Brynjolf stared, not quite focusing, at the table, while sampling the air. It was constantly damp here, just as it was constantly damp in the Ragged Flagon and the Cistern. He’d learned to taste the difference between simply musty stones and moldy ones after so many years of living with Sayma and her sharp nose. This place was only damp – no great surprise given who occupied it. He watched the light sprinkles of condensation that were a constant feature of Nightingale Hall and wondered idly how it was that the candles avoided being doused by the dampness.
“You have to talk to your wife, Brynjolf.”
He grimaced and looked across the table at the slight figure wrapped in the supple darkness of the Nightingales’ signature armor. She had been very gracious when he’d shown up after seeing Sayma and Coyle together. She’d offered him a drink and listened quietly while he related the events of recent days. Dale. Coyle. Sayma – Sendu. It had helped just having someone who knew him well hear him out. He also knew that he would value any advice she would give him. This, though…
“I know, Karliah. I know I need to talk to her. This is a hard thing, though. It was completely unexpected. Even her name is someone else’s! I thought we were so happy.”
Karliah sighed. “And you are. I’ve watched you two go through so much over the past twenty years. You have two wonderful children. You’ve brought the Guild back from the brink and made it a success. You and your family helped Skyrim recover from the wars. You’ve been together through all of it and there’s only one reason you could have weathered that much turmoil as a couple.”
He shook his head. “I know that, with my mind. The problem is that I don’t know Coe – I mean Coyle – well enough to trust him with her.” He frowned. “No. That’s only part of it. The real problem is that I’m afraid now that she’s finally got him back my usefulness is at an end. It’s not as though she hasn’t left me before when things changed.” He grimaced again, in spite of his best efforts not to.
Karliah reached across the small table to take one of his hands in hers and give it a squeeze.
“You’ve thought that nobody cared about you since you were a small boy, Brynjolf. You’ve been shown that isn’t the case, over and over again. But I know how it is. Those things we learn as children – even the things that are wrong – are the hardest to forget.” She released his hand and sat back into her chair.
“Sayma probably feels just as conflicted as you do, right now,” she continued. “It has to have been a shock to find out that someone she assumed was dead is actually alive and working with her husband to boot. But that shock can’t have erased twenty years of devotion, Brynjolf, even with her history of making mistakes.” Her voice dropped a bit. “Nocturnal only knows that even though it’s been forty-five years since Gallus’ death my feelings for him haven’t dimmed.”
Brynjolf cringed. It was hard enough, sometimes, to remember that other people’s problems were just as distressing as his own. Karliah, though, had experienced some dismal losses. She had every right to hate all of us, after the way the Guild treated her; but the only one she truly hated was Mercer Frey.
“I’m sorry, Karliah,” he said quietly. “I must seem like a child, whining about my worries.”
Karliah surprised him with a low chuckle. “Brynjolf, you’ve always been the closest thing I ever had to a child of my own. You may finally be showing your age just a bit, but to me you’ll always be the lost and angry boy who showed up and tried to pick our pockets.”
He chuckled, too. That day had been so very long ago, when she’d grabbed him by the back of his collar and dragged him away to meet Gallus and Mercer. By rights they should have tossed him through the door of Honorhall Orphanage to grow up there; but instead, Gallus had agreed with Karliah that anyone with such potential as a pickpocket should be trained up by the best.
He frowned again, though, as that thought led him to remember the day he’d watched Andante relieve Madesi of a jewel and then sell it back to him a few moments later. That should be a happy memory. It usually makes me smile. Why is it a problem now?
“It’s not just Coyle’s revelations that are bothering you, though, is it.” Karliah’s tone had no question in it. “What else is going on?”
“Ehhh,” he said, making a dismissive gesture with one hand. “It’s that boy.”
“Ondale Perdeti,” Karliah said. “I have to admit that I’m a bit off-balance about that as well. I didn’t think Vitus the paternal sort.”
He shot her a disgusted look. “No. And that’s an understatement. He hated children. I really don’t understand the whole situation.”
“Nor do I,” Karliah said, “but we can’t exactly ask Vitus about the circumstances of his son’s birth.”
“No,” he agreed. “We can’t. And the lad says he never met his father, so we can’t ask him about it, either. There’s no question whose son he is, though. I thought I was looking at Vitus the first time I met him.”
I wish we could ask Vitus about it, though. I wish… No. It’s pointless to wish. Even the voice I hear in my head sometimes isn’t really him. I just think the things I know he would say to me, and I hear them in his voice.
He shrugged, and pushed his chair back from the table. “Nothing to be done about it, though. Thank you, Karliah. You’re right; I need to talk to her. It’s a good thing I have people around to kick me in the right direction sometimes.” He smiled at her, hoping that it looked sincere while being positive it did not.
“Take care, Brynjolf. I’m certain it will all be fine once you’ve both had a chance to air your concerns.”
He made his way back through the exit and out into the open. The concealed opening that led to Riftvale Lodge was not far away, on the other side of a large rock outcropping that hid both entrances from any prying eyes that might be lurking near Riften’s gate. He grimaced as he stepped through the darkened passage.
I don’t want to do this. How have I come to the place where I’m loath to talk to my own wife?
How have I come to a place where wondering whether anyone cares for me even matters? I never even thought about such things before she came to Riften.
Or at least I hadn’t thought about them since I was a lad. Damn it, Brunulvr.
The lights were already on inside when he pushed the door open. Sayma had clearly been waiting for his return; she was perched in her favorite chair before the fire, but didn’t look up at him as he entered. It wasn’t until he sat down on the long bench that she finally turned toward him.
“You missed dinner. There’s still stew, though,” she said in a flat tone that didn’t quite mask the hints of anger behind the mild words.
Brynjolf gritted his teeth. In spite of his efforts, the words that escaped his lips weren’t the ones he’d intended to say.
“I hope you and Coyle – enjoyed each other’s company.”
Sayma’s eyes flashed. “Really? You’ve got a lot of nerve, Brynjolf. A lot of nerve. All this time you’ve been making and distributing skooma, in spite of knowing how I feel about it, and you have the nerve to say something about Coyle having a meal here? I should break your nose.”
He didn’t want to bring it up again, didn’t want to be angry with her, but so many resentments had boiled up from a place he thought he’d hidden them that they overflowed.
“You know better. We talked about this years ago. I thought you understood. We make money for us and for Ulfric. Yes, I’m the one who set up the business, using the recipe Vitus taught me. There isn’t a single other thing we could move through Tamriel that could have made us so much money – except for slaves, and I hope you know I will never have anything to do with that. Damn Thalmor. This business is also what let us break away from Maven, and you wanted that as much as I did.”
Sayma shook her head. “OK. I’ll admit that it makes sense. Still, Brynjolf, I thought we had agreed you’d tell me these things. Years ago. And I thought I had explained to you plainly enough that I wasn’t thinking clearly when I ran away from Riften. I certainly wasn’t thinking about ever seeing Coyle again. He’d run me off. I honestly thought he was dead. It didn’t matter; nothing did right then. Someone asked for my name, I said Sayma and then remembered the woman in Solitude, and I tacked on the first surname I thought of.” She tsk’d. “That’s all. There was no great hidden meaning.”
Brynjolf fumed. I know that has to be true, he thought. She’s said so, the others have all agreed with her, but still…
He rose from his seat and paced back and forth in front of the fireplace. “I want to believe you,” he said. “You have no idea how much. But it seems you’ve made it a habit all these years, not telling me things.”
“What are you talking about now?”
“Dale Perdeti, in the Brotherhood?” He made a frustrated gesture. “Were you never going to tell me about that? Am I that irrelevant?”
Sayma’s mouth dropped open. “What?”
“Oh, don’t try to tell me you didn’t know, Listener.”
Sayma rose, took a few steps toward the bookshelves, and then turned to face him again. “I didn’t know, Bryn. I didn’t even know he existed until you told me about him, and it was more than a bit bizarre to find out he’s Andante’s son. And now this? It’s too strange.” She shook her head. “I promise you I didn’t know a thing about him. I don’t even pay attention to who the new recruits are. I haven’t, for years. That’s Nazir’s job. Mine is to listen to the Night Mother. Good grief, Red. Do you pay attention to all of the new recruits in the Guild?”
He harrumphed. “Actually, I do. It’s still mostly on me to recruit them, and the ones someone else suggests get run by me as well.” It was a matter of some pride to him that he’d been able to keep up that end of his responsibilities for so long.
She threw up her hands. “I give up. I don’t know how I could have been expected to know everyone Nazir chose while I was raising two children, and I’m not in charge of day-to-day things there. But I do know one thing, for sure.”
He frowned at her. “And what is that?”
“I need some air. I need some distance. I’m going to go to Dawnstar for a few days. It’ll give you two a chance to get over yourselves. Besides, I have business to attend to, as you’ve reminded me so clearly.”
He fumed. “Oh so you’re going to run away again?”
Her eyes flashed. “I can’t believe you just said that to me, but yes. If that’s how you want to see it, fine. I’m going to Dawnstar. I’d been planning to make the trip soon anyway. I didn’t expect it to be under these circumstances, but I have a lot to think about. And I think you do as well.”
Brynjolf watched her turn and walk away toward their bedroom. Then he tsk’d, turned on his heel, and left their home yet again.
He couldn’t see himself dealing with the Guild right then. The one thing he could do to occupy his hands and mind, and to give Sayma a chance to clear out, was to go make more of the thing that had both caused them so much strife and been responsible for giving them such a comfortable existence.
Once again, the gods can have a good laugh at my expense. I guess I must deserve it.
He made his way through Riftweald Manor and down the ladder to the maze of traps. It was tiresome, going through this every time, and he missed the days when he’d been able to simply leap up through the opening near the Ragged Flagon to get to the lab; but it had been a good choice to leave the traps in place. It wouldn’t do to have someone follow him in.
He pushed the door to the workroom open and stepped inside, only to stop short. Coyle was there, hunched over the corner alchemy station, humming to himself while he mixed ingredients together.
“Hmm! Well, fancy that. I didn’t think I’d see you here today, boss.” Coyle didn’t stop what he was doing or turn to face Brynjolf.
Brynjolf nodded to himself. It was hard not to be impressed by Coyle’s calm self-control.
“I wasn’t expecting to find you here, either.”
“So, am I right in assuming that we need to talk?”
Brynjolf smirked, in spite of everything. “Aye, lad. I think we do.”
Coyle straightened and swung around to face Brynjolf. “Your wife makes a mean stew. You weren’t kidding about that. It was good to have a decent meal for a change. I’m just not really good at cooking for myself. I’m sorry you didn’t join us.”
“I almost did. But when I came back to the house, the two of you seemed as if you were having – how to put it – a nice cozy chat out in the gazebo.”
Coyle chuckled. “Yeah. A chat is what it was, but I can see why you might have thought something else. It was good to see her again, and good to air out a few things from way back. You’ve heard about what happened with me and our friend Daron, yes?”
Hmm. He’s not being evasive or trying to cover anything up.
“I have. You’re the reason she ended up here.”
Coyle nodded. “I won’t lie to you, Brynjolf. It’s like I told you before. I had plans that involved someone special. Dag was the someone special.” He stopped and heaved a huge sigh. “We went together. We just fit. We grew up together, really.”
Brynjolf nodded, remembering how Dagnell had told him “we somehow match” on that day so long ago when she’d suggested they marry. It was simultaneously one of his most precious memories and, on occasion, one of the most painful.
“So do you still fit?” he said, wishing he didn’t have to ask it – wishing he didn’t feel it needed to be asked. Wishing he felt confident enough that it wasn’t even an issue.
Coyle chuckled. The laugh wasn’t sarcastic, or condescending. It was just a good-natured chuckle of amusement.
“She’s not Dag anymore, boss. That was something she has made abundantly clear. So I couldn’t say.” He shook his head. “Listen. I remember our time together. I loved that girl with everything I had. I still do.”
Brynjolf cringed, remembering what his wife had looked like when he’d first met her. Remembering how she’d been as a person. She’d been clever and resourceful but also prickly and suspicious. And so was I, if the truth be told. But she’d also been one of the most desirable women he’d ever met. They had gone together. They had matched. And hearing his own feelings being given voice by another man – the man he knew she had loved first – was like a knife turning in his gut.
“I wanted her to marry me and she turned me down,” Coyle continued. “Didn’t think she was worthy, or some damn thing. I don’t know. But I was the one who wasn’t worthy. Daron and me, we made a fine mess of things. He paid a higher price than I did. He died. All I did was turn myself into a… well, we don’t need to talk about that. Let’s just say I did things I’m not proud of. And look at me now. You’ve given me a good job, Bryn, but I am after all running the same drugs that set me on that path. I’m content, but I shouldn’t be.”
Brynjolf didn’t know what to say. He merely stood, observing, stroking his chin. So you’ve lived a hard life, lad. So have I. Neither one of us has a halo around our heads. And we both love the same woman. The question is…
“So, I’m pretty sure I know what you were thinking earlier and what you’re wondering right now,” Coyle said. “You’re wondering whether I’m going to try to take back that girl I love with all my heart.”
“I’ll admit the thought crossed my mind, lad.”
Coyle grinned. “And the answer is no. No, I’m not. First of all, she’s not that girl anymore. Second, you’re a great guy. Yeah, yeah, the Guild and all that. You’re in charge of it; it’s not a surprise to me. You’re still a great guy and you’ve given her what she wanted and needed. A family. A real family. And she’s married to you. Not me.” He nodded, as if to reinforce that truth to himself.
“I’m not exactly a stand-up sort of guy, Bryn, but I have my standards, and that’s one of them. That’s a line I won’t cross. So you can quit worrying about it. Not gonna happen. Besides, I want you to take care of her as long as you can. Gods only know I’m not up to the challenge.”
Brynjolf stared at the Redguard who looked so much older than he actually was, and sighed. If not for some other, probably equally-dubious choices, he also would look much older than his real age. Instead, he looked younger.
And those are some years I can never have back again.
He held out his hand to shake Coyle’s. He had no doubt that the man had said exactly what he meant, and what he intended.
“You’ve more than proven yourself around here, lad. I’m impressed. And I’m sorry to have raised doubts.” I hope she’ll forgive me for raising them.
“Yeah, well it’s behind us now. Let’s see how much product we can make tonight, what do you say?”
Brynjolf felt himself breaking into a slow grin. “That sounds like a good plan to me.”
I still can’t believe this.
Shadowmere walked sedately along the snowy road. It was an unusually slow gait for the daedric horse but it matched Sayma’s mood. Shadowmere somehow always knew how she was feeling and reflected that. And right now, they were moving with the deliberate speed of someone in deep thought.
I can’t believe I never figured out what Brynjolf was up to all this time. Or Ulfric. Now I understand why the two of them had their heads together so often. I suppose Bryn is right, really. Frina’s been able to work wonders with that extra money. A lot of these smaller places didn’t even have defenses before the war; now they do, and they have refurbished buildings, and it’s all because she is as stubborn as I am and Ulfric has the funds to back her plans up. I should have known, but I didn’t. I spent my time on the Brotherhood, and the children, and mostly ignored what was going on with the Guild.
And now Coyle is back in the picture.
It had been a big enough shock to see him that she’d fainted dead away for a few moments. She frowned. It had been awkward enough trying to explain to Brynjolf why she’d fainted without Coyle spilling the uncomfortable truth about his surname. Then, after Brynjolf had left, there’d been that moment in the gazebo.
Her frown deepened. It didn’t matter how determined she was, there had been that moment, when he’d blurted out the fact that he still loved her, when she’d had a tendril of doubt in herself. It was the same doubt she’d had when Roggi had come to Honeyside just before her wedding to Brynjolf. The worst of it was that she’d acted on that doubt about Roggi, and she’d only known him for a short time at that point. She’d been deeply in love with Coyle for years, as a young woman, and she’d mourned his loss ever since she left him on Stros M’Kai. The truth of the matter was that in spite of what she’d told her husband, she wasn’t entirely sure there hadn’t been a deeper meaning to her choice of surname. He didn’t look the same now, and that was a relief. Otherwise, there might have been a temptation…
She shook her head and sighed. Shadowmere, echoing her emotions, tossed his mane and snorted.
No. The fact that he’s alive is shocking enough. To think that he’s making skooma for Bryn is…
She tsk’d, and shook her head again.
But what am I going to do with Bryn?
It was beyond frustrating. He’d been so confident when she’d first met him. Confident but prickly, with a wall between himself and the world that was nearly impossible to breach. Once she’d gotten over that wall, though, he’d slowly begun to show her how vulnerable he really was inside. Not weak – never weak, except perhaps for the short period of time Roggi had told her about, just after she’d run away from Riften. Brynjolf had always been strong and determined, but seemingly convinced that nobody ever truly cared for him. That was his biggest vulnerability.
I really thought we’d gotten past that, long ago. And I’m sure learning who “Coe” really is has stirred it all up again. At least Coyle can’t follow me here. I don’t think he would, anyway. He made himself very clear; he’s not here to get between us. He’s always been very straightforward that way.
Besides. He can’t follow me where I’m about to go.
The sun hadn’t completely set, but the newly-risen moon glinted through thin, icy clouds as they approached the cabin up on the hillside near Dawnstar. It had been a long time since she’d spent any significant amount of time in it; but Babette made sure to send one of her thralls in, every so often, to clean up the dust and keep things in order.
Sayma fed and settled Shadowmere in his stable and then went indoors. She spent a few minutes building up a fire to warm the place up and then sat nearby to watch while it established itself.
It was much quieter inside than she remembered, the light much dimmer and the atmosphere far less inviting than it had been when she and Chip had lived here together. She smiled, thinking of the months with the tiny redheaded boy squalling, and then learning how to walk. How tense it had been while he learned to avoid the precarious descent to the rooms below, and the triumphant squeaks of a tiny lad once he’d learned how to navigate the stairs.
And now he’s grown into a fine young man. I wish he didn’t keep to himself quite so much but that’s understandable. He’s older than Qara and Harald, and he’s so much younger than Dar and Roggi’s girls; he’s always been sort of a lone wolf. As long as he’s happy. Now if we could just get Qara established. But she’s got too much of me in her to just happily take up the role of housewife. We both have other priorities.
She watched the flames dancing in the fireplace until the first of the logs cracked in two and settled, down into place as fuel for the rest of the day. She added a few more sticks, so that the place would be toasty warm when she returned.
Different priorities, to be certain.
I’ll never understand it. I don’t know why it became so important to me to kill people. Dar thinks it has something to do with our father, and that’s about the only thing that makes any sense to me. We have something in our blood. That’s what Jine told me. Something that sets us apart from others. Dar, and now Qara. And me, I guess. It seems to have passed Chip by, and that’s a relief.
But I’m just wasting time sitting here. I’d better go get this over with. My priorities have changed, and the longer I spend not acting on them, the more miserable it will be when I finally do.
She left her cabin and collected Shadowmere again, riding him down the road toward Dawnstar and then veering off to the left. It wouldn’t do for anyone who might possibly have followed her to see her passing along the boardwalk in Dawnstar and then disappearing around the corner of the headlands. It was hard enough to keep the Sanctuary concealed as it was.
It had also been hard to keep the long-since boarded up side entrance hidden from the workers who built the new defenses Queen Frina had insisted on for the town. They’d planted a few more bushes around it so that nobody saw anything but a clump of trees and shrubs. Once the town walls and gates had been laid, though, the entrance was even better hidden than before. It was nestled behind a boulder and behind Dawnstar’s stone walls, and surrounded by trees, and deep-set enough that one almost had to know it was there to find it at all. Once a person had climbed down it and made her way through the frozen passages beneath she could emerge into the Sanctuary’s main dining area.
Sayma did just that. Nazir was sitting at the table, as usual, but facing away from her; he didn’t turn to look. She had no doubt that he heard her enter, but Nazir’s ears were keen and he knew the sound of her passage. To the right, a short corridor and a flight of stairs led down to a chamber where the shadows cast by the rope-and-plank bridge above never failed to trigger her memories of following Cicero. She’d been tasked to kill him, then, but had spared him and taken on the role of dispensing death to others, instead.
Her own private quarters were at the end of the passage just beyond the eerie shadows, past the chambers where other members of the Brotherhood slept at night or, in Babette’s case, during the day. She looked around the space, sighing. There were so many memories associated with this room, most of them memories of fear and regret. Fear that she’d been pregnant, and alone, not certain about her baby’s father and responsible for this dark organization. Regret that she’d left Brynjolf and the Guild behind. Regret that she’d been stupid enough to be in that situation to begin with.
But it worked out. It really did. It wasn’t easy, and a lot of the time it hurt, but we worked it out.
She withdrew a key from a pocket and unlocked the chest at the foot of the bed. Lifting its lid, she reached inside and pulled out a stack of dark cloth, laying it on the bed. She smiled down at it, grimly, and then set about the task of removing her armor and donning the robes she always stored here in the Sanctuary.
The robes of the Black Hand.
It was an old tradition, hundreds of years old. Originally there had been one Listener and four Speakers, each of whom had a Silencer – an elite assassin who carried out the Night Mother’s wishes as conveyed through the Listener and the Speakers. By the time Sayma had joined the organization catastrophe after catastrophe had struck. Only a few individuals remained, including Cicero, Babette and Nazir, along with the others who later perished in flames at the Falkreath Sanctuary. It hadn’t been until much, much later that the three of them – four, if they included Cicero’s lucid moments – had determined that the man they’d recruited as Andante had been one of the youngest-ever Silencers in Cyrodiil. To the best of her knowledge, he never had remembered that about himself. All of the pieces fit, though. He hadn’t worn these robes. He’d had his own black robes, and a hood that obscured everything about his face. He was gone now, too, and had been for a long time. The Brotherhood was thriving again, but of those she’d met originally, only three were left.
She pulled her own hood up over her hair and sighed again.
You’re just stalling, Sayma. Go take care of this. She’s waiting.
She nodded to herself and left the chambers, passing along the shadows and up the curved staircase that led to the bridge that cast them. It was time.
Time to approach the Night Mother.
