Dagnell stepped in through the door of Honeyside and wiped her hand across her brow.
Damn. I feel awful. Again. I wonder what in the world is going on.
Dag had felt anxious all the time, for a long time now. First there was the uncommonly strong reaction she had these days when she had reason to kill someone. It was one thing to defend yourself; it was something else entirely to actually enjoy the sight of their blood spilling. It put a strange thrill in the pit of her stomach that nothing else did, and it made her wonder about her own sanity. It was especially bad that she felt that way when her own husband continually stressed the need to avoid killing if at all possible.
But that wasn’t the only reason she was anxious. There was Roggi.
She approached the alchemy table, frowning. Maybe she could mix up something that would settle her stomach, or at least her nerves, just a bit. She rifled through her ingredients box and pulled out a few things that might at least make a soothing tea, if nothing else, if she could grind them up finely enough.
She always tried to convince herself that there was nothing inherently wrong with being with Roggi once in awhile. That her feelings for him and their relationship with each other was something completely separate from her deep love for Brynjolf. She frowned.
That’s just a pitiful excuse, Dag. You gave yourself to Brynjolf, now and forever. You promised him. He promised you. There’s nothing good, or right, or excusable about what you are doing. Not at all. And you know it.
It didn’t make matters any easier that Roggi clearly felt just as guilty about it as she did. He seemed down on himself all the time these days, and nothing she would say to him seemed to help. She knew there was more to it than just their being together, something he wouldn’t tell her about, but all she could do was try to make him feel better the only way she knew.
And Brynjolf – well, he was yet another source of confusion. The man was so clearly overjoyed to be married to her. They went together the way she’d once, as a very young woman, imagined she and Coyle would be: laughing together, loving often and well, with fire and excitement. They worked together perfectly, except for the uncomfortable disagreements over Maven Black-Briar and skooma. It didn’t seem to matter that there was at least a decade’s difference in age between them; Brynjolf had behaved like a much younger man ever since they’d realized they belonged together. He’d been lighter in spirit, showing off a perfectly mischievous sense of humor and an almost inexhaustible well of energy that amazed her. It rubs off on the others, she thought, smiling. They laugh at us, and they laugh with each other, and they work harder, and it’s just a good place to be these days. It’s not because of me, no matter what Red has to say about it. It’s him.
But there were some days, when she returned from trips to do small jobs for Delvin or Vex, that she would catch Brynjolf watching her with a somber look and wonder does he know? Does he suspect? And then he would take her home and make her forget all about her concerns.
The thing that weighed most heavily on her, though, was the Dark Brotherhood. It had been weeks since Astrid had extended a formal invitation to join them. Dag had been appalled, both by the invitation and by the things she had done to receive it. On the one hand, Grelod the Kind had richly deserved to be removed from Honorhall Orphanage by whatever means necessary. But the three targets in Astrid’s abandoned shack – those people hadn’t all deserved to die. She’d just wanted to kill them. It had been that quiet, constant voice in her ear, the one she’d heard for years, telling her to kill things, telling her that she would enjoy it. Telling her that there was a big target waiting for her if only she would continue listening to it. She had once thought the target was Mercer Frey; but the voice hadn’t stopped after Mercer had met his end by his own sword.
The voice was familiar, but not only because it was an extension of her own voice. There was something else about it that she knew, and could not identify, and which she was convinced was connected with the Dark Brotherhood in some way. But in order to take Astrid up on that invitation, she would need to leave the Thieves Guild. She was sure of it. And she couldn’t do that. She was the Guildmaster. She was married to the second-in-command. She loved all these people.
The stress from all of it was getting to her, though. She felt anxious all the time. She went from being ravenous one moment to queasy the next and recently, she’d had a hard time keeping things down. Sometimes she’d felt ill even when there was nothing in her stomach; so she would eat, hoping that would settle things, and then get sick anyway.
It’s not rockjoint. It’s not ataxia. It’s not brown rot. I’ve been to the shrines, I should have been better by now.
It’s just the stress.
She decided to brew some lavender tea. Maybe it would help. She put the kettle on the fire and sat down at the table, watching the flames dance around the kettle’s base, trying to sort out the tangled mess of thoughts dancing around in her mind. The water began to boil, and she rose to pour it over the lavender in the teapot. And as the scent rose into the room – a scent that ordinarily would have been soothing and welcome – bile rose into her throat and she dashed out the door to be sick against the wall of Honeyside, out in the garden.
She was panting, sweat running down her face, when she heard Brynjolf running across the wooden footbridge behind her, the sound of his movements unmistakable to her even when she couldn’t see him. He rushed to her side.
“Again, lass? Do we need to take you to the healers?” He slipped her arm around his waist and helped her rise. “I’m worried about you.”
“I don’t know, Red. I’ve visited the shrines. I just really don’t feel well right now. I’m sorry. I must be a mess.”
She looked at him, his brilliant green eyes radiating concern, and smiled. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. Thanks for helping me out, love.”
He nodded. “Let’s get you back inside. I’m putting you to bed.” He moved them a few steps closer to the door. “To sleep, minx,” he added with a grin. “I think you’re just overtired from all the travel. We’ll deal with other issues later.”
Dag giggled. “I have no doubt.” Her legs were definitely wobbly, though, and she gratefully accepted Brynjolf’s help in slipping out of her leathers, and the cup of cool water and warm, damp cloth he brought her a few moments later. She wiped the sweat from her face and sank back into the bed with a sigh.
“Will you be alright?” Brynjolf asked, cupping the side of her face with one hand.
“Yes, but I didn’t have time to fix dinner.”
He chuckled. “Don’t worry about me, lass. You know I can cook.”
In spite of feeling weak and slightly green around the edges, Dagnell grinned. “You most certainly can.”
He rolled his eyes and laughed.
“And you call me insatiable. Well, rest up and later on we’ll see whether that’s true or not.” He grinned and then left the room. She closed her eyes gratefully. It took no more than a few moments before she was asleep.
—
“Dag? Dagnell, sweetheart, come here. I need to talk to you.”
Dag forced her eyes open and blinked. It was dark in the room, and she was alone. If Brynjolf had come to bed, it wasn’t obvious; and he certainly wasn’t there now. Dag slipped into her leathers and walked toward the base of the stairs.
“Hello?”
“Out here, Dag.”
It was odd. The voice was as clear to her as if the woman speaking was directly beside her, but there was nobody in the room with her. It was a voice that seemed familiar, somehow, but she couldn’t place who its owner was no matter how she tried. She walked up the stairs, slowly, and looked around the first floor for any signs of life but neither Brynjolf nor anyone else was there.
“Hello?” she called again.
“Out here, Dagnell. Come outside.”
She pushed open the door, grateful for the cool breeze that greeted her there, and stepped out onto the back deck. There was a woman leaning up against the railing, looking out over the lake. Very dark, she was, her dark brown hair pulled into a high bun atop her head. Dag walked toward her, curious.
“Hello? Are you the person who’s been…”
She stopped short as she got close enough to see the woman’s face. This was a face she remembered as clearly as though she had seen it every day in the years that intervened between the time she’d been a tiny girl and now.
“Mama?”
“Hello, Dag. My goodness, look at you. Haven’t you grown up to be a beautiful woman.”
Dag was frozen. She knew this couldn’t be real. Saban, the wife of Dadarh at-Jine, had died in the same attack that had taken him. Dag remembered how she had looked, lying on the ground with her throat cut, the light gone from her pale green eyes. And yet here she was, whole, and beautiful, and young – not much older than Dag herself.
Dag’s eyes filled.
“I’m dreaming, right? You’re not really here, are you Mama?”
“Yes, you’re dreaming. But I’m really here, in your dream.”
Dag swallowed hard. “But why? Why now? I have dreamed about you, before, but always just little snippets of things from when I was a tiny girl and you and Da were with me. Why am I seeing you now?”
Saban smiled and straightened up to face her.
“Because a woman needs her mother when she’s about to become a mother herself. I wanted you to know that I’m always watching, and I’ll be happy to greet your son when he is here. And if you need me while you wait, I will come to you again, in a dream, just like this.”
“When my….”
Dag felt the world stop around her.
My son? Am I… pregnant?
Everyone had been teasing them about it, for ages. How could it be that she and Brynjolf hadn’t begun a family yet? They certainly gave everyone the impression that they were trying. Even Tonilia and Vekel had joked about the bun in the oven at times, and they’d always been wrong. At least she had assumed so.
What if they were right?
She tried not to panic as her mind cast back. When was the last time? The last span of moon-days had been… no, not in the last month and… Her mind raced frantically back through the trips she’d made, to all parts of Skyrim, and it was at least two months before that she could remember, definitively.
Three months? Am I three months pregnant?
It would explain the tiredness, the sickness, and the… She blushed to think of it but she really had been the insatiable one recently, finding every excuse she could to lure Brynjolf into bed. He’d complained, laughing, that he was an old man and was going to be completely tired out if she kept it up, and then had taken her up on every overture.
And then there was Roggi.
“Oh gods, no, Mama. It can’t be true.”
“Of course it’s true, my dear girl. You are going to be a beautiful mother.”
“But I’ve been… with…”
Saban tsk’d, her face taking on an air of resigned sadness. “I… know that, my dear. You’ve done something you shouldn’t have. Even though you care for both of them, it was wrong. You’re like your father in that respect, using your body instead of your words to tell people how you feel. Some people are like that, in my experience, and it’s hard on everyone, including them. Your father, well…” She shrugged. “It was his nature. I didn’t like it, but I learned to live with it.”
What? Like my father?
“But it doesn’t matter. Your son will be half-Nord, half-Redguard, regardless of who his father is and he will be a beautiful child. I just know it. Perhaps he will look a bit like his handsome grandfather.”
“How do you know that it’s a boy?”
“I just do, dear. Sometimes that sort of thing is clear in advance.”
She smiled at Dag, and Dag wanted nothing more in the world at that moment than to throw herself into her long-dead mother’s arms, and be comforted in the way that only a beloved mother could provide. She couldn’t help herself; she started to weep.
“Mama.”
“It will be fine, Dagnell. You’ll see. It may take some time, but it will all work out. I know you can handle this. You’re strong. Just look at what you’ve been able to do in spite of being on your own for most of your life.”
Dag started to speak but her words came out between sobs. “Mama, I’m a thief. I do bad things. I kill people. I’m no good at all.”
Saban smiled again. “Now, now. None of that. You have people who care about you and look up to you and that’s all the proof I need that you’re a good, strong woman. You’re just like your father; tough, and headstrong, and capable. I loved him, and I love you. And I will love your little one when he arrives.”
She sighed. “I wish I could really be here, to help you through this, but know that I’ve watched you grow up and I’ll watch you as you go through this. Go rest, Dag, now that you know what’s happening to you. And take care of yourself and the wee one.”
She started to shimmer. “You know, it doesn’t matter who his father is, my sweet. They both love you and they will see to it that you’re well cared for, even if they have to do it together. I know it.”
She blinked out of sight.
“Mama, wait!”
But she was gone. And Dag was terrified, even as the darkness of sleep closed back in around her.
__
When she woke, into the reality of Honeyside, with the sound of Brynjolf clumping about upstairs, Dag felt the icy bands of anxiety clamping down on her heart. She didn’t want to believe what her dream had told her was the case, but as she took stock of her body she knew that it was. Her breasts were tender, and slightly larger. Her stomach, while still flat enough to defy detection, had a slight roundness to it that hadn’t always been there, and gods knew that she hadn’t been able to keep down enough food to account for it. And yes, it was true – the changes her body was undergoing had her ravenous to be touched.
By Stendarr.
It can’t be. It can’t be. What will I do? What if this is Roggi’s child? What will happen to me? And to them?
Damn, damn, damn.
They can’t know. Either one of them. I have to get away. I have to go. What will I do?
The sarcastic voice that had spoken to her for all of her adult life, the one whispering to her that was like, but not identical to, her own voice, laughed.
You know where you need to go. Astrid’s waiting for you. And then you can kill anyone they tell you to, and get paid for it. It’s perfect. All you need to do is change your appearance so that they can’t find you. There is something big awaiting you with them, Dag. You need to go.
Dag waited until Brynjolf left the house, and then dressed and walked out of the bedroom. She’d been frantically considering all the possible courses of action. One of them involved a visit to the alchemy station upstairs. She knew that it was a bit late, near the outside of the time frame in which she could safely take such a potion, but maybe, just maybe…
She stopped, and crossed her hands before her abdomen, in the protective posture she’d seen so many other pregnant women use almost automatically.
I can’t do that. I don’t know what sort of child I am carrying but I do know that he is half mine and I just… can’t do it.
I’m a horrible human being. I don’t deserve either one of them, and especially not Brynjolf. I can’t stand the thought of presenting him with a blonde child. What would it do to him?
And in spite of what she knew to be the case, that Brynjolf loved her to distraction, she couldn’t help but remember that awful day when they’d revealed Mercer’s treachery to him and he’d taken his anger out on her. Yes, he loved her; but what was to say that her own treachery might not be even harder for him to take? What if he lost his self-control with her again?
I have to go see the face-changer.
I can’t stay here.
I have to go.
I have to go.
She dressed herself, and gathered up all of the money and jewels that she could safely identify as hers and not theirs. She sold what few baubles she could, forcing herself to smile and joke with Bersi, and Madesi, and the others, even though her heart was pounding and bands of anxiety gripped her like claws. She went down to the Cistern and saw that Brynjolf was there, in the center, taking stock of the operations and answering questions. She made certain to speak to him and give him a quick peck on the cheek, and giggle at the frown Thrynn tossed in their direction.
“You shouldn’t tease him, Red,” she told him; but his eyes crinkled up into a mischievous smile and he grabbed her and kissed her hard, right there in the center of the room.
“I can’t help myself, lass,” he whispered in her ear. “I’m an evil bastard.”
“Behave,” she told him, laughing, forgetting everything for just a second. “I have to go talk to Delvin.”
He nodded and went back to his work, and she went through the door into the Ragged Flagon and to the back side of the tavern, where Galathil the face sculptor sat reading.
“I need to talk to you. Not here, if possible.”
Galathil had raised an eyebrow, but nodded silently, and rose, and followed Dag into one of the more private alcoves. They talked for a long time, and Dagnell gave her a great deal of money with the promise of a great deal more.
That night, she watched Brynjolf working on a dagger in their smithy, and talked to him about the young Imperial man he’d recruited to help with pickpocketing operations, and coaxed him into a hearty meal and a tankard of mead with something extra mixed in. And then she stood beside the bed watching Brynjolf sleep, and left for Riftweald Manor.
I have to do this. I have to. I can’t stay here.
I have to go.
I have to go.
