[A/N]: Hallo everyone and welcome back! I've got a real treat and a 10k word monster of a chapter for you today, so strap in as we return, at last, to Riften...

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

~ …IS TO CAST IT UPON YOUR ENEMY ~

Shortly after sunset, as the sky scudded over with freezing clouds forewarning a bitterly frigid night, Gwendis returned with the two Nightingales. Irileth quit watching Florentius and Mogrul playing cards as the three stepped into the shadow of the leafless maples. "Good. Now we can get on with it. You weren't followed?"

"Don't worry. Our scaly friend's still keeping watch out there." Gwendis frowned among Irileth's company. "You sure this is all you want to bring?"

Want had nothing to do with it, Irileth thought. Both Florentius and Isran had insisted upon mobilizing all their remaining operatives against the bloodfiend plague across the Rift, in a rare moment of mutuality between them. "We don't need more than this," she said instead, nodding at the priest, Mogrul and Kjennar. "They'll do what needs be done."

"Or suffer a wrath more frightful than Lord Harkon himself," said Kjennar, from where he lay keeping watch above the ditch. He winked down at Brynjolf. "And here I recalled you saying I wasn't cut out for this business."

"Working for the Guild and working with the Guild are two different things, lad," Brynjolf answered lightly, and then to Irileth, "Sunup. That's when we can get you inside the city. The bloodsuckers have the rule of the Ratways, but for a safehouse we agreed you can use –"

"Change of plan." Irileth gripped her swordhilt. "We're getting into Mistveil Keep tonight."

Karliah hissed in alarm. "You can't be serious. We're not –"

Irileth raised a clenched fist, silencing the thief. "Two weeks," she scowled. "That's how long it's been since Florentius figured it out. Two weeks, we've waited in the wilds while you and Gwendis have arranged an infiltration of the city. Two weeks, we've dispersed Dawnguard all over the Hold to track down bloodfiend nests and their vampire forebears. One of our operatives got scratched – scratched – by a bloodfiend. She didn't even notice until it was too late. Do you know how long it took her to turn? Four hours."

The thieves stiffened. Irileth pointed at Riften's walls, still visible on the edge of sight. "Ravenwatch also reports the vampire agents still stationed in the city have been on high alert all this last fortnight. They're almost bold enough to walk in the open. Since she's confident your Guild's still holding to its word, that means whatever they're waiting for, whatever still restrains them from making a bloodfiend nest out of your city, they're expecting it, and soon. Like it or not, thief, we're out of time." To Gwendis, Irileth demanded, "You're certain that Gendolin's made no reappearance?"

"None, Housecarl. Between Fiir and I, no shadow goes unturned in there. I'd swear that Dragon's half-owl, even I can't hear him flying." Gwendis swept a lock of vivid red hair from her face. "So, Brynjolf – can it be done?"

They almost heard his brow furrowing under his cowl. "The Keep's always well-guarded. Every passage watched. If Orthjolf's sentries could be put down…"

Mogrul patted the stock of his well-oiled crossbow. "That won't be hard."

"The hard part will be staying quiet about it." Karliah scowled disdainfully at the weapon. "They'll hear those things a mile off. Staying undetected is paramount. As soon as Orthjolf learns the Guild's turned against him – we can't assume Gendolin hasn't told him everything about us. I doubt he's the forgiving type."

"Neither am I." Irileth seized the broken blade. "Hold your nerve and do this right, and Orthjolf won't be your problem anymore."

The menace in her voice left none in doubt that the deed would be done, given half a chance. The thieves glanced at one another and seemed to rally to it. "I'll ready the Guild," Karliah murmured, and without waiting for dismissal vanished utterly into thin air; not even Gwendis could follow her departure. Nocturnal's agents, Irileth reminded herself with satisfaction; privately she was glad to have such Daedra-blessed on their side.

Brynjolf glanced at Florentius, remote and quiet, clutching his holy amulet. "You sure you want to bring that one? He's not exactly the cloak and dagger sort."

Florentius levelled the thief a frosty look. "I do not care for such underhanded schemes, particularly when they are undertaken alongside such unscrupulous souls. But for now, Arkay forgives it; this is the course that must be taken to free those innocents from the gallows of strife."

"He's coming," said Irileth flatly. She'd given up trying to talk him out of it.

It didn't snow overnight, thankfully, but a freezing grey fog descended over Lake Honrich like a blanket just before dawn, and suspended the world in an eerie stillness. The lake barely seemed to ripple, and the network of wharfs and quays that formed the Riften harbour were eerily quiet, as if the Hold itself was holding its breath. Fishing skiffs and ferries bobbed dreamily at anchor. Though they moved slowly, every footfall placed with care, Irileth still felt them all horribly loud and exposed. Every rustle of their lamellar and metal plate jingled profoundly in their ears.

But they crossed from the north end of the harbour to the south without incident, as Brynjolf had promised they would; the encroaching dawn saw any vampiric sentries more concerned with evading the exhaustion of the sun than guarding wet timber. The Dawnguard tucked themselves against an abandoned fishing tack warehouse and peered at the corner of the west and south walls, which merged with the flank of Mistveil Keep. An old and unassuming sewer grate, with a filthy waterfall gurgling out its seams, stood guarded by a pair of very bored vampires. Irileth shifted her hands to the stock of her crossbow. "That's the place?"

Brynjolf nodded. "Leads right up into the Riften jail, under the Keep. That little beauty is an old Guild route, should any of our siblings find themselves behind bars. It's also one of the first ways we ever tried getting back into the Keep, after Maven shut the doors on the Guild."

"And it didn't work because…?"

"The Guildmate who tried barely got out alive. The sewer's crawling with vampires now." Brynjolf sighed grimly. "It's the fastest, most direct way into the Keep – and the most dangerous. Those bloodsuckers have made it into a thoroughfare. Only time it's ever quiet like this is during daylight."

"Why? Front door too good for them?" Mogrul grunted.

Gwendis shook her head, faintly revolted. "It's a direct route to the larder. The Volkihar's 'repurposed' the jail into a cattle cellar, haven't they?"

"Couldn't confirm, lass. But it'd make sense."

Irileth's jaw tightened with disgust. She raised her crossbow, sighting down one of the sentries. Brynjolf put his hand over the barrel and forced it down again, shaking his head. "I'll take these two."

"You?" Irileth couldn't resist a mote of derision. "I thought thieves didn't kill."

Brynjolf's green eyes flashed under his nightblack cowl. "Doesn't mean we can't, Housecarl." Like a phantom he swung himself over the wharf, his cloak streaming after him like liquid shadow. No one heard him hit the water.

They spotted him a moment later upon the gravelly shoreline, walking jauntily without the remotest attempt at stealth. The two vampires noticed him at once and instantly reached for their weapons, hissing like nix-hounds, even as Brynjolf waved merrily. "Morning, lads."

"You overstep your bounds, mortal," one of the vampires began. "I thank you. I was getting thirsty."

"Wait, Rakil. He wears the armour." Slightly resentfully, the second vampire snarled, "You still overstep, thief. You know you are forbidden from leaving the city."

"Come now, Luenne, a Nord's entitled to a little lakeside stroll, isn't he?" Brynjolf leaned against the wall, casual as he pleased, as the two vampires closed in on him.

"Not here you aren't." Rakil drew a cruel knife. "Gendolin may be displeased if we kill you. Orthjolf, however, would agree that trespass warrants a price."

"Oh, but you are a bold one." Brynjolf's voice was silky smooth. "Well, if it's blood you want, I reckon it's what you'll get, won't he, Luenne?"

It happened in an instant – Luenne's hatchet sank up to the hilt into Rakil's spine. The vampire's shriek was cut off as Brynjolf's fist whirled into his windpipe. Rakil choked and staggered; Luenne ripped her axe free and sank it into his head, pitching him into the lake. A peculiar red and purple halo shimmered around her head like an eerie crown. The bewildered vampire stared at her hands in shock. "Wh-why did I do that?" Such was her confusion that she never noticed Brynjolf slip two daggers into her spine, dropping her like a stone.

"Mauloch's tusks," Mogrul muttered in sudden trepidation, "what was that? How did he do that?"

Irileth had a hunch, as the Nightingale waved them down. Agent of Subterfuge, indeed. "Stay focused," she admonished the Orc. "The way in's clear. That's all that matters."

They climbed much less gracefully than Brynjolf off the pier and joined him at the sewer pipe. By then the thief had slid both vampires' bodies into the lake. "Give me a hand with this," he grunted, tugging on the grate. Mogrul stepped up to lend assistance, and together they had the mesh of iron dislodged and set carefully to one side. The Dawnguard gathered around the opening, gurgling out its watery refuse. Kjennar wrinkled his nose. "Smells like a troll's nethers in there. We're really climbing up in there?"

"Thank you for volunteering to go first," said Irileth curtly. Kjennar pulled another face, then shouldered his crossbow and hauled himself inside. "Karliah coming with us?" she asked Brynjolf, as Florentius and Mogrul followed suit.

"I doubt it." Brynjolf set his fists on his hips. "The lass and the Guild will have their hands full with the rest of the Volkihar in the Ratways. If those crawlers realize Mistveil's in danger –" He scowled, as if reminded what was at stake. "Better hurry up, Housecarl. No going back now."

Irileth paused only to call softly, "Make sure no one follows us, Fiirnaraan."

The Dragon's disembodied voice floated across the lake. "Of course, Irileth."

Brynjolf shook his head in quiet amazement as he and Irileth and Gwendis leapt up into the secret passage. "Still find it hard to believe you people employed an actual Dragon…"

"I find it harder to believe the Guild's finally grown a spine."

"Huh! Don't know why you need two swords when your words cut well enough, Housecarl."

The Dawnguard operatives were all quite accustomed to traversing dark vampire lairs; in single file they ventured into the sewer system with steady hands and nerves, crossbows at the ready and a stealthy tread to their step. It wasn't totally dark; the mould and fungus growing in the seams of the masonry gave off a faint luminescence, though it was barely enough to outline the wastewater curling unpleasantly around their boots. "Not the homecoming you imagined, eh, Kjen?" Mogrul murmured, as the odorous air breezed past their faces.

"Oh, this place was never home, Moggie." Kjennar spoke just loud enough for Brynjolf to hear. "Just business, 'till it wasn't."

"Eyes forward, operatives," Irileth growled, and obediently they hushed.

When the narrow passages widened into a junction, Irileth let Kjennar fall in behind as Brynjolf took the lead. It seemed the sewer was prone to splitting itself off and wandering away with new limbs, and that the thief had a method for navigating the labyrinth. No sooner had he discerned the course to follow, however, when Florentius made an odd whimpering noise and slumped.

"Whoa – mind your step," Mogrul muttered, mercifully intervening before Florentius planted his face into the foul sludge. "Hold it together, priest… Mauloch help me, not again. Irileth?"

Florentius quivered, his hands clutching his temple as if fighting off a pounding headache. Irileth brushed past Kjennar and seized his collar. "Eyes up, damn you. You can't do this now, do you hear me?"

"So much… Divines help me." Florentius moaned and shuddered. "So much evil. What lies ahead… such darkness… can hardly breathe…"

Irileth was hard-pressed not to slap him. Not that it'd ever worked. She gave him a rough shake. "Come back down. You're still breathing, evil or not, and you will resume your feet and stay on them, Dawnguard. You know your duty just the same as the rest of us. Do you hear me?"

Gasping, sweating, Florentius's eyes refocused. Irileth shook his shoulder until his head jerked up. "I said, do you hear me?"

Gingerly he nodded. "Irileth…"

"We get it. Something unspeakably atrocious is up ahead and Arkay wants to make sure we're all aware of it. Tell Him to lay off you until the mission's done. If you collapse on us –" Irileth bit back on a crueller warning. "Collapse," she said instead, "and you can't do whatever He sent you here to do. So keep your feet, shut Him out, and stay in the moment. Do you hear me?"

Florentius swallowed and nodded again. "I hear you, Housecarl. I… I will try."

Irileth stepped back. "Watch him," she ordered Mogrul, who didn't look enthused to be saddled with priest-minding duty but didn't dare complain.

Brynjolf chuckled softly once they were moving again, him and Irileth at the lead. "Staying in the moment. Not something you often hear mer say. Then again, you've always been an odd one, haven't you, Housecarl?"

Uncertain where this was going, Irileth muttered dryly, "Whatever gave you that idea?"

"You're an elf with the Nords' utmost respect. Hard thing to earn in Skyrim. Yet here you are among the skeevers and rats, not a whisper about honourable combat, no death or glory. You walk the darkness like it's an old friend."

So, he'd noticed. Of course he would. Certainly this dark maze with the mission ahead had sent Irileth back in time again. Furtive passages, irreverent intentions, and a promise of blood at the end. "Because it is," she murmured back, and almost hoped Florentius wouldn't hear. "But you already figured that out in the tavern."

"Wouldn't say figured, Housecarl. Just a feeling." Brynjolf stopped to examine an odd angular scratching at the next sewer junction. "Makes a man wonder what put you in the Housecarl's shining shoes, if you had those kinds of friends."

He spoke with the light, almost playful curiosity so reminiscent of Solen. Irileth's hand moved against the broken blade. "A contract," she said quietly. She remembered it well. The description. The struggle. The laughter. Gods, he'd laughed through it all, when he should've been afraid. "Back then I didn't know why he wasn't afraid to die. I thought he was like any other Nord. Stoic, stupid, reckless, until the moment death actually took them. But it wasn't some fearlessness of death that spurred him, it was joy. The joy of the fight itself. His kind celebrated life by risking it, while mine devote ourselves to its end and what lies after it; rite and ancestor and offering, our days spent in servitude of the inevitable doom. He said I was wasted living for death. My heart's fire burned as bright as any one of his people's. He offered to show me how to live."

Brynjolf tilted his head. "And you accepted?"

"We campaigned together. Showed me the Nord way of fighting. The laughter and joy and thrill of being in the moment, not beyond it. The more I saw, the less inclined I felt to return. I don't even know why he earned the contract on his head, and I'm still not sure why I never fulfilled it. I owed my life to the Tong, they who found a Houseless orphan and raised her to a life of purpose." Irileth sighed faintly. "But he was right. I was wasted in the dark. I was damned good at fighting in the open, too. And I enjoyed it. Living alive."

Her ears pricked as a rattle none of them had made swept down the sewer system. Irileth shrank automatically back against the wall. Not that you ever forget how to strike from the dark. "Ravenwatch."

"Got it." Irileth felt a cold, dry breeze tug at her hair as the vampire misted by. Gwendis returned only a moment later. "One up ahead. He's standing across the tunnel end up, not moving. Another pair below. Passage drops down into some sort of chamber."

"How old?"

"Young enough to handle. Old enough to be a problem if handled wrong."

"Can we advance?"

"A little."

Once the advance had been made, and they saw the situation for themselves in the light of a torch sconce blazing on the wall, Kjennar spun a knife eagerly between his fingers. "Come on, Housecarl. He's practically begging. Stupid fanger's got his back to us."

"Two below won't be a problem either," Mogrul grinned, gripping his crossbow.

"They will be if they choose to run instead of fight," Irileth growled, "which they'll do as soon as they realize we outnumber them." She slung the crossbow over her back. "I'll clear the balcony. On my mark – Kjennar, Mogrul – flank me and finish the other two."

"I should," Brynjolf started, but Kjennar shook his head at him.

"Trust me. This'll be a treat."

The passage leading up to where the vampire stood was drier; nothing disguised the sound of footfall. Irileth made none as she approached with slow, stealthy, delicate care; children of Mephala never forgot how to walk as if the floor was void and spider-thread. The broken blade flowed slowly from its scabbard without so much as a whisper. Irileth drew right up behind him and allowed the vampire to shift boredly from foot to foot. Then she struck.

Cutting the throat was a waste of time on enemies that no longer needed to breathe. One hand seized the vampire's wrist and twisted hard, pulling him backwards even as the other drove the jagged adamantine point of the broken blade straight up the soft of the jaw and into the skull. No creature with a brain survived without it. The vampire had not even a chance to gurgle as he folded back against Irileth's shoulder, stricken dead. Swiftly, neatly, she laid him straight on the floor and beckoned her operatives forward.

The vampires below, still unseen, were quick to notice their friend's disappearance. "Huh. Where'd Ennif get off to?"

Mogrul and Kjennar flashed onto the step, picking out their targets without a moment's hesitation. The crossbows barked loudly and in unison, echoing within the chamber with unpleasant volume. Mogrul's dropped dead in an instant; the Orc seldom needed to fire twice. Kjennar's fell with a splintered wheeze of pain, the bolt transfixed between his ribs. He tried to drag himself backwards and away; a silver knife flashed brightly in flight and lodged into the vampire's temple, finishing him off.

"Reckon they heard?" Mogrul frowned, reloading his crossbow.

"I'll check." Gwendis leapt down. "Brynjolf, which one?" The sewer had divided again, two passages at the end.

"Left one," Brynjolf said, and she was gone at once. "Had no idea you could even get that close to them," he muttered as he passed Irileth.

"Young ones can't hear below the skin yet." Irileth cleaned off her blade. "But breath will still give you away. Not many have the nerve to get this close."

"Except those raised up as assassins, eh?"

Irileth didn't answer. She didn't need to.

In the chamber below, Mogrul and Kjennar recovered their projectiles off the vampires' bodies. "Colour me curious why there's still vampires in Riften at all," Mogrul remarked, wrenching his bolt out of his enemy's forehead. "I recall mister high-and-mighty saying he'd withdraw his clan from Riften when we turned the Moth Priest over."

"He did," Brynjolf frowned. "At least, Gendolin left Riften with a swarm. I'm sure he left a few spies behind."

"Like the ones outside?" Kjennar recalled. "Friends of yours?"

"I make it a point to know everyone in my city, lad. Even them. But the ones who stayed, they're all Orthjolf's toadies. I'd bet my bottom septim."

"Ugh." Kjennar spat. "Just what we need. Vampires and politics."

Florentius tutted. "I fail to see what difference it makes. They're all in the same clan, serving the same fell master."

"They're powerful creatures," Irileth answered flatly. "Power invites challenge. I'd be more worried if there wasn't infighting."

Not for the first time her mind returned to dissecting the yet-unanswered riddle of the power triad between these three master vampires – Harkon, Gendolin, Orthjolf. Who served whom? Whose orders were being followed in this city of sin? She frowned questioningly at Brynjolf; the thief only shrugged. "Couldn't say which one toadies for whom, Housecarl. Gendolin never said and the Guild never could find out. Wouldn't mind learning it before you stick that sword of yours into Orthjolf's face."

Despite the vengeance that fired her soul, Irileth was curious as well. Plots were as much Mephala's sphere as murder. "We'll see," she said, and slammed the broken blade back into its sheath.

The smell hit them first, even before they reached the end of the passages with a trail of dead vampires littered in their wake. "Gods' blood," Kjennar choked, burying his nose into the crook of an elbow. No one needed to ask what it was.

Florentius shook and clutched his amulet, lips moving rapidly in silent prayer. One by one they filed out of the tunnel and into an old jail cell. The air hummed with an evil suspense, rank with the stench of unwashed bodies and ragged breathing. "Steady," Irileth muttered, as their eyes accustomed to the torchlit gloom. "We've all seen their cellars before."

"Who's there? Not trying for seconds, are you, Valindor?" Before the Dawnguard could even think about concealing themselves, a pair of scorching eyes appeared on the other side of the cell bars. "My, my… what have we here?"

Gwendis manifested over the vampire's shoulder, her dagger already thrust through his neck – Irileth hadn't even felt the Ravenwatch disappear from their sides. She whipped it free and broke his spine in one swift motion. Her eyes blazed with a cold light. Several more shouts of alarm went up across the jail, and Gwendis whirled with fangs bared and dagger gleaming, her veins black under her chalk-white skin. She flashed out of sight; all heard the sickening squelches and thuds and the brutal snapping of spines. It took only a few brutal, bloody seconds before the jail fell silent again.

Kjennar spoke first. "I think I might be more scared of her than you now, Housecarl."

"Give me a moment." Gwendis reappeared in front of the bars, grim-faced. "I'll get the door open."

"Worry about them, lass, not us." Brynjolf barely seemed to touch the cell door's lock when it clicked and sprang away under his fingers. "Talos. I knew it'd be bad. Didn't think it'd be this bad."

Riften's jail was full of bodies – warm, breathing bodies, swathed in rags and unwashed clothes, scarred and gaunt with eyes hollower than any thrall. Every cell but the tunnel's was full. There had to be at least a hundred people here, and most of them looked like Imperial soldiers. Gwendis's eyes flashed silver with fury as her senses took the measure of the whole wretched place. "The Volkihar will pay for this."

"Poor bastards." Mogrul stepped grimly to a neighbouring cell. "Don't suppose anything can be done for them?"

Irileth's scowl deepened as she took the measure of a ragged woman's gaunt face and the life still lingering behind her uncomfortably empty expression. "We've rescued cattle before." But never so many. "Florentius?"

The priest stood with a hand against his temple and the other outstretched in front of him, as if groping. "I… I don't even know where to begin, Irileth. So many souls. The corruption, so profound, and the presence… what's that? Please, don't shout – but, these people, mustn't we –?" Florentius blinked and staggered over to the railing. "He says they'll be saved. We can save all of them. But we mustn't linger here. We're so close to the source…"

"Irileth?" Kjennar prompted, a little uneasily.

"I know. I know." Irileth forced herself to look sensibly at the situation. The thought of leaving these people to languish in their cells gnawed at her, but time pressed against them. One duty overwhelmed another. The longer they delayed, the more likely Orthjolf would be alerted to them – and an emptied cellar would only be refilled if their mission failed and he remained alive.

"I'll stay." Gwendis paced back and forth, her fingers still curled into claws. "They'll be protected, on my oath as a Ravenwatch. Kill Orthjolf."

She looked steadily at Irileth, and the Dawnguard glanced uneasily between themselves. They'd come to trust Gwendis and the intentions of House Ravenwatch, even Isran, the man whose paranoia bordered almost on insanity. But this would be the ultimate test – leaving the wholly defenceless in the care of the very creature they'd sworn to destroy. Gwendis knew the weight of such a decision and stood waiting and silent. The blood of her own kind still dripped from her fingers.

"Not that my word counts for much," said Brynjolf, a wry grin in his voice, "but I'd trust the lass."

"Shouldn't you stay?" said Mogrul. "Thought this was your city and all."

"Oh, I would, lad, but something tells me you'll need a Nightingale's luck for what's coming."

Irileth nodded. The answer already felt settled in her mind. "Do what you can for them," she ordered, and Gwendis nodded crisply. "The rest of you – Brynjolf, take point. Florentius, screw your head back on and fall in –"

She spun around mid-speech as their eyes slid past her, her crossbow primed and upraised. Then hesitated. The girl that had appeared in the doorway of the exit quivered with terror and seemed about ready to faint.

Irileth lowered her crossbow, slightly. "What are you doing here?"

The girl's lip trembled, her eyes huge as they wandered the company of bristling warriors. "Wh-who are you? Are you here to rescue my mama and papa?"

The Dawnguard sighed a little, and Mogrul lowered his crossbow. "Now what?"

Kjennar hissed softly in dismay. "What in Oblivion's a kid doing in a place like this?"

"Riften's full of ankle-biters." Brynjolf sighed grimly. "Hostage, probably."

Irileth considered her quickly. "She doesn't look thralled. Leave her. She'll be safe once Orthjolf's dead."

"Leave her? Down here?" Kjennar gestured at the nightmarish situation of the Riften jail. "You kidding?"

"Please… they took my mama and papa down here." Tears wobbled down the girl's cheeks. "They wouldn't let me see them. I just want to find them."

Irileth scowled ferociously. "We don't have time for this."

"Have a heart, Housecarl. She's no older than ten." Kjennar sent Irileth a reproachful look and approached the girl; she flinched back until he took a knee, lending her a friendly smile. "Don't worry, lassie. You'll be safe now. Stay down here with Gwendis. She'll help you find your parents."

The girl flinched as her eyes fell on Gwendis. "But – but she's a vampire! Like the ones who took my mama and papa!"

"Well, unlike those ones, I'm here to make sure you'll be reunited." Gwendis hurriedly wiped her bloody hands off behind her back. "I'm with the Dawnguard. We'll make sure the mean old vampires are dead."

"Really? You will?" The girl's face brightened.

"Sure as sugar on a sweetroll." Kjennar beckoned again, and the girl, smiling nervously, stepped forward to take his outstretched hand.

"No!" Florentius's cry lanced across the jail – Irileth was almost flung over as he rushed past her, sweeping his mace into his hand. "That is no child!"

"Florentius!"

No one, not even Brynjolf, could ever have imagined a priest of the holy Divines bullrushing a small child with such frenzy or hatred. The girl shrieked and leapt behind Kjennar as the operative caught Florentius's descending mace. "What in the Nine are you doing?!"

"Help me!" the girl squealed. "He's gone mad!"

"Your lies will not avail you, child of the night!" Florentius struggled to tear his mace free of Kjennar's grip. "Arkay reveals you for what you are!" He seized his amulet, and light flooded the dark jail without warning. Kjennar cursed and threw a hand over his face; Florentius bowled him aside as the girl fell back with a squeal, and then a hiss they all recognized – gone was the innocent rosy pallour of her skin, and when her eyes snapped open, they burned revealed of the familiar ravenous hunger.

"Well, Mauloch tusk me for a fool," Mogrul growled, and wrenched the safety lock off his crossbow.

The vampire sprang for the exit, only to stop dead as Gwendis flashed across her path. The Bosmer wore a frightful snarl, and the girl reeled at her aura. Then she cried out and fell, stricken across the shoulders by Florentius's mace. Before she could sit up, Kjennar flattened her, a knife pressed up under her chin. The Dawnguard instantly surrounded her, weapons bared.

"Times like these I almost start to think your god's real, Florentius," said Irileth grimly, as the priest stood hard-faced and brimming. "Be done with it, Kjennar. That thing stopped being a child a long time ago."

"Please –" The girl's eyes widened again. "I'm not with them!"

"You're no Volkihar, that I believe." Gwendis crouched over her. "But you're still with them, aren't you? Your clan were always masters at disguising themselves into normality, weren't they? You had me fooled, little one."

The girl's façade of innocence shattered like glass – she grinned, baring her fangs. "How embarrassing it must be for you. You're much older than I am."

Gwendis's expression hardened. "Where's Orthjolf?"

"I'll take you to him."

"Directions are fine."

"Do you really want to blunder around the keep until he realizes you're there?" The vampire grinned goadingly. "Or do you want to save time?"

"The keep is big," Brynjolf admitted, when Irileth's scorching glare turned to him. "And we don't know a damned thing about what Orthjolf does in here, day or night."

"Do you recognize her?"

"No." The Nightingale's voice ached with dislike. "But she'll almost certainly be one of Orthjolf's pets. If this one's been in Riften long, she's never left the keep."

The vampire suddenly giggled, childish glee paired with an elder malevolence. "You have no idea, thief. Oh, he's going to be so mad with you…"

Gwendis leaned back with a grim sigh. "This breed isn't as dangerous as a Volkihar once exposed," she said matter-of-factly. "Masters of stealth and surprise, not physical power. Porphyric hemophiliacs can't even grow claws. Just avoid her eyes."

"Arkay agrees with that," said Florentius, "but still insists she must die quickly."

"Orthjolf first," Irileth growled.

"I've got her, Housecarl." Kjennar straightened, jerking the vampire roughly to standing with his hand meshed tightly in her hair. "Didn't your mama ever tell you it's not nice to take advantage of people?"

"I'm sorry," she mumbled, sounding for all the world contrite.

"Only that you got caught," Irileth scowled. Gods, even when she knew, she still heard the child first. There was something horrifically disorienting about the entire notion. "Lead the way – and don't take your eyes off her for an instant."

Riften's throne hall was as traditional as they came across Skyrim – an angled longtable encircling an open hearth, doors to adjacent wings on either side, with the Jarl's throne surmounted on a platform at the end to overlook the lot. The city's banners, crossed knives against a violet backdrop, still fluttered on the windowless walls. It wasn't empty, even at such an early hour; nearly every seat at the longtable was filled, and guards lined the walls, as if in a parody of everyday normality. But a cloud of malevolence hung over the scene; Jarl Maven Black-Briar sat on a chair normally reserved for the steward. The throne of Riften was occupied by Orthjolf himself, and when the Dawnguard burst inside, every weapon trained on the master vampire, he merely smiled.

"Come in, come in. You're just in time for breakfast."

Their eyes met for the first time since that hideous night; eyes that hadn't changed even slightly, brimming with the same hunger, malice and arrogance that had kindled her to a grief and a rage as Irileth had never known. She didn't allow herself to tremble with anticipation; this day had always been long in coming. Her eyes narrowed down the line of her crossbow, his name a curse on her tongue. "Orthjolf."

Her finger gripped the trigger, but refused to fire. There were other vampires here – their eyes gleaming red as they moved, ever so discreetly, towards the mortals seated blank-eyed at the table, assuring the threat that their lives would be gone in an instant if the Dawnguard attacked their master.

Orthjolf rose to his feet. His attention had found the girl in Kjennar's grip, and he smiled lazily. "My, what a treat you've brought me today, Babette. I haven't tasted Dawnguard in quite some time."

Steel flashed, and Kjennar suddenly grunted with pain, his palm laid open by a stiletto's swift slice. The vampire had tired of playing prisoner; with dizzying speed she unveiled the knife from the folds of her smock and cut herself free. "Not only Dawnguard, I see," Orthjolf continued lazily, as the girl sped to his side. "Gendolin's little favourites have finally tired of their rare privilege."

"And the Guild's tired of betrayal." A pair of black knives curved with daedric flair manifested from within the depths of Brynjolf's cloak. "This is our city, not yours."

"Your schemes end here, spawn of suffering." Florentius drew himself up primly, and the Dawnguard sensed an aura about him that they hadn't felt since within the Redwater Spring. "Arkay will see you cast down, your ruin smote across the soil of the valiant."

Orthjolf threw back his head and laughed. "You think your god has any power here, weakling?" The very air seemed to pulsate with menace, throbbing against their nerves like a living thing. "I have devoured many a mouthy priest, little man, all of them preaching my doom. Your gods' strength is nothing compared to my own."

"Was that why you did it?" Irileth snarled, as her rage kindled up violently behind her eyes. "A show of strength? To prove you could?"

Orthjolf's gaze wandered across her, and a trace of recognition entered his voice. "Ahh. I remember you now. The Housecarl." He smiled, baring his fangs, just as he had when she'd found him over the bed. "You should be thanking me for freeing you from such a weakling."

"Jarl Balgruuf the Greater was no weakling." Irileth stalked forward until the heat of the hearth blasted against her lamellar. "Weaklings are the ones who flee."

Orthjolf's face tightened with disdain. "Elves," he growled, glowering over her. "Dark Elves. Wood Elves. High Elves. I don't care for any of them. Their pretentiousness. Their arrogance. They think they know all there is to know. They console themselves with knowledge, knowing that their flesh will never wield the strength they crave. Men who associate with such inferior creatures, who call them friend, disgust me."

Irileth gritted her teeth. "Yet here you are, calling Gendolin your lord."

"Oh, don't think I enjoy tolerating that greedy brat, Housecarl. But for now, our interests align – and he's taken us far, far further than Harkon ever did. At least he knows that he's weak, and chases power to absolve such abhorrence. You're chasing him too, aren't you? The Dawnguard's great enemy. You want to know my part in the Volkihar's design. Go on, clever little elf. You've come all this way. Figure it out." Orthjolf tilted his head. "Or do you need a clue?"

A heavy thud jerked Irileth's head; Kjennar had collapsed to the ground, twitching, foam at his lips. "Kjennar!" Mogrul cried. "Irileth, he's –"

Dead, Irileth thought numbly, as the twitching stopped. The knife –

The girl smiled broadly from the throne. "Hail Sithis."

Never had two words winded Irileth with such understanding, like a broadsword to the stomach. She felt the pieces – all of them – assembling under her fingers, the picture unveiling at last from mystery. "You're Brotherhood," she realized. "Gendolin isn't the last one."

Babette's fanged grin never wavered. "Oh, I love it when they figure it out."

"Then you're both –" Irileth stared between her and the vampire lord. "You're both behind this. You set Gendolin on this path."

Babette giggled and answered almost in sing-song. "He cried when the Dragonborn silenced his Brother; when he silenced and burned up the Family he slew; he cried when the Dragonborn silenced our Mother. He promised he'd silence the Dragonborn too."

Irileth glared at Orthjolf. "And you? What was Solen to you?"

"A catalyst. He's Gendolin's prey, not mine. Not that I disapprove. That Elf has far more power than he deserves."

"A catalyst?" Brynjolf echoed. "How in Shor's bones is that mouthy elf your catalyst?"

Orthjolf stroked Babette's head, smoothing down the rumpled mess Kjennar had made of her hair. "Babette has always been a useful child. Clever. She knows how to turn weakness into strength. When the Brotherhood burned, she sought me out. Both our situations, it seemed, had stagnated."

Babette grinned. "Night Mother herself led Gendolin to us, our youngest Brother, most determined to the old ways. Poor Brother was lost without her. He tried to find another family... but he just couldn't forget. The Sacrament remained, bound in blood. So I found help."

"He didn't impress me at first, Gendolin. He was an elf. He was mortal. He was lost and weak. But his lust for vengeance was far more compelling than his pitiful Sacrament. It wasn't just that Altmer's death he wanted, it was his suffering. The pain of his family returned a thousandfold. And that is where the business really started." Orthjolf grinned. "There's no greater pain heroes like your precious saviour of Skyrim can suffer than their own futility. Watching everything they ever bled for unravel around them, while they can do nothing to stop it. Babette was right; Gendolin had potential. All he needed was direction. I gave him one."

"The prophecy." Irileth's grip tightened on her crossbow. "So you promised him the Dragonborn's torment in exchange for his service to Harkon?"

"For dominion. My dominion." Orthjolf snapped his fingers and the court of Riften rose, blank eyes devoid of all reason, drawing their weapons and kindling spells in their fingers. "Don't you see, wretch? Harkon's era is over. He is an old and distracted fool who has forgotten how to act. I haven't."

The Dawnguard drew into a tighter knot as both thralls and vampires encircled them. Orthjolf seemed almost to glide onto the table, bold in the glare of the flames that roared in the hearth below. "I was promised a champion who would finally act, and I was not disappointed. When my thrall found a lead for Harkon's lost brat from the Hall of the Vigilants, he acted. When he won Harkon's favour, he acted. When he took up the Bloodstone Chalice, he acted. This was no creature dreaming his long years away; he was awake. Chasing the prophecy with his teeth at its throat in a way none of our clan has managed to in centuries. With such victories, I could almost forgive him for being an elf."

"Almost," growled Brynjolf, putting his shoulder to Irileth's. "Only he changed the game, didn't he? He was never going to be your catspaw forever."

"Of course not." Orthjolf bared his fangs. "He was still an elf, in the end, and a thief. But he won't tower on his stolen power forever, and I won't while the next millennia away in dull contest with inferior creatures." His menace was growing, swelling like a rising storm, suffocating and vast. "Riften is ripe, and I am awake. When the tyranny ends, and your precious Dawnguard bleeds, then I will call in my debt."

Babette hooted with laughter from the throne. "I'd like to see you try, old man."

"And Balgruuf?" snarled Irileth, as the room darkened around them, and Florentius began to pray. "What part did he ever play in your bargain?"

"Everyone knew the Dragonborn was leaving Skyrim." Orthjolf spoke almost boredly. "I had to get his attention somehow."

Irileth's fury soared, chasing out whatever spell of despair and fear the creature was weaving. Her crossbow shuddered; Orthjolf moved too quickly for the eye to follow, catching the bolt mid-flight. He snapped it to kindling in his fingers. "Ah, Housecarl. Still too slow. Still too weak."

Irileth threw the crossbow aside and ripped her sword from the scabbard – and at once it was intercepted by a High Elf, empty-eyed, clad in Imperial plate. Fasendil. Well, Solen would be delighted to learn his Legate friend was alive after all, she thought, as she was struck across the face and knocked staggering against her allies; less so that he was completely spelled with his neck hatched with weeping scars. "Threats to the Jarl and her court will not be tolerated," Maven Black-Briar boomed across the hall. "Submit to arrest or die."

"Like that'll happen," Brynjolf muttered, steadying Irileth. "What do we do? I don't like half these idiots, but it wouldn't be right killing 'em like this."

"I can't move." Mogrul spoke through a gritted jaw. "Can't even see straight. Housecarl, what's happening?"

Irileth could hardly think – darkness descended around them, blinding them, suffocating the fire in her soul. She fought to keep her eyes on Orthjolf who stood motionless, smiling, clearly content to watch them all ripped apart by his own thrall. "Him," she hissed, "we must kill him. Kill the source. He's the source."

"His corruption spreads." Florentius's voice was low and oddly clear in their ears. "But Arkay is with us. His terror grows. But Arkay is with us."

Blackness swallowed up Irileth's sight, squeezing her limbs. She felt her sword spun out of her hands and the first dregs of the vampire's crushing fear stain her soul. "I can't, Florentius, dammit – I don't feel Him!"

"But He feels you – all of you – your need."

Orthjolf sneered. "Die in darkness, priest. Die with your god."

Florentius' voice climbed. "Arkay is Death, demon – and He is Life, and the Lord of the Cycle between. Do you hear me, demon? He is with us."

Fingers of ice tightened against Irileth's throat. Death thundered closer, and suddenly she realized she was not ready, not like this, not unfulfilled, not in the dark. She wanted life, damn it – she wanted life! "Florentius," she choked, "help me!"

The world blazed white.

The suffocating blackness vanished, the chill with it, in a ring of ever-expanding silver fire. The thrall fell back, wailing and clutching their eyes; the vampires screamed and threw themselves against the walls, clawing at their clothes and faces as if set alight; even Orthjolf roared with surprise and pain as he was thrown back across the chamber, shattering the throne and table into splinters. Florentius stood tall over the stunned Dawnguard, his outstretched hands wreathed in a noiseless flame; a brilliant nimbus encircled him, and runes branded the floor until even their shadows crumbled into light. His eyes were pure white. "Now, faithful," he cried, "it must be now!"

It felt as if she'd come alive again – Irileth seized her fallen longsword and ripped the broken blade free. Mogrul roared a battlecry and Brynjolf bellowed with him; the vampires swung to face them only to recoil again with a screech of agony, turned by the mere sight of Florentius's aura.

"Forward, you churls!" Orthjolf's roar blasted through the hall, scalding and bone-breaking; the vampire lord rose transformed from the wreckage of the throne, titanic in stature, easily twice the size of Gendolin's own foul form – his skin was as black as the room around him, and his eyes were molten with a primal fury. "Forward, or I'll send you to Coldharbour myself!"

"Protect Florentius!" Irileth shouted, as the half-blind vampires converged. Mogrul's crossbow barked like a hound, and Brynjolf began to laugh like any battle-maddened Nord as his daggers flashed into open combat. Irileth's blades glowed as if set aflame, hewing her foes. They couldn't seem to touch the light, not without terrible pain; when she backhanded one of them into the ring of magic, it sizzled at once to ash and disappeared. Nor could Irileth stray beyond it; Orthjolf's crushing darkness seemed to try and pull her into the floor.

With a snap of skeletal wings, Orthjolf sprang to hovering over the ashes of the firepit; a seething tangle of something indescribably evil conjured between his talons and spun towards Florentius like a net – the holy aura shuddered but held, disintegrating the vile magic. Mogrul swung his crossbow up and shot the vampire squarely beneath his ribs. "Vermin," Orthjolf hissed, and landing on his clawed feet he began to hammer recklessly at the aura, his strikes delivered with terrible force even as they scalded his flesh; Florentius shuddered under each blow and was finally driven to a knee. "Weaklings! Dregs of flesh! I am the strongest! No Divine will overpower me!"

"Your fear has no place in a stalwart heart," Florentius murmured wearily.

Mogrul's next bolt slammed between Orthjolf's eyes, throwing the vampire lord's head back on his neck – then he straightened again, snarling, still very much alive. He arched his scorched limbs back to deal a two-handed blow on the wavering halo, then screamed with rage and pain; Brynjolf had leapt from the protective circle and straight onto the vampire lord's back, his daggers planted firmly in the creature's shoulderblades. Orthjolf writhed violently until he finally seized the thief and hurled him brutally against the wall. Brynjolf slumped below it unmoving.

By then Irileth was in full lunge, and both adamantine and broken blades thrust deep into Orthjolf's broad chest, knocking him staggering. Leaping from the protective circle was like leaping underwater; Irileth couldn't breathe, couldn't think. She didn't have to. Even as the hideous claws hovered over her back, she ripped her blades even deeper, snarling joyously as the hot blood of her most hated enemy gushed wonderfully from the wounds, glistening over his skin –

"The source," Florentius said softly, and his eyes brightened. He regained his feet and brought his hands together. The bright halo condensed to a pinprick, then exploded forward in a slicing arc. The vampire lord wailed with an untold agony as his blood ignited against his flesh, boiling him from within.

Almost at once the terrible spell of darkness receded; Orthjolf shook Irileth from him and staggered for the doors, melting sloppily back into his human skin, clutching his savaged chest. Florentius sank to all fours, expended utterly. "Don't let him escape!" Irileth snarled, seizing up her fallen weapons. Mogrul thumped another bolt into Orthjolf's back as the vampire threw himself through the great doors and into the Mistveil courtyard. Daylight cascaded over him, and he reeled, stunned.

"He's mine!" Irileth bellowed; this time Orthjolf wouldn't escape. The bloodlust pounded through her heady and sweet as she pounced towards her justice at last, at long last – but a flash of steel at the corner of her eye brought her coldly short. Babette had thrown herself upon Florentius, poisoned knife upraised and fangs bared for good measure –

Irileth's broken blade moved faster even than the vampire, and impaled her through the ribs. She squealed horrifically, sounding nothing like a child as she staggered backwards, clutching the hilt in her chest – her head banged against the loaded stock of Mogrul's crossbow. He pulled the trigger. She fell silenced.

But that brief delay had been enough – Irileth spun around and found Orthjolf's flesh dispersing into a confusing blur of whirling bodies. "No!" She lunged, but it was too late – her sword cleaved only air. "Coward!" she screamed as the batswarm whirled frantically, wretchedly out of her reach. "Coward!" Her crossbow still lay in the hall, and a spell of sparks quickened in her upturned hand –

Fiirnaraan rippled from the clouds with the softest snarl. His fangs crashed down into the swarm, followed by the sound of tearing flesh and a spray of entirely too much blood. A horrific anguished scream echoed somewhere within that unnatural cloud, and then the whirling bats had dispersed from sight.

"Oh," said the Dragon with disappointment, as he winged gently into the courtyard; the tattered remnants of an arm, unwoven of its blood-magic, dangled raggedly from his jaws. "Oh, I just missed all the fun, didn't I?"

Irileth glared at the clear sky where the swarm had fled, boiling with a rage that reached down to the bone, the adamantine longsword slick against her thigh. "Barely."

When her ardour had finally cooled, and Fiirnaraan had disappeared before the screaming citizenry overcame their panic, Irileth returned into the keep and faced an almost hopeful aftermath. Whether it was Florentius's divine magic, or Orthjolf's departure from Riften, or perhaps some mingling of the two, the thralled and spelled of Mistveil Keep had come awake, even those in the jail below, suffering no worse than a deep and dazed confusion. Of them all, Legate Fasendil was the most lucid, even though Gwendis insisted he had the least right to be; the scars on his neck indicated that he'd been thralled half a dozen times.

"Probably because I kept shaking awake," the High Elf murmured; he sounded very tired. "It was like a dream… then nightmare. Couldn't tell which way was down or up half the time. Sometimes it was a fog, other times I was trapped in my own skin, watching my hands and mouth move by themselves, powerless to act."

"That showed a remarkably strong will," Gwendis assured him. "Mortals can throw off an enthralment if they're strong enough, but to resist enthralment from a vampire lord multiple times over is incredible."

"It doesn't matter how impressive the feat." Fasendil put his head in his hands. "It does not bring back the soldiers whose movements I betrayed or who I ordered to their deaths. The deceitful reports I penned to General Tullius. I should be lucky if I am granted a quick execution."

"That wasn't you," Irileth growled. "You were against your will and you knew it. That's why you kept fighting awake. Orthjolf sent those soldiers to their graves, not you."

"Orthjolf…" Fasendil blinked slowly. "No, it was not only him. Not at first."

They followed his gaze to where it settled on Maven Black-Briar, seated on the steps where once had stood her proud throne, massaging her temple with a remarkably sour expression. "Explain," said Irileth, and even to her own ears she sounded foreboding.

Legate Fasendil winced and rubbed his aggrieved neck. "When Orthjolf first came to court, Jarl Black-Briar welcomed him. They spoke privately together at first; I did not attend that audience. Then Jarl Black-Briar summoned her whole court. Orthjolf stood and made a speech. I… don't even remember what was said. It wasn't long at all before we all began to feel strange. Odd gaps in our memories. I remember coming to midway through strange and untrue reports. When the disappearances began, I expressed concerns, which Jarl Black-Briar promised to hear privately. Later that day both she and Orthjolf visited my office. I remember asking him to leave, as military matters were to remain confidential between the Jarl I served and myself. He looked at me…"

Fasendil gripped his neck tightly. "I remember well the first time I came properly awake. I was mid-report. The date was a week forward than from my last memory. Foolishly I stepped out into the hall with haste, and again found Orthjolf there with Jarl Black-Briar. There was agony, I remember, before the bite. I remember him scorning my pain. I stayed under much longer, but in small windows of coherence I recall I was being watched, Jarl Black-Briar in Orthjolf's company. Their discussions lessened. I remember an argument… that roused me, I remember Jarl Black-Briar shouting. Something about it not being part of something."

"An arrangement, perhaps?" Gwendis asked.

"I hope you are not so foolish as to suggest, Legate, that I sold out my own city to a blood-drinking monster," said Maven Black-Briar, in the sort of manner that at once filled Irileth to the brim with dislike. "If you recall, I was under the same spell."

"Not at first, Jarl." Fasendil's face hardened like iron. "You didn't have marks on your neck when you brought Orthjolf to my office."

Maven scoffed sharply. "Nonsensical. His memory is warped."

"Why did you do it?" Fasendil pushed quietly. "Was wealth and Jarldom not enough?"

"Be silent, Legate, or I'll have you court-martialled."

"Your own city. What did he promise you that was worth more than your own people?"

"He's raving. Completely scrambled. Get him out of here."

"Please, Legate." Gwendis set her hand gently on the Altmer's shoulders as he tried to stand. "Don't get up. You're beyond exhausted." To Irileth she winked and whispered, "I'll handle this."

"I'm not raving," Fasendil murmured very coherently, as Irileth helped lie him flat. "What I remember, I remember very sharply."

"I know," Irileth muttered. Unfortunately, we can't prove it. It would be entirely too easy – and, quite frankly, it might even be quite possible – for Maven to call foul and claim to have been under enchantment or enthrallment ever since Orthjolf had first entered her hall. Irileth remembered only too well suffering what Fasendil had described. Odd moments of memory. Strange feelings that couldn't be placed. Vampiric suggestion was almost as potent as enthrallment. And there is a difference – a guided will versus a total loss of. Of course, everyone has scarred necks now, and one mer's word won't mean a damn against one of the most powerful women in Skyrim. Not even a Legate's.

"You should be lying down too," said Irileth, finding Florentius on his feet. "You look half dead."

Whatever magic he'd performed had all but wiped the priest out; he stood grey and weary, but his glower was all for the Jarl across the hall. "He's telling the truth, Housecarl. Arkay knows what she's done."

After what had happened, it didn't feel right to dismiss Florentius like before. Particularly when he looked so sober. "And what has she done?"

"Maven Black-Briar is not unlike Orthjolf. She rules by ambition and fear. Orthjolf promised her a fortune of power. Those poor soldiers were their masks, a currency used and expended." Florentius grimaced. "She realized the error of her ways much too late, as the extent of Orthjolf's ambitions became clear: an army of bloodfiends come the Day of Black Sun, his empire rising in the ashes of her old. But at first, she stood back and let Orthjolf demonstrate."

Irileth gritted her teeth. "Damned pity he didn't just kill her and be done with it. But words alone won't be enough against a woman like Black-Briar."

"I fear so. Not unless she herself confesses."

Irileth snorted at that. She almost contemplated if the thieves would help – probably not. Maven Black-Briar lined her pockets with Guild gold, after all; and presently Brynjolf was half-awake, and Karliah remained preoccupied administering medicine and claiming he was lucky to have broken every bone except the important ones ("Ah, glad to know arms and legs aren't important in our line of work, lass." "Shut up and drink your potion."). The rest of the Guild had scattered to secure the city, leaving the surviving Dawnguard and a handful of bewildered Riften guards to pick up the hall's broken pieces. Irileth scowled over Kjennar's body, laid out by the door beneath his cloak, and felt her fury kindle up all over again.

Florentius rested his hand against her elbow. "He did his duty. Riften is saved. What army Orthjolf inspired to build from the flesh and bone of these poor souls can no longer happen."

"Orthjolf got away."

Silence fell briefly between them, thick with the unsaid. Saving Florentius's life had cost her that tantalizing chance to fulfil her oath, and even now Irileth brooded upon the exchange, struggling with the resentment it brought her. So what if the priest had saved her life, all their lives? Her life meant nothing while Balgruuf's killer walked free. Riften might be saved, but her mission, the first mission, had failed. Orthjolf remained. Her oath remained.

Florentius met her gaze, and the priest's eyes were steady beneath her smouldering own. "You will meet him again, Housecarl, and it will be done."

He spoke with the strange inexplicable certainty that, so far, had never failed to predict a bloodfiend nest or a presence of evil. Oddly enough, it assuaged Irileth's temper. To Oblivion with it, she thought; she'd believe him.

Their attention returned to Maven Black-Briar, who had been approached by Gwendis. The vampire had resumed a more mortal appearance, though the Jarl still recognized her for what she was. "You don't think you can hide that, do you?" Maven sneered. "Seems the Dawnguard aren't as rigid on their selling point as they like to portray."

Gwendis calmly squatted across from her with her arms tucked comfortably over her knees. "Come now, my Jarl. This is the Rift. Rules get bent here if anywhere."

"Well, I hope you haven't been sent to favour that lunatic's ravings. I did my duty as Jarl of Riften. I received a guest in open forum. Fasendil, however, failed in his duty to protect this Hold as he was assigned to. And he has the gall to blame it on me."

"Well, you can hardly blame the poor fellow. He's a soldier, after all. Soldiers aren't very good for business, are they?"

"What are you blathering about?"

"Business, my Jarl. I hear you're a woman of it, and very good at it. Managing both the most famous, profitable meadery across the province and a city overflowing with natural resource. You know what good business is – and how to turn bad business into profit, by any means necessary. Now, I don't imagine that the Legion, those paragons of law and order, were making certain businesses very easy – especially when General Tullius installed an incorruptible Legate to keep an eye on Skyrim's most corrupt city –"

"Incorruptible!" snorted Maven. "He was Orthjolf's puppet –"

"– and if you couldn't control such integrity with coin, or with fear, you'd have to find another way to dispose of such nuisances, wouldn't you?" Gwendis's eyes flashed like stars. "Ah, but the Dark Brotherhood was gone, weren't they? You'd have to turn to other competent murderous forces to maintain that formidable veneer that adds such weight to the name Black-Briar. I'm sure that a vampire menace is bad for business only as long as you're on the losing side."

Maven's face whitened. "You dare suggest –?"

"I do." Gwendis smiled broadly, her fangs glittering. "You're not the only one who can bend truth, Jarl Maven. That is, assuming it isn't already the truth."

"You can prove nothing." Maven glared as Irileth and Florentius drew up over the vampire's shoulders. "Any of you. And I would watch your step very carefully. You think my influence lies in Riften alone? How would it reflect on your noble Dawnguard when the Empire discovers you've willingly consorted with thieves and vampires to –"

"Do what, exactly?" Irileth sat down on the step beside her, oiling her crossbow mechanism. She'd caught on to Gwendis's game. She hadn't forgotten how to play it. "Do what?" Their eyes met, fiery red and frigid brown. Maven stayed silent. Irileth tightened the crank. "I think, my Jarl, that you're a lot more frightened of the shadows than we are."

Maven smiled venomously. "Whatever you all think you're playing at, never forget that the name Black-Briar carries power and influence across all of Skryim – and I am the name Black-Briar. This city answers to me. The Legion answers to me. I am the law here, and if for one moment you think otherwise –"

"The only law that is greater," Florentius proclaimed loftily, "is Divine law. They know what you've done, Maven Black-Briar, and They call you into the light."

Maven stared at him with a mingling of astonishment and distaste. "You brought a priest?"

"He brings himself," said Irileth, "Azura knows we've tried otherwise."

"I tire of this prattle." Maven struggled up onto her feet. "If you're looking for gratitude you won't find it here. You had a job and you did it correctly. Now get out of my city. I have work to do."

She turned and found Karliah at her shoulder. The Nightingale had silently joined them. "We certainly do, Jarl Black-Briar," she said. Something ominous within the Dunmer's soft voice sat Maven back down on her step. "I know Brynjolf usually handles this business. He's presently indisposed. I'll keep this short. You're red in our ledgers, Black-Briar."

Maven scoffed. "That doesn't happen. Your people owe me."

"Now you owe us. The Guild's been standing on its own two feet for a long time now. You don't think we consider our own assets? That we'd depend on your family forever?" Karliah leaned close. "You've shut us out, Maven. The Guild's not happy. We can survive without you – can your family survive without us? No one denies you have a lot of friends, Maven, but you have a lot more enemies. How long will your empire survive without underworld enforcement, especially once word gets out that you've consorted with the Volkihar?"

"You idiots," snarled Maven. "I was thralled! None of this was in my control!"

Gwendis examined her nails. "And that's not a good look for 'the most powerful woman in Skyrim' either, is it?"

Maven looked between them all, and she struck Irileth as a woman seriously realizing her situation and weighing her options for the least destructive way out of her corner. The Dunmer straightened the crossbow across her lap and waited. It never took long. "And what is it that you want from me?"

Karliah glanced at Gwendis, and a slight nod passed between them. "People will talk, Maven. We can soften what they'll say."

"If you really want to lean into the tragic Volkihar victim story, here's what the brave and steadfast Jarl of Riften needs to do with all her worldly power." Here's what you're going to do, Gwendis really warned. "She'll empty her coffers. All of them. She's going to call on all her dear friends across the Empire, feed and house and invest in her people, and furnish the Dawnguard with everything they need to fulfil the purpose for which they were created, without any expectation of reparations. She's going to selflessly prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that her best interests lie with mortalkind, not the Volkihar."

Maven's face paled, as if she were already watching her family's great wealth tumbling out the door. "And if I fail to meet these… outrageous demands?"

"Simple." Karliah leaned close. "We're done."

"What? Ridiculous. You can't be done. Not with me."

"The Guild protects its own interests first, Maven. Dealing with a vampire's thrall is bad for business."

"I don't understand," Florentius muttered, as a smirk etched its way across Irileth's face. "Surely the Guild doesn't intend to continue its heinous, lawless ways after this? Why, that fox-haired scoundrel beheld Arkay's grace with his own eyes!"

"Of course they are. They're the Thieves Guild. It's what they do." Irileth folded her arms. "But take heart, Florentius. They need Skyrim fat and alive to profit from, and whatever oaths the Nightingales made binds the Guild right here. They wouldn't have risked their necks like Companions to liberate Riften otherwise. We know which side they're on."

Florentius harrumphed disapprovingly. "I suppose… Still. The Divines will judge them, too."

Irileth watched Gwendis Ravenwatch and Karliah shake comradely hands over Maven Black-Briar's thunderous scowl. "I think they'll take their chances."