“These things are uncommonly heavy,” Andante grumped as they started up the ramp to Castle Volkihar. “It’s no wonder Dardeh was complaining about having to carry one all the way up to the top of the mountain. They’re heavy and they’re awkward.”
“Makes you feel for Serana, just a bit, doesn’t it, her being so slight.” Brynjolf had offered to carry one of the Scrolls, but Andante had turned him down.
Andante smirked. “Not really.”
“I don’t know why you don’t like her, lad. She’s smart and really very pretty.”
Andante shot him a glance. “Don’t get any ideas.”
“Ha!” Brynjolf snickered. “You are in a mood today, aren’t you.”
“Yes, I am.”
He wasn’t sure why he felt compelled to carry both scrolls himself, but he did. That compulsion was countered, though, by the part of him that kept prodding: You’re in charge. You’re going to be the lord of the castle soon. People really ought to be doing your dirty work for you. Let Brynjolf carry one of them.
Whenever that part spoke up, though, he thought about the long conversation he’d had with Brynjolf the previous day. He’d been waiting to show off the new clothing he’d purchased at Radiant Raiment, waiting to see the spark in Brynjolf’s eyes when he saw it, because he knew how good he looked in blue. It was a bit of imported Cyrodilic finery, a blue embroidered tunic with a leather vest that, so long as he fired up his illusion spell, highlighted the blue of his eyes. It had been such a meaningless extravagance, but he’d been strangely drawn to it, completely unable to pass it up. And, as he’d pointed out to Roggi, money was not a thing he was particularly concerned about.
Sure enough, Brynjolf had arrived not long after Andante had changed into the blue clothing. He’d smiled a tiny, mischievous smile and had proceeded to take Andante back out of the clothing not long after he admired it. And then, as they lay tangled in a contented heap afterward, he’d spoken of the state of things.
“You know, lad, you’re not as good at tailing a man as you think.”
Andante turned his head to stare at Brynjolf. “What?”
“Well,” he said with a smirk, “at least you’re not as good at tailing me as you thought you were.”
He had been appalled.
“You… knew?”
Brynjolf chuckled. “All the way to Riften and all the way back to Falkreath.”
Then he had proceeded to give Andante a thorough tongue-lashing, a lecture of epic proportions. He’d been stupid, Brynjolf said, and shortsighted, and had taken far too many risks in following him into the Twilight Sepulcher, to say nothing of too many liberties to which he wasn’t entitled. He might have been destroyed, reduced to a pile of ash, just by stepping through the portal and into Nocturnal’s presence.
“But I…”
Brynjolf shook his head and silenced Andante with a finger. “I appreciate it, lad. I really do. I’m actually a bit amazed that you would have done that for me. But you truly are more like Dynny than either of us realized before, and I’d just as soon not have another one of you wandering around in the Soul Cairn. It was foolish, and it was presumptuous. You didn’t belong there; you’re not one of the Nightingales, no matter how close we may be at the moment. Don’t do a thing like that again.”
“Well then,” Andante had said, a little angry that he was being scolded like an errant child. “You weren’t quite as good as you thought, either, were you. You didn’t shake me. And then you lost your temper and yelled at a Daedric Prince like she was some tavern wench.”
Brynjolf sighed. “Yes it was stupid of me to shout at her. But that’s not the point. First of all, I wasn’t trying to shake you. I wanted to find out whether you really were going to follow me all the way home and you did. If I’d been trying to shake you, you would never have seen me. I’m not quite as good as Delvin but I’ve had a lot of practice. Second, it was a long reach, on my part, to think Nocturnal might be willing to do anything at all for me. I had to try, but it’s obviously not going to happen. You know as well as I do that I’m a vampire for good now.” He grinned, baring his fangs. “And you know I don’t mind that. It was my decision in the first place, and I’m willing to take whatever the consequences of that are.”
That’s what Dynjyl told him, too, when we met him in the Soul Cairn.
“Dynny’s been there in the Soul Cairn all these years – decades – and he’s better off now than he was before, so that will have to be good enough. I don’t like it, but that’s the way it is. In the here and now, though, you and I need to work together, and trust each other, and stop keeping secrets if we’re going to get through whatever is going to happen with Harkon.”
Andante had agreed, reluctantly, and had apologized for following Brynjolf. Internally, though, his mind was roiling. “Another one of you?” In what category does he place me, then? I’m not certain. And then he berated himself for having failed what should have been an easy operation. You’re better than that. You should have been nearly invisible that whole time. At the very least you should have known he was aware of you. You’ve done that kind of thing before, you know that.
Perhaps, but when? And where? It’s so close. I can almost see it. Almost. But not quite.
He also gnawed at what Nocturnal had said to him. Help Brynjolf recover what he’s lost. But if I do that, then I will lose him.
He knew that he should have told Brynjolf everything. He should have mentioned the memories, or near-memories, that were coming back to him. He should have mentioned that he’d stopped in to see Delvin while he was in Riften as Roggi had suggested, to begin the slow process of finding out whether his suspicions about the Listener were correct. Delvin had been unflappable, unsurprised, and had agreed that yes, he knew some people. It would take him time to get in touch with them, and Andante would need to secure a ridiculous amount of money before they could actually begin composing the letter or getting it into those peoples’ hands, but at least things were underway now.
He should have told Brynjolf those things. He knew, though, that if he had, Brynjolf would have dropped everything and made for Dawnstar. And Brynjolf barging into the Sanctuary would be just as inappropriate as his barging into the Twilight Sepulcher had been.
Instead, all the way along the province of Haafingar, his mind kept running through its litany. I will get this castle, and the entire world will feel it. I will have my revenge. He would again hear Nocturnal, telling him he should focus on helping Brynjolf make himself whole, and his mind would say No. If I do that I will lose him. And he is mine, just like the castle will be mine.
Instead, he gritted his teeth and slung both Elder Scrolls across his own back, and trudged down the long peninsula, over the ridge and down to the water’s edge. He carried the burden of the heavy artifacts like a penance – but for which crime, he was not certain. He was grateful when they pushed open the castle doors and stepped inside.
It took an absurdly long time to find Dexion. Harkon was easy to find; he sat in his parlor, in his throne, and barely cast them a look as Andante stuck his head in to check for the Moth-priest. Then they encountered Vingalmo, standing on the balcony where they had stood with Harkon, sipping at a goblet of blood. He didn’t know where Dexion was; but he did give them some advice, his tone a typical haughty Altmer’s that was mellowed not at all by centuries of vampirism.
“Be careful who you trust. Not all of us have the court’s best interests at heart. Orthjolf, for example. He’ll tell you he means well, but believe me, he can’t be trusted at all. Keep that in mind, will you?”
Believe you? And why should I do that when you’re an Altmer, Orthjolf is a Nord, you clearly despise each other and each of you sent an underling to kill me? No, Vingalmo. I don’t believe you. You’re just another lackey out to take the throne for yourself. But you weren’t counting on me.
He put on his best smile, made a great show of thanking Vingalmo for the advice, and went back down into the main hall. There, standing next to one of the two long feasting tables, was Orthjolf. He had no idea where Dexion was, either, but made several cutting remarks about Vingalmo. Vingalmo was an elf, after all, the big Nord said. “Between you and me, there’s too many of them. Can’t trust the lot of them. Never could.” He also suggested that Andante seek out Garan Marethi. “I believe he has something for you.”
Some menial task or other, no doubt. All right. I’ll do another menial task for him. It’s the least I can do before I take over the place.
Andante nodded and continued searching the castle.
Up a short set of stairs and to the back of the castle they found Serana, relaxing in what was possibly the nicest living area in the place. Unlike other rooms it was clean, and free of the blood spatters and spills that covered almost every other surface of the castle. It was obviously Serana’s suite. She seemed pleased to see them, almost eager; and she suggested they check the area where the other thralls slept.
“Oh of course. How foolish of me.”
Serana crossed her arms and shook her head. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing, going up against my father? You know what’s going to happen when we get the bow, don’t you?”
“Yes, he’s going to want to use it.”
“Exactly. And that will also mean he won’t need any of us anymore.”
Brynjolf frowned. “Hmm. You’re right.”
“No,” Andante said. “I’ve proven my value to him, I think. Several times now.”
She shook her head. “No, you’ve proven your strength to him. That just makes you a more dangerous rival. He has enough of a problem between Vingalmo and Orthjolf, the two of them always trying to figure out how to take the throne from him.”
He considered for a moment. That’s a good point, Serana. And if that’s what he thinks, he’s right. I am a rival, and a dangerous one, and if he recognizes that he’s only living up to my expectations. Excellent. It will be a fine accomplishment indeed to take him out.
They found Garan Marethi before they located Dexion. Andante stepped up to him, once again marveling at how astonishingly ugly the man was. I wonder if he was attractive when he was a mortal Dunmer. I would imagine it’s been a long immortality for him thus far in terms of finding company on a cold winter’s night. He was pleasant enough, though, and did seem to be largely above the petty squabbling of the other notables.
“I was told you wanted to see me?”
“Yes, you can do something to help the Court. One of the feral brood has joined a group of bandits, presumably with aims to give the gift to the entire lot of them. Needless to say, we can’t abide that, as it would raise general alarm amongst the herd, to say nothing of the increased feeding competition. You are to destroy the feral creature before this small problem becomes… a larger one.”
“Absolutely. We don’t need any more rival groups out there. I can do that. Where is this problem?”
“Broken Helm Hollow, in the Rift. You know the place?”
“I don’t, but maybe…” Andante turned to Brynjolf, who groaned.
“Yes. It’s almost as far from here as it’s possible to get and still be in Skyrim. Sneeze and you’re in Morrowind. But I know where it is. I can get you there.”
“Good. We’ll take care of it then.” He half-bowed to Marethi. As they continued on to where the thralls were kept, Andante murmured to Brynjolf. “I’m beginning to appreciate the idea of a carriage more and more.”
“Aye. We can always take a blanket to protect your delicate backside, lad.”
Andante snickered. “You like my delicate backside to be delicate, and don’t try to deny it. I know you too well at this point.”
“I have nothing to say to that.”
Dexion was sleeping on a nasty bedroll set amongst piles of rotting bones in the same cell as two of Harkon’s “cattle,” a heavy bandage wound around his head. Andante frowned to see the bandage, but gratefully took advantage of the neck of the female prisoner, being very careful not to drain her dry. Then he knelt and woke Dexion from his slumber.
“I’ve brought the Elder Scrolls to you, Dexion, the two you have yet to see.”
“I’m afraid I won’t be able to help you with the scrolls, any longer, milord. Please don’t be angry with me. In my haste to read the first scroll I neglected the time I needed to prepare. The failure is purely my own. It’s not that I’m unwilling to help you, milord, it’s that, well, as you can see from my bandages, I’m physically unable to do so.”
“By the Eight,” Brynjolf grumbled behind them.
“You’re blind? Then… what can we do? All that for nothing, Dexion?”
“We have no further use for him,” Brynjolf muttered. Andante shot him a quick glance and shook his head. Surely he’s not suggesting we dispose of the man, is he? Not yet, anyway.
“Wait, milord. I could perhaps offer you an alternative way to read the scrolls.”
“And that would be? Get to it, please.”
Dexion went on at great length. It seemed that the very moths his sect revered, the Ancestor Moths, had a sort of natural harmonic resonance with the Scrolls themselves. If enough of them could be attracted, by using the bark of a Canticle tree collected with a special drawing knife, this connection could be exploited to safely read the Scrolls.
“And how do I know that I will survive this, when you were blinded by reading just one?”
“The Elder Scrolls tend to be found by those they wish to find them. There is a reason you have them.”
They left the chamber and climbed back to Serana’s room.
“So it seems it’s back to Falkreath,” Brynjolf told her, after explaining what they’d learned. “I think you should come with us.”
Andante sighed. “If for no other reason than to help Brynjolf get home safely if I don’t make it.”
Brynjolf frowned.
“Why wouldn’t you make it?”
“Because two of those scrolls didn’t choose me. One of them was with Serana. The other was Dardeh’s.”
Brynjolf and Serana swapped glances.
“I have a point. Admit it. Well, there’s no better alternative. Let’s go.”
__
As they walked into the dark, narrow opening of the cave, Serana made a disappointed noise.
“Not very impressive, is it. If this ends up being a wasted trip your friend Dexion and I are going to have some words when we get back.”
“Shh. Hush, would you? We don’t know what’s in here.” Andante dropped into a crouch and crept forward, his weapons drawn, ready to attack or defend as the situation required. He walked up a dirt ramp, crossed a ditch by way of a fallen tree, and worked his way quietly down a long, winding, narrow tunnel. Nothing leapt out, or threatened, or even made a noise. And then the tunnel emptied into an enormous, open-to-the-sky cavern.
It was beautiful. Full of trees, several of which had pink blossoms, the cavern had stone steps along its steeper edges and pathways running through it. The place smelled damp, the healthy dampness of growing things, but with a slight hint of minerals. A substantial waterfall at the far side filled the space with sound; and a column of light from the opening in the glade’s roof shone down onto a pair of stone circles, one of which held an upright circular sculpture.
“Wow,” Serana said. “Look at this place. No one’s been here in centuries.”
Andante made a disgusted noise even as he began slipping down the stairs.
“What leads you to make that observation, Serana? I thought you’d been locked away underground for longer than that. Or do you have some special abilities we didn’t know about?”
“I, uh… “
Brynjolf snickered.
“It just looked that way to me,” Serana huffed. “I doubt there’s any other place like it in Skyrim. It’s beautiful.”
“And it’s full of moths,” Andante said, pointing at several moving clusters of them. “Did I ever mention that I hate flying insects? Of all kinds? Annoying flappity things, they are.”
“Get over it, lad,” Brynjolf said, his voice betraying his amusement. “We came to find the moths. You want them to be attracted to you.”
“No, you want them to be attracted to me. Better them than Durnheviir, I suppose,” Andante grumbled.
The pathway led down into the glade, where it became clear why this spot was so lush and warm. At the base of the cavern were a number of steaming hot pools, much like those that made up most of Eastmarch, but not nearly as foul-smelling. The trees and other plants clearly loved it. He loved it, too, if he was honest; it was warm and peaceful and lovely, and he would never admit that to Serana no matter how many centuries they might happen to live. Andante waded through them to the stone sculpture, a circular structure that had a strange, double-handled tool suspended in the middle of it. He removed it, and scanned the area.
“Well we found the knife,” Serana said. “Now all we need to do is find one of those canticle trees.”
Andante looked at Brynjolf and rolled his eyes. Brynjolf had his arms crossed, with one corner of his mouth quirked upward, and was clearly doing his best not to chuckle.
“Oh, you couldn’t possibly mean one of these, could you?” Andante said, walking about five paces to one of the blossoming trees they had just passed getting to the knife. Serana tsk’d behind him. Well don’t make idiotic observations, then, Serana, and I won’t make sarcastic remarks to you in response.
He scraped the bark a few times, in the way that Dexion had described, and then started meandering around the glade. It didn’t take more than a few moments until the first cluster of moths began flying around his head. Andante gritted his teeth and forced himself not to swat at them.
“Look at them,” Serana chuckled. “They’ve definitely taken a liking to you. And unless I’m seeing things you’re starting to… glimmer.”
“I am not glimmering, Serana,” Andante hissed between clenched jaws. “Vampires don’t glimmer. They don’t shine, or shimmer, or glitter, or anything of the like. Vampires are creatures of the dark; surely you know that. The moths are merely attracted to the smell of the bark scrapings.”
“If you say so, Andante.”
He continued walking, up the stairs on the far side and along a path near the waterfall, attracting moths as he moved.
“Definitely glimmering, lad,” Brynjolf called up to him.
“Arrgh.”
The worst of it was that if he looked down at himself he could see that yes, he was surrounded by a barely visible aura; a glowing, golden halo. It was humiliating. It meant, though, that the moths were behaving just as Dexion had said they would – attuning themselves to the Elder Scrolls and to him. As he approached the bottom of the glade once more the glow was a clearly visible golden sphere of energy, and he had dozens of ancestor moths revolving about him.
This is the worst kind of torture. I just want to run away waving my arms and swatting the things.
He sighed, and stepped into the column of light shining on the empty circular platform. This was, Dexion had said, the place where the reading should be attempted.
“Are we ready for this?” he asked them. That’s pointless. The real question is am I ready for it, and I suppose there’s no help for it if I really want that castle. Do I? Do I really want to take on Harkon for that castle?
From deep within him came the ferocious answer, almost an animalistic snarling. Yes I do. I will have that castle, and that court. What a ridiculous question.
“Aye, lad. Good luck. And don’t worry. I’ll get you out of here if anything goes wrong.”
Andante smiled at Brynjolf, and pulled out the first of the Elder Scrolls.
Simply looking at the scroll itself was not problematic; he merely pulled one end of it down and gazed at the patterns on its surface. As he did so, he became aware of a humming sound, wavering back and forth between two tones that he decided must be the harmonics of the ancestor moths. Those things were not a problem. The problem with the process became clear after he released the scroll to let it wind itself closed again. Its pattern left an impression on his eyes so vivid that while he could make out Brynjolf’s form behind it, he could easily understand how a person could go blind by reading them. Worse still, the pattern expanded as he stood there, filling his peripheral vision as well.
I’m afraid. Oblivion take me but I am afraid of this. He focused as hard as he could on the increasingly blurry form topped with flame-red hair, swallowed hard, and pulled out the next scroll to read. The same thing happened a second time; but this time a strange mark snaked his way across his vision like a trail. Or a river, he thought. It has a familiar shape. I think I know this river. On the third reading, he ceased being able to see through the vision, and lost track of where Brynjolf was. It was clear that he was looking at a map with both Markarth and Solitude marked, as well as a third location, midway between the two, a place he’d never been in but the name of which was now as clear in his mind as if he’d visited it a thousand times.
Suddenly his vision went completely white, and he cried out. It didn’t work. The Elder Scrolls rejected me. I can’t see.
He felt himself toppling forward, but two strong arms caught him.
“It’s alright, lad, I’ve got you,” Brynjolf’s voice murmured in his ear.
Andante clung to him. “I can’t see,” he whispered. “Bryn, I can’t see.” He gasped for air, panicked, nearly in tears.
“It’s going to be alright, Andante. Just breathe.”
And he did that. He squeezed his eyes shut, wrapped himself around Brynjolf and stood, shaking, trying to catch his breath and calm himself. As his heart slowed back to normal, he peeled his eyes open, slowly, and the colors of the glade slowly filled in around him.
“By all the gods,” he laughed in relief. “It’s back. My vision is back. It worked after all.” He hugged Brynjolf tightly for another moment and then let go of him. “Thank you,” he whispered, smiling at the one person he cared about most.
“Are you ok?” Serana asked from behind him. “Almost thought we lost you there.”
“Yes, I am,” Andante said. “I thought we lost me, too. But I’m fine. And I know where we have to go to get Auriel’s Bow. It’s a place called Darkfall Cave, up in a valley between Markarth and Solitude. The Scrolls showed me right where it is.”
“Then let’s get going,” she said. “I want to get there before my father has a chance to track us down.” She started toward the stairs leading out and turned back, smiling. “It’s finally almost over. We can rewrite the prophecy as we see fit.”
Andante smiled back, a wide smile that revealed the extent of his fangs. Yes, we can. You have no idea.
They’d barely reached the base of the staircase when the attack came.
“You’ve already lost!” cried one of the four Dawnguard who rushed down the stairs, an armored troll in their wake bellowing its rage.
Serana shot lightning, Brynjolf rammed the first man with his shield and slashed at the second with a quick turn. Andante began draining the third, and then realized that they would do better with four against four. He thought for a moment and then fired off an infrequently-used spell to summon a Dremora churl before turning his attentions, and his axe, to the troll.
The battle didn’t last long, but was ferocious nonetheless. At one point he had to chase one of the Dawnguard and freeze him with a Shout, because the man was running away up the staircase to get a better vantage point from which to fire silver-tipped crossbow bolts. After he fell, it was a simple matter to dispatch him; and by the time Andante turned back to the others they had finished with the rest of the Dawnguard. The Dremora landed the final blow on the final adversary, then looked at Andante and dissipated.
“That was convenient,” he murmured. “I’m glad it lasted as long as it did. Is everyone alright?”
“Yes, we are,” Brynjolf nodded. “Let’s get going before we have more uninvited guests to deal with.”
Andante nodded and led the way up the stairway toward the exit. “I think it’s dark out. Depending on how dark,” he said, “I think we should try to make it to Markarth.”
“That sounds good to me,” Serana agreed.