Andante turned, at the top of the curved staircase, to look back at the statue of Auriel. From this vantage point he could see, in all its sumptuous detail, the stylized sun held aloft over Auriel’s head by great curved supports, almost a halo, as though the sun itself emanated from the god’s own shoulders.
Why does it not surprise me? Don’t all religions come down to this, in the end, the gods connected in some way to the greatest source of power that we know? Even the Daedra are defined in part by their relationship to the light of the sun – or its absence.
Behind him, on a multi-level dais, was a basin much like those from which he had filled the heavy, awkward ewer he’d been carrying; and he turned his attention to it. From its base extended a long stone platform with rounded ends. It was raised slightly above the floor but with a set of three tracks carved into it. At the far end of the tracks was a depression, a bowl, its shape echoing that of the stylized sun over Auriel’s head and, he noticed as he looked up, a similar shape protruding from the doors to the temple.
“Interesting,” Serana said. “I wonder what this does.”
“It’s a keyhole,” Brynjolf replied. “Look at it. The god, the bowl at the end, the knob over there. This is the keyhole, and the water is the key.”
Andante looked at him and nodded. Clever man. “That’s what Gelebor told us. The initiate would pour the ewer into the basin and be given entry for an audience with the Arch-Curate. So…”
Serana looked dubious but agreed. “Pour it into the basin and see what happens, right? I don’t know what we’ll do if it doesn’t work, but we’ve come all this way to try.”
“Right.”
Andante emptied the contents of the ewer into the basin and then set it down, gratefully, hoping he would never have to touch it again. The basin filled, up to its rim; but then the level of the liquid began to drop and for a moment he panicked.
“Look at that,” Brynjolf said, pointing at the track in front of them. “I told you it was a key.”
Water was dropping through the basin, gravity pushing it down and out along the three tracks. Andante watched in fascination as the liquid’s momentum carried it all the way down the tracks to drop into the shape at the far end.
The shape suddenly began glowing green, a shaft of light from the upper limits of the temple’s outer courtyard shining down onto it. After a few moments the light faded. The ornate knob on the door twirled, rotating several times, and then stopped.
“You were right,” Andante said, walking toward the door.
“That’s why I’m the best,” Brynjolf replied.
Andante grinned, and tugged on the star-shaped handle. The doors swung outward.
They stepped into the Inner Sanctum.
Before them was an expanse of grey, and cold, and dark. The architecture was that of the arches through which they’d passed on their rough tracing of the Initiate’s path; huge columns, some broken but others with their massive capitals still supporting the stone ceiling after countless eons. The ceiling itself was enormously high, with recessed sections including a circle which might, as far as Andante could tell, once have been designed to let in light. In fact, some light came in through it still; greenish, as though it was filtered through heavy ice, and not nearly enough to illuminate the room, but light it was. The floor was buckled and heaved from frost, and time, and possibly from movements of the earth. There were piles of debris and stone clutter here and there.
But the things that drew the eye, instantly, and demanded attention more than anything else in the space were the Falmer and the chaurus.
Or, rather, the blocks of ice in the shapes of Falmer and chaurus. Some held weapons, or had their hands curled in a posture that looked like spell-casting. Some held items like weapons or potion bottles. The various chaurus weren’t in resting positions but pulled up as they would be in a state of alarm, or of defensiveness.
He looked around, and he felt all his senses shift into a place that was familiar, and yet long-unvisited. His gaze darted from one corner to the next, hugging each shift from dark to light, looking for movement, or tripwires, or holes, or cavities from which live, aggressive Falmer might emerge. He smelled everything: dust, the staleness of air not circulated for ages, and the peculiar, cold scent of ice. He listened, hearing nothing, no movement, no dripping, nothing aside from the quiet breathing of his two companions.
Serana spoke, her voice echoing through the room at what seemed like an alarming volume but was probably not more than a murmur. “These Falmer. They’re frozen in the ice. I wonder how long they’ve been like this. And I thought the Soul Cairn was creepy.”
Something – or someone – froze these, and it wasn’t the weather. I suspect that I know who that was.
Time to hunt.
Vitus turned to face his partners and whispered.
“You are to remain silent unless I tell you otherwise. I don’t know what is ahead but it is dangerous. Silent. Do you understand?”
Brynjolf raised an eyebrow. “Andante –“
Vitus raised a hand, cutting him off. “Do you understand? This is my area of expertise. I am an assassin and this is my assignment. I do not need you to give me away.”
Serana’s eyes widened.
“Yes, Serana. I’m not simply a vampire. And I need you to do as I ask. Do you understand?”
Both of them nodded, but Brynjolf gave him a long, piercing look.
He can see it. He knows that I’m not the same. He’s never watched me hunt, except to feed. He closed his eyes for a moment and listened; but hearing nothing, opened them again and began creeping forward.
I suppose that there’s not so very vast a difference between what we do, Brynjolf, but whereas you are the master thief, I am the master assassin. I don’t know how much I can accomplish here, since I am used to working alone, and used to knowing the place in which I will strike; but between us I am certain that we will be magnificent.
Vitus turned and moved further into the temple, to the right, around the perimeter of the space and around the dozen or so frozen figures in it. There was a sculpture of some kind in the center of the room; and while he was vaguely interested in it, he was not here for interest, or research. He saw the items held by the Falmer and while his avaricious core knew he could probably take them he was not here to accumulate more wealth – he was here to hunt.
At the far end of the room, the first niche he encountered turned out to be a door that easily swung open into the next area. This space, long and narrow, stretched out to his left. It held a table with bench seats, four raised platforms, and more frozen Falmer as well as a number of skeletons. He stopped still, compiling a mental catalog of the room’s contents, entrances and exits; and he waited, and sensed.
Nothing moved. Nothing made a sound. He crept forward, into a doorway about midway down the hall, and to the right around a corner past more frozen figures who seemed to have been caught mid-spellcasting.
The passage doglegged into a room with a badly damaged floor. There were several skeletons seated at and on top of a table with bench seats on either side, clearly having been killed at a meal and later picked clean. Enormous, thick stalactites of ice hung down from the ceiling to his right.
It really is like Sedor, isn’t it, aside from the spaces being a bit more open.
There was another doorway to his left, this one into a room that had been severely damaged by ice. Here, the great stone columns were tipped or broken and the far wall was only partially visible through a thick coating of blue-green ice. The floor was all but destroyed, an uneven pathway of dirt and rubble.
Again he froze. Again he searched, and listened, and tasted the air; and there was nothing.
Vitus looked back to see that, indeed, Serana and Brynjolf were still behind him. He nodded, impressed with their ability to be as silent as he was, and their willingness to remain that way. He moved forward through the room, toward the cold he felt increasing ahead of him.
The room ended in a wall of ice, much like the thick glaciers they had passed through on their way through the Chantry. There was an opening in it, a tunnel, a slight movement of air from the spaces beyond. Vitus drew his bow and crept slowly into the tunnel, his head turned slightly to catch any sound. But there was no sound. There was just a long, silent, sweeping curve to the right that ended abruptly at a ledge.
He turned to look back at Brynjolf and point down. Brynjolf nodded, pulling his sword out at the ready.
As Vitus dropped to the passage below he heard birds. He looked around, quickly, for openings to the outside, openings that might house hidden enemies; but he saw nothing aside from ice and tilted columns. He heard nothing in their immediate area, but to his surprise he heard the twittering of birds somewhere nearby.
Alright. We’re near the surface, somewhere. At the edge of a mountaintop, perhaps. Whatever is directly above us is thin. Good to know.
Directly before him was a darkened opening into which he slipped, looking for danger. There was nothing there but ice and stone. But back at its mouth he turned to his right, toward the east. There was a long, straight passage before him, the left side consisting of a collapsed wall that had slumped over, atop the wall on the right; what might once have been a hallway was now simply a narrow gap that could be traversed if one was careful. At its far end was a room in which he could see ice, and light coming in from above, at an angle, shining down on what appeared to be another frozen figure.
That’s why I heard birds. There must be a gap in the ceiling.
He closed his eyes, and raised a hand to stop the other two behind him. He listened, and waited, and knew. He’s near. I can feel him. Your end is approaching, Vyrthur. I’ve been contracted for your death, and I don’t fail.
Ah, but you failed once, didn’t you? a part of his mind reminded him.
Yes, I did. And it will never happen again. Vyrthur is dead. He simply isn’t aware of it yet.
He crept down the passage, agonizingly slowly, making certain that neither his feet nor his armor made so much as a whisper. As he approached the far end it became clear that there was, indeed, a frozen Falmer. Not just one but many, and chaurus as well, arrayed down either side, a court frozen solid in the midst of its business. Beyond them were steps leading to a dais holding an ornate throne blocked by thick stalagmites of ice.
And on the throne, seated in a position that spoke of long eons of boredom, was a figure, a living being, its chest rising and falling as it breathed. It was as white as the snow outside this chamber, wearing the same white and grey armor as Knight-Paladin Gelebor. It could only be Arch Curate Vyrthur.
Well. It seems that stealth is not an option at this point. Damn not knowing the terrain.
Vitus rose from his crouch and walked calmly forward.
Vyrthur smirked at him.
“Did you really come here expecting to claim Auri-El’s Bow?” His voice was raspy, as though it had been many an age since he’d used it.
“You’ve done exactly as I predicted, and brought your fetching companion to me.”
Serana broke her silence. “Wait, is he talking about me?”
Vitus turned to nod at her. “I doubt very much that he’s referring to Brynjolf.”
Brynjolf shot him the smallest of smirks, but said nothing.
He turned back to gaze at Vyrthur. I can’t surprise him. How do I approach this now, I wonder? There was something odd about Vyrthur, he thought, and he stared at him, analyzing his appearance, listening to his words, trying to grasp what exactly it was.
“Which, I’m sorry to say,” Vyrthur continued, “means that your usefulness is at an end,” his voice turning into a low growl. Vitus grabbed his bow as he heard the threat rising in Vyrthur’s voice and stepped back, readying an arrow.
Behind them, a number of the frozen creatures came to life. Vitus could hear them moving, hear the crackle of the ice as they broke free from that on the floor, could hear Brynjolf challenging as Serana fired up her magic, but he did not join them right away. Instead, he took aim and fired an arrow that should have flown straight through Vyrthur’s skull.
It bounced, harmlessly, off what was clearly a magical barrier just behind the ice stalagmites. Vitus snarled and turned to help with the battle behind him.
Brynjolf and Serana had at least half a dozen ice-encrusted chaurus attacking at the same time. Vitus calmly fired several more arrows; but they only bounced away. He grimaced and switched to magic, a hemolytic spike spell that ordinarily caused great harm to an adversary. It, too, did nothing at all. Finally, he pulled out his axe and Mehrune’s Razor; and when he attacked the first one, growling in frustration, it exploded into icy chunks and died.
The chaurus didn’t last long after that; but just as the last one died, Vitus heard Serana’s shock spell sizzle off to his left. A group of four icy Falmer was approaching him, snarling and growling. The first of them caught him with its claws; he hissed in pain and darted out of reach, healing himself while Brynjolf rushed in with his sword flashing. That distraction gave him the chance to circle behind the Falmer and attack from behind. It, too, burst into great flying chunks of ice which they dodged while turning to on the others.
Finally, they were done, and Vitus approached the throne again, walking slowly and deliberately.
“An impressive display, but a wasted effort,” Vyrthur said. “You delay nothing but your own death.”
“Is that what you think? Confident, aren’t you.” Vitus smiled, baring his fangs, and thought he saw a flicker of something in Vyrthur’s eyes.
Vyrthur waved his hand.
There was a rumble, above them.
“Watch out!” Serana yelled. “He’s pulling down the ceiling!”
Brynjolf snorted. “This trick again? I’ve seen it done before. Frankly, Mercer Frey did it with more style.”
Vitus grinned at Brynjolf, but his amusement was cut short as large pieces of ice and stone began dropping from the ceiling far above them.
“Finish them!” Vyrthur croaked.
The rest of the frozen creatures in the room came alive.
There were waves of them, the icy remnants of Snow Elves and Falmer alike, some mindlessly violent and others clever spell-casters. Vitus took down several of the Falmer, keeping an eye out on Brynjolf and Serana as they dealt with adversaries of their own, all the while dodging falling debris. One of them cast a frost cloak spell like the one that had nearly killed Vitus outside the temple. He growled, whipping around the perimeter of the room, destroying those he could reach from behind and trying to see where there might be an opening from which he could reach Vyrthur.
This isn’t how this was supposed to be happening. You have surprised me, my dear Arch-Curate, but have no fear; you’re still going to die.
Serana saw the spellcaster and began casting lightning bolts from a safe distance. Brynjolf and Vitus looked at each other and, without words, agreed on a plan; first one would dart forward and strike several blows, then retreat and heal while the other took the attack. Once, Vitus nearly lost focus as a large chunk of rock struck Brynjolf a glancing blow and he cried out in pain; but there wasn’t time to do anything other than dart back in to rain more blows on the creature and hope that Brynjolf was able to heal himself. Finally, Serana landed a solid strike with her shock spell; the Falmer’s cloak dissipated, and Vitus struck a backhanded blow with the Razor, unmaking the creature.
Brynjolf had begun advancing on Vyrthur’s throne, his fangs bared, when Vyrthur shouted.
“This has gone on long enough!”
There was a familiar hum of magical energy as Vyrthur conjured a frost atronach. Vitus stopped for a moment, stunned, and shared a glance with Brynjolf, who looked equally stunned.
Vitus tossed back his head and laughed.
“Is that it? Is that all you’ve got?”
Brynjolf began laughing maniacally himself as they all lit into a creature the likes of which they knew well and had defeated more times than any of them could count.
“You’re dead,” Serana yelled at Vyrthur as the atronach fell.
“Child, my life ended long before you were born,” Vyrthur sneered. Vitus blinked, and looked at him, and then smiled.
That’s it. That’s what I have sensed about him. I see.
There were half a dozen remaining ice Falmer in the court, and they all attacked just as the atronach fell. The ensuing moments were a blur. Vitus couldn’t tell from one moment to another which of them he was attacking, where the other two were in the room, or whether they were making headway or losing. More and more pieces of roof crashed to the floor around them, and he was tiring simply trying to keep from being crushed, much less from the battles themselves. But finally, dodging debris behind one of the few remaining columns, he saw that the frozen court was gone and only his target remained. He smiled and licked his lips.
“Time to die, Vyrthur,” he murmured, advancing slowly. Auriel’s Bow is almost mine.
Vyrthur rose from his throne, and shouted at them.
“No! I won’t let you ruin centuries of preparations!”
He waved both arms and was surrounded by magic, a ball of glowing energy that grew brighter and brighter. As it did, the roaring and groaning of the remaining ceiling and walls increased.
“Look out!” Brynjolf shouted.
The spell released.
The roof of the Inner Sanctum exploded in a tremendous roar, throwing Vitus to the ground, tossing enormous slabs of ice and stone outward and flooding the space that had been a darkened audience chamber with the brilliant light of the mountaintop sun.
Vitus stayed on hands and knees for a moment, his head ringing from the noise and the percussive force of the explosion.
“Are you all right? Come on, we can do this. I know we can.”
He looked up to see Serana extending a hand. He took it, gratefully, and got to his feet.
“Thank you, Serana. Where’s…”
“Brynjolf?” Serana called.
“Over here, lass,” Brynjolf said, dusting himself off as he emerged from behind what was left of a pillar. “It’ll take a lot more than this to get rid of me. Now where did that bastard go?”
Vitus looked around the area. Oddly, the throne in which Vyrthur had sat had survived, intact, while the building around it collapsed. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and listened. Faintly, off to his left, he heard a heartbeat.
“Not far enough,” he said, smiling. “Not nearly far enough.” He opened his eyes to see Brynjolf staring at him oddly.
“He’s up there on the balcony,” Serana said, pointing forward. “Come on.”
The balcony was blindingly bright, out in the sun as it was, its structure intact in spite of the calamity Vyrthur had created behind it. It was a semicircle, the height of two men, with staircases on either end, wrapped around what was clearly another Wayshrine, still in its lowered position. Vitus shielded his eyes from the sun as he mounted the steps toward the increasingly loud heartbeat of his prey.
Vyrthur crouched at the farthest point of the balcony, clutching his arm in pain. He’d clearly been injured in the collapse and, Vitus noted, wasn’t healing.
A bit hungry, are we? Well. You may be ancient and powerful, but in that condition I have you at a definite disadvantage.
The most satisfying way to do this, he decided, would be as a vampire lord. I’m going to rip him to shreds. Not my usual style, but it will make me feel so much better. I have a bit of aggression to work out at the moment.
He began to focus, readying himself to transform. And then he looked at Serana’s face and stopped cold.
“Enough, Vyrthur. Give us the Bow.”
Serana was generally so mild. Even in battle, her cries and taunts were sharp and sarcastic, but not frightening. At this moment, though, it was clear that she was a pure-blooded vampire, and an angry one.
“How dare you,” Vyrthur said, straightening up. “I was the Arch Curate of Auri-El, girl. I had the ears of a god.”
“And nobody here cares,” Brynjolf said nonchalantly, approaching from behind Vitus. “I’m a Nightingale. I have the ear of a Daedric Prince. Is that any more likely to get me past you in a fight? I don’t think so. Or vice versa, as it happens.”
“Yes, you had the ears of a god,” Serana said, “until the Betrayed corrupted you. Yes, yes, we’ve heard this sad story.”
Vitus peered at Vyrthur. Close up like this the deep golden eyes were obvious, beautiful, set as they were in snow-pale skin. He smiled at Vyrthur, being sure to pull his lips back over his own fangs.
“I think it may not be quite as simple as that, Serana,” he said quietly. “The truth of the matter is absolutely delicious. Or will be.”
Vyrthur’s gaze flicked to him for just a moment, but then returned to Serana.
“Gelebor and his kind are easily manipulated fools.”
Vitus laughed.
“Enough of this. Look at his eyes, Serana. See what he really is. It should be highly familiar to you.”
Serana stared at Vitus for a moment, confused, then leaned closer to Vyrthur. Her own golden eyes went round and wide.
“You’re… you’re a vampire? But Auriel should have protected you.”
“Should have, perhaps,” Vitus said. “But as we all know there are a great many things that should happen that do not.”
Vyrthur grimaced. “The moment I was infected by one of my own initiates Auriel turned his back on me. I swore I’d have my revenge, no matter what the cost.”
Vitus tossed his head back and laughed long and hard. “Your revenge, is it? That’s my line, Vyrthur.”
“Fickle things, gods and Daedra, aren’t they?” Brynjolf said.
Serana smirked. “You want to take revenge… on a god?”
“Auriel himself may have been beyond my reach but his influence on our world wasn’t. All I needed was the blood of a vampire. And his own weapon. Auriel’s Bow.”
“The blood of a vampire? Auriel’s Bow?” Serana’s face hardened into an angry mask. “It was you? You created that prophecy?”
Vyrthur smirked and nodded, stepping within arm’s reach of Serana. Vitus heard Brynjolf’s sword slide out of its sheath, but held up a hand to stay him from attacking. No, Brynjolf. We need to hear this.
“A prophecy that lacked a single final ingredient. The blood of a pure vampire. The blood of a Daughter of Coldharbour.”
What happened next had Vitus completely frozen in shock. It was the last thing he could ever have anticipated, and his mouth fell open as he watched. Serana stepped forward in cold anger, picked Vyrthur up by the lapels, and lifted him into the air as if he weighed nothing whatsoever. She held him there, shaking him just slightly.
“You were waiting all this time for someone with my blood to come along. Well too bad for you. I intend on keeping it,” Serana said, her voice taking on the overtones of power that Vitus recognized, her strength coming through. “Let’s see if your blood has any power to it!”
Vitus wasn’t entirely sure whether Serana threw him, or Vyrthur pushed himself away from her with his feet, but there was suddenly a ball of magic in midair much like the one he used to bring down the Chantry.
“What trickery is this?” he yelped, and conjured another frost atronach just as the magic around him exploded. Brynjolf and Serana both attacked the atronach; Vitus drew his weapons and ran for the Arch-Curate.
You’re mine, Vyrthur.
Vitus laughed as he watched the axe’s sharp Daedric blade slice into pure white skin. Vyrthur howled, and waved his hand. Suddenly there was another frost cloak spell, slicing painfully into Vitus before he could back up enough to get out of its range.
“Damn!”
He pulled out his bow and the same kind of arrows he had used to fight the twin dragons, and began unloading them into the Arch-Curate, but found that Vyrthur had magic to spare and was using it to cast ice spikes at him. He ground his teeth, and yelped in pain as each one struck him, but he could hear the atronach pounding its massive fist into the ground and knew the others couldn’t help him.
Potion. I have a paralysis potion.
He didn’t use potions often, but Andante carried an embarrassingly large number of them and he knew that the paralysis was in there; a strong potion at that, just as the skooma Andante cooked was strong. He dropped back, around the corner of the balcony and down the stairs just far enough to give himself time, and poisoned his bow. He ran back up the stairs, aimed, and shot.
“Good night, Vyrthur!”
Vyrthur looked startled as the arrow struck him, and then toppled over onto his side. Vitus had plenty of time to take his axe and reach the motionless Snow Elf before it began to wear off. He laughed, raised his axe, and brought it down with as much power as he could manage; and at the same moment an ice spike flew into Vyrthur’s side, cast by Serana from across the balcony.
“Farewell,” Vyrthur murmured, and breathed his last.
Vitus wondered, for just a moment, why it was that Vyrthur did not disintegrate into ash as he himself would if he had been the one to die. Then he shrugged, knelt down beside the body, and sank his fangs into Vyrthur’s neck. The blood was only lukewarm, as usual for a vampire, but it tasted sweet, not bitter like that of a Falmer; and the power that came with it made him want to laugh.
Ah the advantages of being a Nightlord, absorbing some power from one’s enemies. So I didn’t get to shred you, my dear Arch-Curate, but I think this reward may be even better.
He stood, wiping his mouth, and drew a deep breath.
“Just as I expected. Delicious.”
“Lad,” Brynjolf said, sounding unsettled, coming up to stand beside him.
Vitus grinned at him. “Help yourself, Brynjolf. I didn’t drain him. He’s very tasty.”
Brynjolf stared into his eyes for a long moment. Then the corner of his mouth rose just a bit, he nodded, and knelt to have a taste of his own.
When he stood, he grinned. “You’re a bad influence, Andante.”
Vitus smiled and nodded. “That I am.” He turned to walk away as the balcony began to shudder, a now-familiar grinding sound accompanying the rising of the Wayshrine.
He knows. He doesn’t realize it, but he knows. I need to be more careful. It would be dangerous for all of us if he learns my actual name.
Gelebor stood in the doorway of the Wayshrine when they reached it.
“So, the deed has been done. The restoration of this Wayshrine must mean that Vyrthur is dead, and the Betrayed no longer have control over him.”
Serana shook her head. “It wasn’t the Betrayed. He was a vampire.”
Vitus stood back and observed Gelebor, marveling at his equanimity as he learned the truth about his brother. He was astonished, but happy to have an explanation for things that had made no sense before. He was also happy that the Falmer – the Betrayed – weren’t to blame. Maybe, he said, some day they would shed their hatred and return to their belief in Auriel.
And maybe someday I will become the High King of Skyrim. Well, Gelebor, as long as you have hope I suppose it’s good.
“My thanks to all of you,” Gelebor said. “You risked everything to get Auri-El’s bow, and in turn you’ve restored the Chantry. I can’t think of a more deserving champion to carry it than you,” he finished, looking at Vitus.
Vitus looked around at the decimated temple.
“Restored. Is that what you call this?”
Gelebor smiled, and then told them about Auriel’s bow. The bow drew its power from Aetherius itself, he told them, channeled through the sun. Therefore, a strike from the bow produced a magical effect something like being burned in fire. Sun-hallowed arrows, sanctified arrows created from stock of the elven type, produced a much more spectacular effect, causing bursts of sunlight to envelop the foe. It would hurt anything, but was particularly effective against the undead.
As Gelebor spoke, Vitus felt his excitement rising.
Burned in fire. And what is the one thing that we are most vulnerable to, as vampires? What was I the most terrified of, fighting the dragons? What have I feared since I was a young man watching the Listener fall, along with her Sanctuary in Bravil?
Harkon will fall to fire. He may be ancient. He may be powerful. But even he will fall to fire.
“And blood coated arrows?” Vitus asked. “I have heard something, in the prophecy, about them.”
“Vyrthur made that up, Andante,” Brynjolf said. “Why even ask about it?”
“Because, my dear Guildmaster, even a rumor starts from a kernel of truth. Isn’t that what you told me a long time ago?” He grinned as Brynjolf blushed for just a moment.
Gelebor didn’t know anything certain; but he expected that the effects of coating arrows in blood would be quite different, corrupting the bow’s effect, if one were foolish enough to try it. Gelebor took Vitus’ supply of elven arrows and began to convert them to Sun-Hallowed arrows, stepping away from the door of the Wayshrine to do so.
And there, suspended above a central pedestal in the Wayshrine, twirling in sparkling magical forces, was a bow of elven make clearly imbued with power beyond any enchantment he knew. Gelebor had told them that the bow was supposed to have been carried by Auri-El himself into battle against the forces of Lorkhan.
I can almost believe it. Look at this thing.
He reached out and took it from its place, feeling its energies thrumming along its length as he held it, testing its balance and its weight.
“I thought it would be, I don’t know, shinier,” Serana says. “Still, it’s beautiful.”
Vitus gazed at Serana and smiled. And it will kill Harkon. It will destroy him, and Volkihar Castle will be mine. And then with your blood, so will the rest of the world.
As Gelebor handed him the arrows, the Wayshrine hummed with power and a series of portals opened, one to each of the other locations they had visited in this valley. He assured them that they were welcome to return any time.
Brynjolf stood at the entrance to the Wayshrine, frowning.
“What’s wrong, loverboy?” Andante asked him. “We’ve gotten what we came for.”
“Aye. And now we have to go back to Harkon.”
Serana nodded. “Before we spoke to my mother in the Soul Cairn, I would have said we take the bow back to my father. But after everything with her – I don’t think we can trust him.”
“I know we can’t,” Andante agreed.
Brynjolf nodded. “We have to kill him before he kills us.”
“I keep thinking there has to be another way,” Serana said. “But he’ll turn on us all the moment he gets the chance.”
“He will. But there are three of us, and only one of him. None of us individually may be stronger than he is but I suspect that I come close. And with your help, my dears, I believe that we will take him down.”
“He has to die,” she agreed. “We have no choice.”
Look how very easy it was to lead her to the exact conclusion I wanted her to draw. I seem to have learned something from my darling Brynjolf.
“You’re right.”
“Let’s get going, then,” Brynjolf said.
“Thank you,” Serana said, briefly resting her hand on Vitus’ arm. “Somehow I knew you’d understand.”
He turned away, a smirk taking a corner of his mouth. You have no idea, my dear.
They stepped into the portal back to Darkfall Cave.