Brynjolf shook his head as he crossed the bridge. Of all the spells he could have been asked to cast to prove that he had magic, the mage on guard, Faralda, had challenged him to conjure a flame atronach. He could conjure a gargoyle, raise a skeleton or a zombie, and of course there was Sadraaka; but he’d had to resort to buying a spell tome from Faralda for thirty septims in order to make his way into the College. He could have simply gone in with invisibility, of course; but he needed to find and speak with Enthir, and too many questions would have been raised by a man suddenly appearing out of thin air.
Flames. It is some sort of sad joke that vampires and flames seem to go together so often. Ah well. Now I have another spell. At least until I’m cured.
If I can ever be cured.
He found Enthir having a snack, resting on a bench upstairs in the Hall of Attainment where he lived. It had been a long time since he’d spoken to Enthir in person, and was happy to see the Bosmer looking so well.
“Well, well,” Enthir said, smiling up at him. “A visit from on high. What brings you to me today? Looking for something rare, or do you have something to sell me?”
“Neither, Enthir,” Brynjolf said. “I’m here because I need some information, and you’re my contact here at the College and the best scholar I know.”
“I see,” Enthir said, nodding. “And thank you for the vote of confidence. What can I help you find?”
Brynjolf dropped his voice lower. “I need to know about a cure for vampirism.” He watched Enthir’s smile fade and his brows nearly meet in the center.
“That’s an odd thing for someone in our line of work to be looking for,” Enthir said. “What prompts your interest in such an unsavory topic?”
Brynjolf dispelled his illusion and grinned at Enthir, then quickly cast the spell once more. To his credit, Enthir’s expression barely changed; but it did take him a moment and a deep breath before he spoke again.
“I understand. Well, let’s go see what we can find in the archives.” He rose to lead the way down the stairs. “I’d ask how this came about, but something tells me it’s a long story, and best unknown.”
“That it is, my friend. I’m grateful for your discretion. This condition has its advantages; but I need my family, and the two do not mix.”
Enthir led him to the Arcanaeum, where they began scanning the shelves. One after another, they examined and rejected potential sources, and tried to ignore the pointed eavesdropping of various mages as they came and went. After a time Enthir spoke to Urag gro-Shub, who frowned at Brynjolf but pointed them at one of the closed cases and growled a warning at Enthir to mind the piece he was pulling out or suffer the direst of possible consequences.
“Hmm,” Enthir said, carefully sliding one of the books off its shelf. He opened it only partially so as not to put pressure on its spine and began to read, gingerly easing the obviously-fragile pages from right to left. “This volume is not in very good condition. It does at least seem to have something relevant, though.”
Brynjolf tried not to get his hopes up. “And?”
“It references an alchemical cure supposedly known before and during the time of the Oblivion crisis. I would wager this particular tome is from that time period, and possibly came through some of the fires based on the damage.”
“So does it give a formula?”
Enthir sighed, and shook his head. “I think it might have at one time. But see the holes, here? The damage centers over what was undoubtedly the list of ingredients. Very unfortunate that the crucial information is missing.”
Yes. That’s what Andante’s voice did in my dream, when he was trying to tell me about it. It faded to nothing at the crucial moment. Like I’m not supposed to know.
“I’m out of luck, then.”
Enthir rubbed his chin for a moment. “Not necessarily. It wouldn’t be easy, but you’d need to find someone who has the same deep level of knowledge of that time period as, say, our friend Calcelmo has of Falmer lore. I wish I could tell you who that would be, but I’m afraid I don’t know. Still, if such a thing as this potion existed before, it could certainly exist again.”
Brynjolf snorted. “And we could make dwarven things out of aetherium, too.” He shook his head. “Thank you, Enthir. You found more than I could have.” As they walked slowly back toward the Hall of Attainment, Brynjolf handed Enthir an ample coin purse.
“You don’t need to pay me, Brynjolf.”
“Yes, I do. I always pay for my information, and that was a lot more than I knew before I came to you. Besides, I’d hate to walk away feeling like I intimidated you into helping me by showing you my face. I’m going to head back to headquarters in that case, and consider what to do next.”
“Well thank you; I accept.” Enthir paused at the door and looked him over. “I hope you can find what you need, Brynjolf. Continuity in leadership is a good thing, but forever is a long time.”
Brynjolf chuckled. “Aye, that it is. By the way, speaking of leadership, who is your new Archmage?”
Enthir twitched. “How… did you know about that?”
“Connections, Enthir. Connections.”
“Of course. I should know better than to ask. Well, for the moment Tolfdir is holding down the fort, as he is our Master Wizard. I don’t know what will happen long-term.”
Brynjolf nodded and took his leave. He didn’t know what would happen with the College, either; it was possible that as with so many of the schools of magic its fortunes were going to ebb. He was determined, though, that its future path would have as little to do with him as possible.
Several days later, Brynjolf was taking refreshment at the Ragged Flagon when a figure approached from the side. He looked up in surprise, smiled, and nodded at the seat next to him.
“I’m glad to see you, lad. I wasn’t sure we’d ever cross paths again.”
Agryn Gernic grinned. “I told you we’d be nearby.”
“So. You went to the castle?”
Agryn nodded. “Yes. Serana took it well, or at least as well as could be expected under the circumstances. She’s been very quiet, but she’s adjusting.” He reached into a pocket and pulled out a sealed note. “She sent me with this.”
Brynjolf took the note and broke the seal, scanning it.
Brynjolf, thank you. Even if you were not the one who ended him you were willing to do what needed to be done, and that means a great deal to me. Agryn Gernic conveyed your message. I am glad to know that I can call on you. Mother and I will handle things here, but you are always welcome, and all here recognize your station. The weapon is safe in a place that has kept things safe for many, many years before. If you’re ever in dire need you can find it there. – Serana
Brynjolf smirked. Clever lass. There’s something to be said for hiding an important vampire artifact there now that everyone thinks it’s empty. And it’s good that more than one person knows where it is.
“Good news, I hope?” Agryn asked.
“Yes. Better than what I had in Winterhold.” He frowned.
“You went back there?” Agryn looked confused.
“Yes. I was hoping to find out something about a cure.”
He found himself confiding in Agryn, quietly telling him about his last days with Vitus, and what had happened with Falion, and how and why he’d allowed Serana to turn him once more, though he stopped short of mentioning the dream he’d had of Vitus visiting him. He looked at the Breton and sighed.
“You went so far as to leave your mentor for Vyctyna’s sake.”
Agryn nodded. “Yes, and I would do it again. She’s my one and only, Brynjolf. Nothing is more important to me. If that means we’re on our own, so be it.”
Brynjolf nodded. “I feel that way about my family. And they need me to be human. Doing this… it was a mistake. I jumped too quickly at the chance to have this power again. So I went to Winterhold and talked to our contact there. We looked at everything.”
“And?”
“There was one old tome that mentioned an alchemical treatment from before the Oblivion crisis. But it was damaged, and the ingredients were missing. So, now I’m stuck, and all I can do is watch my family from a distance and try to keep them safe from here.”
Agryn was quiet for a moment. Then he grinned at Brynjolf.
“I forget you’re a very young vampire.”
Brynjolf frowned. “What does that mean?”
“I’ve been around a long time, Brynjolf. I’m old. And don’t forget, Edwyn and I spent a couple hundred years back and forth between High Rock and Cyrodiil.”
“Alright…” I don’t understand what that has to do with anything, but I’ll listen.
“I never knew the formula, but it was a fairly well-kept secret among the Vampyrum Order that there was a cure. I knew about it because Edwyn and I were working to supplant them and, well, you hear things. It was a potion. Really difficult to make, so it was said, but if you were good enough with alchemy you could potentially do it, not that any of us cared to try. It was kept by the Glenmoril witches. Actually, it wouldn’t surprise me if they made it sound harder than it is just so that you’d have to pay them for it.”
Brynjolf just stared at him for a moment. Once again he felt his hopes rising and argued with himself not to let them rise.
“So I gather you don’t know who would have that information.”
“Not specifically, Brynjolf, but there are still pockets of old covens here and there. There are a couple right here in Skyrim that I know of, or at least there were. The witches tend to congregate with the Forsworn, for some reason. Mutual protection, I would assume. Let me see your map for a moment.”
Agryn spent a few minutes bent over Brynjolf’s map, marking several places that had been rumored to hold Hagravens and witches. He brought his finger down on one particular place in the west.
“Try here. It’s easy to get to and get out of; and the Hagravens who lived there were reasonable compared with some of the others. They might give you information for a favor. There are probably many others but that’s one place I know of for sure. Would they still have the formula? No idea – but they’ve been around at least as long as I have, so you never know. It might at least be worth a shot.”
Brynjolf stared as his map for a moment and then looked back up at Agryn, a smile breaking across his face.
“You’ve given me some hope, friend. I can’t thank you enough.”
Agryn nodded. “Well you gave us our freedom, in a real sense. I wouldn’t probably have been quite brave enough to face Edwyn – or even to leave him – if not for you. Even though the Dragonborn had him in the end, it was a major hurdle for me just to come to the decision to break with him. I’m in your debt.”
“Not if this turns out to be a good lead, Agryn,” Brynjolf grinned. “Now I hope you’ll forgive me. I need to make a trip to the Reach.”
___
There were obvious signs of Forsworn just outside the opening to the cave beneath the two towers. The towers were staggered; one closer to the road with a walkway leading from its uppermost levels to a second that stretched high up along the side of the mountain. It was too dark for him to make out any details beyond the towers’ looming bulk. Brynjolf crept close, examining the partial mammoth skeleton and the hide screens in case there was anything behind them. Seeing nothing aside from the Forsworn’s usual marking of their territory, he readied his bow and crept forward through the crevice.
It was a very tall but narrow passage before him, dimly lit by hanging firepots far above the floor and, farther on, from an apparent opening to the sky. The path dropped down precipitously just in front of him. While he could not see the Forsworn patrolling just out of eyeshot, he could hear a heartbeat, slow but strong. The owner of that heart was awake, but very relaxed; and Brynjolf smiled to himself. He drew his bow, stepped forward a few paces, and shot the man through the heart.
“Convenient. I was getting a bit hungry,” he muttered, kneeling to drain the Forsworn before his body went cold. He rose, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and scanned ahead. Beneath his feet he could see the sheen of the oil that had dripped down from above over time. He’d need to be careful to keep clear of it as much as possible, for even with his enchanted armor and ruby ring he had ample reason to fear flames.
The tunnel had water standing in its lowest, narrowest point. It then turned upward again and opened into a sizeable, vertical cavern. At the back of the area were a pair of very old towers, possibly Imperial in construction. One of them, the nearer, was partially collapsed, lying on its side at a precarious angle. It looked to him as though the heavy rocks of the cave entrance had piled up there at the same time as whatever shifting of the ground had toppled the tower that was now inside. He could see more hanging firepots, and wooden ramps and stairs marking the path that the Forsworn had created through it over the years; he could also hear at least two more hearts beating not far in front of him.
He took several steps forward, intending to evaluate how best to remove the Forsworn. The path swung left between two large boulders. He turned to scan ahead through the gap; but to his complete consternation one of the Forsworn, a woman, was looking directly at him.
“What was that?” she cried, brandishing one of the crudely-constructed but extremely brutal axes the Forsworn were known for. She turned back toward her companion for a moment, and yelled “Over here!”
Brynjolf sank an arrow into her chest.
The companion was an archer who got off a shot before he was able to ready another arrow of his own; but once more his keen vampiric reflexes came to his aid. He took one step back behind the boulder, nocked an arrow, stepped back into the clear as the Forsworn shot passed him, and let fly his own. The ebony arrow pierced the woman’s skull and neatly dropped her. Her groan almost covered the accelerated heartbeat approaching from behind her; a sound that had him fading quietly back into the shadows behind the rocks.
“Anybody there?” he heard from another female voice. He readied yet another arrow as the sound of her footsteps came closer. She popped into view from around the corner; and once more his archery skills and enhanced reflexes took care of the problem.
He put away his bow and walked slowly to the woman’s body, staring down at it. It was a shame. He was, as Serana had acknowledged, a fine archer. He’d been practicing since he was a young boy hunting game to survive, both in Skyrim and, if his dim memories were to be believed, back in the forests of Falskaar. Being a vampire, though, gave him a speed and accuracy that he had never achieved as a mortal.
It’s going to be hard to give it up. Again.
He stared at his ring, Loverboy, and shook his head. It had been Vitus’ last request that he be a father to Chip. He’d somehow come in a dream to set him on this path, to look for a cure.
I can be Lord of the Volkihar or I can have my family, but not both. And he’s always known what was more important to me than anything else – even when I didn’t know it myself.
Doesn’t mean I won’t miss the power, though.
He grinned and continued along the path; through the break in the rock, up a steep set of wooden stairs and a ramp to a second set of stairs that ended at the lowest opening of the fallen tower. The moment he stepped into the structure, yet another female Forsworn yelled down from above.
“What was that?”
This time, there was a well-armored man with a pole arm standing at the top of the log-and-rope stairs rigged along the inside slope of the tower. He rushed down toward Brynjolf and took a massive swing at him, managing somehow both to take the arrow Brynjolf fired in an arm and land the blow, staggering Brynjolf backward.
Damn it!
As he regained his footing, Brynjolf pulled his daggers and began a whirlwind attack at the Forsworn. For at least a full minute the two of them fought a furious battle; Brynjolf sliced at the man’s legs and ducked a series of long, sweeping attacks that would have been the end of him had any of them connected. At last, though, he connected with both daggers at once; one in an underhanded stab and the other in a backhanded slice, the combination of which lifted the Forsworn completely off his feet and tore his chest to shreds before he dropped to the floor, dead. Brynjolf slipped backwards out of the tower and onto a nearby rock shelf, crouching to hide while he caught his breath. It was too dangerous to wait inside the tower and listen for the woman he’d heard. It, too, had been coated with oil; it would be far too easy for him to be trapped if she dropped the flaming lamp from above.
After several minutes of highly focused listening, he was certain that the woman had left the area, perhaps slipping out of the upper exit to alert other Forsworn in the area. At the very least, she wasn’t in the tower any longer. He carefully made his way back through the fallen tower and into the upright one, then up a set of stairs to a wooden door.
This door opened to another level of the towers, one which had open windows wide enough to exit; peering through them he could see that he was currently halfway up the side of the mountain, directly over the cave entrance and the roadway. He could hear more heartbeats and assumed that stepping out of the windows into the open would be stepping directly into the line of fire. Instead, he went up one more set of steps to a room with a closed iron grate that opened with a lever on his side of it. He was able to fire two ebony arrows into the Forsworn just outside the grate before she got fully to her feet and ran up a ramp, leaving a trail of blood and alerting others. He threw the lever and followed her.
She made the mistake of hurtling back down the ramp at him, and ran into his daggers just as the man with the pole arm had done. Up the ramp, though, and into the next room in the tower, was a Forsworn mage who surprised him with an ice spike spell.
Brynjolf grunted in pain and stepped out of the way to cast a quick healing spell on himself, disgusted that he’d allowed himself to be surprised. As he did so, the woman cast another spell, this one a choice that made him laugh. Yes, the ice spike had caught him off-guard; but if there was one type of magic least likely to harm a vampire it was frost magic and the mage had just cloaked herself in an ice storm spell. It wasn’t that it didn’t hurt; Brynjolf gritted his teeth, in fact, as he pushed his way across the damaged floor toward her. But it only slowed him slightly before he reached her and put an end to her with his daggers. He took a moment to collect himself, squinting up into the sky that had lightened while he’d been navigating the cavern below.
There was one final Forsworn waiting above, shouting “This ends now!” The narrow walkway he’d seen from below connected the tower Brynjolf was in and the second, snugged in against the mountainside; and the man was halfway across it, using the dip in its center as cover. Brynjolf snorted, drew his bow, and sank a single shot into the man while dodging the arrow that was heading for him.
“Even in the sunlight I’m a better shot than you were,” he muttered as he passed the body and entered the structure beyond. There was a single short flight of steps to a stone platform with a set of iron doors set into the mountainside. He pushed the door open as silently as he could and slipped inside.
“Who enters?” a harsh, raspy voice called out the moment he was inside the short hallway with a second set of doors at its end. “Will nobody save poor Melka?”
Hagraven. Agryn was right.
The doors opened onto a sizeable room with a large metal cage holding the hagraven in question. Brynjolf’s usual reaction to a hagraven would have been to duck, roll to the side, and ready anything he had against what was usually an onslaught of deadly fireballs. He fought down those impulses, though, and carefully approached the being in the cage. After all, most Hagravens didn’t speak in encounters like this: they merely attacked. This one was different.
“Petra!” she cried. “Evil Petra put me here! Stole my tower! Hate her! Chew her bones! Let me out, kind, kind meat!”
Brynjolf chuckled. “Well that’s a first. I’ve had many names applied to me, but I’ve never been called a meat before, Melka. Let me make a proposition. I’m willing to let you out, but I need something in return. What will you give me if I do?”
“Ahhh. I have a pretty staff. Help me find Petra, wring her neck, pluck her eyes. Take my staff! I just want my tower back!”
“Hmm. I don’t really need a staff. But I wonder, do you know how to make potions? I expect that you do. That’s what I really need, a formula for a particular potion.”
“Melka has a parlor, no finer place for boiling eyes. Help me get my tower back and I will teach you how. Do you like my pretty tower?”
Brynjolf nodded, and pulled the chain that opened her cage. He was taking a real chance, not confirming that she knew the particular formula he needed before freeing her; but he had decided it would be better to demonstrate his good faith – and his skills – before asking her for it.
“Aye, that I do. Let’s go get it back for you.”
“Yes, kind morsel,” Melka said as the gate rose. “Let us go up. Mind Melka on the way.” She scurried away down the hall before them, her bird-like feet scratching against the rocks. They turned right and mounted a flight of steps to a stone pedestal with three pull handles set in it.
“Press only middle button,” Melka said as she approached it. “A clever trick, yes. Nobody ever thinks of the middle.” Brynjolf turned that handle, raising an iron gate. Melka scurried through it, surprising a Forsworn woman in the chamber above them. It took them only a moment to dispatch her.
The woman had been standing watch at one end of a closed, caged passageway, and she had put the swinging blades inside it into motion at their approach. “Careful here,” Melka told him. “There’s a trick to this. Trick is to not bleed to death.” She stepped close to the wall and activated a stone panel that opened up to a small chamber. “Ah, and there’s a lever, too.”
“That is a good trick, Melka,” Brynjolf told her, stepping into the chamber and throwing the switch at its far end. He heard the gated passageway open, and the blades stop swinging; he also heard the unmistakable sounds of a pickaxe beyond. They navigated the long corridor and yet another set of steps, through Melka’s “parlor” – an alchemy station. When he pushed open the iron doors to his right, he was able to end the Forsworn whose mining he’d heard with a single surprise arrow.
Melka hurtled past him, up a short passage with several more steps at the end, and threw open a final set of iron doors. She scuffled into the large chamber beyond.
“Petra, you traitorous grouse!”
Melka ran toward the center of the chamber. Motion above and to his left had Brynjolf swiveling to find a second hagraven on a platform above them. Her attention was firmly fixed on Melka; and that was just as well, for he spotted two other figures on the upper level, both Forsworn. He stood in a deep shadow, having not followed Melka closely; he took advantage of that cover to fire over Melka’s head and take out the first of them. The second Forsworn began running toward them just as the hagraven Petra launched one of the fireballs he feared down into the room. The shot he had lined up left his hands as the flames obscured his vision, and he was certain he’d missed; but as Melka scurried for the steps up he heard a groan that said he’d somehow gotten very lucky and killed the Forsworn.
After that it was a matter of moments. Melka met Petra’s fireballs with frost attacks of her own; Brynjolf kept to the shadows and fired more arrows at Petra. It took only three arrows before she squealed in the grating, birdlike sounds Hagravens used, and dropped to the floor.
Melka was triumphant. “Petra! Petra! Curse her eyes!”
Brynjolf approached her carefully. “Now then. You have your tower back. I expect my reward.”
“Yes, yes. My staff.”
“No.” He shook his head. “I told you before. You can keep your staff. What I need to know is a formula, remember?”
“Yes, Melka will teach you. What is the formula the kind Breton needs?”
Brynjolf laughed. “I’m not a Breton. I’m a Nord.”
“Ah. Yes.” Melka shuffled about for a moment. “You all look the same.”
“Well, Melka, I was told that you and your sisters know a formula to cure vampirism. I need to know what it is.”
Melka shook her head; and as she did so Brynjolf felt a tightness start to close in on him, gripping at his heart. He didn’t want anything to go sideways, not after all this.
“No, no. Melka cannot teach you that one. Take my pretty staff.”
Brynjolf growled, and bared his fangs. “Melka, we had a deal. Now you’ve seen what a good archer I am. What you haven’t seen is what else I can do. I’d rather not have to show you. You’ve done nothing wrong to me.”
Melka was quiet for a moment – or at least as quiet as a hagraven could be, breathing noisily, scuffling around every surface and rustling her feathers. Finally she looked up at Brynjolf and nodded.
“I can teach you the formula, but you can’t make it.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
Melka nodded. “You need six… cloves of garlic.”
Brynjolf grinned. “OK, that’s easy enough. What else?”
“Five nightshade.”
“Simple. I have them growing outside my home. Is that it?”
Melka shook her head. “The blood of an Argonian.”
“I collect blood all the time, Melka. It’s what keeps me alive. Is that all?”
“Dust. The dust of a powerful vampire. One who is stronger than yourself.”
Hmm. Edwyn? Maybe? This could be a problem.
“Ok. And?”
“Melka will tell you. But you can’t make it. The last ingredient is two bloodgrass.”
Brynjolf’s mouth sagged open.
“Bloodgrass?” What in the name of the Eight is bloodgrass?
Melka nodded. “Bloodgrass. Grows only in Oblivion. Red plants, thin red stems. Our sisters ran out when Oblivion gates closed. Long ago.”
It felt for a moment as if a solid wall had suddenly dropped between himself and Sayma. Brynjolf’s mind raced, trying to find an answer, any opening. The Soul Cairn was technically a plane of Oblivion, but he was certain he’d not seen any plants like that there. Soul husks, yes; a few dead trees and bushes, perhaps, but nothing like a grassy plant with red stems. Then he remembered Sayma’s recounting of her trip through Coldharbour, and he gasped.
“Wait. Oblivion. Is it in Coldharbour? Could bloodgrass grow in Coldharbour?” I could get there, if Sayma took me. She would take me, for this, I’m sure she would.
“No, no. Only grows near fire, next to the lakes of fiery stone. Oblivion.”
Brynjolf sank to the floor. What had felt like a wall between him and his goal now felt like a solid stone cell. A moment passed, then two.
“So I really can’t make it. Damn. I’ll be a vampire forever.” He felt numb. So close. So very close. But not close enough.
Melka paced the length of the platform, stopping to kick at Petra’s body. “I spit on you, dead sister!” she hissed before returning to Brynjolf.
“The morsel was kind to Melka, so Melka will be kind to the morsel. A meat like you has been in the Reach looking for old things, pretty things from the Oblivion times. He is called the Archaeologist. Searching old places. Look for him. Maybe he has an answer.”
He rose slowly, tiredly to his feet. I had no hope at all before I came here. Now I know the formula, but I can’t get all of the ingredients. I don’t know, but I think this might be worse than thinking there was no answer at all.
“Thank you, Melka,” he said quietly. “I hope you’ll be able to enjoy your tower in peace now.”
He pushed open the uppermost set of doors and left Melka’s tower, listening to the sound of her raspy breathing recede into the distance. Somewhere in the expanse of Skyrim was an archaeologist looking for Oblivion-era artifacts, and it was only marginally possible that this person could help him.
I’m going home. This is worse than nothing.