She thought about it all the way to the Reach.
Shadowmere seemed to know where to go without any input from her, which was a good thing if not awfully surprising. He’d belonged to Astrid, the previous leader of the Brotherhood – at least to the extent he “belonged” to anyone. Astrid had introduced the horse to her as “one of us,” and Sayma had always had a feeling that he’d been around much longer than any of them. He made for an excellent ride, though; intelligent, swift, strong, and as dark as the shadows with the exception of his glowing red eyes. Sayma was in no way paying attention to where they were; her mind wouldn’t stop going in circles about the odd sensations she’d had when the dragon’s energy rushed up the hill toward Dardeh. He seemed to think she’d absorbed some of it herself.
It really doesn’t make any sense.
Not much about the past several years had made sense, though, when she thought about it hard enough. She’d been on her way to Cyrodiil and never made it. Meeting Roggi and then Brynjolf had changed her life forever. And so had the chance encounter with Aventus Aretino, the little boy whose distress regarding the horrible headmistress of Honorhall Orphanage had set her on the path to becoming the Listener. None of those things made a particle of sense to happen to a girl who’d been just passing through.
Except for one thing. One thing had been consistent, and that was the voice.
That voice, that insistent, irritating, sarcastic and sometimes cruel voice that had spoken to her from the time she was on her own right down to the present. There had been times when she was sure that voice didn’t really exist, that it was only part of her own mind, speaking to her. Sometimes the things that other voice had told her had been just herself, usually berating herself for some imagined failing or other. But there had never been any reason for her to start hearing the voice tell her to kill things – the Forsworn man in Markarth, to begin with, and then more and more frequently after that. She’d barely been able to tell where her thoughts began or ended while they had been chasing Mercer Frey and all of them, all of the thoughts, had said “kill. Taste the blood. Kill.”
The voice had told her to go to Falkreath. To join the Dark Brotherhood. That there were great things waiting for her there.
There had been. There at the Sanctuary had been another voice, the dry, deathless voice of the Night Mother giving her assignments, directives to pass out to the stable of assassins. She had asked for none of it, had not believed in the old tales until presented with the irrefutable evidence that the Night Mother, at least, was real and had chosen her.
Just as Dar didn’t ask to be Dragonborn. Just as I didn’t ask to have…
No. I refuse to believe it. It makes no sense.
They had talked about it for a long while, before she left Mammoth Manor. Dardeh was sympathetic.
“The first time I felt anything like it at all was when Alduin attacked Helgen,” he said. “I knew he was Shouting when he landed on the tower, just a split second before that headsman’s axe was about to come down on my neck. I heard words in the sound. My head felt like it was… on fire, from the inside out. And then the first word I learned. I swear it was like something was burning in my mind, like you would brand a cow.” He patted her on the hand. “I know how strange it is. That’s why I’m sure you absorbed some of that dragon soul. You wouldn’t have heard the words, otherwise.”
Then he’d told her about having Dadarh appear to him, in dreams.
“The first time I saw him he was out in the Reach. He didn’t say anything, just looked at me, and I didn’t know who it was. Twice he was at the Bannered Mare. The first time there, it just seemed like he was sizing me up. That’s when I found out he was my – our – father. The second time, he was really angry that I hadn’t killed Ulfric, and told me ‘I’ll have to use the girl.’ That was when he showed up in Dark Brotherhood armor.”
“Yes. He was wearing our armor when he appeared to me, as well,” Sayma told him.
That night when she had dreamed of him was when she’d realized that the voice she’d been hearing – even though it had sounded like her own – had really been his. She’d put little Brynjolf to sleep in his cot in the Listener’s quarters that night and had then gone to bed herself. It hadn’t been long, or so it seemed at the time, until she’d sat up in response to some sound or other and seen a figure seated at the table below the bed. She approached as silently as possible, fearing for little Brynjolf’s life; but the man seated there had snorted.
“No, you really can’t sneak up on me,” he rumbled. “And even if you did, it would matter not at all. You can’t kill me.”
Sayma had scanned the room, quickly, and realized that neither the cot nor little Bryn were there. The light seemed odd. And the man seated at the table before her was as familiar to her as any face she had ever known. Deeply lined, his eyes narrowed, bloodstain war paint on his face, his square jaw and heavy lips set into a perpetual frown, he was nonetheless a man she had once loved with every bit of her being.
“Papa.”
“Daughter. I see that you have come here, taken your place. This is good.”
“I’m dreaming.”
“Of course.”
He had proceeded to talk to her, as he had been talking to her for her entire life. She finally recognized the voice. It was the words, the phrasing, and the cadence. The sarcasm. The insistence that she take her blade and kill with it. He had stood and walked about the room, finally standing before the banner of the Brotherhood, and peered down at her with his piercing eyes.
“You must kill him. Finish what I could not. The boy will not do it. You must.”
Sayma remembered asking, in that dream, what he meant by “the boy,” but the dream had faded before she’d gotten any sort of response from him.
She shook her head and looked at Dardeh. “That dream was when he mentioned you. ‘The boy will not do it,’ he said. I didn’t know what he was talking about, and I didn’t remember our conversation in Whiterun. I’m not going to do it, Dar. I won’t even attempt to kill Ulfric.”
Dardeh nodded. “No, and neither will I. I can’t stand the man, but he’s not worth risking my life over, and he really hasn’t done anything to me personally except to be …an ass.” He frowned. “I wonder…”
“What is it?”
“It always has bothered me that the first time I saw Dadarh he was in the Reach. I wonder if there’s something to that. Aside from the fact that that’s where he met my ma.”
That was how the conversation had gone, between her and her half-brother, and she thought about it now as she sat comfortably on Shadowmere’s back. There was some significance to the Reach aside from it being Dardeh’s home. She just didn’t know what it was.
That’s not the real problem, she thought, watching the muscles in Shadowmere’s shoulders ripple beneath his perfectly black coat. The real problem is that I don’t know who I am right now. I just don’t. I’m not Dag; Dag was a traveler, and a thief, and a survivor, and I haven’t done any of those things in years. If I’m not Dag anymore, I must be Sayma, right? Except that I’m not, not really. Sayma is an assassin. When was the last time I even left the Sanctuary, or the house, much less performed that kind of duty? I could take one of the Night Mother’s assignments for myself but I don’t. I just… stay in Dawnstar, taking care of little Bryn. Now life wants to tell me I’m yet a different thing that I don’t know and don’t want.
Who in Oblivion am I?
Sayma looked around and realized that she had no idea where they were.
“Shadowmere? Where have you brought us?”
Shadowmere had walked into a town, and toward a confrontation going on in the middle of it. Swiveling her head around she took stock of the surroundings, and the angle of the sun, and the size and shape of the mountains, and realized that they had to be in Karthwasten, a small mining village far north of where she had intended to take them.
How did I lose track for that long?
“Shadowmere, what in the world…?”
Shadowmere nickered and shook his head.
“Right. I know. You’re usually right about these things. Let’s see what’s going on.”
She approached the group standing in the road just close enough to catch the gist of the issue, while staying well out of their sight. The owner of Karthwasten’s mine was a Reach native; but a group of men who declared themselves to be working for the Silver-Bloods, the most powerful family in Markarth, were suggesting that he and his were Forsworn. He would just guard the mine until they were certain there were no Forsworn about, the chief of the group told them.
Or until its owner gave up and sold the mine for a pittance. That was the owner’s other choice. Sayma watched his face grow red, even as he turned away from them in his frustration. The laughing mercenaries walked toward the mine and disappeared into it.
The idea that this group was stealing the mine made her fume. A thief, Sayma thought, steals things through intelligence, and stealth, and skill. A thief doesn’t threaten her way into the acquisition of things that don’t belong to her. The mercenaries were nothing but common thugs. Her temper flared thinking about them; and she considered the small group of people who had faced them. The mine owner was no warrior, nor were his miners; and none of them was equipped to handle this invasion by hostile forces.
Well, now. I’m a thief, as it happens; one of the best. And an assassin as well. I suspect it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if these Silver-Blood “employees” were removed from the premises, would it? This, I can do.
It didn’t take her very long. She knew it wouldn’t. She waited until the owner was well out of sight and then followed the mercenaries into the mine. The few random thugs wandering back and forth across the mine were no different than any bandit group she’d ever encountered, and it was a quick bit of business to step up behind one, pull her blade across his throat, and drop him to the floor, then move on to the next.
Just like Andante and I told you, Red. Silent.
She wanted to laugh about it, because silence was not one of the things she’d ever seen Brynjolf demonstrate. But he was a vampire since last I saw him. A Nightlord, even. She shuddered. How do I know what kinds of things Andante might have taught him?
The leader of the group, the one Sayma had heard threatening the mine’s owner outside, presented a bit more of a challenge to take down. He had come down from the mine’s upper levels when some sound or other caught his attention, and stood blocking the ramps up to the ore. He scanned back and forth warily, glaring at the entryway, having seen one of his men dead on the ground and not knowing who had done it or where that person was.
Sayma hid behind a support beam and considered him for a moment. There was no place available from which she could creep up behind him; and she’d long ago learned that an assault from the front was not the best way for her – a slight woman in light armor – to do things. It wasn’t the best space in the world for bow work either, but she did have a weak paralysis potion tucked into her pouches, and that would do the trick. She applied some of it to her bow and took careful aim at the man, then released the bowstring and smiled as he toppled over like a log. It was a simple matter to open his throat as she had all the others; and as she crouched over his lifeless body and dipped her finger into his blood, tasting it as she always did, she smiled.
This. This is who I am. I haven’t forgotten how to do this. Creep in like a thief; creep out with blood on my hands like an assassin.
Shadowmere knew what I needed, didn’t he. He brought me here for a reason.
She left the mine, startling its owner when she spoke from behind him. He jumped, but wisely did not look at her.
“Don’t turn around. I wanted to let you know that you won’t have trouble with that group of mercenaries any longer,” she murmured.
“Th… thank you … friend,” the man said slowly. “It will only be a matter of time before someone is back, either the Nords who hate me because I’m not a Nord or the Forsworn who hate me because I’m not one of them. But for now, we can get back to work. Thank you.”
Sayma slipped away before he could get a look at her. She found Shadowmere and turned him around, back toward the mountains where they needed to go.
“You bad horse,” she told him. “Thank you.”
Shadowmere tossed his mane and nickered.
___
The house was tucked back against the side of the mountain, just up the hill from the ancient Nordic ruin of Valthuume, just as Dardeh had suggested. It was cleverly placed so that if not for the thin tendril of smoke rising from its chimney, there would have been nothing from any angle to suggest to anyone that anything was here save bears and saber cats. Sayma rode Shadowmere up the path toward it and grumbled at him for what felt like the hundredth time.
“We could have been here a day ago, you know, if not for your little jaunt up north.”
She slipped down off his back and chuckled as he made an impatient little horse sound once more and pawed at the ground.
“I know, I know. I should give you more credit. You’re smarter than I am, sometimes. You knew what I needed more than I did.” She patted his neck and smiled. “Wait around, would you? I don’t know how long this will take but I’m sure we’ll be off again soon.”
Shadowmere bobbed his head and wandered away to the first patch of grass he could find. Sayma turned to climb the steps up to the wooden deck of the small house and tested the door. It was unlocked, so she let herself in.
There were two people inside this humble cottage: a woman and a man both dressed in long green robes. The woman turned and snapped at her.
“Hey! Who are you? Speak quickly.”
“Oh dear. I’m sorry to have just come in like that. Your door was open,” Sayma said. “I’m looking for someone. I was told there was a couple living in this area who knew the location of a place I’m supposed to go in order to find a… thing…”
I sound like an idiot.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have just assumed it was ok to come in.”
The woman stared at her for a long while.
“You are searching for a…”
“A thing. A cowl. A very old cowl, kind of an historical artifact.” Sayma shook her head. “It’s a long story and probably sounds stupid, but I was sent here to learn about the entrance to … someplace else. Or at least I hope I was sent here, and not to someone else’s house.” She stopped, shook her head, and made a disgusted noise. “It sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it? I can’t believe I’m even saying such a thing.”
She was expecting the woman to look perplexed, confused, maybe even to shoo her out of the house in fear. Instead, she nodded her head slowly and gestured toward the chair opposite her.
“So. The Dragonborn has come.”
Time stood still for Sayma, for just a moment. A shiver ran up her spine and the hair on her neck rose.
“What?”
The woman smiled. “My family has been waiting for generations, Dragonborn.”
Sayma put a hand on the back of the chair and lowered herself into it slowly, as her knees threatened to give out from under her. Just as she had in the moment when she realized that Brynjolf had maneuvered her into working with the Thieves Guild whether she liked it or not, she felt the reins of her future being wrestled away from her own hands and placed into someone else’s.
“I’m… I’m not the Dragonborn…” she protested weakly.
But my brother is. And he told me that I absorbed some of the power from that dragon we all killed. And that there’s something in our lineage.
“Of course you are. You would not have found us, otherwise. We have been waiting for you for hundreds of years. I am Seviana Umbranox and this is my husband Luvien. We are the Keepers of the Arrow of Extrication.”
“Keepers?” Sayma said faintly.
I know Keepers. Or at least one Keeper. This is beginning to feel uncomfortably familiar.
Why is it that the gods and the Daedra and the world in general can’t leave all of us alone to lead normal lives?
Oh who am I fooling. It isn’t this woman’s fault, any more than it was Dardeh’s fault that he was the Dragonborn, or mine that I’m the Listener. There’s nothing normal about any of us or our lives, and there’s no point in being upset by it.
“Tell me.”
Seviana wove a tale that would have rivaled anything Sayma had ever heard for strangeness, if not for the bizarre things she had lived through in the past several years herself. Seviana was the descendant of Corvus Umbranox, the Count of Anvil two hundred years previously, through his illegitimate son. What most people didn’t know, she said, was that Corvus had also been the Gray Fox, leader of the Thieves Guild back in those days and before.
Sayma’s mouth fell open. The Gray Fox was said to be immortal, and yet that was clearly not the case, as nobody had seen or heard of such a person in recent memory. The Guild remembered, though; Mercer Frey had kept a bust of the Gray Fox in his secret study.
“So where is he, then? If he’s immortal…”
Seviana shook her head. The person of the Gray Fox wasn’t actually immortal, she explained; the secret was the Cowl of Nocturnal, which caused each wearer to look exactly like its previous owner.
“The Cowl! That’s it, that’s the thing I’m supposed to retrieve.” She leaned forward and gave Seviana what she hoped was her most earnest look. “I was asked to retrieve it by Nocturnal herself.”
“I see,” she said. “Well, you see, the last person to have the Cowl was the Champion of Cyrodiil, two hundred years ago, when he helped banish Mehrunes Dagon and end the Oblivion Crisis. He was given the Cowl and the title of Guildmaster when it was time for Corvus to step down as the Grey Fox and go back to being the Count. Then, when the Champion was ready to retire there was nobody in the Thieves Guild at the time deemed appropriate to take over the role from him. And so, my ancestors were tasked to keep the Cowl under protection, waiting for the next Dragonborn to arrive – because only the Dragonborn was sure to be worthy of it.”
It’s like she didn’t even hear me. Wouldn’t you have thought the name Nocturnal might have had some reaction from her?
Sayma frowned. “But I’m not the Dragonborn. My…”
“Of course you are,” Seviana interrupted her. “Otherwise you would not be here. It’s the call of the Gray Fox. He is waiting for you in a place where only a Dragonborn can enter.”
“Where is it, then?” Sayma’s head was spinning. But I’m not the Dragonborn, my brother is! If this is something the Dragonborn is supposed to do, how in the world am I supposed to do it?
The Cowl was, Sayma learned, in the Champion of Cyrodiil’s mausoleum. The place everyone knew as the Champion’s grave – in the city of Anvil, in Cyrodiil – held only an empty grave. The Mausoleum was built in a secret location by Seviana’s ancestors.
“To reach it, you must think as a member of the Guild. As a thief,” the woman told her.
“I can do that,” Sayma said with a grin. I’d better be able to do that. I was the Guildmaster until just a few days ago.
“Now my family’s mission is complete. Here. I must give you the Arrow of Extrication and this key. You will know what to do with the Arrow when the time comes. It will allow you to retrieve the Cowl and escape the Mausoleum.”
She showed Sayma the place she needed to go to next, the place for which she would need the key. Then she made sure Sayma was looking directly at her.
“There is just one more thing. Nobody can go with you. You must do this alone. Anyone you might take along could not move over the threshold of the place I’ve showed you.” She stood and smiled. “Good luck. And may Nocturnal guide you.”
Sayma nodded, and exited the home. She stood on the porch, feeling more than a bit numb.
So much for the idea of bringing Dardeh along, she thought. Or anyone else.
She watched Shadowmere graze for a moment, considering all of the possibilities. Dardeh had said there was some significance to their father having appeared in the Reach. Seviana had said she could not have found this place if she was not Dragonborn.
Maybe there is something in us, in our blood, that is connected to all of this. Maybe there’s no coincidence that Dardeh is the Dragonborn. Maybe he’s right, and there’s just enough of it in me that I – the thief in the family – will be able to do this thing.
She approached Shadowmere and patted his neck.
“Come on, buddy. We have to go all the way south again. Up into the mountains near Bloodlet Throne. You’d think they could have lived a little closer to the target, wouldn’t you?”
Shadowmere tossed his mane as she jumped up into the saddle. He turned and started picking his way down the mountainside, sure-footed as one of the many goats along the way.
Maybe I can pull this off and get that Cowl back for Nocturnal, and give Dynjyl and Brynjolf a little peace.
She grinned.
If I can’t do it, it’ll be a sad day indeed. I consider it a challenge. You’re on, Nocturnal.