in the shadows. The multiple narrow windows – or perhaps they were arrow-slits – had no light behind them that he could see other than a bit of reflection from the rapidly-sinking sun. He approached the building, circling carefully around it to scout for potential ambushes before making a second trip around, close in, searching for an entrance. He found the doorway on the downhill side of the building, set into one of the niches and almost hidden by hanging moss. Fishing the key out of his pocket, he used it to unlock, and then open, the door.
This was definitely the place the archaeologist had referred to. But there certainly hadn’t been any Daedric treasures, aside from the lone dagger, in the late Silus’ museum. Someone had gone to some lengths to conceal the contents of this vault; and Brynjolf feared he might be about to meet that someone inside.
The door opened onto a ramp downward; the building itself had no floor at this level. There were lighted candles at either side of the ramp’s bottom, which was surrounded by a fair amount of accumulated sand, but nothing else of any note. Through an opening, however, was a much larger circular chamber.
The embalming table and other accoutrements around the periphery of the chamber suggested that it was, or had been, a tomb. The center of the room was flooded, though, and water poured in from somewhere above. There was a small antechamber to his right, into which Brynjolf went. Damaged and overturned bookshelves held an assortment of Imperial arms and armor, in surprisingly reasonable condition. There was nothing remotely Daedric there, though, as far as he could see.
He returned to the main chamber and sloshed through the water to the far side, where there was an ordinary-looking lectern with a book resting atop it, both surrounded in an odd glow. He looked around for the source of the light and saw nothing; no opening above, no lamps or candles nearby. Crouching, suspecting some trap that would spring when he touched the book, Brynjolf slid it from the pedestal into his hands and opened it up. There were only a few words inside, written on the first page.
North of Cyrodiil, Southwest of Falkreath, evil lies buried. Now test your honor for the secret you carry.
Test my honor? What does that mean?
He closed the book and turned to check the rest of the room, but was startled by the flash of a spell being cast. At least six inky, black specters wearing Imperial helms over sickly red, glowing eyes blocked the exit.
Oh. Of course. I don’t know how much honor has to do with this, but it’s certainly a test. Let’s go, then.
The first of them had a war axe and shield, and was no match for Brynjolf with his pair of Daedric daggers. The second, though, fired matched ice spikes at him. He grimaced. In spite of having a vampire’s natural resistance to frost magic the spikes still hurt, and they still slowed him down. He ducked beneath the creature’s raised arm, though, and managed to pierce it with one of his blades, only to turn and find four more corrupted soldiers facing him.
“You know, I’m here because I’m trying to get rid of this power. You boys are making me reconsider my decision.”
He planted himself in the middle of the waterlogged space and began slashing as quickly as he could. One after another, the specters attacked; one after another he mowed them down.
He made another pass through the building, looking for anything like a clue, or a hidden passageway, or anything that might help him find the items the archaeologist had discovered in that chest. There was nothing aside from the clue he’d gotten from the book.
“Southwest of Falkreath. That’s going to put me somewhere near the pass to Cyrodiil and Hammerfell.” He rotated his shoulders and bent backward over his fists, groaning as tight muscles released. “I’m getting too old for this. But I suppose I won’t get any older unless I’m successful, so let’s get going.” Then he snickered at himself. “You’d think I had someone with me, talking out loud like this.” He glanced down at his ruby ring and smiled. “Who knows. Maybe I do.”
He left the building and started down the hill toward the south. Once he was certain that he was away from sight of the road, he sank to his knees and closed his eyes in the dark.
“I know I don’t do this very often, Nocturnal, but I’m trying to undo another stupid thing that I did. I think I did it for the right reasons; but it doesn’t matter. I hope you’ll see fit to help me on my way so that I can set things right once more.”
Me, praying. What kind of state have I reached in my life that I would do a thing like this? I guess this makes me a Daedra-worshipper. Well, so be it. She’s talked to me, at least. None of the others ever has.
He had no answer. He hadn’t expected one; she was undoubtedly livid with him. But somehow it felt important that he acknowledge that he’d made a mistake and intended to rectify it.
He rose and hurtled south through the dark, heading for the road to the pass. He was near the city of Falkreath when a figure stepped out of the brush and accosted him.
“Hand over your valuables or I’ll gut you like a fish!” the Dunmer demanded.
Brynjolf slowed to a stop and grimaced. I should tell him who I am. But I’m in a hurry.
“You know what? I don’t know you. And I don’t have time for this,” he said.
“Don’t you walk away from me!” the man cried, rushing at Brynjolf with blades slashing.
Brynjolf snarled. In the next moment he found himself changing form, his wings exploding outward and his claws upraised, magic gathering between them. The Dunmer fell backward, screaming in terror; then he scrambled to his feet and dashed down the road just far enough to get out of reach, turning to taunt Brynjolf.
“I’ll see you burn.”
Had there been hair on his neck, Brynjolf was certain it would have risen at that. He wanted nothing to do with fire. But he was tired and hungry, and the idea of one of his own subordinates attacking him on the road was utterly enraging. He fired a blast of blood magic at the thief, then another; and on the third blast the mer crumpled to the ground, dead. Brynjolf fed, gleefully, draining every drop of blood from the corpse, before rising to fly away up the mountainside and along the road, searching for anything that looked like a cavern or a mine, or anything that might be his destination. He thought of Vitus then, and the last trip they had made together, Vitus killing everything in sight and draining it dry. His mood sank again.
This is what he was like. I have to stop this before I end up doing what he did. My family doesn’t deserve that.
He passed by the cavern that he knew was connected to the lowest regions of the House of Troubles inn. That wasn’t where he wanted to go. He had no business in Cyrodiil or Hammerfell at the moment, although he would have once he and Delvin had the skooma business fully operational. But for now, he reverted to his human form. Being outside this cavern meant he was close to people, and he didn’t want to risk draining another one out of anger. He trudged down the road a bit farther.
Here.
He didn’t so much hear the word as felt it. It was a warmth, a prickling of his skin, a knowledge that he was where he needed to be. He pushed through some thick shrubs, moving in the direction the voice had indicated, and saw nothing.
“Where? By the Eight where am I supposed to go?”
Here.
The voice sounded from above him, this time. He looked up at the rocky face of the western Jeralls before him, sighed, and began scrambling up the rocks. He made it to the top of the first boulder and felt a current of air just ahead and below him. There was a cavern, hidden from the roadway, its entrance more vertical than horizontal.
“Alright then. Here we go.”
He took a deep breath and jumped down into the hole.