Edwyn stood in the Arcanaeum, staring at the piles of books. It was the middle of the night, Urag gro-Shub was asleep, and he had the place to himself for the moment.
But there were so many things to research. And every time he tried to focus his mind on one thing or the next it bounced back to Volkihar Castle and the incredible cold of the icy glare Serana had given him as she’d turned to walk away.
I suppose I’m lucky to be intact. I would assume that she couldn’t best me in combat, but we never had occasion to test that. For all I know she could rip me asunder.
Edwyn Wickham was not an emotional man. He never had been, not even in his mortal days so long ago now that he could barely remember them. He’d always been strictly businesslike. Friendships were wonderful to have, even though they rarely lasted that long; those fellow Bretons he’d grown up with were long ago dust, dead and buried. No, it was the relationships like those he had with Harkon and Agryn Gernic that mattered, built on mutual respect and trust and free of the entanglements of too many emotions.
It wasn’t that he didn’t care for Agryn, and Vyctyna. He did. They each made him smile, and he enjoyed their company very much. He would definitely be saddened if something were to happen to either of them. He’d been truly devastated to learn of Harkon’s passing, because the man had filled so very many roles in his life: mentor, commander, and friend. Edwyn wasn’t one of those vile and distressing creatures who had no human empathy. He just preferred more surface-level relationships.
Serana had been different. They had connected in ways he never had with anyone else. She wasn’t a particularly vulnerable person, having survived the attentions of Molag Bal himself; but she had opened herself to Edwyn and he to her. The situation he’d created by his marriage stung especially sharply because she’d been out of reach for so very long and had only recently returned. His heart had seemed to beat a bit more quickly and with a bit more vigor.
He shook his head again. Focus, Edwyn. There are only so many hours before the mages wake.
First, he reviewed all of the illusion spell tomes he could find. It would be simple enough to require a thrall to perform the necessary activities with Elisif. What he was concerned about was the spells required to change the man’s appearance lasting long enough for the act to be completed.
After a period, he threw the book in his hand against the wall in a flare of frustration.
“Damn. I don’t know if it will work. I thought it was a foolproof plan. I don’t know whether I can maintain control long enough…”
He stared at the book and shook his head. He’d managed to break its spine. He retrieved it and tsk’d. A number of pages had been bent, sharply; there were creases in them that would likely never come out and which would render them subject to tearing.
He will utterly flay the flesh from my bones.
Edwyn did what he could, pushing the text block back against the spine and carefully closing the cover over the warped pages. Then he set the tome on the floor and shifted a nearby pile of books to rest atop it. At least the pages might be pressed flat by the weight. And if Urag did not know how to repair a broken book spine he wasn’t worth whatever the College was paying him.
Well now I know where the shortcomings in my original plan lie. Perhaps it will have to be very, very dark in our room. Let us pray that Elisif is not only of childbearing age but also incredibly fertile, because the chances of this working over any extended period of time are next to nil.
He paced around the Arcanaeum for a few minutes, trying to calm himself and collect his thoughts.
That is the first issue: how to impregnate Elisif. At least I have Vyctyna working on finding a likely subject. The second problem is: where has Auriel’s Bow gone?
He ran a hand lazily over some of the books on a nearby table and shook his head.
There isn’t anything here that is going to help me solve that issue. The one person who knew definitively is dead. ‘In a jar somewhere,’ as Serana put it. He cannot help me, and neither can she. If there are other vampires who might know of the Bow’s whereabouts, they are unknown to me. The only other person who might have any idea where it went is also the person who perplexes me most. He was reportedly a very powerful vampire in his own right; and yet when I met him in Riften he was quite clearly human. There is no help for it. I simply need to travel to Riften once more and confront him; he is the only other connection to the man called Andante that I am aware of.
It is a shame that I didn’t ask Serana how her father came to be killed before I told her about Elisif. I might have learned something valuable. Such is the disarray of my mind whenever I am near her.
There was another issue that Edwyn needed to research, and it was the one that had left him so disappointed with the holdings at the Bard’s College. He needed to know more about the history of the early Emperors.
He went behind Urag’s desk to find the key to the bookcases. The place where Urag stored his spare key was a very closely-held secret, but as Archmage he’d been taken aside by the archivist and given the information he needed. Edwyn grinned as he took the key.
Of course, Urag assured me that if anything were to go missing he would have no qualms about setting an angry atronach on me, Archmage or no.
He proceeded to search out the very oldest of the materials on Tamrielic history. He knew all the common tales about the ancient line of Emperors. He’d been alive for the coronation of several of them himself. None of them had made an especially large impression on him – with the exception, perhaps, of the bastard son, Martin Septim, and then only because of the nasty business of Oblivion gates appearing all over the countryside in Cyrodiil while he was busy creating more Volkihar vampires and helping them infiltrate all of the local courts.
I never really paid that much attention to all of the trappings of Imperial lines. That was Harkon’s job. He was going to be the Emperor when the day came, not I. I know there was an amulet of some kind that was passed down from one to the next. The Amulet of Kings. A badge of office, so to speak. Many organizations have such a bauble.
Much of what Edwyn read clarified and reinforced the rather fuzzy understanding he’d had of the history. Saint Alessia in the First Era had established the official pantheon of gods for the Empire when she supposedly entered into a covenant with none other than Akatosh himself. Thus, as he understood it, she and her heirs became known as “Dragonborn Emperors.” As far as Edwyn could determine, that was a largely symbolic epithet based on the supposed covenant; and it wasn’t clear to him whether the title was something specific to the person of the Emperor or, as other sources claimed, a “divine mandate.”
Teasing out the truth in any religion’s claims is always a slippery matter, particularly when its origins lie so long in the past that most people were illiterate at its founding. Any given piece of writing might be a literal account, or simply symbolic.
The Amulet had been somehow involved with the transfer of power; but it wasn’t clear to Edwyn based on the conflicting accounts whether it had contained actual blood, as some sources held, or souls, as another claimed. It made some sense that the Amulet might have been some variety of soul gem at its heart, as they could be very powerful stones indeed.
Edwyn sighed and rubbed his forehead. “It would have been so much easier if Harkon had simply told me what he knew of this matter, and what he intended,” he murmured. But no. Even as close as we were, Harkon maintained his power by always keeping his plans and knowledge close to the vest, revealing only that which was needed at any given time.
As he worked his way through the oldest of the materials in the College’s holdings, Edwyn had confirmation of part of his ideas. The Amulet of Kings had in fact had a red diamond at its center, an Ayleid soul gem called Chim-el Adabal.
The Amulet must have been magnificent, he thought as he read its description: the enormous red diamond held in a setting surrounded by eight other gems representing the Eight Divines. It was an important part of the coronation ceremony, used in some way to light the Dragonfires.
Dragonfires, indeed. A grandiose name for the method by which the planes of Oblivion were prevented from mingling with those of Nirn. And this has never been clear to me. Each Emperor, it is written, needed to rekindle the Dragonfires, using the Amulet, upon his ascension. Does that mean the fires actually went out when the previous emperor was deposed or died? And why, if that is the case, did we not experience incursions of Oblivion every few decades as short-lived mortal Emperors passed their rule to the next?
But Martin Septim used its power, whatever that might have been, in order to defeat Mehrunes Dagon in the Imperial City. That was when the gates vanished, along with the Amulet. He was the last of his line. It has been claimed that we have had no real Emperor since him, since none could light the Dragonfires.
And this is the piece I am missing. WHY could the next Emperors not light the fires – and why have there been no incursions of Oblivion since then? There is at least one existing portal – the one in Volkihar Castle that leads to the Soul Cairn – and yet we do not have Daedric invasions and have not had for at least two hundred years.
Edwyn rubbed his forehead in frustration.
I am far too preoccupied with the business at hand either to determine what is important about this issue, or why I am not putting all the pieces together successfully. It is clear that Harkon wanted to use to his advantage the people’s feeling that there had been no “legitimate” Emperor since Martin. But how? He could no more recreate a destroyed artifact than I can father a child.
He carefully replaced the books he’d been looking at and returned the key to its usual place. He was going to have to let all of it – the issue of the illusion spells and the Amulet of Kings – simmer in the background in his brain. He needed some rest.
And then I am going to Riften. I am determined that I am going to find out from that Brynjolf character who this ‘Andante’ was, why he was able to exterminate one of the most ancient and powerful vampires in Tamriel, and how it is that even after having done so he is now deceased.
And I want that Bow, if only to keep it out of the wrong hands.
__
He stopped in Windhelm, riding Arvak down the river and under the long bridge leading into the city. It was a bit of a calculated risk given the current state of unease between its Jarl and Elisif. On the other hand, he was curious to see whether or not he might overhear something while he was there that could be of value to Elisif.
His first stop was at Candlehearth Hall. He wanted a drink and a warm-up by the fireplace before continuing his journey to Riften. The serving girl made eyes at him as she came with his drink; he smiled back at her but waved his hand in the air so that she could clearly see his wedding band. She sighed, but smiled at him and nodded before leaving.
He started picking up a theme. “Wife.” “Queen.” Those words kept recurring in people’s conversations, along with Ulfric’s name and one he didn’t recognize. He frowned. It wouldn’t have surprised him to hear people gossiping about his marriage to Elisif, even if they didn’t know who he was. But this didn’t seem to be about Elisif.
When he was finished with his drink he went downstairs to leave, rather than taking the nearer side door out from the upper level. One person in any city who was bound to know all the gossip was the innkeeper or its bartender, and he determined to find out what he could.
“Heard any rumors lately?” he asked the woman, slipping several coins across the counter for her to scoop up eagerly.
“Well, yes. I’ve heard a rumor that there’s a person down in Riften who can – get this – change your face. Make you look completely different! Can you believe that?”
Edwyn blinked. That wasn’t at all what he’d expected to hear, but it started alarm bells clanging in his head. This is important. I’ll have to think about it on my trip south.
“Very interesting. I was wondering about things going on in Windhelm, actually. I don’t travel to this part of Skyrim often.”
The woman snorted. “Well it’s hardly a rumor. Except for winning the war, the biggest thing to happen in Windhelm in years was the wedding.” She leaned over the counter and whispered. “All so hush-hush. Apparently they slipped down there at night and got married with only a few people watching. It’s too bad, too. It would have been good for business if we’d had a big royal wedding with all the trimmings, a pretty bride, the war hero husband. Disappointing, if you ask me.”
Royal… wedding?
“What wedding is that?”
She straightened up and laughed. “Where have you been, in a barrow? There’s only one person in this place important enough to be called royalty. Never thought I’d see the day, honestly, Windhelm with a queen.” She laughed at herself. “Well, not officially, of course. But some day.”
She grinned widely and looked at him with what he could only interpret as an expectant look.
Edwyn felt frozen – or at least colder than he usually felt. There was only one person she could be speaking about and that was Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak. He reached into his coin purse and pulled out several more coins, placing them directly into her hands.
“Thank you. You’ve been most helpful.”
There was no help for it, now. He absolutely had to go to the palace to see what she was talking about. He made his way to the doors of the palace and decided that his best course of action would be to make use of an ability he rarely used. As a vampire, Edwyn could bend light around his form, becoming effectively invisible. He would be able to creep closer to the front of the great hall that way, and perhaps overhear things that would not otherwise be said in front of him.
He did so, and pushed his way through the great doors and into Ulfric’s keep. The man himself was seated in his uncomfortable-looking throne, as expected. He exchanged words with his steward, also as expected. Edwyn carefully moved as close as he could.
“She wants us to start planning for improvements to the city, my lord,” the steward said.
Ulfric sighed, but smiled. “Of course she does, and what improvements would those be?”
“The steps outside, sir. Some of them have been broken and sitting at an angle as long as I can remember. She thinks we should straighten them out and replace those that cannot be repaired.”
Ulfric laughed, a big, booming sound.
Edwyn blinked. Ulfric Stormcloak, laughing? That is unexpected. Everything I remember of him and everything I have heard about him would lead me to believe that he has always been a rather sour man.
“Of course my wife would want something like that,” he said, his voice carrying hints of warmth and affection.
So it’s true. He has taken a wife.
“Of course I would, Ulfric,” a female voice responded. From the room to Edwyn’s left a woman in a flaming red dress emerged. She approached the throne to stand before it for a moment. She looked back down the hall quickly and grinned, then stepped up to the throne and leaned over Ulfric to kiss him. The Jarl’s hand rose to her waist and briefly slid down what Edwyn had no choice other than to recognize as a very shapely bottom. She swatted his hand and straightened up.
“Really, Ulfric. In front of everyone.”
“Everyone being Jorlief? He has seen worse behavior from me,” Ulfric said, the smile on his face and the mischief in his eyes telling Edwyn everything he needed to know. The man was married. He gave every impression of being in love with his wife.
“It’s true, my lady,” the man Ulfric had called Jorlief said. “Begging your pardon, my lord.”
Ulfric laughed again. Edwyn marveled at it, and admired the man’s wife.
Attractive. Young. A bit too … Nord … for my taste but I suppose. Now what is her name?
Ulfric grinned at Jorlief and then returned his attention to his bride. “So, Stormblade, you believe we should expend valuable time and effort on repairing things that have been as they are now for hundreds of years?”
Stormblade. That’s a battle-title, not a name.
“Yes, I do. Have you ever thought about the people who want to come see you? Those steps are not only unattractive and very off-putting, they’re a hazard. Anyone even the least bit infirm could hurt themselves trying to get up here.”
“Did it ever occur to my beautiful bride that discouraging the masses from visiting our court might have been intentional?”
The young woman tsk’d and shook her head, sending her ponytail bobbing. Edwyn couldn’t help but watch appreciatively. She was, if nothing else, attractive.
“Change your intention, Ulfric,” she said flatly. “If you’re going to be king of the whole land you need to be able to welcome people from the whole land, not just a few of us hand-picked Nords. You know I’m right. Don’t give me a hard time about this.”
Ulfric chuckled again. “Yes, yes. I should know by now to heed my wife’s wise counsel.” He turned to his steward and said “Speak to Frina and see what she wants done, Jorlief. And begin planning to have it happen. Now, if you’ll both excuse me, I have work that needs my attention.” He rose from his throne and left the room. His wife turned to gaze down the hall with a self-satisfied smile before turning to Jorlief.
“My lady Frina,” the man said. “Where shall we begin?”
“Outside, Jorlief,” Frina said. “Let me change into something a little less exposed and I’ll be right back.” She left the throne room, Jorlief sighed heavily, and Edwyn took advantage of that moment to slink back out of the palace.
His trip to Riften seemed to take no time at all, as occupied as his mind was. Ulfric married to a much younger and presumably fertile young woman lent a whole new dimension of urgency to the already tense situation with Elisif. Ulfric was no fool. Undoubtedly his marriage, no matter his warm feelings toward the girl, had been largely a tactical move to further his elevation to High King.
For what does a court love more than a royal couple with a royal heir? Exactly as Elisif said.
The other piece of information he had picked up from Windhelm, though, made him feel a bit more confident about his situation. As soon as he arrived in Riften he made it a point to speak to one of the guards near the north gate.
“I understand there is someone known as a face-changer here. Where might I find this person?”
“Oh, don’t listen to those rumors,” the man said. “Face-butcher, is more like it.”
Edwyn pulled a small sack of coin out of a pocket and dangled it in front of the guard’s nose. “And if I were to want my face butchered, where would I go to have it done by an expert?”
The guard grinned and grabbed the sack. “A tavern called the Ragged Flagon. In the Ratway. But you didn’t hear it from me.”
Edwyn smiled. “Never heard a word, my good man.” Good. I know where to go. And if I am very lucky I may be able to take care of two issues at the same time.
—
Perhaps an hour later, Edwyn found himself standing on the back deck of one of the lakefront properties in Riften.
He had indeed located the face-changer, a Bosmer woman who looked up at him from under a hood as he approached and shook her head. “It is true that I have the skill. But I only work on the living.”
“The client will in fact be among the living, if in fact you are capable.”
“I am,” she told him quietly. “But I must warn you, my services do not come cheaply.”
“Price is not a concern. I will return with the client when the time is right.”
He’d turned to leave the Ragged Flagon only to see a familiar face staring at him from over the top of a flagon. Lady Luck seems to be with me this day; for there he is, just as though he knew I’d be looking for him.
He had approached the table and smiled. “Brynjolf. You are just the man I was hoping to find.”
“Is that so. What can I do for you today, Lord Wickham?”
“I need to speak to you at some length regarding a former associate of yours and an object of some importance that he possessed.”
Brynjolf nodded. “Mmm. I wondered when you’d be back. Not here. Let’s go someplace more private.” He pushed back his chair and led Edwyn toward the door. They’d left the tavern area, and passed by the shopkeepers that circled the area outside it, before the large redhead said anything else.
“So how is life in Solitude these days, Edwyn?” he asked.
“Busy,” Edwyn said.
“I understand there are congratulations to be given.”
“Yes. Thank you very much. I’m a very happy man.”
Brynjolf looked at him sideways and smirked. “I’m sure you are. And Lady Elisif must be very excited. I know she was just gutted when Torygg died, and them without children.”
They pushed through the Ratway and toward the steps leading to Riften’s lower level. “I can tell you, it’s quite an experience. I have only the one at the moment, but we’re expecting another in not too long a time. Never would have believed it possible for an old dog like me.”
“Yes, I can imagine,” Edwyn murmured. You were supposed to have been a vampire. I would have found it astonishing indeed to learn that you were a father, or even capable of becoming one. And you know it. That is why you are talking about it. Trying to see whether you can get me to react.
Brynjolf led him up the steps to Riften’s marketplace and then across it, to a modest home on its opposite side. He opened the door and waved Edwyn inside. The place was very quiet, Edwyn thought; almost too quiet. Brynjolf’s child didn’t live here, that was certain. But it was definitely his home.
“Honeyside,” Brynjolf said. “Let’s go out onto the back deck. It’s been a nice afternoon.”
They settled themselves onto the deck. Brynjolf reached into what was obviously a mead barrel and pulled out two bottles, offering one to Edwyn.
I don’t usually indulge, but on this occasion I’ll make an exception. To his surprise, the mead tasted wonderful to him. He raised his eyebrows in surprise and looked at the label. Black-Briar Reserve. Mead was such a commoner’s drink, to his mind, but he was pleased to have made the acquaintance of this brew.
“So, Edwyn,” Brynjolf said. “This is the second time you’ve come to find me in the Flagon. You accused me of theft the last time you were here. I can’t imagine why you’re here this time.” He smiled at Edwyn; a pleasant enough smile, but the eyes above it were cold as the snows of Pale Pass.
Edwyn stared back at him. I suppose there is no good reason to dissemble. Neither of us trusts or even particularly likes the other and no amount of surface nicety is going to change that.
“Let me be blunt, in that case. I am here because I do not understand what happened at Castle Volkihar before my arrival, and I have it on the highest possible authority that you were there, Brynjolf.”
“Is that so.” It wasn’t a question. Brynjolf didn’t look at him; rather, he stared out over the lake with the smallest of smiles playing at the corner of his mouth.
“You know the authorities to whom I refer. Vingalmo. Garan Marethi. Orthjolf. Serana.”
Brynjolf nodded while studying the quietly lapping waves.
“Yes, I know all of those people.”
“If that is the case then you know that mortals do not simply visit Castle Volkihar.”
Brynjolf nodded. “Very true. I would expect to be at the top of the menu if I went there.”
Yes, you obnoxious man. Edwyn was getting hungry, but even so he couldn’t imagine himself tasting Brynjolf’s blood.
“And you knew the former Lord of the castle, an individual calling himself ‘Andante.’”
“Told you before, lad. I knew him very well indeed.”
‘Lad.’ Does he use that to be purposefully annoying?
“I want to know how an upstart from nobody knows where was able to infiltrate the clan and destroy Lord Harkon, one of the strongest and most ancient vampires ever to inhabit Tamriel – and then die. I have been assured that my predecessor at Volkihar had a partner, a very substantial vampire in his own right, and yet it is obvious to me that you are not a vampire. Now how can that be?”
Brynjolf chuckled. “Curious, isn’t it. You’re correct, of course, I’m not a vampire.” He stretched his arms out before him and yawned, then rubbed his face. Finally he looked up at Edwyn and smiled. “So you want to know about Andante.”
“Yes.”
“Alright, I’ll tell you about Andante. He was from Bravil. He worked with me here for some time before the Dawnguard sent him to find ‘a vampire artifact.’ That was Serana. Harkon gave him the Gift after he returned Serana to the castle.” His voice dropped. “He was very, very powerful. He didn’t show it often, because it was terrifying. Part of why he was so good at what he did was his charm, and as you know a vampire lord is anything but. His methods were something like yours, in that respect. Of course, he didn’t have to work at being charming. It was his natural state.”
He smiled. Edwyn felt the heat of anger rising in him and fought to keep it down. Work at being charming, do I? After hundreds of years there’s nothing about it that even begins to resemble work.
“I didn’t quite understand it until much later but he was one of the most naturally evil men ever to come out of Cyrodiil. Second only to his father, really. Now, it happens that I’ve done my research, Archmage, and I know you were busy in Cyrodiil for many years. You likely heard of him at one time or another.”
Edwyn frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“You probably would have known him better by his real name, Vitus Perdeti.”
Edwyn hissed. Perdeti? That man? I heard that name more than once over the years. And his father was one of the vilest of the skooma thugs in Bravil. For someone in that particular profession to be known at all was quite a feat, and the elder Perdeti was both known and hated, far and wide. The younger – Vitus – I never saw him but I certainly knew of him as a dangerous assassin. He was the one who killed Harkon?
Brynjolf chuckled again. “Yes. I see you were familiar with him. He was something that only comes along once in a lifetime, Edwyn, and lucky for us that’s the case. He was determined to retrieve Auriel’s Bow and to have that castle for himself, and there was really nothing that could have stopped him. He was capable of both the most loyal service and the most perfectly disturbing acts.” His smile broadened, and he looked up at Edwyn. “And you know, in my line of work I’ve seen some pretty disturbing things and done some of them myself. He could make me look like a priest.”
Brynjolf smiled out over the water and breathed a sigh of contentment.
“And he was mine.”
Edwyn shook his head. “You’re… a married man, Brynjolf.”
“Yes I am, and very happy. My wife is – well, without going into details I’ll just say that she is in also in a category of her own and I am very fortunate. Nonetheless. You might have expected to hear that I was his. But it was never like that. He was mine, and all mine.” His voice dropped, quiet and sad. “I miss him. I expect that I always will.” He stood and turned to face the Archmage.
“It seems to me that you are also a very powerful vampire. And yet, believe me when I say that you should be happy never to have crossed paths with him.”
He paused and looked Edwyn over.
“I am confident that you would have lost.”
Edwyn’s vision went red with rage for just a moment. How dare the man? I’m the Lord of Volkihar. I’m the Archmage of Winterhold. I could kill him in an instant simply by using my teeth, or I could stretch the killing out with spells. How dare he?
He fought his anger back again. He needed to understand, and pointless arguments and personal attacks were not going to get him anywhere.
“Because he had the Bow, correct?”
Brynjolf nodded. “He did have the Bow, for certain. That’s one of the reasons Harkon went down as easily as he did; a sun-hallowed arrow from that Bow and…” Brynjolf shuddered. “Just like being cast into the sun itself. The other reason was that there were three fighting against him and his conjurations. I’m convinced, though, that Andante – Vitus – could have taken him on alone and won. I’ve never witnessed anything quite as vicious as what I saw in his final days, when he didn’t bother trying to hide it from me. There was little that could stand against him.”
“And yet he died.”
Brynjolf smirked. “It would be more accurate to say that he allowed the sun to take him.”
“Enough of that. Strong though he may have been, he is dead now and I am the Lord of Volkihar Castle. There’s no use pretending otherwise. Where is the Bow now, Brynjolf?”
Brynjolf shrugged. “I honestly don’t know. He got rid of it just before the end. I know he intended to keep it out of our hands for our own safety. I don’t know where it ended up.”
Edwyn stared at him, evaluating. He was telling the truth. Whatever else about his speeches might have been skillful dodging, this was the bald truth. He sighed.
“I appreciate your honesty. As you might imagine, I do have a vested interest in recovering that Bow. Unlike my late master, I have no intention of using its … darker powers. One of our few disagreements in hundreds of years was over that very point. It is in nobody’s best interests to darken the sun.”
Brynjolf shook his head. “Now, Lord Wickham, I’m afraid I need to excuse myself. I have people waiting. One of them can make my life very unpleasant if she’s crossed.” He grinned. “Best of luck to you in your new married life, Edwyn. I’m sure we’re going to have a coronation coming soon, so maybe we’ll meet again then. I make it a point never to miss a big event if I can help it. So many pockets heavy with wealth, you know how it is.”
Brynjolf grinned again and descended the deck steps, disappearing to the right up the hill near the city stables. Edwyn stared at the water for a few moments, breathing slowly, deeply annoyed that a common thief could have irritated him so badly.
All that and I’m still not certain that I know any more now than I did when I arrived. At least, I learned nothing that is of immediate use aside from having a confirmation that Brynjolf is a thief. And an obnoxious one, at that.
He descended the steps to the water’s edge and summoned Arvak. Agryn and Vyctyna’s home was straight across the water from here, and he was a very hungry vampire. There were two human cattle there that would do nicely, and a rest in the master coffin would do his unsettled nerves a world of good.