Edwyn resumed his human form at the edge of the fjord just before the sun was fully up and walked the rest of the way around to Solitude’s main gate. He took his time. There was no real need to rush up to Proudspire. The long flight from Winterhold to Solitude had tired his muscles, burning off much of the tension and anger he had felt after leaving Jarl Korir’s longhouse. More importantly, it had given him an opportunity to think. That was what he continued to do as he strolled past the boardwalk leading to the docks, and on toward the Solitude stables and the farm next to them.
So the Jarl of Winterhold wanted nothing to do with him. That, he had decided, was not altogether unsurprising. Many Nords were distrustful of magic, and their numbers in the College were few. Even among the Volkihar, those vampires who were Nords by birth tended to focus their efforts on feats of martial prowess rather than making use of the arcane powers afforded them by virtue of their vampirism. Having Korir definitely against him meant only that Korir and Ulfric would definitely vote for Ulfric, not that Ulfric would win.
I’m positive that I was able to convince the Jarl of Dawnstar that he should support me. And most of the others should be easily swayed, to the best of my knowledge. Whiterun will be satisfied so long as I allow Talos worship and support trade. I suspect the same to be true of Falkreath, particularly if I pledge support against border attacks. Markarth has always been most interested in its own survival; it matters not who is on the throne so long as that person protects Markarth’s interests from the Thalmor and its silver mines from the natives. And Riften’s Jarl is an affable, easily-led fool. She should be no problem at all. Morthal is a mystery to me, but from what I have heard, the woman they placed on the throne is most interested in advancing her own power.
That leaves only Elisif. There are ways of making her compliant if she is not immediately willing to step aside for me. That is why I am here. It is time to prepare her for her future.
He found himself yawning as he walked through the foggy morning streets of Solitude. It had been some time since he’d slept, and the exertions of the past few days were catching up with him. He stopped to admire Solitude – really, the only civilized community in Skyrim, and the one that most closely reminded him of his origins in High Rock – and even found himself smiling as a child ran past him yelling ahead to her giggling, unseen playmates who had gone before. Yes, he was tired. He desperately needed to sleep. Most important, though, was the need to ensure that all was in place for the upcoming Moot.
He stopped at the doorway of Proudspire Manor and stood quietly looking out at the city. He could hear the bards, next door at the College, beginning their days with vocal exercises and lute arpeggios. It was peaceful, and pleasant, and he felt something close to happiness for a moment or two. He closed his eyes for a moment and took a long, slow, deep breath of the fresh air, enjoying the scents of flowering plants and the slight tang of salt water.
Yes. Elisif. If she does not immediately agree to my plan, I shall enthrall her so that she will. First Elisif, then the Dragonborn.
Odd that I should arrive at a decision that is not so very far removed from the request Vingalmo made of me before his unfortunate demise. And yet, in the end, he was right. First Skyrim; then the Empire. Harkon would be so proud.
He pushed open the door of the manor and moved inside. It was early enough in the day that Elisif should still be here, rather than at the castle; indeed, he could hear muffled sounds of her movements from above. It occurred to him, as he made his way up the stairs toward their bedroom, that it had been some time since he had had his way with his lovely wife. He felt inclined to do so now; if it delayed her appearance in court, all the better for him.
Better a punctual, supremely educated mage already experienced in leadership than a woman who misses her appointments because of more… base concerns, yes?
He felt a bubble of pure amusement rising in his chest. He was so clever. He could sate his own appetites and further tighten his control of the situation all with one satisfying interlude. He skipped up the second half-flight of stairs and around the enchantment table, flinging the bedroom door open and bursting in.
“Oh, Elisif, my darling…”
He stopped short and froze to the spot. Elisif and Geor Mandel were wrapped around each other, engaging in what appeared to be the tenderest of kisses.
No. How could I have been so careless?
Edwyn had never been one to make major mistakes. He had never been truly afraid for more than a moment or two. But at this moment painful talons of panic clutched his heart and he found it difficult to take a breath.
No! Caught. There’s no way for me to deny what has been happening now. What am I going to do?
Elisif and Geor broke away from each other and turned to face him. Somewhere, a portion of his mind registered that they did not seem shocked or surprised to see him standing there. In fact, if anything, Elisif looked… annoyed.
“Elisif. My darling,” he started to say.
“Don’t give me that, Edwyn Wickham,” Elisif said, shaking her head. “You have a great deal of nerve, coming back here like this after everything you’ve done.”
Keep going. Keep going. We’re so close to completing Harkon’s plan. We can’t stop now.
“It is of vital importance that I do so,” he said, trying his best to keep his voice steady and avoid the steely-eyed glare Geor Mandel was giving him. “I’ve been visiting with some of the Jarls, my dear, and…”
“And what, Edwyn?” she snapped.
His mind raced, frantically. She didn’t seem to be addressing the obvious issue – that there were two identical men standing in the room with her. In that case, he would simply press on with the matter of the politics.
“And…” And what? What can I tell her that could possibly suffice? “And you have to step aside and allow me to become the Jarl of Haafingar.” The words left him before he had time to consider whether he should actually say them.
Elisif’s mouth dropped open for a moment and her face took on a look of utter astonishment. Several heartbeats of time passed before she managed to say something.
“Tell me why, exactly, would I do such a ridiculous thing?”
“Because they have lost faith in you. They believe you have abandoned the ways of true Nords.”
“I am the widow of the High King!” she snapped.
Edwyn’s temper flared. “No. You are no longer Torygg’s widow. You are my wife. My wife. A woman. And they say that you have abandoned the ways of Nords by becoming my wife. There is no possibility that you will be selected to be High Queen if you are no longer a worthy Nord. Given that as the case, my dearest bride, it is incumbent upon you to step down from your throne in my favor. I am a Breton, and a man. There are no social limitations on my ability to marry whom I like or how many times in my life I marry if my spouse should die. And furthermore, you should, soon, be busy with the work of a woman – raising our child.”
As soon as the words had finished pouring from his mouth, he knew he’d badly misstepped.
Geor Mandel snorted.
“Excusin’ the interruption, m’lord,” he said, “but it seems to me that Lady Elisif here will be raising our child. Mine and hers. Supposin’ we’ve been fortunate enough to make that happen.” He smiled at her. “We’ve been trying awfully hard.” Then he looked back at Edwyn and sneered.
“Just like you asked.”
Edwyn stared at them. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.
“Are you really that surprised that I figured it out, Edwyn?” Elisif said coldly. “You must have such a low opinion of me. I may not have been an experienced ruler when Torygg died but I have never been stupid. Lonely enough to be fooled by you for awhile, perhaps, but not stupid.”
She pointed at Geor and smiled. “You may have made him to look exactly like you but he’s different. He’s warm, for one thing. And… well I suppose a lady shouldn’t speak of such things but I will. He’s better than you.” She turned back to Edwyn and sneered. “He’s kind, and honest, and gentle, and he’s better than you. And you neglected to tell your little lackey to forbid Geor from telling me his name. Once he mentioned that to me, everything else came out.”
She took a half step toward Edwyn and pointed at him. “And I don’t care. I don’t care, Edwyn, because he’s a far better man than you will ever be. I love him.”
Edwyn snarled.
Elisif gasped; and it dawned on Edwyn that he had revealed the large fangs he’d fought so very hard to conceal from her for so long. Even the kisses he’d given her had been purposefully brief, and careful, and… shallow… so that she would not discover that he was a vampire.
“Strictly speaking, ma’am, he’s not a man,” Geor said.
“Yes. So poor Jordis has informed me,” Elisif said, her eyes blazing. “She was most relieved to unburden herself of a great deal of information, Edwyn. It disgusts me to think that I ever shared a bed with such a creature as you. Now then, Edwyn Wickham. I would suggest that you leave before I have the entirety of the Haafingar guard come escort you from the city.”
Edwyn bared his fangs fully. “You stupid, stupid woman! You’ll never hold Skyrim’s highest throne!”
“And neither will you,” she said quietly. “I may be young, and a bit naive, but I can see what was going on under my nose. Your cover has been completely torn away, Edwyn Wickham. Everyone at the Moot shall know what you are and who you are. Our marriage shall be annulled because you deceived me, and I will marry Geor. If the Moot disapproves, so be it; but you will never be High King.”
Edwyn howled and raised his hands to conjure his swords. He never got a chance.
Geor Mandel lunged at him brandishing a short blade. Edwyn felt an impact; then, a moment later, as if it had taken time for the sensations to reach his consciousness, he felt a blinding pain in both hands. He cried out and looked down to see deep cuts – tendon-severing deep – across both palms and a wide blood spatter on the floor’s carpet.
“Get out of here!” Geor shouted. “Get your filthy self out of here and don’t never come back! I’m no mage but I’m a Breton. I can make a flame staff go as good as the next guy and I’ll use it right on you, you filthy vampire, don’t think I won’t!”
Edwyn looked from Geor to Elisif, confused. He balled his damaged hands up into fists against the pain, as best he could. He opened his mouth to say something but could think of nothing to say.
He turned and fled.
I must get to the castle, where I can feed and rest and recover.
I am free now. I must talk to Serana. I must make amends.
___
It had taken far too long for him to reach the castle. Far, far too long.
To begin with, he was exhausted. Besides that it was daylight, and therefore he was slower than normal and couldn’t fly. He’d needed to stay in his human form and walk, then run, then walk all the way down the road from Solitude, up over Haafingar’s central ridgeline, then westward, the long trek to the pathway winding down to the Sea of Ghosts.
The injuries to his hands were grievous, and excruciating. He’d somehow wrestled a few potions down his throat, and those had at least stopped the blood loss; but they did nothing for the pain. His ability to cast spells was hampered, at least at first; but he gritted his teeth against the pain enough to manage a healing spell with one hand, shrieking with anguish as he cast it. At last he was able to repair himself enough that he could use both hands again, but they were stiff; and the abundance of nerves in them meant that they would be impossibly painful for a long time yet. He managed to conjure a sword in the better of his hands, but gripping it with any sort of force was next to impossible and striking it against something solid was going to be out of the question.
I shall have to rely on my conjurations. That is my only option until I have fully regained the use of my hands.
How has this happened? How could I have failed when I was so close to success? I am so sorry, Harkon.
His mind raced as he ran. It was clear to him that becoming High King of Skyrim had been within his reach but was now, suddenly, an impossibility. He was still Archmage of the College of Winterhold, though, and Lord of the Volkihar; and gods help him he was still Lord of his family’s estates in High Rock, as he had been for hundreds of years.
And I can still do it. I can still become Emperor.
All I need to do is find the Dragonborn.
He rowed – very awkwardly indeed, as he needed to work the oars more with his forearms than with his hands – across the water to the castle and hopped out onto the shore, cursing the daylight. The rising pathway to the castle’s entry had never seemed so long or so slow to complete.
I’m so tired. I need to get inside and refresh myself. Perhaps the Blood Chalice. Perhaps one of the cattle. Or two of them.
He pushed open the castle doors and blinked, trying to acclimate his eyes to the dim light. It seemed very quiet inside – unusually so. He heard the sounds of someone dining, and saw that one of the low-ranking members of the clan was availing himself of a freshly-slain corpse. He balled his injured hands up again and stuck them under his armpits, trying to warm them so that the tendons would relax; then he cast his eyes to his feet as he made his way down the staircase into the main hall.
When he looked up again, Serana was standing next to the table.
“And what do you want, Eddie?” she said, a defiant edge in her tone.
Edwyn sighed. What do I want? I want you, my love. You’re what I’ve always wanted. I want you, and this castle, and…
“I’ve come to rest, Serana,” he said quietly. “I’m tired. I’ve been injured. I want to sleep, and feed, and then I want to address my court.”
Serana’s eyes flickered a bit when he said he’d been injured; but her expression didn’t change and neither did her stance. She shook her head.
“Your court, Eddie? And by whose authority? My mother’s? Because of course you know that she would automatically have inherited his throne after my father’s death, the same way Elisif inherited her husband’s throne.”
Here we go again.
Edwyn closed his eyes.
All this talk of women inheriting thrones. There are far too many women who believe themselves to be rulers in this backwater province. That is why I need to be Emperor.
“But of course my mother wanted nothing to do with it,” Serana continued. “You know that. She was more than happy to leave the throne to Andante. He earned it.”
Edwyn felt as though he could sink to the floor and fall asleep right there, even speaking to Serana as he was. His chin slowly sank down onto his chest. He couldn’t seem to pry his eyes open. The throbbing that continued in his hands in spite of his best healing efforts kept him awake, though, in spite of everything.
“Yes, yes,” he said. “Andante, the great and powerful. But he’s dead now, isn’t he? And I was Harkon’s hand-picked successor. He even picked me to wed you.”
“For all the honor you paid to that wish, Edwyn.”
Dimly, through the haze of fatigue that threatened to render him unconscious, Edwyn heard the sounds of movements. He struggled to raise his head. The unmistakable sounds of weapons being drawn brought him fully back to awareness. He opened his eyes.
Before him, arrayed in a semicircle behind Serana, were five of Volkihar’s best. All but Serana were armed and ready. The most intimidating of them, possibly, was Fura Bloodmouth, holding some sort of pole arm with a much longer reach than Edwyn was comfortable contemplating.
This is bad. Very bad.
“What is this, then?” he said, trying to sound nonchalant. “Is this how you greet your Lord?”
“This is the Volkihar clan calling your claim to leadership into question, Edwyn Wickham,” Feran Sadri said. “We knew you were coming and decided that it was time to do that. You’ve done nothing for us since you returned to court. Serana was missing for a very long and tiring time and it was Andante, not you, who found her.”
“And when Harkon threatened our well-being, it was Andante who killed him, not you,” Fura Blood-Mouth added, brandishing her weapon. “He was clearly the more powerful vampire.”
Edwyn’s temper flared. “Oh yes, do tell me once more all about this noble nobody who eliminated Harkon single-handedly,” he said, wincing as he inadvertently flexed his hands. “With the assistance of my darling Serana and his own companion of course, whom rumor has it was nearly as powerful as he.”
“I’m not your darling, Eddie,” Serana said. “You forfeited that right.”
“At your father’s direction,” he answered her. “I would never have done so if not for your father’s direct orders.” Please understand, Serana. Please.
Serana shook her head. “My father was out of his mind. And even if that hadn’t been true, you did lead me to believe we were going to be a couple again at the same time you were wooing Elisif.”
From the back of the room, Vyctyna tsk’d. He thought he heard her murmur the word “pig.”
“I can tell you this, mage,” Orthjolf growled. “Andante may not have been someone you knew. But he restored a sense of pride to this castle along with restoring the buildings. He put everyone to work. He gave us purpose.”
“He didn’t try to force himself on people like you did, you pig,” Vyctyna Tardif spat. “At least not as far as I know.”
“And he never betrayed the people who looked up to him, Edwyn,” said Agryn Gernic. Of all the vampires, Agryn was the one with the most pained expression. “He didn’t betray those he called his friends.”
Edwyn growled. “You are a fine one to speak about loyalty, Agryn Gernic. Leaving me after so long.”
“When you grabbed me, you jerk,” Vyctyna said. “Aggie and I are for each other. Only. You knew that.”
“I never saw Andante rip people’s throats out just for disagreeing with them,” Orthjolf added. “If that were a thing someone should do I would have killed Vingalmo long ago. But he didn’t deserve to die.”
Edwyn was getting angrier by the moment. “And all of you knew this Andante so very well,” he said sarcastically. “You never even met him, Agryn. Nor did you, Vyctyna. And the rest of you – he killed your Lord!”
“Yes, he did,” Serana said. “But I knew him, Eddie. Not for long, but I knew him well enough to know what they say is true. He was a gentleman.”
Edwyn tossed his head back and laughed. “And he’s dead now. And I’m your lord.”
“Not really,” came a voice from the stairwell at the back of the room. Slowly, a figure wearing dark armor and a mask walked to the center of the room. “He was all of what they said. A very complex man, he was. A gentleman? Definitely. He was also very dangerous. And while he never forced himself on people,” the man said with a chuckle, “he certainly never stopped trying to bed them.”
“Until he met you,” Serana said quietly. “You can’t fool me. I know true love when I see it.”
“Well, there is some truth to that, I suppose. Be that as it may. He was the Lord of the Volkihar, and he did not pass that title to you, Edwyn Wickham.”
Edwyn thought he recognized the brogue behind the mask. But he was confused.
It can’t be him. He’s not a vampire. I’ve spoken to the man, sensed his abilities. He would have come here and instantly become a main course, laid out on the table to feast upon. But I can’t let them know I’m confused.
“Is that so,” he said. “Then to whom did he leave that title if not to Harkon’s hand-picked successor?”
The man before Edwyn reached up and pulled off his hood and mask, revealing brilliant copper eyes and dark red hair. Edwyn gasped.
“To me, Edwyn,” Brynjolf said quietly. “His second in command.”
Serana chuckled. “I knew I should be calling you Lord Brynjolf.”
Edwyn felt as though his head was about to explode. Absolutely nothing made sense to him in this moment, and he felt the uncomfortable pangs of panic building in his chest. He refused, however, to show that panic to these people.
“It is you! But how? How is it even possible?”
Brynjolf raised an eyebrow. “I would have thought you of all people would be familiar with how one becomes a vampire.”
Edwyn’s temperature rose. “Hilarious. You’re always hilarious, Brynjolf. You were not a vampire when I met you in Riften.”
“No, I was not. Serana was kind enough to help me regain my status. You’re fond of saying that you were Harkon’s second. Well, I was Andante’s.”
Edwyn tried flexing his hands and winced. He was not going to be able to use his weapons, not yet. He was facing no fewer than seven formidable vampires. He tilted his head to the side for a moment, observing Brynjolf.
“You’re a Nightlord.”
Brynjolf nodded. “Yes, I am.” There was no boasting in that acknowledgement, nothing more than a quiet assertion. Brynjolf clearly knew his own strength and was simply stating the facts.
“He’s stronger than you, Edwyn,” Agryn Gernic murmured.
How dare he? How could you, Agryn, you who were supposed to be my best friend? So you said, at any rate.
“As a vampire? Perhaps. That remains to be seen. He is not, however, a mage.” He sneered at the big redhead. “You’re a Nord, Brynjolf.”
Brynjolf smirked. His right hand flicked out to the side; and suddenly, before him, was a spectral draugr, huge and radiating menace.
“I understand you’re fond of conjuration magic, Edwyn. Meet Sadraaka, from Hammerfell,” he said. “She’ll be with us for some time now.” He drew a weapon with his right hand. In his left a glowing ball of red energy accumulated and stayed. “Yes, I am a Nord. I may not be a mage to the same extent you are, lad, but I have a few tricks up my sleeves.”
Edwyn felt a flare of anger rising up through him, and he growled. “Don’t ‘lad’ me, Brynjolf! Of all your supremely annoying personality quirks that is possibly the worst. I am at the very least several hundred years older than you.”
“Don’t like terms of affection, Edwyn?” Brynjolf said, grinning.
Edwyn felt himself flushing, and for a moment his skin threatened to crawl away from his bones. He had nothing but disdain for men who loved men and was particularly unsettled by someone like Brynjolf, who had clearly had a close relationship with Andante but who also was married to a woman, and who had children by her.
“How distasteful,” he growled.
Brynjolf smirked. “I agree. I can’t imagine that Andante would have bedded you, Edwyn; and trust me, that’s saying something.” He leaned forward a bit, in a ready position, and his eyes narrowed. “Now then. It’s important that you know that we believe you should die. I’m telling you that now because I wouldn’t feel right about ambushing you here in the Castle. For your own good I believe that you should be leaving, Lord Wickham,” he said quietly. “Yes, you’re a far better mage than any of us here. But there are eight of us now.” He paused as the death hound Garmr walked in front of him, and grinned. “Nine. Garmr’s a good pup.”
Brynjolf looked back at Edwyn, and anything remotely resembling a grin vanished from his face. “Go, now. We’ll give you a head start, but know that your time is dwindling. You will be hunted.”
Edwyn started to raise his hands, to counter Brynjolf’s aggressive stance; but as soon as he attempted to move his fingers, pain shot up through his arms. He howled in anger, pain, and frustration.
“You will all live to regret this! Every one of you! I intend to become Emperor; and once I am, I promise you, you will look back fondly on the days of the Thalmor invasion.”
“Emperor? Ha! Good luck with that. You should go, now, while you have a chance,” Orthjolf rumbled.
“Go, and consider what a pathetic mess you have made of your life,” Feran Sadri agreed.
“Go, before I retrieve Auriel’s Bow from its resting place and hand it to Brynjolf,” Serana said. All eyes turned to her.
Edwyn gasped. “The Bow?”
“Yes, of course I know where the Bow is. But you knew that already. I wasn’t about to give it to anyone, particularly not you. But, Eddie,” she said with a wicked sneer, “I happen to have watched Brynjolf fight on any number of occasions. Among other things, he’s a fine archer. Can you imagine what your poor, tired, wounded body would do if he fired one of those sun-blessed arrows at it? They killed my father.”
Edwyn found himself practically vibrating with anger. He wanted that bow. Desperately. He wanted, simultaneously, to strangle Serana and to take her in his arms. He definitely wanted to kill Brynjolf, by the most painful method he could devise. But all of the people arrayed before him were edging forward, bit by bit, raising their weapons into aggressive positions; and he was in no condition to take them all on.
He turned and fled. Up the stairs, out the door, and down the ramp toward the jetty. He needed to put some distance between himself and this mob of people, and perhaps find a quiet spot to rest for a few hours until dark. And then he needed to get back to Winterhold.
Nobody will dare follow me into the College.
—
“Why did you let him leave?” Serana moaned as the door shut behind Edwyn. “I really thought you were going to take care of him while he was here!”
Brynjolf sighed. No, it didn’t go at all the way I expected. Except that we didn’t simply ambush him. That was something I didn’t want to happen. He shook his head.
“I honestly thought he was too full of himself to leave without a fight. Every time I’ve ever talked to him, the most obvious thing about him has been his ego. If nothing else, I thought that pretending I was in charge here would set him off. I’ve been a thorn in his side for months. It doesn’t matter. He’s still going to die.” He turned to Agryn Gernic and waved him forward. “Will you come with me, lad?”
Agryn nodded. “Of course. Tyna, stay here with the others. He might circle around and come back for Serana.”
Brynjolf nodded. “The rest of you, spread out to all of the entrances. You don’t want him coming back in.” The Volkihar lowered their weapons and scattered. Brynjolf looked up at the balcony behind them and saw Garan Marethi there. Marethi nodded, and then executed a small bow.
Good. He’s with us too.
He stepped closer to Serana and dropped his voice. “Don’t take the Bow out of safekeeping. I’m worried it’ll be too much of a temptation for him.”
“Of course not,” Serana agreed. “It’s never going to be seen again. I wouldn’t really have even given it to you, Brynjolf; it’s too dangerous.” She smiled. “But I must admit that it was satisfying to see the look on his face when you pulled off your hood. I thought he was going to swallow his own tongue.”
“Heh. Yes. I enjoyed that. I could almost see the steam pouring out of his ears. At any rate, Agryn and I will hunt him down. I want to see where he heads, whether or not he has any of the Jarls in his pocket yet. Somehow I doubt it.” He stopped to grab one of the blood potions off the nearest table. “Take care. With luck we’ll return with good news soon.”
“Should I have my father’s chambers… fumigated before your return?”
Brynjolf stopped short for a moment.
Shor’s bones. I could, actually. I could be the Lord of the Volkihar. Nobody even blinked at that.
“Well, you may want to fumigate it on general purposes, lass,” he grinned. “But I have a family on the far side of Skyrim from here.”
“Well, the master’s chambers are yours regardless. Be careful, Brynjolf – and Agryn,” she said as the latter came up to them. “He’s much tougher than he might seem.”
“Don’t worry, Serana,” Agryn said. “I know all his tricks. And there’s something wrong with him right now. We’ll find him and take care of him.”
Brynjolf nodded to Agryn. The two of them trotted up the steps and out into the night.