Jarrik the Crusher’s note had “In case I forget” scrawled across the outside in messy, childish printing. What they read when they opened up the folded parchment was worse.
Qaralana laughed. “’Here you’ll find the treasures great if you forget, you stupid slate.’ What kind of trash is this? I’ve heard better poetry from Snilf.”
Brynjolf couldn’t help but chuckle. He’d never heard any sort of poetry from Snilf, the old beggar who had haunted Riften’s marketplace as long as he could remember.
“Aye, but is there a hint in it as to what this key of yours might open?” He didn’t really care what it opened, if he were to be honest with himself. Any excuse he could find to keep them away from Amber Creek would do. It had been a good thing, after all, that they’d cleared out this gathering of thugs; but that was hardly why he’d come to Falskaar. He’d come because his daughter was dead set on it.
And to keep her away from someone who is far too interested in her for anyone’s good.
That unwelcome, intrusive thought had him frowning once more. He really didn’t want to think about Ondale Perdeti.
He figured out more than the fact that Vitus was my sire. I know he did. That boy is trouble in a package that looks just like his father, and I hate it.
The same unease and agitation he’d felt on the ship was starting to build again. He had to force himself to stand still, force his attention back to Qaralana and the matters at hand. They could hunt in every corner of the godsforsaken fortress as far as he was concerned. Whether or not they found anything didn’t matter; it would give him that much longer to prepare himself to see Brunulvr. As it happened, Qara managed to snap him out of his ruminations almost immediately.
“I think so,” Qara said, staring at the paper, “but it’s such bad writing that it’s hard to tell. It says something about ‘the room where sleeping take stalk.’ Spelled wrong. I think he meant…”
“Take stock,” Brynjolf interrupted, grinning. “Aye, lass. So our late friend Jarrik thought he was a poet.”
“Apparently so. He thought wrong.”
Brynjolf smirked. “At any rate let’s go find that bedchamber. I assume that’s what ‘the sleeping’ means. I wonder if it’s through this cage door back here, where Jarrik came from.”
They navigated the piles of rubble beyond the gate and emerged back into the other side of the same room they had been in to begin with. Qara tsk’d.
“So much for that. Well, now what? Any other ideas, Daddy?”
He peered into the darkness of the room and pondered. “Ok,” he said, pointing upward, “see that light up there above us? It looks like there’s a hallway up there. That’s why I ran up the stairs at the other end of the room. I thought they might lead to a balcony around the whole place, but they don’t. This is something else.”
“And exactly how do we get there?”
Brynjolf turned to look at his daughter, trying not to let his amusement show. She’s not a little girl anymore. She’s tough as nails and not putting up with foolishness. She’s like her mother that way. He frowned. I seem intent on making myself suffer today. I need to focus.
“I’m not sure, lass, but… I wonder. That corner is pretty dark, and I don’t think I looked back there. Did you?”
Qara’s face lit up. “No! Let’s go see!”
He hadn’t given that corner of the room any thought. It was beside a door, after all – the one that led them in a circle – and next to a support pillar. It was a place for a corner, not a door, and the placement of furniture, storage bins and braziers in the main room was such that they needed to pick their way around the obstacles to get to it. Once past the furnishings, though, they saw that the dark corner extended back a good way from the main room, meeting a short hallway at its end.
Brynjolf had toyed with the idea of warning his daughter to be careful in case there were more bandits above them; but once he saw the mess in the hallway he lost any concern. Clearly, everyone had rushed to Jarrik’s aid heedless of anything they might knock over on their way. The corridor turned back on itself and rose up several ramps, arriving at last at a wide space stretching forward into the darkness before them. Qara clapped her hands, excitedly, and Brynjolf tried to stifle a grin.
She may be an adult, but sometimes the little girl still shows herself.
“This is the space you saw from down below, Daddy! See the grates?” The right-hand wall was, in fact, open to the large room below them, but with large open grating ensuring that neither people nor the furnishings would topple over the edge. This was undoubtedly the “long straight” of Jarrik’s “poem.” The balcony ended at an alcove full of split firewood and an opening to the right, beyond which was the chamber they’d been looking for. No fewer than ten beds filled the cramped space, stuffed into corners head-to-foot and surrounded by wardrobes, tables, and even a cooking setup.
Brynjolf snorted. “Even the Cistern is a nicer place to lay your head than this.”
“For certain,” she said, moving through the bedchamber.
“Our poet friend said the treasure was here, and I see one thing that key might go to. Over there. There’s a chest on the floor.” He pointed to a table that held a dirty shovel, rather than dishes, and under which were several rolled-up carpets. Tucked against the wall next to it was the chest in question. Qara ran to the chest and unlocked it, squatting down to examine its contents and exclaiming.
“What have you found, lass?” he asked, moving across the room to join her.
She looked up at him and smiled. “It’s fabric!”
Brynjolf snorted. “Fabric? Great treasure? This man was an idiot!” he ended, mumbling the last.
Qara rose with a bundle of material in her arms and thrust it toward him, tsking in disapproval. “Well just look at it, Daddy. This isn’t the kind of stuff most people’s clothes are made of. This is soft. And smooth – feel how it just slides across your skin? This is rare, and expensive, and there’s a note in the chest that says it was bound for Helena. She lives just outside Amber Creek at a farm, and sells clothing in town unless there’s a war going on.” She grinned. “I’ll bet she was expecting this.”
He took one corner of the fabric and ran it across the back of his hand, but rough as his skin was it merely caught and scratched. He shook his head.
“I’ll take your word for it. But you say you know where to find this person?”
She nodded. “Yes! Let’s go! We can make it there while people are still out and about if we leave now.” She ran for the door and scampered back down the balcony.
Brynjolf stood staring at the table for a moment. Now that the threat had been neutralized, all that was left was to head out to the one place he most dreaded going. His head began to swim.
Suddenly, before he could get hold of himself, the unpleasant sensations he’d been having when they first arrived on the island returned in completely unexpected force. His jaws clenched, icy fingers of dread threatening to squeeze his heart until it stopped. His stomach roiled, and twinges of real pain rippled out from his center, leaving him gasping and clutching the table for support. He closed his eyes and lowered his head for a moment, fighting against the unreasonable fear.
This is ridiculous. I’ve been on my own most of my life. I’m an old man with two grown children. I have nothing to fear from an eighty-year old relic. But Shor’s bones, this hurts almost as much as turning to a vampire lord.
“Are you coming or are you going to stare at the table all day?” Qara called from the far end of the balcony. He breathed deeply, willing his body to stop demonstrating the unease in his mind, and then opened his eyes and straightened back up.
“On my way, lass,” he said, turning to face her. “Let’s get going. We’re going to settle this business. Nothing else, for the moment. I need a little more time before I’m ready to face him. It may sound cowardly, but that’s what it is.”
“It’ll be ok, Daddy,” Qara told him. “Let’s just go let everyone know the Crusher’s gone.”
He nodded and followed her back through the tower, lagging just enough to let her disappear around the corner. He fought with himself all the way down, his jaw clenching harder and harder, intermittent sharp pains catching him off-guard until he stopped, shaking.
Well, I know one thing that will help. And we still have a long way to run.
He reached into a pouch and pulled out one of the small bottles he’d packed away, downing its contents quickly and sighing as the relief spread through him. His jaw unclenched. His breathing steadied.
How ridiculous that I’m that afraid of him, still. Well at least I feel better. Now to catch up to Qara.
They ran.
Qaralana was running toward something – he knew that as surely as he knew his own name. He was running, though, for reasons that weren’t as clear to him. At the simplest level he ran because he liked to run, and because they had a lot of road to cover before the end of day. But at the same time he was running away: away from the sight of Sayma becoming Dagnell once again and leaving with Coyle; away from the empty home he’d left behind in Riften; away from twenty years of hard work that he’d undertaken because there was nobody else willing to do it. Away from the memories: Mercer Frey controlling his mind in Bronze Water Cave. Dynjyl’s spirit wandering in the Soul Cairn. Edwyn Wickham dying to Dardeh’s fire before he’d been able to get to him. Vitus dying on the shoreline outside the Dawnstar Sanctuary.
He was also running away from his own childhood, by running toward it. And that was the strangest thing of all.
They slowed at the top of the escarpment as they approached the bridge over the Amber River. He gasped, for the sight and sound of the water leaping over the cliff was as familiar to him as if more than half a century had vanished. He walked slowly out to the center of the bridge and stood facing the cliff, blinking the remainder of the blurriness out of his vision, and smiling.
“Pretty, isn’t it?” Qaralana said, coming to stand beside him.
“Aye, lass, it is. I could never forget this spot. The rest? It’s like a very old, very foggy dream. But this I could never forget.”
She smiled and bobbed her head. “Yup! Chip and I kept saying no wonder Daddy settled in Riften – it’s so much like Falskaar! But yes, it’s beautiful.” She looked up at the sky, which had begun to darken a bit. “We’ve got to get going, though. The sun’s starting to sink.”
And every step we take means I’m that much closer to… Well, I suppose there’s no help for it.
“Aye. Let’s be on our way.”
Amber Creek wasn’t far past the bridge; the roadway took a sharp turn and ran directly west into the town. The closer they got, the faster Qara ran – and the slower Brynjolf walked. Not even his attempt to dull his own emotions had worked to numb the dread that again threatened to overtake him.
Even from a distance he heard the intermittent crash of logs being split at the mill. After a few more steps, there were the unmistakable sounds of a smithy. His gaze snapped from one landmark to the next as the cluster of buildings appeared, dominated by the multi-level longhouse on the central hill. Off to the south, to his left, a curl of smoke told him that the smelter and mine were still operating. As to the central village, the vague recollections from his dim past simply didn’t remind him what the buildings were. In spite of that, though, he found his gaze being drawn to the north, to his right, toward the home he knew was there. That area was seared into his mind and generated the overwhelming desire to run away.
“Daddy?” Qara had returned to his side and was staring at him.
He frowned. “I’m sorry. Yes, I’m coming. It’s very strange, seeing this place again. I didn’t remember it all that well to begin with but well enough that I feel plucked out of my own skin and set down in someone else’s.”
She was silent for a moment but then nodded. “I’m sure it is. If it’s anything like finding out you’re something you never imagined being and had no control over – that’s weird.”
He gave her a slight smile. “Yes. I’m sure it’s similar.”
“Well, there’s the longhouse. Let’s go see Jalma and tell her about Jarrik. It’s right here on the way. Don’t worry, Daddy. I won’t make you go to the house quite yet.”
He’d never been in the Jarl’s longhouse before, at least not that he remembered. It reminded him of the structure in Falkreath with its vaulted ceiling, openings to the right and left, and staircases on either side undoubtedly leading to sleeping quarters. There was the usual huge fire blazing in its pit in the center of the building, but beyond that, where one might expect to see a dais with a throne, there was simply a large table with several chairs on each side.
“Agnar doesn’t think of himself as a king, I take it,” he whispered.
“No, not really. First among equals, I’d say. Although he didn’t hesitate to take charge when he needed to, and everyone simply obeyed him without question.” She chuckled. “Except me, I guess. I had questions.”
“Why does that not surprise me, lass?” He caught the sounds of someone stirring a pot in the room to the left, but not much else. “It’s quiet.”
Qara grinned at him. “Which I’m sure is something they’re grateful for.” She led the way to the right-hand stairs and walked up, Brynjolf following at a distance.
He heard the patter of footsteps, followed by a cheerful “hello!” As his head reached the level of the open balcony a young face turned to look him over with the same sort of eager, open curiosity he remembered seeing on Chip’s face as a youngster. He grinned back.
“Jalma, this is my Daddy,” Qara said to the lovely woman seated there. “Daddy, Jalma is King Agnar’s wife and she handles all the day-to-day work of the hold. And this is Wilhard, their son. Both of them are formidable fighters.”
Wilhard beamed up at her. “Even me?”
“Of course,” Qara said with a grin. “I couldn’t have done all of that without you! You helped keep your mama safe and that was the best thing of all!”
“Great! Thanks!” the young man answered, bounding down over the stairs and seizing a wooden sword lying atop a bench. He started swinging it even before he opened the door to go outside.
Brynjolf turned to address Jalma, suddenly feeling more centered than he had since leaving Jarrik’s crew behind. He was used to dealing with dignitaries at one level or another, and he gave Jalma his best smile.
“Greetings, Lady Jalma,” he said with a quick bow of his head. “We’re here to let you know that on our way here from the docks we met with the one guard left at an ambushed caravan.”
“Again?” Jalma said quietly.
“Aye, but he knew who the attackers were and where they’d gone, and sent us after them. Their leader was a man called Jarrik. He and his gang won’t be bothering you or anyone else any longer.”
Her face relaxed, as though this problem had weighed on her for years. “He was a tough one to track down. I’m glad to hear that his deeds finally caught up to him. Wait here just a moment.” She rose and disappeared into the bedchamber, returning with a sack of coin that she pressed into Brynjolf’s hands. “There was a bounty on his head, and you have earned it. You have our thanks.”
He hadn’t expected to be paid, but knew better than to refuse money that they had, after all, earned with great effort. To do otherwise would be rude and possibly considered downright insulting. So he smiled, thanked her, and headed down toward the longhouse door, gesturing to Qara to follow.
Once they were outside she grinned at him. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
He chuckled. “I’m used to dealing with Jarls, lass. Even if they don’t know who I am or what I do. One small woman and her son didn’t cause me any sort of concern.”
“Don’t underestimate those two,” Qara said. “I wasn’t exaggerating. Wilhard didn’t kill anyone, of course, but he badly bruised a few shins. And Jalma is as fine a fighter as you could come by, especially seeing that she didn’t have any armor.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said. “But where is this person we’re supposed to see about the… fabric?”
Qara pointed. “Around the side of the farmhouse we passed on the way in, then down the road to the south and around the first corner. There’s a farm. That’s where they’ll probably be.”
“That’s where we’re going then. No stops. Not yet.”
“Alright. As long as we get going. I don’t want to be knocking on their door in the dark, after everything that happened when I was here before. Seeing dead guards and soldiers up and down the streets would make a person a bit cautious.”
He shuddered, for that route would take them right past a place he remembered vividly. But regardless of his age he was still fleet of foot, so it didn’t take long to pass the house he didn’t want to visit and set off to the south.
It was hard not to feel a little off-kilter. He might as well have been dashing east from Riften to Ivarstead, as similar as the countryside was, and yet there were no familiar landmarks.
No surprise why I landed in Riften. It felt like home. Home without all the trouble.
There were two people outside the farmhouse in the late-day sun when they arrived – a man and a woman. Brynjolf trotted up to the woman.
“Are you Helena?”
“Yes, I am. Can I help you with something?”
He couldn’t help noticing how she scanned his armor, and Qara’s as she arrived wrestling with her pack. Sizing us up for a potential sale, if I’m right, he thought. She’s good. Not too obvious.
“We found your fabric,” Qara answered for them. “A group of bandits attacked the caravan and took it. Here you go.” She handed the bundle to Helena, who went from looking solemn to beaming with delight in the space of a moment.
“You found it! That’s wonderful!” Helena cried. “I wasn’t sure what I would do without this!”
Qara nodded, with an equally brilliant smile. “It’s beautiful fabric, too! I can’t wait to see what you make with it!”
Well, Brynjolf thought, my daughter is turning out to be almost better at this game than I am. She may still say she’s not cut out for it but I think she’s wrong.
“Wait just a moment,” Helena told Qara. She ran for the farmhouse door and was gone for just a few moments before returning with a smaller bundle of cloth in her arms. “Here,” she said, handing the bundle to Qara, “I want you to have this. It’s made of the finest fabrics that I order. It’s more than likely to turn a few eyes and impress some people. Thank you again!”
“Oh!” Qara said. “You didn’t need to… I mean thanks! Thank you very much!”
That’s my girl. Be careful not to insult your customers by mistake.
They took their leave and began the journey back toward Amber Creek, this time at a more sedate pace. Qara kept working the garment through her hands and finally tsk’d.
“What is it, lass?”
“It has some kind of enchantment on it, Daddy, but I can’t figure out what it is.”
“Let me see.” He took the robe from Qara and had held it only a few moments before he smiled. It was a weaker enchantment than the one he’d worn for so many years, but it was basically the same. He handed it back to her. “It’ll be useful, perhaps. It’s like the Amulet of Articulation. Not as powerful, but she’s right – it’ll turn a few heads.” They were approaching the outskirts of Amber Creek once again. This might be the time to bring it up, he thought. He cleared his throat. “Not that you need much help turning heads, as far as I can tell.”
She raised one eyebrow and glared. “What do you mean by that?”
“I mean that Perdeti lad.” He wasn’t sure how else to put it, what else to say, but it needed saying.
“What about him? Yes, I seem to have caught his eye.” She smiled. “And I don’t mind.”
“You should mind, lass. He’s not what he seems.”
She stopped, put her hands on her hips, and glared. “And what would you know about it?”
“I know … I mean I knew his father. We traveled together for some time. His father was a…” He trailed off, not certain how to proceed.
Qara stomped her foot. “A what, Daddy? Just spit it out. I’m too old to have you dancing around me not telling the truth.”
He had another moment of pride, and struggled to keep it off his face. She was grown up now, there was no denying it. And yet she was so naïve in some ways. She’d been carefully taught to watch out for people who hoped to take advantage, but didn’t have much experience with them. He knew all too well that a person had to experience things to truly understand them.
“He was a vampire, Qara.”
Her other eyebrow rose, matching the first. “And this is where I tell you that I already knew that you were one as well.”
“Uh…” He felt for a moment as though he’d run face-first into one of the Ratway’s stone walls, but managed to collect himself. “Chip told you.”
“Yes. We were sharing some stuff. So it’s not like it’s a big secret. It’s weird, and it’s hard for me to picture, but then so is the idea of me absorbing a dragon’s soul.” She stared at him for a moment, her gaze running up and down and stopping at his face. She nodded. “It explains some things, like why you still look a lot younger than your age. But what does any of that have to do with Dale?”
It took him a few seconds to orient himself. There had been so much in that revelation. It wasn’t just the fact that one of his most closely-held secrets simply wasn’t a secret any longer. It was the calm, almost matter-of-fact way in which she’d revealed it that shocked him. She was so much more than he’d imagined.
“Well,” he began slowly, “to start with, yes, it’s true, and I’m sorry you had to hear it from Chip. It was a few years. I’ve been just – me – for most of your lifetime.”
“And?”
She’s not going to let go of this, is she?
“Vampires… have a sense. To know when someone else is a vampire even if they’re wearing their illusion spell to mask it from everyone else.”
Qara frowned. “And what you’re saying is that…” She trailed off. Her eyes got very round. “Oh. Oh, I see. Dale is…”
Brynjolf blew out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Thank the Eight she’s so smart. “I… I think so, lass. No, I’m sure of it.”
She looked thoughtful for a moment. “That explains some things, too. I thought he felt awfully cold when he, well…”
“When he kissed you? Right there in public in front of the rest of the world, to say nothing of Harald?” As soon as the words left his mouth he wished he hadn’t uttered them in quite that blunt and disapproving fashion. She glared at him.
“Yes. And it was a nice kiss, too! And Harald is just a friend! Honestly. I don’t know why in the world everyone keeps trying to make more of it. A friend who I am currently very annoyed with, at that.” She frowned again, as if running the memory of Dale Perdeti through her mind once more. “I thought it was just that I was blushing but yes, he was very cold.” Then her mouth dropped open and her gaze snapped to meet his. “He was also very interested in my neck, I thought. Is that why, Daddy?”
He nodded. “I’m sorry to have put it like that, Qara. It’s not as though I never kissed – your mother – in front of other people. But speaking from past experience, well, Dragonborn blood is hard to resist. Very hard. It’s like a lantern to a moth. Almost impossible to ignore. It’s why I was so glad your uncle Roggi was there to watch over Dardeh.”
She looked thoughtful for a moment; just thoughtful, not appalled or frightened or anything he reasonably might have expected. “So did you know Dale when he was a boy?”
Brynjolf felt his heart drop at that, and was then annoyed by how much the question bothered him. “No, I didn’t. I didn’t know he existed until about the same time you met him. I don’t know that much about him, except that he has the same smile his father had and I don’t trust it. Not at all.”
And he’s in the Dark Brotherhood, and he has a contract to kill your mother. Aside from that, I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that he inherited some of Vitus’ appetites, too. But I can’t tell you any of that.
She tsk’d. “I guess I’ll have to be careful around him. It makes me mad. I really, really like him, Daddy.”
He smiled, sadly. “Vampires do tend to be very, oh, how to put it. Alluring. If they put their minds to it. The feral ones tend to just kill. The smart ones can find their way into important places.”
She raised an eyebrow. “And I’ll bet that fit you just like a glove. Oh don’t look so shocked. That’s what you do, after all.” She sighed. “I wonder if I’ll ever find someone who likes me just for me, and not because of what is different about me.”
He smiled, again sadly. Most of the most important relationships he’d ever had were based on who the other person was, not what they were. That was just the way his mind and his heart worked.
“I’m sure you will,” he said. “Just… be careful about Dale. Now let’s go get this over with before I change my mind.”
You poor, sweet thing. Harald loves you and neither one of you recognizes it. I hope you do, some day. You’d be hard pressed to find a better lad than him.
Finally, they arrived at the doorstep of the lodge. Qara turned to look at him as he dragged his feet.
“Come on. They are both very anxious to see you again.”
He smirked. “I’m sure my mother is. I don’t know about the other one.”
She tsk’d. “Will you please stop behaving like a baby? It’s just ridiculous. I’m the youngest one here and I swear that I’m the only one acting like an adult.” Then she sighed and smiled at him. “It’ll be ok, Daddy. I promise you it will. Granddaddy is pretty gruff but under it he’s a nice man.”
“Nice,” Brynjolf grumbled. “So be it. Lead on, lass.”
Qara rapped quietly on the door but didn’t wait for a reply. She merely opened it and stepped through, and Brynjolf followed.
He had just enough time to get a brief impression of the place. It was definitely smaller than he remembered, and laid out differently. Or maybe he’d confused it with the other home he’d lived in, when he’d been even younger.
It didn’t matter, though, because across the room a man with silver hair turned toward the door. He glanced at Qara first, and one eyebrow rose. Then his gaze moved to Brynjolf, looking him over head to toe. He set himself in a wide stance, crossed his arms, and harrumphed.
For a moment, Brynjolf once more became the child whose only option was to flee else he’d be hurt yet again. He set his face in an equally-steely stare and struggled with his own control. Then he took stock of the man before him. He remembered that face, but much younger, and with ash-brown hair, not white. He remembered the man as huge, always towering over him, looming large with threat.
And he realized that now, half a century later, he was just as tall as this man if not a little bit taller.
“Brunulvr,” he said.
