Chapter Text
A roasted rabbit leg, smelling faintly of thyme and rosemary, spiralled gracefully across the camp and hit Solen square in the face.
“Again, man?” Aela sighed, and brandished her ladle. “How many times do we need to have this conversation, Harbinger?”
Solen wiped grease off his forehead and plucked the roasted morsel out of his lap. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I just can’t help it, Aela.”
“The last thing Rayya wants you doing is fretting over her health when there’s a job to do,” the Huntress said sternly, returning her attentions to the stewed rabbit bubbling over their cooking fire. “She’s one of the hardiest warriors in Skyrim. You told me she cut down a Dragon mid-air.”
“Well, she climbed on its head, and it took off, and she sheathed her scimitars in both its eye sockets, if that’s the same thing.”
“Anyone capable of doing that will be fine with child.”
Aela was no mother, but she hailed from a long unbroken line of Companion dynasty, and did her best to reassure Solen whenever his mind sailed on such unchartered waters. She often spoke of Rayya as if she were keeping the baby, almost seemed to make a point of it, to ground Solen to the quite-possible reality of fatherhood. Meanwhile Solen still reeled at the mere thought of it. Mostly with fear. Mostly with memory. He swung spontaneously from sheer joy to mortal terror at the prospect, with little in-between. Eleven days since he’d left Fort Kastav behind, and most of the nights had been spent sleepless, brooding numbly on the situation, and his own callous irresponsibility at it all.
“Aela, I don’t know what to do,” he said, once he licked the rabbit bone clean and tossed it aside. “What kind of man am I, inflicting this on my own wife?”
“Either very unlucky or very good in bed,” Aela answered.
“Unlucky it is. Aela, what if she keeps the babe? What then? What if I fail it? Would I even love it?”
“Harbinger, you once made a Dragon costume out of the skins we finished tanning, and spent the afternoon chasing Whiterun’s children from one end of the Wind District to the other. That won’t be a problem.”
“No, no, it might be. You don’t understand, my parents were awful. Really awful. I was four when they wrote me off and threw me to the wolves. But their blood’s still running strong and pure in my veins. There might be some dormant familial instinct that’ll flare up, and suddenly I’ll turn into my father, obsessed with bloodlines –”
“Solen, that’s nonsense and you know it. The only thing that’s changing when that kid’s born is how you’re spending your days, not who you are as a man. Now stop prophesying your degeneration and get those carrots peeled.”
Thoroughly chastened, Solen meekly dug into their dwindling supplies for the last of their vegetables. “Aela, what if it’s deformed? I know Racial Phylogeny had plenty of documented cases of healthy Elven-human, um, coupling, but –”
Aela spun a skinning knife warningly between her fingers. “One more worry, Harbinger, and I’m stewing your ears.”
Solen quickly ducked his head and set to carrot-peeling with a will. Aela chuckled and put her implement down. “Eyes on the prey, Solen, not the horizon. You can do that much.”
A common Companion saying, and by far one of the most sensible. Like most Elves, Solen was easily inclined to drift, either in memories or anticipations of the future, but that old hunter’s proverb grounded him back to the present as surely as a touch or a tweak of the ear. He felt a little sheepish – this was far from the first time he’d regaled his worries to Aela across their journey together, and he admired the immense patience with which she’d administrated his rambling anxieties, a privilege the solitary Huntress did not extend to new bloods. Then again, Aela was one of his closest friends and confidants, someone with whom he’d shared experiences that no other, not even Rayya, could understand.
It was Aela who’d first set him on the path of the warrior at all, that fateful day outside Whiterun Hold, although first impressions had not gone very well. Solen had been a scrawny escapee fresh out of Helgen, in battered, smoke-ruined Imperial armour, who’d sprinted out of the wilds stringing a cracked longbow. Aela, in vast comparison, wore her pristine Ancient Nord armour and was busy emptying her quiver into the backside of a giant turning the crops of Pelagia Farm into puree. Solen had been on his way to help, thank you very much – it was hardly his fault that Aela, together with Farkas and Ria, had cut it down before he’d let a single arrow fly – but Aela had confronted and challenged his mettle then and there. She’d referred him to Jorrvaskr if he really thought he had what it took to fight.
Solen, a washed-up hunter, poacher, and survivor of a Dragon attack, grateful to still have his neck intact and his skin no worse than blistered from dragonfire, had been astonished. Not because of her audacity, but of her frankness. There was no hesitation, no mention of or a hint at his skin or race. All that mattered to this fiery-haired Huntress was the steel in his heart. What a conversation that had been! A rare thing in Skyrim, where local suspicion of outsiders doubled with High Elves. Well, Solen had spent years working as a caravan guard across western Hammerfell, and he’d joined the crew fighting off pirates and Maormer a few times on the Wandertern, so he wasn’t completely short on combat experience. There wasn’t much question of him trying to slip back over the border, if the Imperials had chalked him up as a criminal, and he might do worse than a mercenary band. Besides, he’d been invited to visit their mead hall; what did he have to lose speaking with the Harbinger?
Those had been the reasonings of a serious newcomer to Skyrim’s culture, of course. The Companions were far from mere mercenaries, as he discovered. They were warriors, and they were a family. Such rapport and sense of brotherhood Solen hadn’t known since he’d left the crew of his uncle’s ship. He devoted himself to learning the ways of warriorhood, and the rest was history.
As for Aela, she found an eager apprentice, a humble shield-brother, and an unexpected friend more alike to her than she could’ve anticipated. Solen was a wild spirit, a chronic wayfarer, with an affection for and familiarity with the wild and the open world. They pooled and exchanged their decades of knowledge with herblore and game, and made hunting partners of one another. Aela refined his skills until he could pull a bow in open combat as well as from the trees and long grasses, and how to blend his light step with a warrior’s footwork. When he became moonborn, she mentored him in the ways of the wolf; many a night they spent in the golden plains together with blood on their tongues. After his ascendancy to Harbinger, she remained one of his most steadfast voices of counsel.
The short of it was that Solen was glad to travel with her again. He was no longer a werewolf, but it didn’t change that they were as two halves of the same whole; hunter-warriors whose fingers found the pulse of the wilderness’s hidden heartbeat, who unearthed the hidden beast trails that shaved hours and days off a journey on the roads. Aela had missed travelling too; far from the clutters of civilization was where she and her overkeen senses found their most peaceful rest. She hadn’t travelled with him like this in years, but it was as if their old rhythm had never left. They covered ground swiftly between them, resting often and lightly, travelling night and day. From Fort Kastav they’d made the south Riften road in under a fortnight.
A hard ride that had pushed the limits of the Imperial chargers they’d been lent, but the journey would end that evening. Fort Dawnguard was only a few hours off. Aela was quite looking forward to seeing it, although they’d stopped at noon to address their gnawing hunger. Aela’s arrow found the fortune of an unwatchful rabbit, and they made a noontide camp to stew it, a short step from the south road, while their weary horses replenished themselves on the lush forest grass. The stew was surprisingly delicious – Aela had spared no expense with salt and garlic, and they rapidly depleted their bowls with only the appetites a lycanthrope and a Dragon-souled mortal could muster.
With Fort Dawnguard so close, Solen found himself returning to the only matter that could actually dislodge his brooding over Rayya. Gendolin – champion and vampire lord of the Volkihar, his apparent nemesis. Solen spun one of Aela’s arrows between his fingers, trying and failing to piece together the bigger picture. “Aela,” he said, “tell me about Gendolin again.”
“You know all I do at this point, Harbinger,” Aela answered, and her eyes glittered with an unworldly light, as they always did when the conversation turned to the creature she’d fought. “You’ve grilled me on this, every day we’ve journeyed south. There’s nothing else I can say that’d surprise you.”
Solen had memorized every detail of the Winterhold ambush until the memory was almost his own. He could picture Gendolin plainly in his mind, even envision the vampire lord, but there was still an infuriating amount he didn’t know about his enemy. “He can’t have just sprung up out of nowhere,” Solen argued, for the hundredth time. “Clearly I’ve done something to aggravate the man.”
“You aggravate your allies all the time.”
“But I remember who I annoy, Aela, and there’s nothing about Gendolin that’s remotely familiar. Yet he seems to know me well enough how to get my attention.”
“Through Rayya? Solen, anyone taken hostage by some evil fiend would get the attention of the next adventuring hero walking up the street.”
“But Rayya makes it personal. Killing Vilkas and Njada made it personal.” Solen rammed the arrow into the soil. “And yet, he’s got something bigger in mind for me.”
Aela furrowed her brow. “Jarl Balgruuf’s death shook the province – who knows what the Last Dragonborn’s would affect. Considering their history with Dragonborn, it’d certainly affect the Empire.”
Which brought Solen back to General Tullius’s uncomfortably logical suggestion of an alliance between Dominion and Volkihar. It wouldn’t be improbable for Gendolin to be some sort of Thalmor agent. He was a Bosmer, Valenwood was an ally of Alinor, and the Dominion employed plenty of non-Altmer agents. It’d explain why Gendolin had marked him, but not why he was taking such a roundabout way to get the job done. As far as the Thalmor were concerned, the sooner he was a rotting stiff, the better. With Stormcloak dead, the Empire faced no greater enemy, so who else would benefit but the Aldmeri Dominion anxious to stomp their human foe into the mud for good?
With the singular, somewhat flimsy exception. Elves could pretend all they wanted, but they were just as mortal as the next human, Orc, Argonian and Khajiit. And the notoriously self-serving Reachfolk had been adamant that the Day of Black Sun affected every mortal in Tamriel.
The Day of Black Sun – ugh! So much more needed to be learned of it, and thanks to Gendolin, they were no closer to answers as they were a month ago. Solen settled for raking his fingers over the fuzz on his scalp. He needed to shave.
“Or maybe this has nothing to do with the Dominion,” said Aela, sensing where Solen’s inner dialogue had taken him. “Daedric champions aren’t models of logic or reason. He might be a wild card. A dark horse. Someone who wants to kill you because you’re you. Alpha of Skyrim.”
Solen snorted. “You were always the alpha.”
“In the pack, aye.” Aela narrowed her eyes. “But you’re still the most openly powerful warrior walking around the province right now – and Gendolin’s Daedric master is the Prince of Domination.”
“Power is drawn to power, you mean.”
“Exactly. One of Kodlak’s pearls of wisdom?”
“Another elder’s.”
Aela was reaching to ladle the last of the rabbit stew into her bowl when she turned her head and her nose into the gentle summer breeze, sniffing intently. Solen roused himself from his thoughts and set a hand on Eldródr, which lay beside him. The Huntress shook her head after a moment. “Irileth,” she said. “Almost couldn’t place the scent. By the sound and smell of it, she’s at the fore of a small patrol.”
Solen perked up at the ideal opportunity. News of the Dawnguard before they returned to Dawnguard. “On their way over?”
“They’ll be a few minutes.”
Within one Solen could hear the distant jangling of horse harness and the crunch of dry branches under heavy hooves. Irileth, the Orc Mogrul, and a third Dawnguard Solen didn’t recognize soon appeared between the maple trunks. Solen still had a hard time recognizing Irileth in battle-scarred Dawnguard lamellar, but her vicious red eyes had lost none of their familiar flame. “How’s the fang-hunt going, Housecarl?”
Irileth curled her lip and dismounted. “Anything left in that pot?”
What was left of the stew was doled out in small portions to the three hungry Dawnguard, and they supplemented the rest of their bowls with bread and dried fruit. Solen eyed them carefully, gathering their states and stories by the manner of their bearing. The dark rings around their eyes indicated many nocturnal postings. There wasn’t any doubt that Mogrul had fledged into a full-blown vampire hunter. The fresh claw-scars etched into his pauldron and his necklace of vampire teeth told plainly of his engagements. The third, an Imperial, clad in a padded brown gambeson, seemed... twitchy, Solen decided. His dark eyes had an odd dreamy look to them, the sort Solen had only ever seen in happy drunkards. He visibly startled when the Imperial’s eyes refocused with disconcerting intensity. “You,” he declared. “I know you. Or at least, I know of you.”
“Yeah, I’ve done a few noteworthy deeds,” Solen agreed.
The Imperial’s expression went completely vacant for a moment. Then he frowned. “Arkay tells me He knows what you’ve done.”
“Er – sorry?”
“Florentius, not now,” Irileth snapped. She turned to Solen with the kind of glare she normally reserved for Proventus Avenicci. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was Isran’s idea of a joke. I’ve been saddled with this... devout since we first met him. Seems to think we’re a good pair.”
“We can still hear you,” came Florentius’s haughty observation.
Solen looked between them and did his absolute hardest to sound sympathetic. “My condolences.”
“Oh, nevermind.” Irileth threw her empty spoon into her bowl, licked clean. “Anyway, you’re early. We weren’t expecting you two for another week.”
“Glad you got Fiirnaraan’s message.” Solen had sent the Dragon back to Fort Dawnguard ahead of them. “Aela and I took shortcuts.”
Irileth’s red eyes flicked over Aela. “Are the Companions finally getting involved?”
“I am,” said Aela. “Gendolin killed my shield-siblings.”
“Gendolin?”
“The bastard’s name,” said Solen.
Irileth was a sharp one; she knew immediately of whom they spoke. “So, that’s it, then. Careful how much you say out here. The woods have ears. We’ll call council with Isran when we return to Fort Dawnguard and pool what we know of him.”
Aela leaned forward. “You have information?”
“Nothing solid. Not as much as we’d like.”
“Not for lack of trying,” Florentius inputted. “Riften’s danger persists, no matter how much that ungodly, meddlesome Thieves Guild –”
“I said stow it, priest!” Irileth snapped, much more sharply. “Not here!”
“Now listen, Housecarl, Arkay assures –”
“Seems every night yields a fresh vampire den,” Mogrul interrupted, changing the subject with straightforward tact. “We’ve had our hands full keeping the Rift’s wilds secure. But they’re persistent, like weeds. Flush out one, we find two more. At least it gets the novices blooded and the hunters experienced.”
“But we’ll continue this discussion in Fort Dawnguard,” said Irileth, fixing Mogrul with an icy glare. “Let’s break camp and move out. Isran wants your full report, Dragonborn, and you’d better pray to your western gods that you have a damned good alternative for our losses.”
“Of course I do,” said Solen, as he stamped out the cooking fire. “What kind of man would I be without a plan?”
~
“I thought I already made my position quite clear on how I felt throwing Dragons at my problems,” growled Isran.
“Frankly, Isran, I don’t think we have much of a choice.” Solen stared beseechingly around the circle of faces that formed the Dawnguard council of war. “Surely you all agree with me? Sorine? Gunmar? Irileth? Dexion, we hardly know each other, but you strike me as a rational fellow. Surely you agree that the time has come for rash action.”
Dexion Evicus, the Moth Priest from Cyrodiil, had arrived at Fort Dawnguard the previous evening safe and sound, much to the relief of every vampire hunter. He was a polite fellow, quite well-read and well-spoken, thoroughly excited to be presented with an Elder Scroll, thoroughly disappointed when Solen had given him the bad news. For the sake of his experience with the very subject the council had been called over, he’d been invited to attend. Until that moment, he hadn’t said a word. Now he twirled the tip of his beard around a finger and said, “I can’t speak for matters of warfare, Dragonborn, but I think it would take a very foolhardy warrior to walk into the lair of a master vampire and challenge him on his throne.”
“Well, you’re in luck, foolhardy’s what I do best.” Solen faced Isran imperiously. “You hear that? Agreement.”
“He did nothing of the sort and you know it,” said Irileth tartly. “We’re not that desperate.”
“Aren’t we?” Solen threw up his hands. “Look me in the eye – gold or green, take your pick – and tell me Skyrim’s not devolving into another crisis. We’ve got Dragons attacking cities again, what with the Volkihar doing something corruptive to the wilds. We’ve got people fleeing behind city walls, abandoning their farms, mills and homesteads right before the autumn harvest. You’ve got a whole bloody village living in Dayspring Canyon now!”
Such had been the sight Solen had been greeted with upon his return to the Fort – dozens of tents and livestock pens clustered behind the battle-scarred palisades. Irileth had explained that the refugees had been permitted to stay, so long as they volunteered their services to the cause – cleaning, cooking, cutting firewood, offering livestock up for slaughter. At least it freed the Dawnguard from menial day-to-day tasks and allowed them to wholly concentrate on their occupation, which in turn gave the frightened civilians a sense of security, but it didn’t change the aura of displacement that hung over the Fort road like a pall. Solen could still feel that atmosphere all the way up on the Fort battlements, where for Fiirnaraan’s sake they held their council in the last of the day’s red sun.
“And don’t even get me started on the Imperial Legion,” Solen went on. “Aela and I passed through Fort Greenwall two days ago – the garrison between Riften and Shor’s Stone? They lost almost a quarter of their troops repelling a vampire attack before your roaming Dawnguard operatives arrived. And by ‘lost’, I don’t just mean dead; half the bodies were never found.”
Several heads turned to Aela for clarification. Her reputation had preceded her to Fort Dawnguard; all recognized her as a Companion of the highest calibre. Her head jerked with a quick nod. “That’s what was said, aye.”
“To top it all off,” Solen continued, “you’ve got a serious plague of vampires across the Rift. What Dawnguard you’ve still got stationed around the Fort here are up to their ears in it.”
“Fledglings, mistwalkers, newly turned, thralls,” Irileth rattled off. “They’re no worse than plague rats, but I’ll be the first to admit they’re becoming a problem.”
“I don’t just mean their nests,” Solen frowned. “Riften, specifically. You’re certain there’s a vampire in Maven’s court?”
“As certain as any of us can be without solid proof,” Irileth scowled. “The Thieves Guild are involved in this one way or another, mark my words. Nothing happens in that accursed city without their pilfering fingers all over the mark.”
Riften was a curveball that Solen hadn’t anticipated. He’d vaguely heard about the rise of the Thieves Guild, mostly in complaining townsfolk, rumours, and the odd military report discussing disrupted trading caravans and misplaced or sabotaged ledgers. He’d had precious little personal experience with the Guild. He’d spoken a handful of times with Brynjolf, the ‘well-connected’ redhead, and visited the Ragged Flagon, the seedy bar below the streets, on rare and necessary occasion. That was the limit of his interaction with Skyrim’s underworld.
Irileth, meanwhile, had been unable to return to the city since she and Florentius had thrown down their ultimatum, forcing them to speculate about the Thieves Guild’s supposed involvement with the Volkihar outside the city walls. As if to add insult to injury, Riften had entered such a total state of lockdown that the Dawnguard had been unable to provision supplies from the city since. That, Irileth had darkly declared, was no coincidence either.
“So the short of it is that things went from bad to worse a while ago.” Solen paced in front of the sizeable number of Dawnguard and allies across from him; Isran, his second Irileth, Florentius, Sorine, Gunmar, Dexion, Aela, and Fiirnaraan, paying close attention to every word. “The time for drastic action is now. Gendolin’s only getting stronger, and he’s made it clear he wants to challenge me. Let me answer the challenge. Nothing stops the Voice. I speak the right Words, at the right time, and the battle’s over.”
“That is true,” Fiirnaraan agreed, curling his tail. “The Dovahkiin defeated Alduin. Twice.”
“Vampires are not Alduin,” said Aela. “Solen, I agree with Isran. It’d be a glorious battle, but still certain death.”
Irileth’s arms tightened over her chest. “All it takes is one arrow, one spell, one set of unseen claws.”
“I have a helmet,” said Solen. “And Dragons. And, Tu’whacca preserve me, the means. There’s Shouts I haven’t touched since I fought my Dragonborn forebear, and he touched on some seriously twisted magic. Short of blasting down Riften’s doors and finding out what in Morwha’s name is going on in that city, we’re out of options. The Dawnguard’s plenty strong. I’ll rally some warriors. We’ll sail to Castle Volkihar and take the fight to them. We know where the Scrolls are – we have to make a push to get them back before we find out exactly how imminent this Black Sun prophecy is.”
By the dour look on Isran’s face, it seemed he was actually, finally considering it. That alone told Solen just how serious the situation across Skyrim had become. “Gunmar,” Isran said eventually, “your trolls – how many are ready?”
“Four,” the big Nord answered, idly massaging a fresh bruise on his cheekbone. “I reckon the dogs are ready as well. Jus’ need to refit their armour.”
“The latest crossbow designs are performing better than expected,” Sorine added, even as Isran turned to her. “Halved reload time and doubled impact durability. Give Gunmar and I three days and we’ll have the rest of the Dawnguard fitted out with them.”
Florentius had stood silent and wordless throughout the meeting so far, which he’d been encouraged to do (and after an afternoon riding in his company, Solen could understand why) – but now the priest lifted his head, his eyes quite urgent. “Ark – I mean, I think – an assault on the Volkihar lair is not the right time. Our endeavours would be catastrophic in such a reckless pursuit.”
Solen had not been surprised to learn the Arkay priest was a former Vigilant and another of Isran’s acquaintances. Sorine and Gunmar had found common ground again with their old comrade, but the old wounds still lay open between Isran and Florentius. “And what would you have us do?” Isran barked. “Sit around here and pray?”
“Well, the gods know the world could do with a little more faith,” said Florentius haughtily, “but He – I – insist that Riften is a far higher priority. There’s a darkness there that must be unearthed before we can hope to gain any kind of ground against the Volkihar.”
“So you’ve said,” Isran growled. “But unless we can find some way back into the city, Riften is a waste of time and energy.”
Aela frowned at Solen. “You were Thane down there, weren’t you?”
“Aye, I was Thane in a lot of corners of Skyrim, and I resigned them all but one.” Solen shrugged helplessly. “Maybe there’s still some strings I can pull, some friends I can call on, but Maven Black-Briar’s no Balgruuf the Greater.”
“Mephala forbid,” Irileth muttered under her breath.
“Right now, the only thing that really concerns me is Gendolin. He champions the Volkihar. Clearly he’s the brains behind these little schemes, and I want to see those brains carved out of his skull, the sooner the better.” Solen rammed his fist into his open palm. “We need some way to anticipate his next move. Everyone think.”
Everyone thought. The ramparts went deathly quiet until only the gentle creaking of Fiirnaraan’s flexing head-frills were to be heard between them.
“We could put the Dragon on watch,” Sorine suggested, shooting the Blood Dragon a nervous look. Only Isran, Irileth and Solen were really comfortable in Fiirnaraan’s presence. “You said he was a good tracker, right?”
“Ask him yourself,” said Solen, “he’s right here. No? Fiirnaraan, you’re a good tracker, right?”
“Oh, yes, Dovahkiin. I am very good.”
“Can we trust you to pick up Gendolin’s trail?”
Fiirnaraan visibly shivered and huddled down into his wings. “It is very cold in the far north, very dark, and scent is easily lost in the sea and the sky. A flying nobleman is very hard to follow.”
“Vampire lord,” Irileth corrected. “There’s nothing noble about that murderous villain. No, we need Fiirnaraan in the Rift. He knows the Hold inside out now. He sniffs out the vampires as quick as we snuff ‘em out.”
“And the Dawnguard’s annoyed the Thieves Guild, so odds of bribing them to ply their undoubtedly enormous network of contacts across the province is low,” Solen added, scowling.
Florentius gave a great sniff. “As if we’d turn to thieves to do Arkay’s work.”
“Florentius,” Isran started warningly.
“Hey, beggars can’t be choosers, Isran,” said Sorine, grinning. “Florentius’s mad visions were right about Redwater Den and Riften, weren’t they? Maybe Arkay could give us a little... head’s up?”
“It does not work like that,” Florentius scowled, as Gunmar quietly snigg*red. “Arkay is not to be used like a... like...!”
“Enough, Sorine,” Isran growled. “We need something serious.”
Aela’s lupine-tinted senses left her quite perceptive to physical responses, particularly the subtle ones. She glanced sidelong at Dexion, conscious of his fidgeting and the nervous irregularity of his heartbeat. “Is there something on your mind, Moth Priest?”
“Well... I suppose so,” said Dexion, and all heads turned to him. He tried not to look too hard at the Dragon’s bulbous green eyes, and focused on Isran instead. “It may not be possible to follow the trail of this vampire you seek, but... there may be a way to lure him. The question is, how much are you all willing to risk?”
Isran blew a hefty sigh through his nose and folded his arms. “Frankly we’ve little left to lose. What’s your plan, Evicus?”
“Scattered across Tamriel are secluded locations known only as Ancestor Glades. I know of one in Skyrim’s side of the Jeralls, overlooking the great pine forest. In that Glade, one can perform the Ritual of the Ancestor Moth. It would be the vampires’ best chance at reading the Scrolls without a Moth Priest.”
“There’s a way to read the Scrolls without a Priest?” Sorine exclaimed.
“Oh, even I cannot be certain it would work,” Dexion told her quickly. “Every Moth Priest is taught this ritual, but few ever get the chance to perform it. I have never even visited one of these Ancestor Glades. But if the Volkihar were to learn of this place, and the ritual involved in deciphering the Scrolls, they would almost certainly be drawn there, if reading the Scrolls is truly their intention.”
“It’s got to be,” Solen muttered, “there’s no other reason for lugging those great big backweights around.” Catching sight of Dexion’s somewhat scandalized expression, he amended hastily, “But it was a very nice backweight.”
Irileth furrowed her brow. “What do you think? Giving the vampires any sort of edge sounds like a very bad idea to me.”
“Agreed,” Isran rumbled, “but we’ve got no good ideas to act on. The Dragonborn’s proof enough that the Scrolls can be used in certain places of power. Evicus, how does this Ritual work?”
“Well, in keeping with tradition, you must use a specific tool in the Ancestor Glade, an implement known as a Draw Knife. You carefully remove the bark from a Canticle Tree, which will in turn draw the Ancestor Moths to you.”
“The Priests?” said Gunmar, perplexed.
“The moths,” said Dexion patiently, “from which my Order takes its name. The voice of the Ancestor Moth has always been an integral part to reading the Scrolls.”
“But moths are small,” said Fiirnaraan in his soft, musical voice, “and they are fluttery, and they make only the very softest sounds, and do not speak at all.”
Dexion managed a nervous chuckle. “The moths don’t do the actual reading of the Scrolls, of course, but they maintain a connection to the ancient magic that we do not. They do not speak, but they do sing – a soft, harmonious trilling. Beautiful to hear. It’s through this ancestral chorus that the moths become conduits to a form of primal augur. We Moth Priests can utilize this conduit and share the moths’ augury. Only the most resilient of Priests can do it this way, however... it takes years of practice to interpret the harmony.”
Fiirnaraan’s head-frills opened wide. “Oh, I would very much like to listen to the moth-songs, I very much would!”
Dexion did not seem very pleased at the idea of a Dragon intruding upon such a sacred Moth Priest place, but Solen tapped his elbow. “Dragons are drawn to things of beauty as much as sources of power. Take it as a compliment.”
Aela drummed her knuckles on her armour-plated hip. “It sounds like it’s still up to a Moth Priest to be able to utilize the Glade. Think the vampires would take the bait?”
Dexion snorted to himself. “If my Moth kindred could hear me now, proposing to use the Elder Scrolls in such a callous way... but yes, I believe a reading is meant to be. Believe it or not, the Scrolls themselves have minds of their own. If they didn’t want to be found, they wouldn’t allow it. I believe the Scrolls desire to be read – and anyone who hears the ancestral chorus will have this rare opportunity.” His pale eyes wandered the Dawnguard council with urgency. “But ultimately it would be a chance – perhaps our only – to recover both the stolen Elder Scrolls from the Volkihar. Depending on the strength of your champions.”
The contemplative silence was brief. “I’m all for it,” said Solen. “You can bet your bottom septim that Gendolin would head such an important expedition.”
Fiirnaraan’s wings rustled as he fluttered them over his head. “I want to join this game. I very much want to.”
“Calm down,” Irileth chastened them, “we’re not playing any games yet. We don’t even know where this Ancestor Glade is.”
Solen indicated himself and the eager Blood Dragon. “Finding some long-lost cave in the mountains would hardly be an issue between us. I hunted those very mountains and forests for years before the Imperials caught me at it. And you endorsed Fiirnaraan’s ability to sniff out secret lairs.”
“I know those woods as well,” Aela added ambiguously. “I can cover a lot of ground.”
Isran frowned at the other Dawnguard. “What do you all think?”
Gunmar nodded ponderously. “Worth a shot. We ain’t got much left to lose, as you said, aye?”
Sorine swept a mop of hair from her face. “I’m a Dwemer scholar, not a Scroll expert. If Solen’s confident in the plan, so am I.”
Florentius gnawed his lip. “I still maintain that Riften is –”
“We’ll deal with Riften,” Isran growled. “I’m not letting those bloodsuckers make a stronghold out of a city. But right now we can turn their influence there to our advantage.”
“How?” Florentius demanded. “Those good men and women, innocent to this shadow war –”
“Don’t name it,” Solen frowned. “Seriously. But Riften’s always been a hot mess of rumour. It’s a perfect place to plant the Grotto lead. By the time it reaches the higher-ups’ ears, we’ll have found the Grotto and be waiting for them.” And instead of finding his answers, Gendolin will find me. Caught in the energy of the moment, Solen felt hard-pressed not to draw his battle-blade and declare the bravado aloud.
“That’s settled, then.” Isran clasped his hands together. “Anyone got anything else they want to say?”
The door to the battlements banged open with supremely good timing, expelling a Dawnguard operative in full sprint. “That one seems like he does,” Aela remarked candidly.
Fiirnaraan nibbled delicately at the claw on his wing thumb. “It will probably be something awfully boring. I think I shall go and find a sheep.”
“You eat after you work, Dragon,” Isran growled, and rounded on the vampire hunter as he staggered to a breathless halt between them. “Well? Spit it out, Lynoit. What’s so damned urgent it couldn’t wait until after council?”
“Easy, Isran,” said Solen lightly. “There’s a lot of stairs between the ground floor and the ramparts.”
Gunmar grunted ruefully. “You can say that again.”
Lynoit straightened up and gasped out, “Vampire – at the – Fort, sir!”
There was a chorus of weapons leaping from their scabbards, and Fiirnaraan promptly went invisible. “Where? How many?” Irileth demanded.
“One – just – one,” Lynoit panted. “She says – she – message – she has a message.”
Several weapons returned puzzled to their sheaths, and Fiirnaraan’s head (and only his head) cautiously manifested back into visibility, but Isran kept his warhammer slung warningly across one shoulder. “What message could those vermin possibly have for us?”
“She’s – it’s – it’s for the Dragonborn, sir.”
Solen wished he hadn’t sheathed Eldródr quite so quickly. He had a nasty suspicion of who the message was from – and, given the Volkihar’s previous resourcefulness, what it might concern. “Moving up in the world, am I? What an honour. What’s the message?”
Lynoit clutched a stitch in his side. “She wouldn’t say, just told us to tell you it was from someone named – Gemmerlin? Gedrin? I don’t – quite recall, sir, something Elvish. Said it’d get your attention fine enough, to send you down to the palisade to hear it from her yourself.”
“Oh dear,” muttered Florentius, and clasped his amulet in prayer.
“It’s a trap,” said Sorine immediately. “And it’s ridiculous. What does Gendolin possibly have to say to any of us?”
Solen’s mismatched eyes settled grimly on Dexion Evicus. “I’ve got a hunch.”
