[A/N]: And into Act 3 we go! This one was a monster to write... no pun intended! Some of these chapters ended up so much longer than intended that I had to split 'em up into two. It seems there's a lot to say as we spiral into the Dawnguard's final conflicts...

-ACT THREE-

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

~DISCOVER YOUR FOE'S HABITS… ~

If it was possible for a city to look dejected, Riften achieved it with flying colours. Gently dusted with the first snows of Frostfall, gates pulled tightly shut and roads overgrown with disuse; even from afar it exuded the sense of a settlement resigned to its unhappy fate. Solen sat staring at it from the shelter of the treeline, brooding on his precious few dealings with the southern city. Eldródr lay across his lap, a steady reassurance while he watched and waited.

The gentlest stirring of the maple branches, already half-bare at winter's steady approach, heralded Fiirnaraan's return. Solen flared his nostrils. It still took practice locating the elusive Blood Dragon by scent, but every day he acclimated better to the beast within. "Well?"

Fiirnaraan rippled into view. "The little Elf is in, Dovahkiin."

"So it begins, then." Solen tightened his grip on Eldródr's hilt. "Gwendis knows where to find us?"

"Oh, yes. She is quite sure." Fiirnaraan looked around them, his webbed frills rippling as his senses explored the maple forest, gleaming with the night's first frost. "But we are not at the waiting-place. You are alone here. Is that not perilous?"

"Even before the beast blood I was always at my best outdoors. And I needed to think, alone." Solen supposed he ought to think about joining the others soon – they were already in position at the abandoned Snow-Shod farm – but first he turned to the Dragon settled low in the undergrowth. "There's something I wanted to ask you about, Fiirnaraan. I've meant to for a while now, but I kept getting distracted by Elder Scrolls and revelations."

"What is that?"

"Speaking with silence. Shouting the Word from within. I want to learn how."

The webbed spines on Fiirnaraan's back straightened with surprise. "But that is unexpected."

"Good. Then it'll catch Gendolin off guard, which seems to be the only way we can ever lay a dent in him. Also because a werewolf's jaws are ill-suited to Words of Power."

The Dragon considered him thoughtfully. "You are Thuri, First Voice," he said. "I think, Dovahkiin, that you are already close. The knowledge to achieve tiinvak voth nahlot is already within, should you allow yourself the quiet to hear it."

"Really? So I just need to meditate on its concept, like a Word of Power?"

"The Power is within already. It needs only to be freed from the mind's constraint."

"Ah. That's the stickler, see. I struggle with riddles."

"You are not always like my brothers now, loud and boisterous and bursting with Bormahu's flame. You are changing. Perhaps your thu'um is prepared to change with you."

"That's the hope." Though the Dragon's observations of him did not sound hopeful at all. Solen swallowed roughly. "I'm not changing… that much, am I, Fiirnaraan?" Funny. The question that had haunted him since leaving Fort Dawnguard flowed easily in the Dragon's presence, when it had stuck in his throat in the company of his shield-siblings.

Fiirnaraan looked more serious than Solen had ever seen him. "Bormahu has shaped you one way, and now the game of shadows is shaping you another way. But it is in the shaping that new things are best learned, before water turns to stone. Do you not think so?"

Solen felt himself smile for the first time in hours. "I think we've come a long way since we met on that mountainside, my friend."

"Oh, yes, Dovahkiin." Fiirnaraan's green eyes glowed. "Such fun I have had with our arrangement. I almost do not wish it to end."

"Almost?"

"All games must be won and lost. That is the delight of them."

"You're just full of pearls tonight, aren't you?" Solen turned back to face the forlorn spectre of Riften. "Not that you're wrong. All games must end. And I'm done playing nice."

The stink of fear and suffering had scorched the back of Gwendis's throat long before she'd scaled Riften's walls. She'd been forewarned the city was a wretched one, but the sight still filled her with dismay – the filthy streets choked with tents and bedrolls, the city walls crammed end to end with camps and weary bodies, until the whole city resembled a slum. Farmers, she thought, as she ghosted unseen and shapeless over tile rooftops. Millers. Fishers. Merchants. Fathers. Mothers. Children.

The mingled scents of their lifeblood tingled the roof of her mouth and down her throat in an unwavering flood, but the blind hunger that controlled so many of her kind had no effect upon her. The teachings of her House stood firmer than base instinct. To those without such discipline, it was a feast in the making. A slaughterhouse of cattle. No vampire enslaved to their urges would simply abandon it; every shadow would be watched, every unknowing body jealously guarded.

Yet the mortals still live. Gwendis settled herself on top of the tavern to get her bearings; the city lay unfolded like a map below in the light of the twin moons. Something restrains them from feasting. Among the undisciplined, only fear outweighed hunger. There must be an elder vampire still in the city, to keep law among the lessers. One of Harkon's, or more likely Gendolin's.

Another question to ask when Brynjolf had been found. Gwendis mist-stepped stealthily to the ground and chanced to stalk the streets, every sense alert for detection. The deathly suggestion of others of her kind lay everywhere, a cool blanket on the fringes of awareness. At least it wasn't overpowering; they weren't living openly, yet. Thralling an entire city would take far too much precious energy and be pointless if all they intended was to slaughter their chattel at the end of it.

Unless they planned this place to be a turning ground… It would explain the waiting. Gwendis had seen such things before. More questions.

Well, the night's only getting older. Gwendis reached for the flask at her hip, and rolled her neck as she felt her power swell. May as well make the most of it.

A likely candidate appeared only a short while later, some subordinate on patrol near the city's canal. His power smelled young, a vampire barely out of fledglinghood; he couldn't have been turned longer than a year or two. Licking the last traces of blood from her teeth, Gwendis stepped from her shroud as he sauntered past her; he still took two steps before he detected her presence behind him, and spun around with alarm. By then she'd arranged herself casually against the canal railing, her transformed face aglow; the veins black and purple beneath chalk-white skin turned almost translucent.

It was no Volkihar's visage, and the young vampire tensed in confusion. "Who're you?"

"Send Brynjolf to me. There's business to discuss."

The Volkihar's nostrils flared. He was old enough to sense her aura and realize hers was the greater. Much greater. "I don't know you."

"Of course you don't." From sockets flushed black her eyes flared like molten silver, crimson-red at the seams, soul-white at the centre, piercing as knife blades. Into those unblinking eyes the Volkihar stared, ensnared, and he tottered over without protest when Gwendis beckoned him with a finger. "Is that going to be a problem, little one?"

"No… no, that is not going to be a problem."

"Good. Send me Brynjolf."

"I'll send you Brynjolf."

"To the statue behind the temple."

"Yes… to the statue there."

He wandered away, after a little encouragement. Gwendis ensured he disappeared before she did the same. I really hope I didn't just waste myself on an idiot.

She'd found the crumbling old ruin tucked behind the city temple during her circles of the city backstreets. Divine reverence seldom mixed with thieves, let alone vampires; it seemed serviceable enough to host a conversation one did not wish overheard. Additionally it was one of the last quiet corners the city had left; seemed no refugee wanted to tempt fate by pitching tent in a graveyard. Gwendis climbed onto the statue's shoulders, shrouded herself in illusion, and waited.

A gentle mist had draped itself over Riften when the man appeared half an hour later, hooded and clad all in black leather. He picked his way unhurriedly towards the shrine, his feet well-trained in feigning the innocence of a midnight stroll. However, Gwendis sensed his disciplined tension, a cat patrolling its territory, ready to baulk at the slightest danger, and his heart drummed an uneasy pattern under his ribs. Gwendis carefully drew in his scent, and found herself surprised. He's not so self-assured as he appears. He's wary. Even scared. Not the wily fox Irileth promised I'd meet.

And beneath all that was something else that Gwendis had not expected of a thief. A whisper – faint, but assured – of daedric magic at the mortal core. He's not unsullied. He's dealt with a Daedric Prince. This Brynjolf was certainly turning out to be a riddle.

Perhaps he knew he was meeting with a vampire. Perhaps he already chafed at such arrangements between mortal and immortal. Perhaps it simply wasn't turning out as profitable as he'd once hoped. Thieves could be complicated when they wanted to be. Gwendis let him draw up beneath the shrine, staring up into the statue's face. Someone had clearly used it as knife-throwing practice previously; its stony austere features had been chipped into an almost unrecognizable mess.

"So," Brynjolf said softly, "this is what it's come to, eh, lad?"

He jumped as Gwendis resumed visibility on the statue's shoulders; she caught a snatch of brilliant green eyes before he ducked them beneath the rim of his cowl. Clearly he knew how to avoid vampiric suggestion. The old way, then. "It hasn't come to anything yet," said Gwendis, leaning on the tantalizing snippet. "Were you expecting someone? We haven't even opened negotiations."

"I told your kind already. We're not looking the other way anymore. If you want food, you can damned well hunt for it outside our city."

Gwendis forced herself to chuckle, even as her insides squirmed with revulsion. "Oh, my. Having trouble with your Volkihar colleagues, are we?" She chuckled again at his sudden silence. "I'm not surprised. They really are uncivilized, aren't they?"

Brynjolf frowned, and Gwendis knew her response had intrigued him, though still he didn't dare raise his eyes. "I don't follow."

"I am not one of Lord Harkon's little lackeys, although allow me to extend my regards to Lord Gendolin." Gwendis mimed a little bow that she hoped didn't appear too sarcastic. "I serve another Lord, mortal." Which was true, although hers had long taken his leave of Tamriel. "There's business to attend to. I hear you're the kind of man who can arrange it."

"Ah." Brynjolf recovered some of his old veneer. "Now that's the sort of discussion I only have with friends, lass, and I don't think we're there yet."

A plump coinpurse landed on the shrine dais, like some parody of an offering. "I also hear gold befriends any mortal."

"Now that, you've heard correctly." The coinpurse vanished in the blink of an eye. "So, lass, what sort of business are we talking?"

"The sort that is best said in person by its benefactor. He's asked for you personally, Brynjolf."

"Uh-uh." Brynjolf shook his head. "Hard no. I don't care how powerful he is. If your mystery benefactor wants business, he can damn well show up himself to hear it. If he wants to deal with mortals, he deals with 'em our way."

"Perhaps that is mortalkind's way. But for one Lord to enter another's domain, that is an act of challenge, not business." Gwendis leaned deeper into her lofty airs, grimacing to herself. Ugh, she hated being this slimy. "But I understand your suspicion, little mortal. It might even be called wisdom. You're a man whose heart beats with his city's. I only wonder what happens to you when the city's heart stops?"

Brynjolf tensed. "That isn't a threat, is it, lass?"

"Oh, certainly it is, but not from me. You didn't think the Dawnguard and the Empire would turn a blind eye forever, did you? Word across the province is both Tullius and Isran seem to think a city they can't control isn't a city worth saving."

"That's – impossible." But a fraction of uncertainty shadowed the reply. "My people have the roads watched, couriers tracked. Ears in every city. Nothing gets said that I don't hear about."

"Notoriety is spreading, Brynjolf. Why do you think I'm here?" Gwendis forced herself to chuckle. "It's not exactly a secret that Riften's firmly tucked in the Guild's pocket, or that the lofty Dragonborn bargained with vampires outside its walls. Not to those who pay attention. I'd imagine soldiers rampaging through the streets while Riften burns down a second time this Era would be very bad for business, wouldn't you say?"

"Business," said Brynjolf flatly. "Let's get back to that, shall we?"

Gwendis swung her legs over the statue's shoulder, bouncing her heels off its chest. "What a splendid idea."

Brynjolf was much harder to talk around than Gwendis had anticipated. Though there was an air of uneasy distraction that simmered beneath his professional surface, he was still canny and quick-witted. Still, House Ravenwatch was based in High Rock, where political intrigues danced among the Breton cities like ladies at a ball; glib tongues were essential for shrewd negotiations, and a thousand years left plenty of time for practice.

But in the end an agreement was reached – suspicion didn't keep coffers filled, or perhaps Brynjolf was simply curious to meet with a potential rival of his Guildmaster. A few hours before dawn, they slipped out of Riften and headed north, following the curve of the west road. The Snow-Shod farm was only a short walk from Riften's walls, with the shores of Lake Honrich gleaming in sight. The fog had thickened, shrouding the moonlight. Brynjolf was still careful to keep his eyes averted from Gwendis's as they walked side by side in noiseless harmony across the neglected farmyard. He walked poised again, on his guard. Gwendis guessed where his thoughts circled. No smart thief didn't anticipate a trap, and likely he'd spent the walk over considering every kind of ambush that might await him and how to slip it.

They stepped behind the windmill and found Irileth seated on an overturned barrel, softly running a whetstone on the jagged edge of her broken blade. Brynjolf stopped dead. "Housecarl," he said, and Gwendis knew the one scenario that never crossed his mind was Dawnguard and vampires working together. "What is this?"

Irileth's eyes flashed up. "What was it that you said? You couldn't afford the truth."

Brynjolf spun around and ran straight into Solen. With one swing the thief was laid flat on the ground, gasping, as bodies closed in around him on all sides. The blow had knocked Brynjolf's hood back, and his bright green eyes flashed warily among the ring of grim faces. "A little excessive even for you, Dragonborn, don't you think?" he muttered, nursing his jaw.

"I haven't even begun excessive," Solen said, and no one missed the thunder that quaked in his voice. "Get him up."

Njada Stonearm crossed to Brynjolf in two strides and in an instant had the thief on his feet with both arms pulled tight behind his back. "Doesn't feel so good being on the other end of this, does it?" she hissed spitefully in his ear. "Just be glad I don't have a wall to dangle you off."

"As if your famous Companion honour would let you," Brynjolf spat back, without any trace of his usual roguish charm.

"Huh! And what would a thief know about honour?" Vilkas shook his head in contempt. "I'm ashamed to even call you my countryman."

"Yet here you are in the dark with me, scheming underhanded ambushes with disgraced warriors and vampires." Brynjolf's eyes flickered over where Serana and Gwendis stood against the windmill. "Are the Dawnguard really that desperate? Working with your own sworn enemies. I didn't think you had the stomach for that sort of thing, Solen."

"You meet all sorts of interesting people when you're trying to stop the world being destroyed."

"Don't bandy with his bravado," said Aela boredly. "He knows he's cornered. Never heard someone's heart thunder so loud."

Florentius settled both hands on his amulet of Arkay. "All sinners fear when they feel the light of truth approaching."

"Shadows preserve me. You brought the priest?" Brynjolf managed a mirthless chuckle. "Well, haven't you all gone to the trouble to get my ear."

"Haven't we just." Solen drew up in front of Brynjolf. "No more games. Answers. Now."

"You haven't even asked me any questions, Dragonborn."

"Here's a few. How long has Gendolin been your Guildmaster? How long has he had the Guild working with the Volkihar? And why? Why sell out your own kind to vampires? You're thieves, not assassins. It was my understanding you preferred leaving your victims alive."

"You understand nothing. But by all means, keep acting like you know us. Why even bother asking?"

"I want to hear it from you."

"How noble of you. Then again, you were always the noble one, weren't you, lad? But you can't muscle your way into the city and rescue the damsel from the Dragon this time. You may not like to hear it, but the Guild's the only thing keeping those people alive."

"And why would that be? Why should Guildmaster Gendolin care for a little nest of frightened people in the back-end of nowhere while he's making plans to put out the sun?"

Brynjolf laughed. "You shouldn't believe everything you hear, Dragonborn."

A flash of surprise mingled with Solen's anger. "Maybe you should start."

"He's not lying," said Serana in amazement. "He has no idea the prophecy is real." And when Gwendis and Aela both confirmed it, a stir rose up among the group. Njada laughed scornfully.

"Oh, I've heard the saying 'thick as thieves', but I never thought you'd apply it literally."

"What are you talking about?" Brynjolf's eyes spun bewildered between them. "It's just one day –"

"Is that what Gendolin told you?" Solen tutted and shook his head. "And they said you were a smart man, Brynjolf."

Brynjolf bristled in Njada's arms. "I don't know what sort of bad blood lies between you and Gendolin, but I should think it's safe to say I know my own Guildmaster a damn sight better than you do. The Volkihar were putting Skyrim under their teeth long before he ever got involved with them – you want to know about Gendolin? He protected the Guild, and Riften, by falling in with them."

"Well, that's a different sort of song, isn't it?" Irileth sneered. "Never thought thieves had such big bleeding hearts for the people."

"Clearly it was the right call, given the Dawnguard and the Companions and even the high and mighty Dragonborn can't stop them."

"And guess why we can't do that, Brynjolf? Because your high and mighty Guildmaster keeps getting in our way." Solen seized the front buckles of Brynjolf's shirt. "I already warned you not to play games with me, thief. You're still hiding something, something important. Otherwise your heart wouldn't skip a beat whenever you say his name."

"And if I am?" Brynjolf narrowed his eyes. "I know what kind of man I'm dealing with, Solen. The brave Harbinger with a heart of gold. You shrink from the darkness in man and mer. The longer you pretend you'll torture me for information, the less inclined I am to give it."

Solen considered him for a moment. One second of silence followed another. Eventually he sighed heavily, coming to some sort of decision, then released Brynjolf's shirt and stepped away. "Let him go, Njada."

"Harbinger?" Njada looked perplexed, Aela wary.

"Go on. And step back a little. Give us some room."

Suspicious and reluctant, Njada did as bidden, glowering a bit as Brynjolf circled his liberated arms in a self-satisfied sort of way. "That's more like it. Maybe now, lad, we can come to a –"

Solen's hand slammed into the thief's throat, unyielding as stone. The ground vanished under Brynjolf's boots as he was thrust into the air, choking, scrabbling frantically at Solen's arm. The gathering exclaimed in open shock, and Vilkas shot forward. "What in Ysmir's name are –?!"

"I said," Solen snarled, "give us room."

The command lashed them all like a whip. Vilkas's outstretched arm slunk back to his side. He stepped back. No one dared interfere. Solen's eyes had never left the thief writhing in his grip.

"Maybe that's how it started." He spoke softly, chilled with menace. "Gods know that's how I would have liked it to end. But that's not how it's turned out. So that's not how this little talk will turn out, either." Brynjolf's eyes bulged. His heart was racing now, his pulse a mad tattoo against Solen's palm. "Perhaps I need to remind you just what you are dealing with. A man who, if he so chose, could melt your mind like butter. Drive you insane with terror. Shatter you to dust with a word. Rend your soul until there isn't a scrap of willpower left to bend. Do you know why I refrain from performing these atrocities upon my fellow man and mer, Brynjolf? Because I choose not to. Because choice is the destiny we write for ourselves. Because choice is the only thing that stands between good and evil, and I chose the brighter path. This life is all we have to shape our eternal souls, and oh, I dearly wanted mine to have a happy ending."

He squeezed, ever so slightly, and the thief twitched. "Your master ensured that will no longer happen, and now the things that once restrained me have lost their voice. So, while you squirm and struggle and play with lives like they're such inconsequential things, I find myself reminded that I've brought down Dragons. I've brought down self-named gods. What is one craven little man who values his own neck to all that?"

"He's not craven!" A new voice, an unfamiliar one, shot out of the night. "Put him down, or by all you hold dear, you'll never get your answers."

The area around them was unforthcoming of intrusion, though it sounded like the shout had rung down from above. The uneasy gathering seemed grateful for a distraction to draw their weapons on. "Fiirnaraan?" Solen prompted, still reluctant to tear his eyes away from his prey.

The Dragon's thrown voice fluttered erratically around the party. "They are upon the top of the windmill, Dovahkiin."

Solen lifted his nose, but he couldn't catch the speaker's scent – and nor, apparently, could the other bloodcursed, though Aela had her arrow trained on the windmill roof. "Show yourself," Irileth barked, crossbow in hand, "or we'll bring you down one way or another."

The interloper appeared a moment later, unfolding out of invisibility as if the night had simply made way around her. She was dressed in pitch-dark armour, strikingly familiar, and had a bow at full draw, the arrowpoint aimed between Solen's eyes. "Put Brynjolf down," she said firmly, heedless of the volley now aimed up at her, "and we'll tell you everything you need to hear about Gendolin. I swear by the Lady of Twilight."

"We?" echoed Solen, and jerked his chin at the red-haired thief. "You're with him?"

"Oh, that one is," growled Njada, reaching for her weapon. "Don't think we've forgotten that armour. Or that voice. Or whose boots you lick."

"Solen," Aela warned. Brynjolf's eyes had closed, and the rapid pulse was slowing.

Solen looked back up at the shadowy figure perched on the windmill, then made a disgruntled show of dropping Brynjolf into a boneless, gasping heap on the forest floor. "So," he said, brushing off his hands as he addressed the shadowy marksman, "are you coming down, or do you need encouragement?"

The archer relaxed her bow's draw. "Peace, Dragonborn. I'll come. There won't be any need for weapons."

"Huh!" said Vilkas with great disdain, but he stood quietly with the rest of them as the black-clad thief climbed skilfully down the windmill's masonry and leapt lightly into the gathering. Ignoring the weapons still bristling around her, she went straight to the spluttering Brynjolf and helped him sit up.

"Lass –" The Nord wheezed for words. "Karliah – you can't – you know we…"

"I think it's beyond helping now, Bryn. You know that's not the same mer we took our oaths with. And we're well past dealing with this on our own." The cowled woman turned and stiffened as Eldródr's tip pressed lightly against her hooded neck. "I said," she told Solen with some hesitant force, "there won't be need for weapons."

"I heard you." Solen forced her up to standing. "But I don't trust you. You were on the walls that night. You wear Gendolin's armour."

"You mean he wears our armour. The armour of the Lady." A twinge of bitterness crept into Karliah's voice. "He defiles it with his service to another Prince."

"Another?" Aela repeated.

"Yes." The woman's heartbeat was steady with truth. "Gendolin, Brynjolf and I are Nightingales – agents of the Night Mistress, Lady Luck, the Shadow Thief. You might know Her best as Nocturnal."

Another patron? Solen almost rolled his eyes. "You'd think the Night Mother and Molag Bal would be enough for one elf." Then again, considering how many one-off adventures he'd ended up doing for the daedra lords, he couldn't really talk. "You mentioned oaths?"

"That's right. We were all sworn into the service of Lady Nocturnal, to become one with the shadows, Her luck to favour our deeds. The Thieves Guild has always been led by such a triumvirate."

So, that would explain the vaguely peculiar scent Solen could smell off her, now that she was up close – the scent all mortals had at their core when they touched Oblivion. He wondered if it was why Karliah's natural scent remained curiously absent, or if the nature of whatever blessing her patron had granted her disguised it. Come to think of it, Brynjolf carried a similar scent as well, although his natural musk came through just fine. It wasn't quite a bloodcurse, but definitely some form of Daedric magic was theirs to call their own. "And Gendolin has been lucky," Solen reasoned aloud. "More than lucky. Everything always falls into place with that weaselly bastard."

"Aye." Brynjolf, still wheezing, managed to find his feet again. "He was just what the Guild needed, when betrayal and curses nearly ran us in the ground. He was clever, capable. Came to us a few years ago and pulled us from the brink."

"And then the Thieves Guild came back stronger for it – all across Skyrim – under his leadership?" Irileth realized. "Nchow. I shouldn't wonder, if the Nightingales are no myth."

Solen snorted. "I expected he needed a new hobby after I vanquished his beloved Dark Brotherhood. So, servants of Nocturnal, care to explain why you're all for Gendolin bringing about ten thousand years of darkness?"

"We're not." Karliah shook her head. "Shadows need light, not darkness, to flourish. Please believe us, we wanted no part in this madness. We never could have imagined the path we would be set on."

"He was different then, that lad," said Brynjolf. "Don't give me that look, Dragonborn, he was. A young vagabond down on his luck. Quick with his fingers and a smile. We're a tight lot, the Thieves Guild, and he was the tightest. A devoted Guildbrother, always emphasizing the importance of family."

"Probably because he'd lost his dear collective of homicidal siblings recently," said Solen flatly. "Poor little Wood Elf. I'm weeping profusely for his tragedy. Well, get on with it, before I run out of tears."

"It's why we trusted him," said Brynjolf flatly, massaging his neck, "and why we made him Guildmaster, after a certain string of events left a vacancy in leadership. And under him the Guild regained our golden days. Looking at him then, you wouldn't have recognized him." He paused suddenly. "Although… he was always bitter, wasn't he, lass?"

"He never forgot his first family, no," said Karliah quietly. "I don't imagine it's easy to forget, coming from something like the Dark Brotherhood. How many times we found him brooding by that statue of Talos…"

Gwendis frowned. "Statue? Not the one with its face chunked off?"

"Subtle," Solen muttered, unconsciously touching the holy pendant of his Divine forebear. "Guess he held onto his dear Night Mother's last whispers as he planned his almighty revenge."

"Couldn't say what went through his head in those moments," said Karliah, "only that they were nothing happy. With time, I thought, those wounds would heal. The Guild flourished under his leadership. We thrived as we haven't for a quarter century. Then one day Gendolin returned… changed. He warned us that the Volkihar clan had a plan that threatened all of Skyrim. But he'd joined their number – more than that, he'd become their champion, his authority second only to the clan's blood-sire – and he had a plan to protect the Guild, all of Riften, from the evil that was coming."

"And that didn't strike you as remotely suspicious."

"Gendolin was our Guildmaster. He was a good one. Clever, talented. Loyal to us alone… or so we thought." Karliah sighed angrily. "We trusted him to lead us and put the Guild first – Azura's breath, that his very oath to Nocturnal held stronger than whatever had bound him to these vampires."

Serana tentatively offered, "It sounds like he just used you too."

"I suppose he did." Karliah and Brynjolf exchanged dark looks. "We didn't want to believe it. We didn't want to think such betrayal from within could have happened again, so soon. Nor did we dare propose it. Infighting almost destroyed us once; for the Guild's sake, it could not happen again."

"So you followed orders," Vilkas concluded, "and hoped it would all go away."

Njada scoffed and folded her arms. "Was it before or after he thrust us into your laps that you two realized he was out of his bloody mind?"

The pair of them at least had the decency to look a bit ashamed of themselves. "It had to have been then, Bryn," said Karliah heavily. "The way he swaggered on the walls. How those vampires feared him. He told us it was all out of necessity, that he said only what needed to be said, but… I think he enjoyed it. And I don't think he was 'pretending' to hurt the cityfolk to get that Moth Priest."

Brynjolf sighed and massaged his swollen throat. "Aye, lass. I think you're right. It only grew worse from there, didn't it?" They almost seemed to have forgotten they were within an interrogatory ring. "The disappearances. The orders. It wasn't about the Guild surviving anymore, it was just… serving."

"And by then, of course, we couldn't stop him." Karliah looked back at Solen. "He refused our counsel. No one dared to disobey him. He asked us to keep the Guild running in his absence, keep Riften calm and safe. He wanted us to keep our hands tied with the vampiric agents he left controlling the city, and the Empire unaware."

"Unaware how?" Solen's throat tightened. "The soldiers there – the Legate – what happened to them?"

"I…" Karliah hesitated. "Some soldiers… disappeared, that we know. I fear they won't be seen again. The rest began acting strange. Enchanted, we thought."

"Thralled, you mean. The Legate, then – Fasendil. Their superior." Solen couldn't bear it any longer. "Was he killed?"

"I can't tell you. Because I don't know," Karliah added quickly, as Solen's anger threatened. "His office was inside Mistveil Keep, and no one enters or leaves. Even the Guild can't find entry. It's been shut tight ever since…"

"Since that hooded man came to Riften," Irileth realized, her eyes flaring with memory. She whirled on Brynjolf. "The one who entered Mistveil Keep and never left. It was one of Gendolin's agents, wasn't it? Sent to 'advise' Maven Black-Briar's court."

Florentius harrumphed enormously and folded his arms. "I suppose now, you disgraceful Daedric fiend, that you shall take this gracious opportunity to repent a little and afford us this desirable information?"

"Huh." Brynjolf glanced wryly at Karliah. "Guess all the cards are down now, aren't they, lass? All right. That one showed up after Gendolin came and went. Cosied himself nice and tight with Maven's court. It's that one who's really running things in Riften. We're not even sure if he's here on Gendolin's orders, he's never had anything to do or say with the Guild. Orthjolf, I think, was the name –"

He looked confused as every head immediately swung in Irileth's direction. "Oh. D'you recognize him?"

The Housecarl stood still and pale. The frigid air around her seemed to crackle with flame. "Confirm it," she hissed; the broken blade flashed in her hand like lightning. "Confirm it's him."

Brynjolf, bewildered, did so – a vampire Nordic in appearance with thick gold hair. Even he seemed alarmed at the fire that had ignited within Irileth's demeanour as he asked, "D'you know him, Housecarl?"

"Know him? He is the one who murdered my Jarl. He was in this city, in my sights, all this time!" Quite suddenly, Irileth lunged towards him, murder in her bloodred eyes. "And you refused to tell me, for gold!"

No one was faster than Florentius, who did what no man or woman in Whiterun had ever dared to do; he flung himself between the enraged Dunmer and the subject of her unbridled wrath. "Irileth," the priest urged, as the thief flinched back from this fresh attempt to kill him, "rage however righteous will not help you now. The past are ashes buried – Irileth!" He seized her – actually seized her! – when she tried to shake him off. "Arkay assures me that you will fulfil your quest. But it cannot be done here."

Scorching sparks flew from the Housecarl's eyes. "I warn you, priest –"

"It would be murder, Irileth." Florentius spoke with unexpected lucidity. "Murder, here and now, while they stand repentant. Their divine judgement will come for their wicked deeds, I promise you – but that is not yours to bring. That is not what Arkay has marked you for."

Irileth glowered into Florentius's solemn and unyielding expression. Finally, she stepped back with a cooler protest – "Arkay didn't choose this path for me, priest." – and the broken blade settled back within its scabbard. And all four Companions looked among themselves in sheer amazement and solemnly vowed to never laugh behind the priest's back again.

Gwendis arched her eyebrows and glanced at Aela. "Are talks in Skyrim always like this?"

Aela shrugged. "Pretty much. Though usually with more mead."

"Damn. I should visit more often." Gwendis strolled up to the two thieves; her silver eyes had returned to their old crimson hue, and now they appraised the two Nightingales intently. "Your secrets have caused a lot of suffering," she said. "But it's not too late to redeem yourselves, or your Guild, for enabling the Volkihar's evil to rage unchecked. Can the Dawnguard count on you to set things right?"

Both Irileth and Florentius gave disbelieving mutters. Karliah and Brynjolf frowned at one another. Brynjolf blew a heavy sigh and scrubbed the sweat off his forehead. "Talos knows it'd be nice to just get back to honest larceny again."

"Agreed. The Lady's blessings should never have been used in such a manner." Karliah turned to Solen. "You pursue Gendolin, don't you?"

Solen clenched his teeth. "To death."

"Good. He's past forgiveness." Karliah's eyes flashed from beneath her cowl. "He's not Nocturnal's anymore, whatever he is now. He must be destroyed. I only urge you caution. The Queen of Murk blessed him with the Nightingale's luck; he serves, or served, as Her Agent of Strife."

"Well, that'd certainly explain how he's sown so much it across the province," Solen grumbled. "Only if he's Molag Bal's favourite toy now, why's Nocturnal still giving him a damn?"

"Because the subject of our oath still holds true. And that, we shan't reveal. For then we would have to kill you."

"Wonderful." Solen realized then that he still had Eldródr poised at Karliah's neck; he lowered it quickly. "You're really going to rip the Riften carpet out from under Gendolin's feet?"

"As the Agents of Shadow and Subterfuge, we'll certainly try."

Serana came forward, almost perplexed. "You really didn't know about the prophecy – about the reason Gendolin's done this to your people, your city?"

Brynjolf shrugged. "He made mention of it, lass, enough to make us uneasy. That the Volkihar intended a day of night to feast in frenzy all across Skyrim. It's a lot worse than he ever let on, isn't it?"

Serana scoffed and shook her head in dismay. "Much worse." Which seemed to remind everyone that finding out what in the Nine was happening in Riften had been a side quest, not their main mission, as they travelled northwest through Skyrim.

"Thane Solen." Irileth gripped the hilt of the broken sword. "I know where I need to be. That won't be with you."

Which surprised a grand total of no one, Solen least of all. "I figured. If Isran gives you a hard time, punch him in the nose for me. We'll find the Bow."

"Arkay compels me to stay as well, Dragonborn," Florentius added quickly. "As much as it pains me to leave you to search for the divine tool of Akatosh Himself, especially in… less auspicious company (both Serana and Aela rolled their eyes), He is –" Florentius winced and touched his ears. "– quite insistent that my place is here, to purify the corruption of Riften."

Neither Nightingale seemed too thrilled to hear this, which lent a vicious smirk to Solen's face. "Sounds like a plan, Florentius."

"Me three." Gwendis waved her fingers. "Cave crawling's not really my thing. Irileth, it won't hurt to have an elder vampire of your own if you're going after one."

"Are you sure?" Serana frowned, and seemed uneasy. "We could use the wisdom of a Ravenwatch for what's coming."

"Hah!" Gwendis flashed her a toothy grin. "You'll want Adusa if you want wisdom, Serana. She stayed up north after we turned south. Knowing her, she'll still be on Gendolin's trail. Besides, I don't like whatever's been planned for Riften. Call it gut instinct, but those townspeople haven't been all bottled up like that for no reason."

"Couldn't agree more," said Solen, and after a moment's consideration, "Fiirnaraan, still there?"

"But of course, Dovahkiin." Both Karliah and Brynjolf yelled in fright as the Dragon's head – and only his head – manifested over a sheepfold fence. "And I have heard everything, very carefully. I would also like to play this game."

"I thought you might. The Dawnguard will need your eyes and ears down here more than up north." As useful as it would be to have eyes from above to search the Haafingar mounts, Solen knew it was the right call to make. Skyrim could not have been in a worse position to face the winter, and the north would feel it hardest; at least down here in the milder Rift, Fiirnaraan could keep his belly full and his mind sharp, with plenty of vampiric prey to pursue.

Which left him with an admittedly very small party of himself, the Circle, and Serana to pursue Auriel's Bow, and perhaps even Gendolin. For now, Solen thought, as he tucked Eldródr to bed in its scabbard at long last. The road is always changing, after all.

As dawn crested the horizon, and the company prepared to part their separate ways, Irileth took Solen aside. "There's something that's rankled me," she muttered. "Something the Nightingale said."

"You'll have to be more specific. There's a lot of rankling things that got said."

Irileth's eyes flashed like sunlit steel. "Brynjolf said the Volkihar were planning something long before Gendolin ever turned. He isn't wrong."

Solen thought about it for a moment, then realized what ought to have been profoundly obvious from the beginning. "He's not. Balgruuf was murdered before Serana was ever found –"

"– and before Gendolin ever became their champion. Yet the Volkihar didn't start chasing this prophecy in earnest until Serana returned, she claims – I don't like the woman, but right now she doesn't strike me as a liar. From all we've learned, Gendolin believes that by bringing about the Day of Black Sun, he'll kill you, make a spectacle, avenge his Dark Family, fulfil the Sacrament and satisfy his Prince all in one fell swoop. He's planned this almost from the start, or he'd never have left you alive in Dimhollow – and so, the question remains…"

"How did he know, before he should have known?" Solen tightened his fist. "Luck only gets someone so far. There's still a piece of this puzzle missing, isn't there?"

"Exactly." Irileth narrowed her eyes. "Call it a Housecarl's intuition. But I think I'll find the answer with the vermin who set us both on this path at all."