It would have been difficult to say, given the tendency of mer to live a very long time, whether the black-clad Altmer entering the College of Winterhold was old, young, or something in between. What was clear, though, was that he was in a somber state of mind. He barely looked up at the pair of storm atronachs stationed at the entrance to the grounds.
“I see we’ve installed atronachs rather than hire men or mer,” the Altmer muttered, stepping past them into the enclosed, circular grounds of the College. “How very ostentatious.”
He looked up at the tallest of the College’s towers and sighed. “Arch-Mage, of all things. And now I shall have to go all the way up that tower to see him.” He shook his head and tsk’d. “I honestly don’t know why I am doing this. There’s nothing in it for me.” A man in nondescript mage’s robes but carrying a substantial mace crossed his path, peering at him with a scowl. One side of the mer’s mouth rose in a smirk. His habit of speaking his thoughts aloud, as though she was still by his side, often unsettled others.
The Altmer took his time with the long climb up. Once or twice he paused on a landing open to the main hall below, making surprised noises of approval. He stopped at the Arcanaeum and gasped as he stepped into the great round room lined from ceiling to floor with filled bookcases. A very old Orc searching through the stacks turned and peered at him, his brows drawn together in a scowl that was impressive even for an Orc.
The Altmer nodded, and smiled agreeably. He’d seen that expression several times since crossing Skyrim’s border again for the first time in a great many years. People knew him – but it had been so long that they no longer knew why.
And that was just as well, as far as he was concerned. He didn’t intend to stay.
From the landing outside the Arch-Mage’s quarters he could see that the space within was far more richly appointed than it had been the last time he saw it, the white glow of a magelight spell suggesting that someone inside was reading. He knocked on the wooden door, open though it was; he had been raised well and didn’t want to presume his welcome.
“Come,” a genteel voice called.
“Hello, cousin,” the Altmer said, stepping into the opulent quarters and turning to stand before the dark-skinned person seated at a small table against the wall. “Or should I say, Arch-Mage? I suppose I should.”
“Rumaril Jorus,” the Arch-Mage said smoothly, not a hint of the surprise he must have been feeling showing in his expression. He waved toward a seat. “How long has it been?”
“A very long time,” Rumaril said, smiling slightly as he seated himself. “Decades, I would imagine, if not more. It’s been that long since I left Skyrim and it was years before that when we last met, Kalaman. I wasn’t in very good standing with most of the Jorus family at that time, so I do appreciate your welcome.”
Kalaman Jorus nodded and crossed his arms. “Dare I ask why you’ve picked this moment to visit? Not that you’re unwelcome, of course. It’s good to see you again. It would, however, seem quite in character for you to have learned of my elevation to Arch-Mage and…” He stopped, clearly pondering his next words. “Let’s see. Two things come to mind. Either you’ve finally decided to heed Uncle’s advice and devote yourself to proper training of what I recall was a rather prodigious natural affinity to conjuration magic, or you’ve squandered your wealth once again and correctly assumed that I have a great deal of it at my disposal.”
It would have been difficult for a casual observer to imagine that these mer were related. Rumaril had the golden skin and ash-brown hair common to many Altmer, as well as impressively long ears, a straight, sharp, down-pointed noise, and a shorter and somewhat more rounded chin than many others of his race. Kalaman, by contrast, had skin the color of walnut wood with the rich patina of time, his chin startlingly long, sharp and narrow, his nose short and bowed like a hawk’s beak and his ears much shorter than his cousin’s. Even more striking than those features was his wavy, silver hair – a match in shade to his elegant robes.
“Or,” he continued without so much as a flicker of change crossing his expression, “you’ve heard that some of the College’s new apprentices are quite lovely and have come to – oh, how should I put it – leave your mark?”
Rumaril frowned for just a moment. “Now that smarts, cousin. Not that. Not for a very long time now.” Then he resumed his cheerful grin. “I am living the life of a wanderer these days. A bachelor. But far be it from me to take exception to anything the Arch-Mage has to say. One angers the most powerful mage in the College at his own peril.”
Kalaman’s smooth demeanor finally cracked. He snorted derisively, and one corner of his mouth rose just a bit.
“Hardly. Obviously, I have some talent. That’s why I was a student here when the unfortunate events of twenty years ago happened – I needed a great deal more training. Not all of us come by it as naturally as you do.”
Rumaril grinned, a genuine expression this time. “I thank you. I’ll admit that I’ve worked on improving those skills over time. They’ve come in handy. But what “events” happened here twenty years ago? We were long gone by then.”
One of Kalaman’s eyebrows rose. “We?”
Rumaril’s grin vanished. “Yes. We. But you were saying?”
Kalaman paused for a moment and then nodded. “Yes. You may have known the Dunmer who was Arch-Mage here for a very long time. Savos Aren.”
Rumaril nodded. “Yes, that sounds familiar. I didn’t spend much time here but I do believe I met him.”
“He was killed in an explosion, along with the Master-Wizard, when a Thalmor agent went a bit mad. The mage who dispatched the Thalmor was a Breton – Edwyn Wickham – a minor noble from High Rock, I’ve heard, but more importantly a very powerful mage who was named Arch-Mage to replace Aren.”
Rumaril’s brow furrowed. “I can’t say that I ever heard of him.”
“He wasn’t here long. I was a mere Scholar at that point so wasn’t privy to all the details, but I’ve heard it said that the man was actually a vampire and died to a fire spell on the upper walkway.” He paused, looking thoughtful. “There was a terrific noise that happened one day. I can only assume it was whatever killed him. At any rate, following Wickham’s death Tolfdir took over as acting Arch-Mage.”
“And how did you come into the position, then? Tolfdir is so accomplished.”
Kalaman smiled. “Yes, and also very old, and human. You’ll have noticed that a great deal of construction and refurbishing happened since last you were here.” He shrugged. “I am not the strongest mage in the College. Even Urag the archivist is more powerful a mage than I. I would wager that you are, as well. What I am, though, is an outstanding paper-pusher. An… organizer. A bureaucrat of the highest order. And that, cousin, is exactly what the College needed at the moment. I was put in charge of shepherding the rebuilding project and when Tolfdir decided he was no longer up to the task of being Arch-Mage, they elevated me. In all honesty I am well-suited for it and it for me.”
“I couldn’t help but notice that things have changed a great deal.”
“Yes,” Kalaman said, rising from his chair. “Let us take in the views from above. I have a rather pleasant, secluded patio above this space. It’s very private.”
“Let’s, then,” Rumaril agreed. “It’s a lovely day. And private will be good. I have information to share that a high-level bureaucrat might find useful.”
They made their way up the final flight of tower stairs onto the highest roof of the College, where Kalaman had indeed installed a lovely open-air living space, the central feature of which was a large, currently dormant, tree. A chimney vented here, leaving the area pleasantly warm. The Arch-Mage showed his cousin around, pointing down to the two towers that had been added to the campus in the past two decades. Then they sat beneath the tree and talked.
“So,” Kalaman said after some time, “I sensed more than a little discomfort when you said ‘we’ were long gone before our unpleasantness here.”
Rumaril grimaced. “Yes. I had a… a partner. Isuniel. She was… I’m not certain what she was to me, but I haven’t been the same without her.”
Kalaman raised an elegant eyebrow. “I’ve never known you to be overly sentimental toward any particular woman, Rumaril. What happened?”
Rumaril frowned. “Yes, it’s easy to make fun of the playboy, isn’t it? Well as I told you, I left that life behind.” He leaned forward in his seat, giving Kalaman an intense stare. “The truth is, cousin, that it was the Dark Brotherhood that ended her.”
“Assassins?”
“Yes,” Rumaril said, pushing back against his chair again. “And the worst of it was that we weren’t expecting it at all. We thought we had destroyed them, she and I. When we left them I was convinced they were all dead. I was wrong.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what sort of divine intervention took place, but some of them lived, and they did not take kindly to one of their own having killed the others. It’s against the Tenets, you see.”
Kalaman crossed his arms, perhaps unconsciously curling up into a defensive posture. “I know they survived. Both rumors and reports of assassinations would have it so. But you’re saying this Isuniel was one of them?”
Rumaril frowned. “Yes. And I…” He trailed off.
“You?”
The golden Altmer nodded. “Against my will. Isuniel gave me a choice between joining the organization and dying and I of course wished to continue my own existence. I was not pleased about what I was asked to do. Over time the two of us developed feelings of some sort for each other, and decided to break away.”
“But you don’t simply break away from the Dark Brotherhood,” the Arch-Mage murmured.
“No. And Isuniel paid the price for that.” Rumaril sighed. “I’ve been more or less a nomad since then, cousin. I never stay in one place for very long. I expect there is a price on my head as well, and always will be. And that,” he said, rising from his chair and walking to the edge of the tower, “is what brought me here. I’ve travelled widely and been privy to a great many conversations I probably wasn’t meant to overhear.”
Kalaman rose from his chair and moved to stand beside his cousin. “And some one of those has to do with me?”
“Not you specifically, no. But you as the figurehead of the College? Perhaps. It at least warranted my coming to warn you, as you and your colleagues may be called upon to help preserve Skyrim, sometime in the future. Perhaps not. But I wouldn’t feel right if I didn’t let you know.”
“Stop being cryptic, Rumaril. If you have something to share, please share it.”
Rumaril raised an arm and pointed west. “They’ve had massive flooding west of the mountains lately. People are struggling. There’s the usual unrest – various tribes squabbling amongst themselves – but there’s something else going on, someone or something trying to take advantage of that unrest. I have my suspicions on what parties might be behind it all, but no proof.”
“The Thalmor,” Kalaman said sourly.
“Possibly, though I saw nothing to confirm that. But that’s not the worst of it. There’s something else brewing out there. I don’t even know what it is, Kalaman, but it felt vaguely magical and very powerful. I don’t mind telling you that it raised the hair on my neck and I’m not one to be rattled easily.”
Kalaman nodded, slowly. “That is true. Well, then. I thank you for the warning. I’ll have to see what can be done to gather information.”
They talked for a bit longer. Then Rumaril Jorus excused himself, not wanting to stay and potentially draw unwarranted fire at the College. He looked down over the wall and cast a spell downward, then flashed a grin at Kalaman and leapt over the side. Kalaman sighed and peered over the edge, in time to see Rumaril cast the same spell from the upper walkway and disappear to some spot below.
Kalaman shook his head and chuckled. “Drop Zone. What a showoff.” He stood for some time, gazing toward the direction Rumaril had pointed. Finally he nodded. “Perhaps it’s time for me to come out from behind the ledgers. I won’t feel confident about how we should prepare for the future unless I see things for myself.”
Brynjolf tucked the last of his clothing into one of the chests in the loft above him and dropped down onto a chair, groaning. It had been a long process, moving up here, but he felt as though he’d made a good decision. This space hadn’t been used for a very long while. What he vaguely remembered was that it had, at first, seemed almost sacrilegious of the Guild to put someone here in Gallus’ old home after his death. They’d arranged for someone to keep it more or less cobweb-free over the years, but it hadn’t been Brynjolf’s job and thus he’d nearly forgotten the place existed. He’d been wending his way out from the workplace in Riftweald Manor’s basement one night several weeks earlier when he’d paused, looked up, and had seen the locked gate that kept squatters out. He thought of it again not long after deciding to leave the family home behind.
“Convenient to the lab, and more importantly not Honeyside or Riftvale,” he murmured to himself as he reached into a pocket. “Free of unhappy associations. And speaking of the lab, let’s see how this batch turned out.”
He downed the contents of the small bottle and felt it hit him almost immediately. It had to be the exhaustion. He’d not slept in some time, and then all those trips up and down stairs carrying loads of weapons and jewels and mementos had taken it out of him. He’d left many things there in the safe room under their Riftvale home – things that had specific, now-painful associations – but there were other things, probably too many, that he’d wanted to have nearby; his body was reminding him that he wasn’t a young man any longer. His eyes began to close, but the skooma wouldn’t let him sleep. It was just as well. He was enjoying it.
“Bryn. Have we not discussed this? Hasn’t everyone involved in the business warned you?”
Brynjolf smiled at the sound of the familiar Imperial voice nagging him. This time it sounded almost as though it was coming from the chair opposite him. He knew it wasn’t real, but it always lifted his spirits to be reminded of the presence that had been a part of him for so long now.
“Aye, lad, we have discussed it. But I earned it. And this batch is so good. Can’t you tell?”
“Of course I can. And that’s exactly why I’m worried about you, loverboy. I remember what it was like. You remember what it was like, too. I know you do; you were always giving me a hard time about having a habit. This isn’t good for you.”
Brynjolf found himself chuckling; whether or not it was in his sleep he couldn’t tell, but it didn’t matter. “Oh but there’s where you’re wrong, lad. It’s very good.”
“Don’t get smart with me, Brynjolf. I know exactly how good it is. You learned your lessons well, and between you and Coyle, you’ve…”
“Don’t talk about Coyle,” Brynjolf snapped. “I don’t want to think about him. Or her.”
There was a long pause.
“Not talking about them won’t change the fact that they’re gone. Or that you let them go in order to protect her. You did a truly noble thing, Bryn. Practically heroic. I know it hurts but drowning your sorrows won’t work now any more than it ever did.”
“Shut up!” Brynjolf growled. “That’s not what I’m doing, and you know it!”
He was trying to pry his eyes open, but they wouldn’t cooperate. He was too tired.
“You keep telling yourself that, loverboy. Maybe you’ll convince both of us someday. I don’t believe it for a moment. You’ve never been good at dealing with your emotions. You still aren’t. But I promise you that what you’re doing right now is only going to lead to catastrophe. I’m an expert on that.”
“And you’re not even real, Andante,” Brynjolf muttered. “What a joke the gods have played on me, eh? My bad influence is now nagging me from beyond the grave.”
The other presence laughed. “You never put me in a grave, loverboy. I won’t be in one until you are as well. Now try to get us to bed for a few hours, won’t you? This body of yours is exhausted.”
Brynjolf rose from the chair, groaning, and felt his way the few feet across the room to the large, empty bed, falling onto it gratefully. He wrestled his boots off and dropped them over the side, but was too near sleep to deal with the rest of his armor.
“There, lad. We’re in bed. Too bad I’m too tired to…”
“Shhhh, Bryn. Quiet your mind. Sleep. I’ll be with you.”
A few moments later, Brynjolf dropped gratefully into the abyss of unconsciousness.
The next morning, he reluctantly dragged himself out of bed and into the hot bath that was one of this place’s better features. He could easily have soaked for hours, as sore as he was, but he needed to get down to the marketplace to keep up appearances. It was getting harder to do so with every moon that passed overhead, but it was, in the end, profitable in a number of ways.
He was eyeing the shoppers and getting ready to load the stall up with the large red flasks that were his stock in trade when a bright voice called out.
“Daddy!”
He looked up and couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride as Qaralana approached. She had new armor, black and gleaming, and was stunning in it. It was almost difficult for him to see her looking like a woman when it felt like just the blink of an eye ago that she’d been making her noisy way into the world, giving him long nights without sleep and all the joy that went along with being a father. And that made him sad again. It was impossible to think about the infant without remembering the mother who had borne her. He did his best to smile, but the look in Qara’s eyes as she neared him said that he had failed.
“Hello, lass,” he said, simply knowing not what else he could say. It was only a matter of time before he was forced to tell her about Sayma’s leaving. He was going to hurt her more than he’d ever imagined doing.
I hate this. I don’t want to do this.
He tried to stall for time. “Did you and Harald get your errand done?”
“Yes,” she said, frowning. “We had to go see Delphine, Daddy, to tell her that Paarthurnax is dead. That’s where I got my new armor.” She ran her hands down her sides and couldn’t quite suppress a grin of excitement that was, in spite of her status as Dragonborn, still oftentimes the excitement of a child.
Brynjolf felt as though his heart would break. I don’t want to tell her. I don’t want to do this.
“I’m pretty mad at Harald, though. You would have thought I was wearing an old sack or something. He said I looked like I belong with Dale Perdeti. Well maybe I do. What would Harald know about anything, anyway?”
Shor’s bones, I’d nearly forgotten. Gods, no. That’s a thing that just can’t happen.
Qara looked up at him again and he felt her evaluating his appearance. He knew he looked worried and tired. He hoped she’d overlook it.
She didn’t.
“Daddy, you look like death warmed over. You’ve lost weight and you look like you haven’t slept in weeks!”
Gods, is it really that bad?
“I had a good rest just last night, lass. Don’t forget that I’m an old man. I’m bound to look it sometimes.”
Qara tsk’d and shook her head. “It’s not that, Daddy. Don’t patronize me. You don’t look old, you look sick. What’s wrong?”
He shook his head, feeling more anxious by the moment and trying hard to call on his years of experience and practice to keep a calm demeanor. “There’s nothing wrong, lass…”
She stomped her foot. “And now you’re lying to me. I know you better than that, Daddy, and something is wrong. Very wrong. What’s going on?”
He shook his head, mutely. I know I was just imagining the voice last night but maybe there’s something to it. Maybe I am sick. Maybe I’m…
“Daddy. Pay attention when I’m talking to you. Where’s Mama? I haven’t seen her in, well, forever. I went to the house and nobody was home. Not just that – it was… empty. No fires in the fireplaces. No fresh bread. No food-cooking smells. And none of your messes. Nobody was there, Daddy. What’s wrong?”
Oh, my sweet child. I don’t even know how to tell you.
He shook his head, and cleared his throat, and opened his mouth to speak but no words would come. He took a deep breath and cleared his throat again. The look of rising panic on Qara’s face made it imperative that he get this over with.
“She’s gone, lass. Sayma – your mother – she’s gone.”
Qara stared at him for a moment with a look of confusion. Then she frowned and shook her head.
“What do you mean she’s gone? When will she be back?”
His throat tightened. When he tried to speak again, all he could manage was a whisper.
“Never, lass. She’s… gone. That’s all I can tell you. That’s all there is to say. I’m sorry.”
And then he watched in abject misery as the daughter he loved so much realized that he wasn’t jesting, that her mother truly was never coming back. As the meaning of his words sank in Qara’s mouth dropped open and her eyes welled up, glistening with unshed tears.
I’d cry, too, but I don’t think I have it in me anymore. There have been too many tears for too long. Her mother will come home, but it won’t be the person she knows. It’ll be Dag.
He watched her for a moment, wanting to gather her up into a fatherly hug but not knowing whether she would even accept such a gesture. Then the most remarkable thing happened.
Qara harrumphed. She folded her arms and looked up at him, defiantly. Her eyes narrowed, and flashed with anger; when she spoke, the words that came from her were hurled like knives being thrown and just as sharp.
“You had me going for a minute. But I know better. She’s not dead. If she were dead you’d tell me, in those words. I’d probably know anyway, even without the words to confirm it. But no, you are telling me just as much as there is to say safely without giving me the whole truth. I know you, Daddy. That’s how you operate.”
He was about to tell her not to take that attitude with her father when she interrupted him.
“You did this, didn’t you? It’s your fault she’s gone! You fought, and griped, and were jealous and possessive until it drove her away! I know you did! The two of you were always, always fighting, just like Harald’s mother and father!”
He felt his temper beginning to rise. There was just enough right about what she was saying to be embarrassing. They weren’t always fighting, though it might have seemed that way to a child. He couldn’t very well tell her about the Brotherhood. Yet her refusal to see how very much it hurt to have the woman he’d loved so much walk out of his life – again – was just too much to take.
“Now wait just a minute, young lady,” he began.
“Oh don’t give me that. Yes, I’m young. Everyone reminds me of that all the damn time, Daddy. But they haven’t fought four dragons on a mountaintop, have they? I may be young but I see a lot more than you think I see. And you drove her away, didn’t you?”
No. Well maybe. If the first time counts then yes, it was my fault because she was afraid of me. Gods damn it, and gods damn me. But I can’t tell Qara this.
“I don’t know what to tell you, lass.”
She snorted. “I’ll bet you didn’t even remember to get the message from Chip to Vilkas, did you?” she snapped, catching him completely by surprise with the abrupt change of topic.
This time he had an answer for her. “Yes I did, lass. He wasn’t happy. He doesn’t want to take over. He wants Chip to come back and talk to him face to face.”
She sneered at him. “Well then that’s all the more reason for you to come to Falskaar with me, Daddy. You know Chip won’t listen to me any more than you do. He will listen to you, though.”
Brynjolf groaned internally. His son was older than Qara, and quieter, usually, but he had the family stubborn streak. At this point he’s probably stronger than I am, too. I wouldn’t doubt it at all.
“I haven’t had a chance to think it over, lass,” he said, knowing how ridiculous a statement that was.
Qara practically snarled. “We talked about it just before I left, Daddy. It’s not like you would have forgotten so soon. Unless you were too busy arguing with Mama.”
This time Brynjolf’s temper got the better of him. “That’s enough! I haven’t made up my mind yet, and that’s all there is to it!”
Several of the passers-by turned to stare at him; he realized that he’d raised his voice. That was something he tried never to do in public. His business there in the marketplace depended in part on his presentation as a confident, reasonable, persuasive man. Nobody would want to buy an admittedly dubious concoction from an angry person.
Qara tsk’d. “I’m going home then, Daddy. I’m going to leave for Falskaar tomorrow, and since nobody seems to want to travel with me I’ll go by myself. The ship is docked in Dawnstar.” She turned and stomped off toward the north gate.
Brynjolf watched her leave, wishing he could turn back time at least far enough to have this morning’s encounter start over.
Go to Falskaar? But if I do that I’ll be leaving the business alone, and…
He sighed. That was a pitiful attempt at an excuse. Zarashi handled the sales of product out of her den in the Ratway, and he and Coyle had made enough to supply her for months. And if she couldn’t handle it, Delvin certainly could.
You’re just afraid of what you’ll find there, aren’t you?
He jumped, looking around himself in confusion. He was used to his inner voice nagging him but this had sounded almost like the man himself had been right there beside him.
“Feeling a bit jumpy today, are we, Brynjolf?”
Brynjolf whirled to face the marketplace again, to find Dale Perdeti standing before him.
It was him. That was the voice I heard, not his father. I’m losing my mind.
“You surprised me, lad. That’s all. Now tell me, did you need something?”
“Perhaps. I’m looking for someone you know. Sayma Sendu. We have business.”
Brynjolf had to fight to keep himself from gasping. It’s him? He’s the one who got the contract? Could our lives get any stranger?
“What makes you think I’d give you any information? Or anyone else, for that matter?”
Dale smirked. “Good point. Well, I think it’s possible your delightful daughter Qara might. I’ll leave you to it then.”
Oh no you don’t.
“Wait. She’s gone, lad,” he said quietly. “The person you were looking for. She’s just gone. You won’t find her, ever.” He couldn’t keep the emotion completely out of his voice as he added, “Neither will I.”
Dale turned back and stared at him for a moment, rubbing his chin thoughtfully and looking as though he was consulting an inner voice of his own. “You know,” he said quietly after a few moments, “I do believe you’re telling me the truth. Thank the gods. I’m glad, Brynjolf. I’m really glad.”
It was an odd thing for anyone to say, but Brynjolf understood its significance. He simply nodded at Dale and watched him walk away. He picked up one of his red flasks and began calling out his usual sales pitch, its cadences so well-worn into his being that he didn’t even need to think about it as his mind went elsewhere. He won’t ever find Sayma, because she’s gone. And he won’t take Qara, either, because she’ll be gone.
The next morning, when Qaralana stepped out of her cabin, Brynjolf was waiting for her.
“Alright, lass. Take me to Falskaar.”
