Brynjolf crossed the footbridge and rounded the corner to Honeyside, to invite Coe to dinner. It wasn’t the “tomorrow night” Sayma had suggested some time ago, but he had wanted to make sure he trusted the man before going so far as to invite him to their home. Coe wasn’t a regular Guild member, after all. But as it happened, Brynjolf was more than pleased with how things had been going. The two of them alternated duties in the “office” every few days, so that neither of them got too tired or raised too much suspicion; and between them a great deal of product was available.
There had been regular, quiet shipments of gold north to Windhelm for many years now, but the size of them had been increasing steadily of late. Ulfric was undoubtedly happy with that, along with Frina, who had used a large percentage of those funds over time to repair and improve cities damaged by war. As far as Brynjolf knew, Frina wasn’t aware of how her husband the King came by the added wealth. Ulfric, however, knew where the money came from if not exactly how it was raised. That was information best kept in Riften. Zarashi moved a great deal of product from her den in the Ratway and used her connections with the Khajiit caravans to move more. Brynjolf had connections in Cyrodiil; and since his arrival in Riften, Coe had given him a few more names in Hammerfell and High Rock. And of course Delvin was an unrivaled master of under-the-table commerce.
He talks about retiring, but I know better. He wouldn’t know what to do with himself.
Brynjolf knocked on the door of Honeyside, laughing at himself as he did so.
Imagine it. Me, knocking instead of just letting myself in! Well, the lad’s been working his tail off and bringing in plenty of money. I guess he deserves at least a little privacy.
A raspy voice rose from inside.
“Come on in, it’s open!”
Coe was bent over the alchemy table, grinding ingredients together. He looked up and grinned.
“Don’t you even give yourself a break on your day off, lad?”
Coe laughed. “Well, boss, I have to keep myself in supply, too.” He straightened up, put his fists in the small of his back and leaned backward, groaning. “Damn I’m getting old. And this habit of mine…” He shook his head. “It would have been great to be rid of it years ago but some things just get into you and won’t let go. Speaking of which,” he added, reaching for one of the small bottles on the table and holding it out, “be my guest?”
Brynjolf chuckled but shook his head. “Thank you, but no. It’s like I told… my old partner, once. It’s a good temptation but not a safe one. I expect you know all about how that works.”
“Sad but true, my friend. Sad, but true.” He tucked the bottle in a pocket and whisked the others into a nearby chest behind him. “So what brings you?”
“My wife,” Brynjolf said. “She’s been trying to get me to invite you for dinner ever since you arrived in town. Truth be told, I think she’s a bit stir-crazy with boredom since the children left home. She likes company. Does business out of Dawnstar once in awhile but that hardly keeps her occupied all the time. So I bring my business acquaintances over for a meal now and then.”
“Sounds fancy,” Coe said with a grin. “Well I don’t know what she’ll think of a broken-down old sailor but I’m all for a home-cooked meal that isn’t bread and cheese.” He pointed to his shelves and laughed. “I’ve never been much of a cook. Comes from growing up on your own, I think. I got used to just grabbing whatever I could tuck in a pocket. And by grabbing I mean… grabbing.”
Brynjolf laughed. “We have more in common than just our business, then. My da more or less ran me out when I displayed an early talent for grabbing things.”
Coe laughed. “Well, I’m about done here, so if you want to lead the way, I’m ready.”
“Let’s go, then,” Brynjolf said, leading the way out of Honeyside. It had been a lovely day and was becoming a lovely late afternoon; and while he scanned the city out of habit he was mostly focused on getting home and relaxing for once. He was convinced that Sayma would enjoy Coe’s company and hoped that the feeling would be mutual.
“So you were a… sailor?” he asked as they made their way across the marketplace. He glanced at Coe, taking in the curved saber he always wore at his hip and raising one eyebrow.
Coe laughed. “You’ve got a good eye, Brynjolf. So I wasn’t exactly a legitimate sailor. I worked the docks from the time I was old enough to gut a fish but when it came time to try to make a real living I, uh…”
“You were a pirate,” Brynjolf said quietly, grinning as he led them toward the south gate. “I won’t hold it against you. I ran away from home to be a thief, after all.”
“Thanks,” Coe rasped. “It wasn’t supposed to be like that. I had plans that included someone special. But like you said, it’s not a safe habit and I guess I was one of the unlucky ones. So I did what I had to do to get by, for and with whoever I needed to do it for. Or with. Still do. Lucky to still be here, even if I am a wreck.”
They approached the gate in silence, and Brynjolf nodded to the guard, who held it open for them to pass through. He found himself thinking about Andante once more. There was something familiar-sounding about the “with whoever” part of Coe’s statement. But Andante had been notorious for bedding anything that walked by. He shot a sideways glance at Coe and then mentally shook his head.
I have an over-active imagination.
Once they were clear Coe cleared his throat.
“So tell me about this wife of yours.”
Brynjolf smiled. “Ah. She’s a Redguard lass and I met her the same way I met you. She wandered into town looking like someone who could use a chance to make some gold. Turned out to be the best at what she did and…” He shook his head and waved one hand in the air. “Doesn’t matter. We had a little hitch in the rigging, you might say, but we got past it and have been together ever since. She’s still a prize, even if both of us are going grey now.”
Coe nodded. “Must be nice. I never did settle down after I took that wrong turn in my life. I would have, if not for that. Like I told you – I had plans.” He smiled, under his perpetually red eyes, and Brynjolf thought ah yes. That’s the look of a man who had someone special.
“But the object of my plans left,” Coe continued. Probably a lot wiser than I was.” He smirked. “Definitely a lot wiser. I’ve never stopped wishing it had been different, though.”
Brynjolf sighed. “It’s hard when things go sideways. I’ve had that happen more than once in my life. But in spite of it all I’ve ended up in a good place.”
They slipped through the pass into the wide bowl of Riftvale and waded through the waist-high grasses. “I hope it goes without saying that you’ll tell nobody about this place,” Brynjolf said.
“Of course,” Coe answered. “If I couldn’t keep things quiet I wouldn’t be here. Or anywhere else, either.”
Brynjolf laughed. “Alright then. Let’s go inside.”
He led the way inside and stopped at the doorway to the kitchen. He smiled at the sight of Sayma busy at work on their meal.
I’m a lucky man. To think we might never have found each other again if not for…
If not for Vitus pushing us together at the end.
The direction his thoughts were taking him made him frown. It was hard enough not to think about Vitus all the time to begin with, but here he was, back to wondering about Dale, and the fact that he existed, and trying to sort out why that should bother him. He shook his head and did his best to shrug it off.
“We’re here, lass. I’ve brought Coe. Someone had to tear him away from his work for a little bit. He works too hard.”
Sayma laughed without turning around. “Hi, Coe,” she called over her shoulder. “I’m glad you came. Give me just one more moment,” she said, tapping the stirring spoon on the side of the pot and laying it aside. Then she turned to face them, smiling at Brynjolf.
“This is my wife, Sayma Sendu,” Brynjolf said, smiling at her. “Lass, this is Coe. He’s the one I’ve been telling you about.”
And then Brynjolf watched as everything went sideways, almost in the same kind of slowed-down fashion things happened when a powerful vampire side-stepped an attack. Or maybe it was just his mind refusing to accept what he was seeing.
Sayma looked at Coe and froze. Her mouth opened and closed, but no sound emerged.
In the next breath, she fainted. There was no sound, no warning; only the slow crumpling to the floor of someone who had been busily at work one second and was a deathly still, silent figure flat on her back in the next.
“Lass!” Brynjolf cried, rushing to kneel down beside her, his heart threatening to beat its way out of his chest. For a moment he was back to that moment below Valtheim Towers, reaching out to touch the very, very still body of the man who, up to that point, had been the only person he’d ever loved. The panic set in, and he shook her shoulders.
This can’t be happening. What is wrong? Why…? Don’t leave me, lass. I couldn’t bear it.
“Is she alright?” Coe asked from behind him, just as Sayma’s eyes began to flutter open once more.
Relief washed over Brynjolf like a flood; he felt himself trembling from the shock of it as he helped Sayma rise up to a sitting position. She was trembling, too; he felt her forehead, but she didn’t seem to be feverish.
Gods know we’re both older now. Who knows what might have happened?
“Don’t stand up too quickly, lass,” he murmured. He turned to look over his shoulder at Coe. “I think she’s alright but if you could get some water it would help.”
“You got it,” Coe said, grabbing an empty tankard from the table and filling it at the water keg on the counter. By the time Brynjolf had helped Sayma to her feet, both of them still trembling, Coe had returned with the water.
Sayma took the tankard from him, her eyes wide and her hand shaking. She had a drink and put the tankard back on the countertop.
“Th-thank you…” she mumbled.
“What happened, lass?” Brynjolf asked her. “I don’t mind saying you gave me a fright just then.”
But Sayma wasn’t looking at him. She was staring at Coe, just looking at him up and down. He looked back, clearly perplexed but with an expression that said he was sorting things out in his mind.
What is going on?
Finally, she spoke.
“I… thought you were dead. I can’t believe I’m looking at you right now,” she said, just above a whisper. “I thought I would never see you again, either one of you.”
Coe’s eyes widened. “Either one…?” Then it was as if a light had flickered to life just over his head. “Wait. I know you. You look different, and you sound different, but not different enough to fool me. I know you. Sayma…Sendu, did you say?” He slowly broke into a small smile.
“Yes. I… need to sit down,” Sayma said faintly. She turned to make her way into the sitting room, heading toward the chairs before the fireplace. Coe followed her.
Brynjolf’s head was spinning. He didn’t have a clue what was going on, but there was a feeling of unease rising from his core and nothing was helping to dampen it down.
“Now wait just a moment,” he said, moving to stand between Sayma and Coe. “What do you mean, you know her? What’s going on here?” He looked back and forth between them, growing more impatient by the moment. “My wife looks at you and drops into a dead faint, and now you are saying you know her? You’d both better fill me in. Right now.”
Sayma cleared her throat.
“Bryn. Try to stay calm. I’m alright. Or at least as alright as I can be under the circumstances.”
He turned his head to stare at her. “Under the circumstances? And what would those be?”
She stared at him. Her expression was one that he’d learned, over the years, meant you’re not going to like this. He stared back. You’d best tell me right now.
Sayma took a deep breath.
“I thought you told me his name was Coe,” she said quietly.
“Yes? And?” He glanced once more between the two of them and wondered what in the world was putting the tiny, smug grin on Coe’s face.
“His name isn’t Coe. It’s Coyle,” she said quietly, beginning to tremble once more.
“What?” Brynjolf swung around to stare at the man he knew as Coe once more. “I’ve heard that name. Coyle? That Coyle?”
Coe didn’t meet his gaze. He was too busy staring at Sayma.
“And you,” he said, smiling at her as if nobody else had ever existed. “I never thought I’d see you again, either. Hoped I would, somehow, but never really expected it to happen.”
“You gave me a false name?” Brynjolf growled. He tried to keep his tone neutral, but he was certain that the old, icy teeth of threat – the sound he and Vitus had both shared once – was creeping back into his voice in spite of everything. Coe gave him a disgusted glare, and snorted.
“Come on, boss. You would have given someone a false name, too, if you were in my circumstances. I would expect you do that often enough as it is. It’s not as if I was coming to see you for honest work.” He grinned. “Yes, my real name is Coyle. I’m from Stros M’Kai. And I’ve known Dagnell here since we were both little children.” He turned back to Sayma; his voice softened. “It’s been a long, long time, hasn’t it, Dag?”
Brynjolf was angry. His mind was shrieking at him, trying to make sense of it all. Coe was, of course, correct. It made perfect sense that he’d used a false name. He used a false name himself, often enough, and who knew what might be following along behind a pirate? But behind the anger was a cold fear. He wasn’t in control of what was going on in his own house and he didn’t know what else might be happening between the two of them, right there in front of him.
He turned to face Coe – no, Coyle. This was the man whose loss had driven Dagnell to leave home and travel to Skyrim so many years before. The one, he remembered with a shock, whose past she’d shared with Roggi and not with him, not until they’d been on the brink of falling apart. This was the same Coyle she’d wept over so many times. And she-
She is the one he had plans with, plans that never came to light. She’s the one he’s never stopped thinking about.
I can’t hold it against him. He didn’t know. Neither did she. I can’t let it get to me. Still…
“You should have told me, lad,” he mumbled. “Once we were working together. You should have told me. It’s not right.”
Coyle laughed. “And you think it’s a bad thing that I was keeping something from you? Really?”
Brynjolf frowned. Now what?
“Tell him, Sayma Sendu,” Coyle said, crossing his arms defiantly and staring at Brynjolf. “Tell him what my whole name is. I’m sure it’ll prove to be quite the enlightenment.”
Brynjolf looked back at Sayma again. “Lass?”
She drew a deep breath. “It’s… Sendu. Coyle Sendu.”
Brynjolf suddenly felt as though his head was about to explode. He stared at Sayma, not knowing whether he was alive or dead, awake or dreaming.
This can’t possibly be real.
“You gave yourself… his last name?”
Sayma raised her hands in front of her body, as if warding off an attack.
“Bryn. Think about it. I was alone. I needed a name that wouldn’t mean anything to anyone around here, and I found out at the last minute that there was a Sayma in Solitude, which would have been too confusing and… and it was the first thing that came to mind!”
Feelings – mostly anger – that Brynjolf thought he had dealt with long, long before came rushing back to the surface in a way he hadn’t experienced in years. It was the same – and as painful – as it had been that morning when he’d found that she had left him, and her identity as part of the Thieves Guild, behind. When he spoke again his voice broke from the effort of trying to keep it under control. He knew that he needed to stop, to breathe, to consider; but the red heat of anger was coursing through him.
“The first thing that came to mind, was it? Of course it was the first thing that came to mind! So not only did you drug me, run away from us and change your face and your voice, but you took your first love’s name for your own?”
He raised a hand, stopping himself at the last moment when he realized it had been a fist and changing it to an accusatory point instead. Sayma dropped her hands to her side, looking defeated, glancing up at him with a guilty look.
“It didn’t mean anything, Brynjolf. Truly, it didn’t. I’ve explained to you so many times why…”
“You’ve explained everything but that!” Brynjolf roared. Every moment of distrust, every hurt, every moment of struggle to have this woman back in his life came rushing back into his mind and into his heart. “There’s always a reasonable explanation, isn’t there, for everything you’ve ever done. Right from the very start. I was convenient. You took me because the others wouldn’t have you! Not Roggi, and not this man!” He turned and stomped toward the doorway. “It’s no better than Mercer stabbing us all in the back and betraying us for twenty-five years!”
Deep inside himself he heard a voice saying no, that’s not right; you’re overreacting. It’s just the surprise of it. She’s the mother of your children. She’s been with you for twenty years. But he was too confused, too angry, and too hurt to do anything but bellow.
He turned back to glare at Coyle. “I’m leaving. You’re too good at what you do for me to get rid of you, Coyle Sendu. And this isn’t your fault. But don’t expect to see me for a few days.” He glanced at Sayma once more, sneered, and left the house.
He looked at her. She wasn’t as dark as her mother had been, at least in the very vague childhood memories he had of her mother Saban; but she was a dark-skinned woman and right then she looked as pale as the clouds in the sky. Pale, but beautiful.
“Are you alright?” he asked awkwardly, knowing that was probably one of the most absurd things ever to come out of his mouth.
Sayma acted as though she hadn’t heard him. Then she inhaled, all at once as if she’d forgotten how to breathe for a moment. She looked directly at him, and he saw a world of hurt in her eyes.
Oh Dag. You didn’t deserve this.
“I’m… yes, I’m…” Her voice broke. “Of course I’m not alright!” she cried. “Of course I’m not!”
She ran through the house and out the other door, and he followed at a distance as she headed for a gazebo in the back. Coyle had expected exactly nothing that had happened in the past half hour or so. Nothing at all. But he’d long ago learned to stop and weigh options before acting, or jumping to conclusions. Maybe it was the result of a lifetime spent in a haze of skooma; he didn’t know. It led him to follow slowly, to let her have her moment while he approached to make certain everything would be well.
When he reached the gazebo and walked up into its shade he could see that she’d been weeping. It surprised him, a bit; Dagnell had always been one of the strongest and toughest women he’d ever known. But it’s been twenty years and who knows what she’s been through since then? She wasn’t weeping now, though. Her hands were clenched into fists and she stared ahead blankly. He found himself studying her face, looking for the subtle differences between the way she looked now and the way she had looked twenty years before. The most noticeable thing was that she’d had the scar removed.
“Mind if I sit?” he asked quietly. When she didn’t answer, he quietly lowered himself onto the same bench she occupied, but at its far end.
“This is, uh… awkward,” he mumbled. Gods. I sound like an idiot. “You weren’t expecting me. And I sure as heck wasn’t expecting that my boss’ wife would be the girl I…” He trailed off, mentally flailing about when she saved the moment by clearing her throat.
“You look… um…”
“Old?” he laughed. “A worn-out addict? Yeah, I do.”
“No,” she said quietly. “I was going to say that you look much healthier than you did the last time I saw you.” She glanced at him then with a look he couldn’t interpret. “You were nothing but skin and bones.”
“And red eyes,” he snorted. “Still have those.”
To his relief, she smiled just a bit. “Yes. But you’ve done better, haven’t you. I can tell. You’re still very rugged, the way I remember…” Her voice cracked a bit and she trailed off.
It was altogether embarrassing to think that she remembered how he’d been in his youth, swinging from the riggings and hauling up traps and anchors and… He cleared his throat. “Well thanks. I appreciate it.”
“And Daron?”
He winced. Ah yes. Of course. No point in sugar-coating it.
“Dead. Died a long time ago. Not long after you left.” He shook his head sadly. “He’s the reason I got hold of myself, at least as much as I’ve been able to do. I was so close to following him, Dag.”
“Sayma,” she said softly. “Dag died a long time ago, too.”
“Ok.” He nodded. “Ok. I don’t understand it, but it’s not my place to understand or not. What I do know, though, is that he wanted me to tell you he was sorry. If I ever found you again. Never expected to have the chance.” He took a deep breath. No point in sugar-coating this, either. “And so am I. Sorry, I mean. You didn’t deserve it.”
They sat in silence for a moment.
“What did you mean, you didn’t come here for honest work?” she asked quietly.
“Well, what do you expect?” he snorted. “When a person’s husband makes the finest skooma this side of Elsweyr it shouldn’t be much of a surprise.”
As soon as the words were out of his mouth he realized he’d made a mistake. Her eyes got very round, and then very narrow and very dark. “I should have known,” she spat. “All this time I’ve wondered where all the extra money was coming from. All this time! And he knows how much I hate it!”
Coyle rose from his seat and walked around the gazebo, not meeting her gaze. “I suppose that’s my fault as well, that you hate it. Our fault, me and Daron. Didn’t know when to call good enough good enough, and look where it got both of us. Daron’s dead and I sound like I just came out of a burning building and look ten years older than your husband. But don’t hate Bryn for it. He’s a good man. I sought him out because I heard he was the best and he is. He took me just as I am, disreputable, broken-down lout and all. I sure didn’t know he was married to you.”
From behind him, he heard her ask softly, “Would that have mattered?”
He turned to stare at her. “Of course it would have. I thought I’d never see you again. I’ve loved you for close to forty years. Why would I do something that would hurt you, on purpose?”
They stared at each other for a long moment.
“I can’t believe I just said that,” he said.
Damn. Just blurt it out, Coyle. Great job.
Brynjolf stormed out through the pass, out to the edge of the water, and stood staring out at Goldenglow Estate. He kept reaching up to swipe roughly at his eyes, which stung in spite of his anger.
It was too frustrating. There were too many things going through his mind at the same time. Once more, as it had happened so many times in the past, he found himself having a full-blown internal debate.
You shouldn’t have said that to her. That was like stabbing her with an old, rusty knife.
And? She didn’t stab me with it first? Naming herself after the man she lost?
It’s quite possible that there’s nothing more to it than what she told you – she needed a surname in a hurry and that one was at hand. You didn’t have any reason to know that they were connected in any way and she didn’t expect you ever would.
But that’s not the point. She chose his name for herself. He hurt her so much and she still picked HIS name. The fact that she thought I’d never have any reason to know makes it even worse. It was always going to be her little secret.
Did you have a surname she could have chosen?
No, but she was trying to get AWAY from me! She left me because of Roggi!
No. She left you because she made a mistake. But she came back to you, didn’t she?
No. I had to go find her myself. WE had to go find her.
Semantics. You made a life together, and Roggi made one with Dardeh. And everyone forgave everyone else.
Brynjolf kicked at the dirt, and a single cry of utter frustration escaped from his throat. He’d been having these internal discussions for fifteen years now, and was fairly certain who they were with. The other voice never called him “Loverboy” or anything of the sort, but then Vitus was just a whisper of a presence in his being, a whisper anchored to him by the ashes that had helped him be human once more. But it always bothered him that usually he lost the debates. The other voice always won.
Don’t you understand? I’m sixty winters old and nobody has ever really loved me. That’s why I never got married until I met Dag. My parents ran me off when I was a child.
You ran away from your father. Your mother loved you well enough.
Not enough to stand up to him. And Dynny – he said he loved me, but he was married and it wouldn’t have lasted anyway.
That’s a load of bull. You know Dynny loved you.
And Andante –
The voice in his mind was quiet for a moment.
Andante loved you, and only you.
Brynjolf shook his head. He felt strongly that there was something wrong with that argument, even though there was no objective reason why it should be wrong. But his thoughts wouldn’t slow long enough for him to isolate the reasons it was wrong.
And now Sayma. Sayma…Sendu. Who conveniently has her first love return to her life just about the time she doesn’t need me anymore.
… You’re ridiculous.
Probably. But I’m tired of being everyone’s doormat. I’ve been doing that for sixty winters and I’m tired of it. First them, then Mercer Frey and Maven Black-Briar, and now the person I thought would always have my back. It’s the last straw. I want something for me, gods damn it.
An hour ago you were telling Coe how special your wife is.
An hour ago I thought his name was Coe, gods damn it!
You’re too angry right now, Brynjolf. Don’t do anything rash.
Oh, no. You don’t get to tell me that. Nobody gets to tell me that. I’ve had enough. I’ve raised my children, I’ve made more than a tidy sum for Ulfric, and I’ve looked out for everyone all these years. I’m tired of it. It’s my turn.
He picked up a flat stone and threw it horizontally out across the water, watching it skip and create a series of ripples spreading out from each place it contacted the surface. He heard a raven croaking as it flew past, somewhere in the forest behind him. And then he nodded to himself and turned south.
It took him a good while to make it through the area between Riften and the southern mountains, but eventually he made it to the cave opening. It took some serious squinting to find his way down the very dark stairs, but find the way he did.
“It’s me,” he called out as he reached the bottom of the stairs.
“Over here, Brynjolf,” came the matter-of-fact response. “We’re both here.”
Brynjolf walked to the place where he’d once sat in a dream and spoken to Vitus. Since then, Agryn Gernic and Vyctyna Tardif had added a chair so that they could both relax at the same time; but they’d not made many other changes to this home since they’d taken it over. They treated it as a temporary home – even if “temporary” meant something very different to a vampire than it did to a human.
They both looked up at Brynjolf expectantly as he strode to the center of the space. Vyctyna, in particular, seemed completely unconcerned about his presence.
“Hi, boss,” she said, grinning. “Haven’t seen you in awhile. You look upset, though. Why so glum?”
Agryn snorted. “Tyna. If a person is visibly upset, it’s rude to call attention to that in such a flippant way.”
Vyctyna looked chastened for a moment. “Sorry, Bryn,” she said. “I didn’t mean that the way it probably came out. But it is good to see you anyway,” she finished with one of her chipper smiles.
I don’t believe I could ever be angry with Vyctyna. She’s just such a breath of fresh air.
“Don’t worry about it, Tyna,” he said. “It’s good to see you, too. But I have a very important favor to ask of Agryn.”
“What can I do for you, friend?” Agryn asked.
“I want you to turn me,” Brynjolf said. “Right here, right now.”
He watched the looks on his friends’ faces change.
Well. This is going to be a struggle, isn’t it?