One of the others gripped him from behind, and then they all had him. He rolled and pitched furiously, smashing them into coral. Two let go, but the other managed to hold on by grabbing the harpoon, and this time his senses were shattered by the pain, and for a moment he wasn’t sure what was happening. The next thing that came to him clearly was Oluth, trying to say something. Blood was coming from his mouth. A quick look showed his attackers all dead or too badly wounded to do anything. “What?” he asked Oluth. “I’m sorry,” the boy said. “We did it, the glimmers. We thought it was what you wanted.” “What?” Glim demanded. “What did you do?” “They were supposed to know, so they would do something about the vapors. We were proud, proud to be a part of—” He coughed, and a great gout of red poured from his mouth. “We broke a tree-root feed,” he said. “We left our sign there, the sign of the vapors.” “Sign of the vapors?” “Right,” Oluth said weakly. “You wouldn’t have seen it. It’s on the door to the chamber. Four wriggling lines, in a spray.” He closed his eyes. Glim saw the wound now. The knife was still in it. “Let’s get you fixed up,” he said. “No,” Oluth said. “More coming. I’ll wait here for them.” “I can’t let you, not alone.” “Please,” Oluth said. “Please, for me? If you forgive me, please go.” Glim cut the line to the harpoon and was trying to pull it free when several figures emerged from the cave entrance. Oluth launched himself forward. “Go!” he screamed. Glim saw he had the harpoon gun. More guards came out, seven now. So he did as Oluth asked and swam deep. When Glim had put some distance between himself and his pursuers, he found a crevice in the side of the sump, wedged the other end of the harpoon into it, and finally managed to yank the barbed head free. He almost passed out, and for several long breaths he couldn’t swim, but then he started stroking again, trailing more blood than ever. He couldn’t get Oluth’s last words out of his head. Where had he gone wrong? Hadn’t he explained well enough? And what were they doing breaking a tree-root feed? That hadn’t even been one of the targets he had approved. But it did give him an idea. He took a twisting course, past where a cluster of middens emptied into the sump, hoping the turbulence would disperse his blood trail, then swam toward the capillaries that drew water up to the Fringe Gyre. It took him a few minutes, but he found the one with the lines crudely etched into the stone above—the sign of the vapors. They had smashed the filter, so the capillary was pulling up debris that in time would choke the feed. Hoping it wasn’t blocked already, he went up it.


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It was nearly too tight for him; he had to writhe up the thing for the first hundred feet or so, but finally it met a larger tube and he let himself drift for a moment before continuing on. He’d never been in these passages before for the simple reason that none of the filters were ever broken. Older skraws who had made repairs said they formed a webwork that brought water to the roots of the Fringe Gyre. He hadn’t wanted to take his usual path up, because it would have been far too easy to track him. Now, as he passed dozens of branching tubes, many far too small to admit him, he wondered if he hadn’t merely managed to trap himself. If they found him here, his speed and maneuverability wouldn’t count for much. Not that he had that much of either left anyway. He didn’t know how much blood he had lost; his wounds stanched themselves pretty quickly, but he was still bleeding. Hoping he wouldn’t pass out before he found a way up, he swam on, through passages that became increasingly more dizzying and labyrinthine.


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Lord of Souls: An Elder Scrolls Novel THREE Attrebus fell, but before he could start a scream he crunched into something cold and wet. Gasping, he came to his hands and knees, swiping at the clotting stuff on his face, wondering what horrible Oblivion realm Malacath had banished them to. But then he understood that he’d landed in snow, and the air coming into his lungs was clean and filled with evergreen scent. When he looked up, the sky was blue and traced with high, thin clouds. “He did it,” he said. “So it would appear,” Sul replied. “This is not Oblivion, at least.” “It’s cold.” “If this is Solstheim, that makes sense.” Like him, Sul was still naked; his dark skin stood in sharp contrast to the snow and spruce trees surrounding them. Near him lay a bundle, and the older man stepped over to it, discovering their clothing, weapons, and armor. Everything was still torn, filthy, and blood-caked, but Attrebus felt warmer and more secure back in his gear. “Which way now?” he asked. They were on a low ridge. Jagged peaks stood off in one direction. “I thought he would drop us right in front of—wherever we’re going.” “That’s not always possible, even for a daedra prince,” Sul replied. “He probably put us as near as was convenient.” He looked around, and then jerked his chin toward the peaks. “I’ve no interest in climbing mountains just for sport. Downhill is likely more hospitable, and we’re more apt to find someone to ask directions of.” “I won’t argue with that,” Attrebus said. The land rolled up and down, but took them generally lower, until they came to a little valley with a small but enthusiastic river laughing over polished stones. They began following that downstream. It was about midday, and the sun was warmer, the ice turning to mush under their feet. As the sky paled to slate and the outlines of the moon Secundus began to brighten, the snow began to crackle under their feet, and the inadequacy of their clothing became clear. They searched the valley wall for a rock shelter, but failing to find one, they stopped, gathered wood, and built a fire to huddle around. “I thought we would find people sooner,” Attrebus said, watching the flames dance and trying to avoid the resinous smoke. “Why?” Sul asked. “Well, because so many Dark Elves came here after the red year—” He broke off, realizing he was in uncomfortable territory, but Sul clapped his hands together and rubbed them over the fire. “I had many unpleasant surprises after returning from exile in Oblivion,” he said. “I knew that Vivec City was destroyed. Vuhon told me he had seen as much, when he was torturing me. But it wasn’t until I went there that I understood how badly my homeland had been ravaged, or how they had suffered from the Argonian invasion. Still, I had an idea.


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But that Skyrim had offered Solstheim as a haven for my people, after ages of enmity between our races—for that I was unprepared.” “ ‘Untithed to any thane or hold,’ ” Attrebus quoted, “ ‘and self-governed, with free worship, with no compensation to Skyrim or the Empire except as writ in the armistice of old wheresoever those might still apply, and henceforth let no man or mer say that the Sons and Daughters of Kyne are without mercy or honor.’ ” Sul raised an eyebrow. “I learned it from my tutors,” Attrebus explained. “I memorized it. I’ve always been moved by it.” Sul poked at the fire, his brow furrowing, then tossed his head to indicate their surroundings. “It’s not the most fruitful land,” he said. “And in my day almost unpopulated, and then by scraggly tribesmen with no clear allegiance toward Skyrim or the Empire. Morrowind had always laid theoretical claim to the place. If Skyrim hadn’t given it freely, odds are the refugees would have settled here anyway, forcing the Nords to either fight or lose face. This way they came out looking like saviors.” “Stendarr,” Attrebus swore. “Can’t you ever imagine that people actually act from kindness? From mercy?” “People might, or at least might imagine that’s what moves them,” Sul said. “Nations don’t.” “I don’t believe that,” Attrebus said. “Nations are ruled by people. When did the Nords ever back down from a fight with Dunmer? Your people were weakened, Sul—battered, without home or resources.” “They were desperate,” Sul replied. “Desperate and dangerous. You’ve too many romantic notions in your head.” “Maybe,” Attrebus said. “And maybe nine times out of ten, you’re right—nations act from cold self-interest. But sometimes, at their very best, they act for a greater good, just as some men and women do.” Sul waved that off. “I’m not going to argue any further,” he said. “Believe what you want. But to return to your question, my guess is that most Dunmer settled in the South and along the coasts, and I think we’re in the interior.” “You’ve been here before?” “No, but as I said, it was always a disputed territory, and therefore its essentials were a part of my education in the ministry.” Despite Sul’s pronouncement, Attrebus wanted to press the debate, but at that moment he heard a soft noise from his haversack, both artificial and birdlike. “Annaïg,” he whispered. “She’s alive. I tried to contact her earlier but—” “Go on,” Sul said. “But don’t stray far from the fire.” Attrebus nodded and stepped a bit away from the flames, into the muffling spruces, for a bit of privacy. Then he hesitated at the cold, wondering why he needed discretion, why Sul assumed he did … He pulled out Coo, the mechanical bird, an exquisitely crafted object, detailed down to the feather. He opened the small latch on its belly. And there she was, Annaïg, with her curly black hair and mouth curving up in a wide, happy grin.


“Attrebus,” she said. “I—I thought you were dead. It’s been so long.” “Has it?” he asked. “I’m afraid I’ve lost all sense of time.” “What happened?” she asked. “Where are you?” “Things didn’t go exactly as planned,” he said. “Sul and I reached Umbriel, but Vuhon was too much for us. We barely escaped into Oblivion with our lives, and there—we were quite busy. I tried to contact you a few times but I never managed it.” He felt sick as he said it, and realized he was holding his gut scar. He forced a smile. “But now we have returned to Tamriel.” “Vuhon? Who is Vuhon?” “You haven’t heard of him? He’s the lord of Umbriel. He created it.” Her brow furrowed. “When they speak of the lord of Umbriel, they call him Umbriel,” she said. “I’ve never heard of anyone named Vuhon.” “That’s odd,” Attrebus said, but he remembered Vuhon suggesting that he didn’t go by that name anymore, that he was only answering to it out of convenience for Sul. Then he caught the tense of her verb. “You speak as if you’re still there,” he said. “I thought you had managed to escape.” “My plans didn’t fare so well either,” she replied. “It seems Umbriel has some hold over us. We flew out a few hundred yards and our bodies began to—ah—evaporate.” “Evaporate? Like the larvae you told me about? I remember you said the inhabitants of Umbriel all believed they couldn’t leave.” “And it seems they can’t. And now Glim and I can’t.” “I’m sorry,” he said. “All this time I thought you were safe. I tried to contact you once from Oblivion, when we had a moment’s respite, but there wasn’t an answer. There must be some way.” “There is, I’m sure,” she said, but her eyes shifted away and her tone was unconvincing. “What’s wrong?” “I just haven’t made much progress, that’s all,” she said. “We learned a few things from Vuhon that might help you,” he told her. “Really?” she asked. “Such as?” “Umbriel used to be a city in Oblivion, in the realm of Clavicus Vile. Vuhon—the lord of Umbriel—was trying to escape that realm with his companion, Umbra, but Vile essentially hardened the walls of his domain so no one could leave it. Vuhon found a way to sort of turn space around the city, though, and then break that free, like twisting a sausage casing and then tearing it.” Annaïg blinked. “So Umbriel is in a bubble—a bubble of the wall Clavicus Vile made it impossible to pass through?” “I think that’s right,” he said. “Sul has tried to explain it better, but we’ve been rather busy—” “But that helps,” she said excitedly. “Attrebus, that helps a lot. If I were there I would kiss—” But she broke off and blushed. “You know what I mean,” she said after a moment. “I think I could suffer through a kiss from you,” he said. Her brows drew in.


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“Oh, could you?” she asked. “Sure—if it wasn’t too long, or wet.” “I’ll keep that in mind, your highness,” she said. But then her face changed, as if she’d just remembered something awful. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Is someone there?” “No,” she replied. “No, privacy isn’t the problem it used to be.” “How is that?” “I’ve—moved up. I’m the chef of a kitchen now.” “That’s good?” “I think so. It puts me in a position to learn more about Umbriel. I think I may have found some weaknesses.” “That’s wonderful, then. Are you safer?” “I don’t know,” she said. Her good mood seemed to have all but left her. Now she sounded tired. “In a way, certainly. But every step up just means a new kind of danger. In two days I will make a meal for Umbriel himself.” “Vuhon?” “I guess so. I don’t know.” “He’s a Dunmer, Annaïg. From Morrowind.” A thought occurred, but he felt reluctant to voice it. She must have seen it on his face. “You’re wondering if I can poison him.” “No,” he said. “It’s too dangerous.” “I—” She closed her eyes. “I’m confused, Attrebus. To survive, to get to this position—I’ve had to do things. Things I’m not happy about or proud of.” “I’m sure everything you’ve done was necessary,” he said. “Look, I know you’re not an assassin. I shouldn’t have—” “If I thought I could succeed, I would do it,” she said. “The fact that he was once an elf, a person of flesh and blood like you and me—that’s interesting. But I don’t think he is that anymore.” “No,” he said, “you’re probably right. He said that everything on Umbriel was a part of him, and he part of it. And he was so strong …” Her expression had changed again, become thoughtful. “If that’s true …” she began. “Yes?” “I’m sorry,” she said. “I need to think about this. Tell me everything you remember him saying, everything you know about Umbriel.” He recounted the meeting with Vuhon and everything he could remember Sul saying about him, Clavicus Vile, and Umbra, continuing long into the night. “I should go now,” she sighed. “I have more privacy, but I have a kitchen to run. I’m—it’s good to talk to you.” “To you, too,” he said. He hesitated, then went on. “There’s so much that’s happened, so much I want to tell you about when we really have time—” “I never got that description of Rimmen,” she said. “I know. But gods willing, I’ll get the chance to give it to you. When you’re free, and alone, always try me. I’ll answer when I can.” “I know you will,” she said. Her image persisted a moment, and then vanished as she put away the locket. It was only then that he realized he was freezing. “Watch it,” Sul warned. Attrebus looked down and realized he was about to put his foot into a jagged crevice a yard deep. “Thanks,” he said.


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“Just—watch yourself.” “I didn’t really sleep last night,” Attrebus explained. “Cold and hard dirt can do that.” “That wasn’t it. Believe it or not, I’ve slept perfectly peacefully under those conditions before. I just couldn’t stop thinking.” “I can believe that,” Sul grunted. Attrebus felt irritation flare but pressed it down. “Look, until a few weeks ago I thought I was a warrior, a leader—a hero. I slept like a baby because I didn’t have any worries. Every fight I was ever in, I won, every battle went my way. And I was too stupid to figure out the whole thing was a sham.” “You’re not that stupid,” Sul said, to his surprise. “That’s an easy sort of thing to believe, when you’re young. I thought I was invincible at one point, too, and I didn’t have any of the excuses you do for thinking so.” “Well, that’s—thanks.” For a moment he continued in silence, wondering over the rare almost-compliment. “Sul,” he finally began, “you made me face the facts, and then you gave me a way of making it through with my sanity. You told me to try to become the man people think I am. And I am trying.” “Good for you.” “But I need you to tell me something. I need you to tell me if you think we have any chance at this, or if you’re just so angry and guilty …” Sul drew to an abrupt stop. “Do you think I’m out of my mind?” he asked quietly. “What?” “I asked,” Sul said, his voice rising to a shout, “if you think I’m out of my mind?” Attrebus felt a stir of fear in his gut. If Sul chose to kill him, there was no way he would be able to stop him. “I don’t know,” he finally said. “If everything Vuhon said was true, I honestly don’t know.” “Does it matter?” Sul asked. “Yes, it does. Umbriel is headed toward the Imperial City. Toward my father, my mother, everyone I know. And yet here we are, halfway across the world, looking for a sword that might help us destroy Umbriel. But I’ve met Vuhon and seen his power. Even with all of your art, we barely escaped with our lives, and I hadn’t the slightest chance against him. I don’t see how this sword is going to change things.” “It might not,” Sul admitted. “But what else would you do?” “You could take us back through Oblivion, get us to the Imperial City before Umbriel reaches it. We know things that can help the Empire against Vuhon.” “We do? What would you tell him?” “Everything we know.” “And how would that help him? Have you worked out how to destroy Umbriel?” “No,” Attrebus said. “Neither have I,” Sul replied. “Until we know that, I can’t see what use going there will do. Even assuming I could do it at this point, which is anything but given.


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You’ve seen now what can happen if I don’t have my trail to follow through the realms.” “We know Vuhon wants the White-Gold Tower for something. My father’s mages might be able to figure out why.” “They might,” Sul conceded. Attrebus paused, uncertain if he wanted to continue, but he knew he had to. “We could go to Clavicus Vile,” he said. “Now there’s an idea,” Sul replied. “And you’re wondering if I’m out of my mind.” “But it makes sense. Vuhon is fleeing Vile, trying to be free of him. If we tell Vile where he is—” “Vile can’t come into Tamriel, at least not in an aspect potent enough to do anything about Umbriel. And if he could, he would probably make a far bigger mess than Vuhon will. If Clavicus Vile could take his power back from Umbriel, he already would have. What he needs in order to do that is what we’re looking for.” “You’re sure of that?” “No. But Vuhon went way out of his way to try to retrieve the sword. Azura gave me visions of it, and even Malacath seemed to think we’re on to something. Anyway, our last little forays into Oblivion have left me weakened. If I dare try going there again anytime soon, it will have to be for a very good reason, and not just because you want to be with your daddy.” “Look—” “The Imperial City is that way,” Sul said, pointing. “You’re free to go there anytime you like.” Attrebus pursed his lips and drew himself a little straighter. “Did you kill your lover? Did you destroy Vivec City?” Sul’s bloody eyes narrowed. “I did what I did,” he said. “I bear some of the blame. But Vuhon made this as well, and when I am done with him—” He stopped abruptly. “What?” Attrebus asked. “Yes, what then?” “Come with me if you wish,” Sul said. “I won’t speak of this anymore.” And with that he started walking again, his lean legs stretching in long strides. Attrebus watched him for a moment, sighed, and followed.


Lord of Souls: An Elder Scrolls Novel FOUR “That was even stranger than the last meal,” Yeum said, sipping her wine. The two of them sat at one of the cutting tables. The last dish had gone up for Umbriel’s banquet, and the rest of the kitchen swirled around their still point, cleaning up. “I liked it, especially the one with that plant, what is it called …?” “Marshmerrow,” Annaïg replied. “It grows in Morrowind, one of the countries we passed over.” “It was delicious. Before, I would have questioned the choice—but I’ve heard that since Rhel’s tasting, the other lords have begun demanding coarser, less spiritual food. You’ve started a trend.” “More a fad, I would think,” Annaïg said. Inwardly, she wasn’t so certain about the meal. She’d heard that Umbriel often ate plain matter, but beyond that neither the skraws nor anyone else knew anything about his specific tastes. She’d had two things to go on—Attrebus’s assertion that he’d at least once been a fully corporeal Dunmer, and Rhel’s preferences, which seemed in that light perhaps an aping of his master’s appetites. In any case, it was done now. Hours passed and no one came down, so she bid Yeum goodnight and went to her bed. Sleep eluded her, however, despite her fatigue, so instead she rose and went to her old workbench in the kitchens, where the tree-wine vats were, and idly sifted through the powders and potions while she thought. She was a chef now, master of a kitchen, and not a negligible one. But for how long? She doubted there was anywhere to go from here but down. She might have tried to poison Umbriel, but she knew in her gut that any such attempt would fail, and she’d lose any chance she had of accomplishing anything. But if Attrebus was right, if Umbriel, the ingenium that kept it aloft, and the Histlike trees Mere-Glim had discovered were all connected by a flow of soul-force, then she ought to be able to poison the whole system. Lord Umbriel was likely untouchable; she knew where the ingenium was, but Glim hadn’t found any way to reach it other than through the apparently deadly connexion at the bottom of the sump. But the trees—them, she could reach. And so she began making a poison. Some believed that poison was the antithesis of food, but Annaïg knew better. Most food was poison to one extent or another, especially plants, many of which had to be pounded or soaked or boiled or all three to divest them of enough toxins to make them even edible. Too many beans eaten raw could be fatal—the same was true of almonds, cherry pits, apple seeds. Nutmeg, when taken in large amounts, could give strange visions, and in higher doses, death. Alcohol, while pleasant, was indisputably a poison. The body dealt with these things, but over time, eventually, the body failed.


Everything one ate brought one closer to one’s last meal, and not just in a metaphorical sense. So while she hadn’t made much in the way of poison, it came as naturally to her as cooking or concocting tonics to allow flight or breathing water. And in learning how to use the stolen souls that pulsed through the cables of Umbriel, she now had the knowledge to create a venin of a more than merely physical nature. She could blacken the whole system if she did things right. And she could make gallons of it—tons, maybe—before anyone questioned what she was doing, now that the kitchen was hers. She worked almost until dawn, when she had something she was almost happy with. The only problem was testing it, and she couldn’t think of any good way to do that. In the end she knew she would have to take a risk. She hid it in her cabinet. Tomorrow she would work on it a bit more, and then set up a larger production in the tree-wine vats—and then, well, she would see. She had sent Slyr to certain destruction. She had killed Toel. Neither were good people, but if in the end their deaths didn’t serve some higher purpose, she didn’t think she could bear it. If she was now a murderer, it had to have been for something. And maybe, as Umbriel died, she and Glim might find a way off of it. Maybe. But if not … such was life. Everyone died. When she reached her room, she found two men and a woman waiting for her. They wore simple robes of gray and white. They didn’t seem armed, but when they asked her to go with them, she didn’t argue. They took her directly to Toel’s balcony. Two of them gripped her beneath her arms, and she gasped as they all lifted silently into the night air, rising up through the glittering, shifting web of glasslike strands she had only seen from below, and farther, to a fragile-looking spire, the tallest in the city. Umbriel was a massive inkiness below, and above, the stars were glorious. Masser was a gargantuan opal dome on the horizon. They took her through an opening in the spire and put her down. Then they left. It was more a gazebo than a room, with a floor of polished mica and a dome of nearly black jade supported by silvery filaments pulsing with souls. A single figure welcomed her, a Dunmer with a long white braid, dressed in a robe similar to the ones her escorts had worn. “I haven’t had a meal like that in a long time,” the man said. “I hope it pleased you, lord,” Annaïg replied. The words were hardly out before she wanted to suck them back in; the man had spoken in clear, perfect Tamrielic, not the strange Merish dialect of Umbriel. She had answered in the same language. He chuckled softly, probably at her expression.


“I thought so,” he said. “The references to the cuisine of my homeland were rather too obvious.” “Are you Lord Umbriel?” “I am Umbriel,” he said. “I am me, I am my city and my people. You aren’t part of me, though. And yet I didn’t invite you here or have you captured. They’ve been hiding you from me, down there in the kitchens. Using you in their little intrigues, I expect. Where are you from?” “Black Marsh,” she replied. “From Lilmoth.” “Everyone in Lilmoth is supposed to be dead, certain particular Argonians aside. How is it you are here, and alive?” “It was an accident,” she replied. “I made an elixir that gave my body flight.” “And you chose to come here?” “No, I didn’t,” she replied. “I was trying to flee, actually. Anyway, I was south of Lilmoth, not in the city.” “I suppose you lost family there? Friends?” “My father,” she said, trying to keep calm, to keep away from where her feelings lived. She wondered if her invisible knife could kill Umbriel. Six steps, a swift swing … “And you’re angry with me about that?” “At first, yes,” she said. “But I have learned a certain pragmatism. I have done well here in Umbriel. I have risen to a fairly high place in a short time.” “Indeed you have,” Umbriel replied. “You made no attempt to poison me last night, which can be interpreted in several ways. One would be that you’ve no wish to harm me. Another would be that you were too smart to try.” “Or perhaps a little of both,” she replied. “That’s an interesting answer,” Umbriel said. “I like it.” “My father and I weren’t close,” Annaïg told him, “and I had no real love for Lilmoth. I always dreamed of leaving, going somewhere exotic and exciting.” “And here you are,” he said, a neutral little smile at the edge of his lips. “Yes, Lord Umbriel.” He tapped his forehead, and the line of his mouth flattened out. “What bothers me is this,” he said, his voice rising a bit. It was shocking, like seeing a shark fin break the surface of a perfectly placid bay. “Part of me, long ago, was Dunmer. How in all of the worlds and not-world could you have known that?” “I did not know it, lord,” she said. “And yet several of your dishes were obviously inspired by the high cuisine of Morrowind. Why would you make such things if you had no inkling of my history?” His tone was very dangerous now, and she felt herself trembling involuntarily. “Lord, since I’ve been on Umbriel, the familiar components the taskers have brought me were first from Black Marsh and then from Morrowind. I was inspired by the ingredients, my lord. Marshmerrow begs to be made into hluurn or echar, urgandil into vverm. I learned something of Lord Rhel’s tastes by asking questions of those who know him.


I could find no one to question about you, so I guessed that Rhel, as your valet, would have discrimination similar to yours. There is no more to it than that.” “There isn’t?” He seemed to be calming a bit. “No, my lord.” “Well,” he said, pacing suddenly like a caged tiger. “Well, in that case, there is this other thing.” “What is that, lord?” “There is an Argonian in the sump. Did you know that? Did he come with you?” She was paralyzed for a moment, but she knew that if she dissembled and he knew she was lying, it was all over. A lot of the people who had actually seen them arrive together were dead, but she could not be certain they all were. “Yes,” she said. “He is my friend.” “Did you have him kill Toel for you?” “My lord—” “It doesn’t matter,” he said, waving her off. “The chefs are always murdering one another. But it seems your Argonian friend is up to a bit more than that. He’s organized some sort of rebellion among the skraws. That’s going to stop.” “Are you asking me to talk to him, lord?” “No. I’m asking you to kill him.” Her throat closed, and for a second she couldn’t breathe. “L-Lord?” she stuttered. “He’s hard to catch, this one, and the skraws are loyal to him. And even if I were to really bend my mind to it and catch him, killing him would only make him a martyr. I don’t need that at the moment, any more than I can afford to slaughter all of the skraws and start again.” She tried to still her shaking, which had grown worse. “What do you want me to do, then?” “He’s the only Argonian in the sump. It should be simple enough to introduce something into the water that will kill him without affecting anything else. I want it to look as if he died of natural causes. Do that for me.” She tightened her mind, pushed herself further out—away from her weak corpus—and met Umbriel’s gaze squarely. “I will, lord,” she promised. And so she returned to her kitchen, and she made a poison.


Lord of Souls: An Elder Scrolls Novel FIVE After another two days of mostly silent trudging, Attrebus smelled salt air, and the land dropped jaggedly until they emerged onto a strand of black sand where gray waves lapped halfheartedly at the shore. Up the beach, perhaps a mile away, he could make out what appeared to be crenellated towers rising from a promontory. “Do you think that’s it?” he asked. “Well,” Sul said, “it’s someplace.” He turned and set off toward the castle. For a time they saw only sea birds and occasionally odd three-tusked creatures sunning on some of the rocks. They had slick but hairy hides, paddlelike forelimbs with three toes, and no hind limbs at all, but instead a tail shaped like that of a shrimp. On land they were clumsy, but once in the water they seemed at ease, even elegant. Attrebus’s stomach was quite empty, and he found himself wondering if the things were edible. They reached the castle a few hours before sunset, or at least the rock it stood on and the small village between it and the sea. There wasn’t a dock as such, but a number of boats pulled up on the beach—some with substantial keels—suggested deep water offshore. A group of mostly women was crowded down near the boats, picking through fish lying in a couple of large troughs. Most had the flaxen hair and pink cheeks of Nords, although he saw a young Dunmer woman among them. The village was no more than about twenty buildings, one of which had a placard with the promising words char bucket printed on it. He and Sul made their way there. It was a tight little place with walls of undressed stone, a shake roof, and no windows, but inside it was warm and smelled pretty good. The oldest elven man Attrebus had ever seen watched them enter with obvious curiosity. “You want to eat?” he asked. “That would be good,” Sul told him. “Do you have money?” For answer Sul tossed a couple of coins onto the counter. The man nodded and left through a side door, returning a moment later with two steaming bowls of something and some bread. It turned out to be some sort of chowder, and despite some unfamiliar flavors, Attrebus thought it was the best thing he had eaten in a long time, possibly because he hadn’t eaten anything in a long time. A few moments later two flagons of spiced mead joined the stew, and Attrebus felt officially happy. He looked up and saw the old man still regarding them. “It’s okay?” he asked. “Delicious,” Attrebus replied. “My compliments.” “You come up from Oleer Mar?” he asked. “Down from the mountains,” Sul said. “Not much to see.” “What is this place?” Attrebus asked. “The village?” the man asked. “Sathil, after the castle, I guess. We don’t call it much of anything.” “Sathil? They were allied with house Indoril, yes?” Sul said.


“Not Hleryn Sathil, not for a long time,” the fellow said. “Declared himself independent when he came here back in ’sixteen.” “Why?” Attrebus asked. “Why not? If the Great Houses couldn’t stop the wrack of Morrowind, what good are they?” “I see your point,” Attrebus replied, although it actually made very little sense to him. “Did you come up here with Sathil?” “No, I settled here a few years ago when my ship wrecked on the coast. I like it up here. It’s mostly quiet, not like the city. A few raiders now and then, but Sathil is still capable of handling that.” “Still capable? Is something wrong with him?” “Never mind,” the man said. “I talk too much.” “Do you think he would mind if we pay him a visit?” Attrebus asked. “Sathil?” He looked surprised, then contemplative. “Well, you never know, do you? He might. Do either of you have any sorcery?” “A little,” Sul said. “He used to entertain a lot of sorcerers. Not as much lately. Anyway, his gates will be closed by now, but you could go up there in the morning. In the meantime, how about a couple of nice beds?” “And a hot bath?” Attrebus asked hopefully. “Now, that’s just crazy talk,” the fellow gruffed. The beds weren’t so nice, but they were better than cold dirt. Breakfast wasn’t much either—a thin porridge and a bit of dark bread. But it was enough, and the cocks were still crowing when they started up the approach to the castle. The path was wide enough for wagons and not too steep for them, but by the time they reached the top of it, Sathil village was tiny below them. The walls of the castle were living rock for the first fifteen feet or so, polished smooth as glass, and then for another ten feet they were carefully fitted stone. It would be a hard place to take; except for the road, there wasn’t any place for siege engines, and the two towers that overlooked the gate seemed pretty capable of defending the approach. The gate, a thick wooden affair heavily banded with steel, was closed, but a fellow on the wall hailed them as they approached. Like most of the villagers, he seemed to be a Nord. “Haven’t seen you before,” the fellow commented. “We’re travelers,” Attrebus said. “Naturalists, actually. We hope to catalogue the flora and fauna hereabouts.” He saw Sul’s eyebrow lift, but otherwise his companion didn’t react. “Do what?” the Nord asked. “You know—those things on the beach, for instance, with the three tusks …” “Horkers? You’ve come to look at horkers? Must be a boring place you’re from, lad.” “I’m from the Imperial City,” Attrebus said. “I’ve been commissioned as part of a project to write a new guide to the Empire and surrounding countries.” “Well, this isn’t the Empire, you know,” the man said. “Right,” Attrebus agreed. “Hence the ‘surrounding countries’ part.


I was rather hoping to gain Lord Sathil’s patronage for a time, while we’re doing our cataloguing.” “Cattle hogging? What does that mean?” “No, I mean—writing down types of things and describing them.” “You’re going to write about horkers?” “Yes, and whatever other things might be of interest in the area. Wildlife, geography, culture and customs, places and objects of power, those sorts of things.” “Places of power, eh? Are you a sorcerer?” “I am not. That is my companion’s specialty.” “Hang on there, then,” the man said. “I’ll convey your request to his lordship.” He vanished from the wall. “Naturalist?” Sul asked. “I’ve always been interested in those sorts of things,” Attrebus said. “Not enough to actually read about them, so far as I’ve seen,” Sul said. “Well, here’s my opportunity,” Attrebus replied. An hour passed and most of another before the gate creaked and finally opened. The man from the wall was there, and a thin, ascetic-looking Dunmer woman with a long queue, clad in a flowing black robe embroidered with the stylized form of a draugr. Her gaze flicked over them a bit distastefully. “Welcome to Sathil Manor,” she said. “Isilr was a bit confused about your purpose here. I wonder if I could prevail upon you to reiterate it.” “Of course,” Attrebus said. “It’s nothing complicated, really. The Emperor in Cyrodiil has commissioned a new guide to the Empire and independent realms of Tamriel. I’ve been sent here to collect general information on the area for the guide.” “You’re not just spying on our horkers, then, but on us as well?” “Spying? I wouldn’t put it that way, my lady.” She smiled thinly. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I have been instructed to offer you lodging and whatever help you require—within reason, of course.” “Of course, lady. That is most hospitable.” She nodded wanly. “I am Nirai Sathil, daughter of Hleryn Sathil. With whom do I make the acquaintance?” “My name is Uriel Tripitus,” Attrebus lied, “and this is my companion Ozul.” “Ozul,” she said. “From what house?” “I belong to no house,” Sul told her. “I understand you,” she said. “We have also foresworn allegiance to the houses. Please, follow me and be welcome in our home.” She led them across a bare stone yard surrounded by what appeared to be barracks and into a central keep that rose quite high before sprouting six slender towers. The place was smaller than it looked from the shore, but still quite large—and to Attrebus’s eye, undermanned. He didn’t see nearly enough guards or servants. They entered a large central hall with an enormous table. The walls were hung with the busts of animals—bears, wolves, wild bulls, lions—and also with various sorts of arms and armor, some of which seemed quite exotic. “I must leave you here,” Nirai said, “but servants will attend you shortly.


Only tell them your needs, and they will see to them.” And with a whisking of robes, she was gone, and they were alone in the hall. Attrebus paced, examining the swords, spears, maces, and falchions that adorned the walls. “What does this ‘Umbra’ look like?” he asked. “A black longsword with red runes on the blade,” Sul replied. “At least when it was seen last.” “What do you mean?” “Legend says it has worn other shapes—but it is always a bladed weapon.” Attrebus started in a hurry, but as the minutes stretched to more than an hour, he had ample time to assure himself that no weapon approaching that description was to be found—not in the great room, anyway. He was just starting to consider wandering through the rest of the castle when he heard a soft whisper, then a giggle. He turned, and caught a flash of gray vanishing from the doorway. There was a sudden furious whispering he couldn’t make out, and then, after a moment, a rounded woman with fading red hair came in. She studied them for a moment, then gave a little curtsy. “My apologies, sirs,” she said. “I hadn’t been informed of your presence. May I be of service?” “I’m not sure,” Attrebus said. “The lady Nirai brought us here, and said we would be provided with rooms and so forth.” “Nirai,” she sighed, then cocked an eyebrow. “And so forth?” “Well, I’m here to do a bit of exploring,” he said, then rambled off his invented job description. The woman looked a bit disapproving, but she nodded. “I’ll get rooms ready for you. Meantime I’ll take you to the kitchen—I don’t know what Nirai is thinking, but there will be no meal in the hall tonight.” “We were hoping to meet Lord Sathil,” Attrebus said. “Were you?” she replied. “Well, perhaps you will.” She didn’t sound convinced. She showed them to the kitchen, a smoky, low-ceilinged room with an enormous hearth and two massive oaken tables. To Attrebus’s vast surprise, about thirty people were seated there. None of them were elves; most seemed to be Nord, although there were two Khajiit. They were dressed in plain working clothes. All stood when they entered. A gnarled old woman at the head of the table raised her head. “Who is this, then, Yingfry?” she asked. “Lords Uriel and Ozul,” their escort reported. “From the Empire. Nirai brought them up. They’re here to see the country.” “Well,” the old woman said, “you gentlemen look hungry. Join us, won’t you?” “We would be honored,” Attrebus said. He heard a familiar giggle, and his attention was drawn to a honey-haired young woman with mischievous green eyes. “Irinja!” the woman said sternly. “I’m sorry, Eld Ma,” she said. “It’s just he speaks so fine, as if he’s in court.” “All the more reason to mind your manners,” Eld Ma said.


“Lords, please, sit.” A couple of men made room on the bench, and Attrebus and Sul were soon seated in front of thick trenchers of black bread, boiled venison (or at least it tasted like venison) with wine and honey sauce, fish with butter and vinegar, and roast duck. Their hosts were silent as the two began eating. “I hope it is to your liking,” Eld Ma said. “It’s delicious,” Attrebus replied. “Very good,” Sul added. “Different.” Eld Ma leaned back. “We know the food of Morrowind, lord,” she said. “If I had known you were coming, we would have cooked in that manner.” “You misunderstand me,” Sul replied. “I was paying a compliment. I don’t care to be reminded of Morrowind.” “Ah,” a bald-headed fellow piped up. “Lord Sathil is the same; he prefers our cuisine, our ways. But the lady, she prefers the tastes of her people—especially hluurn, and other things made from Marshmerrow.” “Val,” Eld Ma said, quietly, “didn’t the gentleman just say he didn’t like to be reminded?” “Oh, right,” Val said. “Sorry.” “No harm,” Attrebus cut in. “We’re just glad of the hospitality.” He lifted his mug of warm ale. “To each of you,” he said. They all toasted, and when he didn’t continue, began talking among themselves, a low chatter rising—talk of tasks to be done that afternoon, complaints about the work of the morning, simple things, confirming his suspicion that these were castle servants, not masters. He ate and listened, hoping to hear something useful, but when the end of the meal came he didn’t know much more than when it began. Yingfry took them up three flights of stairs to two adjacent rooms, both quite large, both with fireplaces already blazing. When she was gone, they met together in Attrebus’s room. “What do you think is going on here?” Attrebus asked Sul. The Dunmer scratched his chin. “I don’t know much about the Sathils, other than remembering the name.” “Don’t you think it’s odd that we haven’t met him yet? That we were left to eat with servants?” “Not really,” Sul said. “I don’t know the man. Neither do you. Perhaps he is reclusive. Or very busy.” “Very busy with what?” “Again, I don’t know him, and we hardly know anything about this place.” “Well, if we never see him, how do we find the sword?” Sul blinked. “Was that your plan? Just to ask him about it?” “I suppose so.” “Then why this whole demented story about you being a naturalist?” Sul demanded. “I don’t know. ‘Hello, I’m crown prince Attrebus, I’ve just come from Oblivion, where I was eviscerated by something and then healed by a god so I can try to find the sword that will help me defeat the flying city of Umbriel and its army of undead’ just seemed like an implausible way to go.” “Right,” Sul grunted. “You had a good instinct.


But asking outright where the sword is would seem to run counter to it, wouldn’t you think?” “I could just ask him if he has any unusual artifacts I can write about. We don’t have a lot of time, Sul.” “He let us in,” Sul said. “He seems to have an interest in sorcerers. Let’s continue to follow your first instinct and see what happens. At least for another day.” Attrebus studied Sul for a moment, trying to see if he was making fun of him. Even now it was hard to tell. “Okay, then,” he said. “Get some sleep,” Sul replied. Attrebus turned in, but every time he closed his eyes, he felt his belly open and the wet, impossible gush of his innards into the basket of his arms. Sleep felt too near death, and after half an hour of lying there, watching the faint crack and glow of the flames, he rose, dressed in breeches and shirt, and quietly padded into the hall. He dithered for a moment, feeling vulnerable in the near-black. He’d thought he might explore a bit, but without a torch or lantern, he wouldn’t be able to see much. He took a few steps along the wall and stopped, not entirely sure why. Then he felt breath touch his face.


Lord of Souls: An Elder Scrolls Novel SIX “Anything I can help you with, inspector?” Colin looked up from the tome he was studying to find a bent and withered fellow in a burnt umber robe furnished with what was possibly a hundred pockets. His nose took up most of his face, but his keen blue eyes were what drew your attention. “Professor Aronil,” he said, standing. “No need for that, old fellow,” the mage said. “Are you finding what you’re looking for?” “I don’t really know what I’m looking for,” he said. “Well, that can either be good or bad, can’t it?” Aronil said. “But I don’t remember you as a browser, Colin. You always wanted to get to the point, to the answer. I don’t expect you’ve changed that much.” “No, I don’t expect I have.” Aronil peered down at the pages. “Pneumatology? That’s rather your strong suit.” “Well, I thought so,” Colin replied. “Is this about the flying city or what-have-you? Because the College of Whispers has the most up-to-date information on those things. I’ve just seen their most recent report—fascinating, really. The things aren’t bonewalkers—they’re more like flesh atronachs, although they don’t respond the same to arcane stimuli.” “No, it’s not about that,” Colin said. “I’m assigned internally.” “I understand,” the mage said. “I shan’t pry more.” He began to walk away. “Actually, I would welcome your help,” Colin said. “It could take me weeks at this rate.” “Well, what’s the problem, then?” “The problem is that something nearly killed me the other day, and I don’t know what it was.” “Well, the ‘nearly’ part is encouraging anyway,” Aronil said. “I don’t like my chances if I meet another one,” Colin said. “I don’t know if that’s even likely, but I always prefer to be prepared.” “Tell me about it,” Aronil said, pulling over a seat. “I was searching an apartment,” Colin began. “At first I thought it was a ghost—” “Presenting, or had you prepared yourself?” “I went there looking for spiritual remnants,” he admitted. “So it was probably invisible to the untrained eye.” “Oh, I’m sure of that,” Colin replied. “The apartment has a resident. I checked into him a little and he’s apparently never claimed his place was haunted or whatever.” “And he isn’t a mage?” “No.” “Fine. Go on.” Colin related the rest of the encounter, and the old Altmer just sat there for a moment, nodding absently. “And afterward—the spirit you were looking for?” “She was there. Not much left of her, though.” Aronil stood and took a couple of paces. “You’re in dangerous territory here, Colin. I wonder if you know exactly what you’re doing.” “Just my job,” he replied. “I can check that, you know,” Aronil said. “I am privy, if I wish to be, to any investigation our organization is running.


And one of my charges is to make certain that the library of the Penitus Oculatus isn’t being abused in any fashion.” “I’m aware of that, sir,” Colin said, as ice formed in his belly. “I don’t believe I’m abusing anything.” “Last I checked, you were assigned to find any possible Thalmor connection with our current problem. This seems far afield from that, to me. How did you meet this thing? What did you hope to learn?” He sighed. He couldn’t pretend Aronil didn’t have the clearance. “You’re right,” he said. “I think the Thalmor angle is a dead end. I’m looking into something else.” “We’re alone here,” Aronil said. “Tell me.” “I believed there was a connection to Black Marsh,” he said. “The spirit I was looking for was of a woman who witnessed what may have been the calling of Umbriel into our world.” Aronil folded his arms. “I’ve heard the speculation that it must have been summoned here, or at least invited. It arrived in Black Marsh, so I suppose that makes sense, on the surface of it. Do you have proof?” “Only a strong suggestion,” Colin said. “Strengthened, perhaps, by the fact that the witness to this event was murdered, presumably for what she saw?” “Yes.” “Have you gone to Marall with this?” “No, I haven’t,” he replied. “Why?” “I’m not sure, to be honest,” Colin said. “Part of it is that I’m not sure who I can trust anymore.” “And yet you trust me?” Aronil said. “How touching.” His kindly tone had been replaced by a dark rasp. “Well, I hadn’t thought about whether I trust you,” Colin replied. “I didn’t expect to have to.” Aronil snorted. “Well, it’s a good thing you can, you idiot.” He strode across the room and up a ladder, and without even looking, it seemed, selected a book and pulled it down. It was bound in some sort of dark red leather and blackened iron bands, but it was quite small, not much bigger than his palm. “The thing you’re talking about is a very specific variety of daedra. They were often summoned by the Nibenese battlemages who ruled during the times of the Alessian order, but after the War of Righteousness, the relationship they cultivated with this species deteriorated. The knowledge to summon them was lost, or almost so—confined to this volume, do you understand?” “I’m not sure I do,” Colin answered. “It was powerful, yes—and I don’t want to face another one unprepared—but far worse things are conjured now, from what I’ve heard.” “Of course. It’s not the creatures themselves you need to worry about. And that’s why I asked if you know what you are doing.” “Sir?” “There are certain spells here in the library that few know about. If a book is touched, I can tell who touched it.


Before this moment, this book hadn’t been touched in twenty years, and then by only one man, one of the few not of our order with the authority to do so. Would you care to guess who that was?” “I’m pretty certain I know,” Colin replied. “But it would help me a lot if you told me.” “Minister Hierem,” Aronil said, his voice nearly a whisper. “He has a curiosity for knowledge of that era. And so why, Colin, are you investigating the second most powerful man in the Empire?” “Because I have to,” Colin said. “I have no choice.” “Always aiming for the answer? The point?” “I guess so.” The mage looked at the book for a moment before handing it to Colin. “It can’t leave here,” he said. “Is there anything else?” “Maps,” Colin replied. “But I know where to finds those.” “You should take what you know to Marall. He’s a good man. You can trust him. On a more pragmatic level, you might well lose your position for this sort of rogue activity.” “I’m aware of that, professor,” Colin replied. “Thank you for your help.” “I always liked you, Colin,” Aronil replied. “I’d hate to have to attend your funeral.” “If this goes wrong, I doubt there will be a funeral,” Colin said, “a burial, maybe—funeral, no.” Far down the corridor, light appeared, orange and shivering. Shadows moved in it, and then it was gone. “What was that?” Arese asked, her whisper so faint as to be almost inaudible, though her breath tickled his ear. “That’s one of the main tunnels,” Colin said. “I’m sure they’re securing them against the siege. They won’t bother with this passage because it doesn’t go anywhere—or doesn’t seem to.” They had to walk crouched over for another hundred feet before he found the recess in the wall and the mechanism it hid, and then they passed into a chamber large enough to stand in. He closed the hidden panel and then produced a stone that, although it glowed only faintly, illumined everything about it at exactly that same dim luminescence, so it did not outshine what it revealed: a largish room decorated in ghoulish splendor; furniture adorned in grinning, gold-leafed skulls and articulated vertebrae, velvet upholstery figured with obscene rituals of sex and death. “What is this place?” she asked. “It was a sort of warren for Julius Primus,” he said, “about twenty years ago.” “I don’t remember the name.” “I shouldn’t think so. He rather fancied himself the new King of Worms, a necromancer supreme, a prince of death. In the end he was moderately clever at hiding and being a nuisance. The Penitus Oculatus rooted him out and sent him to his own long sleep.” “It seems a little silly,” she said, picking up a carving of a skull with a serpent wound about it. “Pretentious.” “He was theatrical, to say the least.


It didn’t save him.” “And this is underneath the ministry?” “Relatively so.” “It’s not on any of our maps,” she said. “Well—we have better maps,” Colin replied. “We’ve been at it longer.” “Hmmm. Unless Hierem has charts I don’t know of,” she said. “After all, he might well have been involved with this Julius character.” “I rather doubt it,” Colin said. “Anyway, this place is not connected to anything in or beneath the ministry.” “Then why are we here?” “Because this is where you’re staying,” he said, “until I have this sorted out.” “Nonsense,” she replied. “We’re partners in this. I recruited you, remember?” “I could hardly forget that,” he told her. “But for what I’m about to do, you would only impede me. You have your gifts, but the shadows aren’t friendly to you, I can see that much. Here you should be safe. I brought food and wine down yesterday. I also left some little tricks to show if anyone has been here since then, and they haven’t.” She sighed. “Well, that all makes sense, but—” “If I’m not back in four hours, you can worry about your next move,” Colin said. “But I’m safest working alone.” She nodded. “I trust you’re right,” she said. “I’m often wrong,” he replied. “But not about this.” “About being better able to get in unseen, perhaps—but what then?” “I’ll find the Emperor’s proof.” “The journal didn’t satisfy him. What do you imagine will?” “Documents concerning the voyage, with Hierem’s signature. Even a ship’s manifest would do. He is connected to Umbriel—there must be some evidence of it.” She looked skeptical. “Even with the key to his private chambers, I doubt you will find anything like that.” She sighed. “I don’t believe the Emperor thinks so either.” “Why give me the key, then?” She brushed his bangs with her fingers. “You’re being naive,” she said. “It’s sweet, but now isn’t the time for it.” “Do you really think the Emperor wants me to kill him?” “Of course. Why else give you the means?” “Well, I take him at his word. If he wanted the minister dead, why wouldn’t he just tell me to do it? Or send a more experienced inspector?” “When Hierem is dead there will be many questions, and they will all lead to you, a member of the Penitus Oculatus, yes, but operating without permission. You were never assigned to follow me, or spy on Hierem, by any superior. It will be easy to paint you as a rogue because—in fact—you are.” Colin let that settle across his shoulders for a moment. Everything she said made sense; it was all reasonable. He reviewed his conversation with the Emperor and her case grew stronger. Perhaps Titus Mede did mean for him to end Hierem’s threat and then absorb the blame, pay the penalty. What of it, then? He had signed on for this, hadn’t he?


To serve and protect the Empire, even if that meant doing the nasty, horrible things no one ever sang about in ballads? Even though he was looking down, he could feel Arese’s gaze upon him. “It may be you’re right,” he said. “It won’t be easy,” she said. “I believe you will need my help. Together we might manage it.” “If it comes to that,” he said. “If the Emperor tells me in plain words to kill Hierem, I will. But until then, I do what I’ve been told to.” “Since when?” she exploded. “We’ve just been over this. You’ve been operating on your own for some time now. Why are you suddenly so concerned with permission and commands?” “I’m not arguing with any of that,” Colin said. “But I won’t kill Hierem unless I have to.” “I can’t stay down here forever,” she said softly. “If you won’t help me, I’ll have to try myself.” “Then this is about your own life.” “That’s not fair,” she replied. “You know it isn’t.” “Look, let me try it my way. If it doesn’t work, if I can’t find anything to convince the Emperor to move against Hierem, then we’ll come back to this conversation again, okay? And I’ll at least know more about the layout of his rooms—we won’t be going in blind.” She stayed stiff for a moment, but then he saw the cords in her neck soften. “Okay,” she said. “Don’t get yourself killed.” “I won’t,” he said. He hesitated, and then leaned forward to kiss her, but she drew back. “Not now,” she said. “I—just not now.” “That’s fine,” he said, feeling something twist in his gut. It was still twisting when he was back out in the sewers. Did she think she’d made a mistake? Did she regret what they had done? If so, he ought to be relieved. It wasn’t like they were going to get married, raise children, and live in the country. There was no sort of future for them, and pretending there was would only make them stupid now, when they needed all their wits about them. But it didn’t make him feel any better, and it took him longer than usual to find his way into the darkness that few could see into. But he finally got there, and made his mind as clear as it could be, and moved to the secret door that led into Hierem’s private office and quarters. The key fit, turned, and the door opened. And, as in the house of Delia Huerc, there was something waiting for him.


Lord of Souls: An Elder Scrolls Novel SEVEN Attrebus jumped back with an inchoate shout, reaching for his sword, but of course it wasn’t there. He realized his hands were up in a defensive position, and left them there. “Who is it?” he demanded, backing quickly toward the light of his room. “I—I’m sorry,” a woman stammered. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” “Well, you did,” he said. “Sneaking around in the dark—who are you?” Her face appeared then, a young woman, probably about his age, with golden hair and a quirky, wide mouth and very blue eyes. He’d seen her before, at dinner. “My name is Irinja,” she said. “I’m just a serving maid.” “What were you doing outside my door?” “I made up your room,” she said, moving a bit more into the light. He saw that she was wearing a heavily quilted robe and thick, knitted footwear. “I was just coming to make sure everything is good for you.” She looked up boldly. “Anyway,” she went on, “it looked as if you were about to do a bit of sneaking on your own.” “Why didn’t you have a lamp, or something?” “I grew up here, sir. I know these halls like I know my own toes. Besides, I have excellent vision at night. They say I get it from my grandfather.” “Okay,” he said, nodding. “Everything is fine. The room is acceptable.” “Good,” she said, but continued to stand there. “That’s it, then,” he said. “Thanks for your concern.” “Right,” she said, nodding. “I’ll just be going.” “Good, then.” She started to turn, but then spun back. “What are you really about, your highness?” she asked. “I won’t tell anyone, I swear.” “What?” he managed. “No one else reads in this bloody castle,” she said. “They really don’t have a clue who you are. They completely fell for your story. But I’ve read every adventure about you I could get my hands on.” Attrebus felt a peculiar warmth steal over his face, and realized he was blushing. “Listen,” he said, “I think you’ve mistaken me—” “Don’t you dare!” she said. “You’re not really going to lie to me and tell me you’re some sort of horker-watcher? I’d know your likeness anywhere.” He sighed, knowing she wasn’t going to be convinced. “Very well,” he said. “But you really mustn’t tell anyone my true identity.” “I knew it,” she said. “You’re incognito, on some sort of adventure, aren’t you?” “Well, now that you bring it up,” Attrebus said, “yes, I am. And it’s of a very secret nature.” “Oh, I want to help,” she said. “Surely I can be of help.” As he was considering that, he saw a ghostly face appear over her shoulder. The smoldering eyes were those of Sul, and in that instant he felt the girl’s life was hanging by a thread. He shook his head violently. “Oh, please?” she said, mistaking the object of his gesture. “Come in,” he replied.


“Shut the door.” “Your highness,” she murmured, lowering her eyes, “I hope you don’t take me for the sort of girl—” “No, no,” he said. “I just want this conversation to be private.” “Well—okay, then.” She stepped in and closed the door, but even before she did, Sul was no longer visible. “Irinja, you say?” “Yes, highness.” “Okay, Irinja. The first thing is you have to stop calling me highness, or prince, or anything like that. I’m Uriel—do you have that?” “Yes, hi—Uriel.” “Good. The next thing—tell me about this place. You say you grew up here. Tell me about Lord Sathil. I’m puzzled that I haven’t met him.” “Well, he’s changed,” she said. “When I was a little girl, he was always around, always in good cheer. We all went on excursions to the sea, and in the summer played bowling on the lawns. My brother used to hunt with him. It was nice, back then.” “And now?” “Well—things happened,” she said. “He’s not the same now. He hardly ever comes out. But he doesn’t mistreat us. You shouldn’t think that.” “Things happened? What sort of things?” Irinja looked uncomfortable. “I’m not really supposed to say,” she replied. “Nobody talks about it.” “You said you wanted to help me,” he reminded her. “And I do,” she replied. “But if this is about Lord Sathil …” “I mean Sathil no harm,” Attrebus assured her. “Or anyone here.” “There are just things we don’t like to talk about,” she said, sighing. “Okay,” he said. “Have a seat. I’m going to explain to you why I’m here, but it will take some time.” “Very well,” she said. And so he told her about Umbriel and its undead army, and Annaïg, and how he and Sul had gone through Oblivion, first to Morrowind and now here. He showed her his scar. When he was done, she looked down at her knees. “You’ve come here for the sword, then,” she said. “For Umbra.” “Yes. Because I believe it is the only thing that can stop Umbriel.” “Don’t tell anyone else that,” she said softly. “Don’t ask about the sword at all.” “Why?” She looked up at him. “I want to help you,” she said. “But I have to think.” “Listen,” he said. “Every moment we wait, more people die, and the more soldiers the enemy has. Minutes are precious, days are treasures.” “I know,” she said. “But I can’t just—I have to think.” “Will you come back here, tomorrow night?” She nodded. “It’s probably the only time we wouldn’t be noticed and heard.” “Good, then,” he said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” She left, and when he was certain she was gone, he went next door to Sul’s room. Sul was waiting for him. “How much of that did you hear?” he asked the Dunmer. “Most, I think. Are you sure that was wise, telling her why we came?” “I had to do something.


At least we know that the sword is a hornet’s nest, somehow.” “Yes, and that girl is one of the hornets. You’ve asked her to betray the rest of them, and you don’t know why or what’s at stake. For all we know, someone will be back here to cut our throats before morning.” “I trust her,” Attrebus said. “She might not help us, but she won’t do anything to hurt us.” “Hurt you, you mean.” “Look, unless you’ve had another vision that tells us where the sword is, we’ve got very little chance of finding it without help. You saw how big this place is. Even if we could move through the castle at will, unobserved, it could take weeks, months. In fact, we don’t know it’s even here, do we?” “I’m just wondering how much you thought this through and how much comes from your pike.” “My what?” But then he got it, and felt his face warm. “Now, really—” he began. “That woman I found you with—the one who kidnapped you. The one I killed. You trusted her, didn’t you? Slept with her?” “Well, yes, but—” “And this whole chase, this quest of yours—that started with a girl, too—this Annaïg you’re so set to rescue.” “Maybe that was part of it, yes, but Umbriel did rather sound like something that needed taking on.” “Your judgment just seems a bit hasty and simple when pretty girls are involved.” “Well, possibly,” he admitted. “But it’s done now.” “There’s still time. Something could happen to her on the way to wherever she’s going.” “No,” Attrebus snapped. “No, do you hear me? She’ll help us or she won’t, but I won’t have her hurt.” “Well,” Sul muttered, “let’s hope she feels the same about you.”


Lord of Souls: An Elder Scrolls Novel EIGHT Glim wasn’t aware when silence and darkness claimed him; he didn’t know how long they had lasted—it might have been hours or days. But after the quiet came the voices, the gentle murmur of the trees, drawing him into the dream of thought, where past and future were irrelevant illusions and his mind was unhampered by reference to anything at all. And so he remained for a time, until finally the ache of hunger and the pain of his wounds brought him nearer to the world. The voices were still there, leading him through the twisting roots, finally into the light, amidst the great boughs of the Fringe Gyre. He climbed higher, until he could see the buildings above and get his bearings. None of them looked familiar, which could only mean he was on the wrong side of the rim. Groaning, he began picking his way from tree to tree, hoping his quivering limbs didn’t fail him. It was nightfall before he found the place, and all he could do was collapse and hope he didn’t die before Fhena found him. “I’ve never seen anyone hurt like this,” Fhena murmured, pressing something that looked like yellow fur against the wound in his side. He finished swallowing the whatever-it-was she had given him to eat. “That feels good,” he said, looking around. They were in some sort of cavity in the tree, irregular in shape. Light came in from around the bend, but he couldn’t see sky. Then her comment registered. “You’ve never seen anyone hurt? How do you know what to do?” “No, of course I’ve seen injuries. Ixye broke his leg in a fall yesterday. I meant I’ve never seen someone hurt on purpose.” He coughed out a little laugh. “I don’t understand. Murder seems to be the most common pastime in Umbriel.” “Not up here,” she said. “Not in the trees. I know below is horrible. I’ve heard about it. But bad things don’t really happen up here.” “Maybe it’s the trees themselves,” Glim mused. “Their influence. Anyway—I’m sorry to be your first.” “Well, if someone had to be—” she began playfully. “I can’t stay long,” he interrupted. “Right,” She agreed. “You need to hurry back down there and get something else stuck in you. I understand.” “They’ll look up here for me,” he said. “I don’t want to get you in trouble.” “They looked up here for you yesterday,” she said. “I hid you. They passed by.” “Yesterday? How long have I been up here?” “Three days, reckoned by this sun,” she replied. “I gave you something to help you sleep.” “I—Three days?” “It’s what the trees prescribed,” she said. “The trees?” “Yes. Our usual medicines didn’t help you very much, so I asked the trees what to do and they told me.” “Okay,” Glim said, trying to sit up. “Three days?


From now on, when the trees tell you to do something, you ask me first.” She frowned. “There wasn’t much ‘asking you,’ ” she said. “You weren’t really in much of a state to answer. Nor would you be now, if I hadn’t done what I did, for that matter.” She turned away from him. “Look, Fhena—” “And now you’re just going to go right back down there. Stupid!” “They’ll search here again,” he said. “Besides, the skraws are counting on me. Who knows what’s been going on?” He saw her head sink a little. “Wait,” he said. “You know. You’ve heard something.” “Glim, please—” “What is it, Fhena?” “They think you’re dead,” she said. “They’ve gone crazy, started breaking things all over the place, and the lords have been trying to pacify them.” “Well, then—” “I’m not listening,” Fhena said, covering her ears. He sat up and scooted next to her, gently taking her hands and pulling them down. “You have to understand,” he said. “I’m responsible for this and I have to deal with it.” She looked at his hands, holding hers. “Well—how about this?” she asked. “Send them a message. Tell them you’re okay and they need to stop. You need a little more time. Please.” Glim blinked, realizing that actually made a lot of sense. “Okay,” he said. “We’ll see if that works, and if it does, I’ll stay up here until things calm down a little. But eventually I have to go back.” She smiled, and then a little tear appeared in the corner of her eye. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Nothing. It’s just that you listened to me. You really listened to me.” “I did,” he replied. “But understand—I can’t stay up here forever.” “I understand,” she replied, standing up. “But you will for now.” “Yes.” “Okay. I’ve got to go—more work for us with the sump in such a mess. But I’ll find time to send word down.” After she was gone, he managed to struggle to his feet and look around. The wooden cave curved a bit, and he saw the hole above where the light was coming through, and a sort of slope going up. He climbed slowly but already felt fatigue when he found the opening. It was covered with a filmlike substance, possibly a large leaf of some kind. Deciding to leave well enough alone, he went back down to his pallet, curled up, and in no time was asleep again. He woke with something warm nestled next to him. The light was gone, but he recognized Fhena by her smell and realized that she was spooned against his uninjured side, with her head up in the pit of his arm. She snuffled when he moved. “What?” she murmured. “It’s just me,” Glim said. “Oh.” She lifted her head. He hesitated a moment, then positioned his arm under her, so her cheek rested on his chest.


A few moments later her breath evened out again, and he lay there awake. Once again he let his mind simplify, listening to the trees, but after a bit he understood there was something else, something like music, color, and tactile sensation braiding and unbraiding, sometimes together, sometimes breathtakingly separate, but always as recognizable as a scent. It was Fhena, dreaming next to him, connected to him by the root. “Longer,” she begged him two days later. “Stay longer. Things are better down there. They’ve calmed down.” “Because they’re waiting on me to tell them what to do,” he said. “If I stay gone too long, they’ll start to wonder if I’m really alive.” “The lords will kill you,” she said. “They’ll be waiting for you.” “They didn’t catch me before,” he replied. “They won’t catch me this time either.” “You weren’t this weak before.” “Nonsense,” he replied. “I feel fine—you’ve done a good job healing me.” “Don’t go,” she said. “I know you want to stay with me.” Glim closed his eyes, wondering what Annaïg was doing, knowing he had to find out, because he had to talk to her. He had never been this confused in his life about anything. Because Fhena was right—he did want to stay with her. He didn’t feel any sexual attraction toward her—they were too different for that. What he did feel was much more compelling and thoroughgoing than lust, and it was weaving knots in his brain. “I’ll come back tonight,” he promised. “I’ll be back.” “You’d better,” she said. He made his way back down the tree, to his more usual path, and in a few moments was back in the sump. It felt good to have water around him again, and for a while he let himself enjoy the feel of it, marshaling his thoughts. Wert was supposed to meet him near the bottom of the Drop, in a stand of slackweed. But what was he going to tell him? Push forward or give up? If he agreed to give himself up, could he win some concessions for the skraws? He had even less idea what to tell Annaïg, when and if he managed to see her again. His toes and fingers were tingling oddly; it had started almost below perception, but now it was beginning to bother him. He touched them and realized that the ends were completely numb; the pain was at the first joint. A moment later it was at the second, and progressing up his limbs at a terrifying pace. He turned and began swimming as fast as he could, back the way he had come, but before he went a hundred yards, he couldn’t move his arms or legs anymore, and all he could do was scream as the agony crept into his torso, surrounding his heart. He drifted down, toward the light in the deepest part of the water, toward the ingenium. He felt his heart stop and icicles grow in his brain.


For an instant he felt the trees again, and through them a little echo of Fhena, like a butterfly. And that was all.


Lord of Souls: An Elder Scrolls Novel NINE “Irinja is avoiding me,” Attrebus told Sul as he tested his weight on the frozen stream. It was solid as stone. Fruth—one of the hunters assigned to help him with his “research”—gave him a funny look. For a moment he thought the fellow had overheard him, even though he was sure all of Sathil’s people were out of earshot. But then he realized the Nord just thought he was an idiot for being so tentative about the stream in such bitter cold. “Well?” Sul asked. “I don’t know if that’s a good sign or a bad sign.” “She’s betrayed you,” Sul said. “Maybe not. Maybe she’s still thinking.” “Maybe,” Sul said. “If that’s the case, we might come back from this expedition.” “Why would they take us out into the mountains to kill us?” Attrebus wondered. “I should think it would be easier in the castle—say, while we’re asleep.” “No blood to clean up,” Sul said. “Well, there is that,” Attrebus said. “But even if murder isn’t in their plans, I’m not very happy about this trip.” “You shouldn’t have told them you were a naturalist, then,” Sul whispered. “They’re just doing what you asked them to.” “True enough. But every second we waste here seems like an eternity.” “I have some ideas,” Sul said. “If they involve torturing Irinja, forget it.” “If she knows where the sword is, probably most of them do. But leave that. I tried some minor cantations last night. The sword is in the castle, or very near it.” “Do you know what part?” “No. But I can try something a little riskier. There are daedra who sense enchantments much as we smell things. I can summon one of them and let it find the sword.” “Why didn’t you do that last night?” “Because if Sathil or anyone else in the castle has any proficiency in the arts, they’ll know a conjuring has taken place. Or someone might simply see the daedra. I was hoping we would find it some other way, but as you say, we don’t have much time to lose.” “Tonight, then, if Irinja doesn’t tell me anything.” “That was my plan.” Attrebus nodded. Up ahead, Fruth beckoned them toward a ridge. Beyond the rise, a valley spread, and beyond them mountains whose peaks vanished into the oppressively low clouds. “Ensleth Valley,” the guide said, lifting the point of his red beard. “Good hunting here. Elk, deer, muskrey.” “Very good,” Attrebus said, scribbling that in his book. “And those mountains?” “Moesring Mountains,” Fruth said. “We don’t go there much.” “What makes this valley so good for game?” Attrebus asked. “It looks just like the last one.” “Salt,” Fruth replied. “Big salt lick along where the stream comes out. Only one on this side of the mountains. You’ll want to see that.” “Sure,” Attrebus said. “I suppose so.” As they were about halfway down the slope, Fruth’s head jerked up sharply toward the mountains.


Attrebus followed his gaze and saw what appeared to be a white cloud rolling down it toward them at impossible speed. Fruth’s gaze darted around, but then he gestured back upslope. “Hurry!” he shouted. But they had only gone a few steps before it hit them. Attrebus had heard of avalanches, huge slides of snow coming down mountains, destroying everything in their paths. He assumed that’s what this was, and braced for it, yet what hit him wasn’t a wall of snow, but an unbelievably cold mist. Snow came with it, but whirling in the air, biting at his face. He couldn’t see anything. He stumbled, then struck his foot against something and went tumbling down the slope, flailing wildly, thankful at least for the layers of fur and leather the servants of Sathil House had given him to wear. Even so, he felt the temperature dropping impossibly fast. Someone caught hold of him and drew him along with terrific strength, and after what seemed a long time, pulled him down into what felt like a stony grotto. “Keep close,” a voice said—he recognized it as Fruth’s by the accent. A moment later something warm and faintly luminous appeared between them. It looked something like flame caught in a ball of glass, and after a few moments it seemed to push the worst of the cold away. “What was that?” he asked. “It comes down like that sometimes,” Fruth said. “Never seen it come so fast, though. Unnatural, probably Frost Giant.” “Frost Giant?” “Yah. Unpredictable, this new one, and very strong.” “What about Ozul?” he asked, using Sul’s false name. “And the others?” “We’ll find out when this is over,” Fruth said. “We go out now, we freeze. Freeze anyway, if this stays too long.” Sul managed to scramble far enough up the hill that the wave of freezing air went below him, but it enveloped Attrebus and Fruth, blotting them from view. He started down but was arrested by an eldritch tingle that told him—as his common sense should have—that the event wasn’t natural. He spun, fingers clenching on the hilt of his sword, an invocation already begun in the back of his throat. He faced six well-armed and armored footmen, all of Nordic cast, all wearing the Sathil draugr on their surcoats. A seventh man sat a thick, shaggy horse. He was wrapped in a dark green cloak and cowled in black, but even shadowed it was easy to make out the crimson eyes of one of his countrymen. “Lord Sathil,” he guessed. “Yes, that’s right,” the man said. His voice was soft, almost apologetic in tone. “My companion—” “Yes, I’m sorry we didn’t arrive in time,” Sathil said absently. “The new Frost Giant is somewhat feckless. He usually doesn’t haunt this side of the Moesrings until midwinter.” “Frost Giant,” Sul replied dubiously. Sathil didn’t seem to notice his tone. “You’re friend is with Fruth.


He should be fine—and if he isn’t, there isn’t much you can do at the moment.” “I’ll take my chances,” Sul said, “and do for him what I can.” “Talk to me,” Sathil replied. “We’ll wait here for the cloud to settle.” Sul got the emphasis and relented. “What shall we talk about, Lord Sathil?” he asked. “Oh, so many things,” Sathil replied. “Do you have sons, Ozul? Daughters?” “I do not,” he replied. “Did they perish when Morrowind was destroyed?” “I never had any children,” Sul said. “I don’t know whether to pity you or envy you,” Sathil answered. Sul didn’t think that needed any sort of reply. Sathil might have disagreed, for he paused for a long time. Finally he rode his horse nearer. “Who sent you?” he whispered. “Was it him?” “No one sent me,” Sul replied. “Ah, if only that made sense,” Sathil said. “But many have come here, to this place where no one should come, to where I try to keep my peace. All sent, in the end, by him. They all admitted it, before it was over.” He leaned forward. “Shall I tell you the story? Do you already know it?” “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” Sul said. “Who is the person you keep referring to?” “Person?” Sathil’s teeth showed in either a grimace or a grin. “Person.” He jerked his head toward the valley. “Do you think your friend will live?” “He had better,” Sul answered. Sathil’s eyes narrowed and he mumbled something. The air took on a sharp, chlorine smell, and every nerve in Sul’s body seemed to hum. “I will defend myself,” Sul warned. “Stand still,” Sathil hissed. The air snapped like tiny twigs burning in a fire, and Sul felt his lips tighten. He thought to call something, but its name stayed just beyond him. Then it was over. Sathil sat back in his saddle. “You are strong,” he said. “Stronger than I thought. But you don’t have his stench on you. Another prince, I sense, but not the one—not the one. I can’t be fooled out here, in the clean air, beneath the righteous sky. You are none of his.” He twitched his reins and the horse began to turn. “Stay as long as you like,” he said. “I will not likely see you again. I do not often leave my rooms.” “Lord Sathil, if you have some problem—” Sathil stopped his horse and looked over his shoulder. “There was a time I sought help,” he said. “I offered rewards. But that time is long past. Things now are as they are, and I live only to curse him.” “Who?” But Sathil turned again, and without another word he and his entourage rode back toward the castle. Even in the near-boiling water, Attrebus still somehow felt cold. Sul and the Sathil’s leech had both assured him he would keep his fingers and toes, but by the gods it didn’t feel like it.


The tub was portable, made of some sort of thick, oily hide on a wooden frame, and had been brought into his room. He hadn’t seen who poured the water, but a kettle depended from a wooden arm steamed away near the fireplace. Sul sat on the corner of his bed. “Frost Giant,” Attrebus muttered. “No,” Sul said. “Sathil did it himself, I’m sure of it. He wanted to separate us.” He handed Attrebus a bottle. “Drink this. You’ll feel better.” “Some sort of remedy?” “Whiskey,” he said. Attrebus took a swallow. It hurt going down, but left a pleasant glow behind. “So he wanted us apart. Then why didn’t he slough you down into the freezing cold?” “He wanted to talk to me,” Sul replied. “He thought we were working for someone. A daedra prince, from what I could gather. Others have been here before us, it seems.” “Others? Come for the sword?” “He didn’t say anything about the sword. It might be something else entirely.” “That would be a big coincidence.” “Yes.” Attrebus started to say something, but then lowered his voice. “Could they hear us? If Sathil is a wizard—” “Our privacy is secure, unless Sathil is himself a daedra prince or something equally powerful.” “Okay. I was going to say, if these others he mentioned came for the sword—and if they were sent by a prince of Oblivion—wouldn’t Clavicus Vile be the obvious one behind it?” “Yes.” “Daedra have no true forms, right? They can appear as almost anything.” “Correct.” “What if that wasn’t Malacath we met? What if it was Vile?” “Could have been,” Sul said. “Although Sathil seemed convinced we hadn’t had any dealings with Vile. It doesn’t matter either way. Whether Malacath or Clavicus Vile sent us here, we have to get the sword—and not for either of them. We have to keep it.” “Right,” Attrebus said. “But if we’re caught up in some plot of Clavicus Vile’s—” “Then we have to keep our brains in our heads,” Sul finished. “Same as if he’s got nothing to do with us.” “Okay. But if Sathil has the sword, and Vile knows where it is—I mean, how strong could Sathil be?” “From everything we’ve heard, Vile is weak. And all daedra are vulnerable here, in Tamriel. They can’t come here unless summoned, and even then their power is curtailed. He could send his followers, but they would be mortal, like us.” “Right. So what now?” “I’m going to my room to think. I’ve changed my mind about summoning daedra to explore the castle. From what I saw of Sathil, he would notice that, and I’m pretty sure we won’t survive his suspicion a second time.” “Okay. I’m staying in the bath for a while.” “Easy on the whiskey. We may have to fight at any time.” “Sure,” Attrebus said, taking a final swallow of the stuff. Sul left.


Between the bath and the whiskey, Attrebus felt pretty human, and after a while the water actually seemed too hot, so he got out and wrapped himself in the heavy robe he’d been provided. He pulled out Coo and opened the little door, but Annaïg wasn’t there, so he set the mechanical bird on a table next to the bed. He was tired, but not sleepy, and sat on the mattress turning the day’s events about—and wondering what Sul would do—when he heard a light knock at his door. He answered it and found an anxious-looking Irinja. “I heard what happened,” she said. “I hope you weren’t hurt.” “I’m fine,” Attrebus assured her. “But I need to know—did you tell anyone about our conversation? Did you tell anyone that we were looking for the sword?” “No,” she said. “I wouldn’t do that.” He studied her face for a moment, searching for signs of disingenuity, remembering the conversation with Sul about his weakness for women. “Come in,” he finally said. “Your highness isn’t dressed for company.” “I’m covered and comfortable,” he replied. “Come in.” She did, and he saw the expression on her face, the same as he’d seen on many young women. Not long ago he would have taken advantage of that look in an instant, without thinking. Now he found himself uninterested. But he needed to know where Umbra was. “I was having a bit of whiskey,” he told her. “Would you care to join me?” “Highness?” “None of that, remember? Do you want the Frost Giant to come after me again?” “Oh, no,” she replied. “Yes—a dram of whiskey would be nice.” He gave her the dram and then some. She drank it nervously. “I want to help you,” she said finally, but he could hear what was coming next, and put his hand on hers. “It’s okay,” he said. “I’ve put you in a bad position, I can see that. Just keep me company.” He filled his glass. “I’m going to have a bit more. Join me?” “I shouldn’t,” she said, so predictably that he could have mouthed the words along with her. As predictably, she took the drink. “I must seem very stupid to you,” she said. “That’s not true,” he said. “You speak intelligently, you’re thoughtful, you don’t make important decisions without thinking them through. If I had met you at a ball in the Imperial City, I would have imagined you the educated daughter of Skyrim nobility.” “Rather than a maid,” she said bluntly. “Listen—my father was once just a soldier with ambition. Now he’s Emperor. He fought for everything he ever got, and I was born with it. Who should be admired the most?” Unbelievably, as he said this, something seemed to shift in his chest, and his face became warm. “What’s wrong?” Irinja asked. “Are you—are you crying?” Attrebus realized a few tears were indeed trickling down his cheek. He laughed.


“Have you ever said something because it seemed like the right thing to say and then realized it was true?” “I guess.” “When I saw my father last, I said terrible things to him. What I’ve never told him is what I just told you.” “And now you’re afraid you’ll never see him again, never get to tell him.” Attrebus paused for a moment. The epiphany was that some part of him had always known he was less than his father but refused to admit it. That’s why he’d been so easily convinced of his own greatness, why he had been so blind to all the signs of deception that he should have noticed. But where her mind had gone was more useful, wasn’t it? “That’s right,” he said. “He won’t flee when Umbriel arrives. He’ll stand, and he’ll fight, and he’ll die. And he will never know how I really feel.” “That’s awful,” she said, pouring herself another drink and gulping it down. He took another, too. She wiped his cheeks, and he took her hand, looked into her eyes, let her know that he was going to kiss her, and then did it. She tilted her head back, eyes closed. “I want to help you,” she said when their lips parted. “I’m not asking you to,” he said, and kissed her again. This time she kissed back, hard, with lots of enthusiasm and not much technique. And he felt guilty, which was absurd. He kept seeing the little image of Annaïg’s face. But that was all he had seen, wasn’t it? Below the neck, she might be hideous. And now he felt even guiltier, for such a horrible thought. He pushed Irinja back, gently. “I can’t,” he said, and sighed. “I’m not asking you for anything,” Irinja said. “I’m not wanting you to marry me or take me away from here or—I just want to be part of your adventure. A part of something important.” He noticed she was shuddering. “May I have another drink, please?” He gave it to her, and poured himself a large one. “It’s his son,” she said softly. “Lord Sathil’s son, Elhul.” “What about him?” “Lord Sathil sent him down to Morrowind, to the ruins of Vivec City. Sent him after that sword, Umbra. But when Elhul picked it up, he went mad and started killing his guards. They had to bind him in chains. They took the sword away from him, and he seemed to get better, but then he found it. He killed his mother, Lady Sathil. He killed his two brothers and half of the guards before they dragged him down again. And then they couldn’t make him let go of it.” “What then? What happened?” “Lord Sathil prepared him chambers, deep in the stone. That’s where he is now, with the sword he can’t let go of. He’s been there for eight years.” She wrung her hands. “Elhul was so sweet,” she said.


Lord of souls _ an Elder scrolls novel -- Keyes, Greg -- Elder Scrolls, Book 2, 2011 -- Del Rey_Ballantine Books -- 9780345508027 -- 2999018512a7b9b6f4491b212cb1a696 -- Anna’s Archive.7

“He used to play with me, pretend to be my knight, my defender. But when he had the sword, he almost killed me. His eyes—he wasn’t there. Nothing was there.” “And you know where this place is? How to get there?” She nodded, then threw her arms around his neck and began kissing him again. His head was starting to swirl, and he realized that he’d really had too much to drink, but he didn’t care about that. The kisses felt good, and why shouldn’t they? He had promised Annaïg a lot, but nothing to do with this … Then the world spun, and he was on his back on clean bedding, and flesh was meeting flesh, and for the first time in a long while he gave up worrying, thinking, analyzing, and just was.


Lord of Souls: An Elder Scrolls Novel TEN Annaïg was acutely aware of Lord Rhel watching her as she studied Glim’s corpse, but she couldn’t control the burn of tears in her eyes. They seemed to come from someplace in the middle of her, a place where everything had been seared out. Soon she would be nothing but skin, and fall in a pile on the floor. “I’m sorry, Glim,” she said in their private cant. “Umbriel is pleased,” Rhel said. “What’s going to happen to him?” she asked softly. “First he’ll be shown to the skraws, so they know he’s dead. He’ll be cut in pieces, and each of the skraw dormitories will get one, to remind them.” “That’s barbaric,” she said. “I don’t know what that means,” Rhel said. “But you’ve done well for yourself. You should be proud.” “That will take me a bit of time,” Annaïg replied. “Umbriel told me you might show grief. He said you were not to be punished for it, that it would come to you naturally. He also said that it will pass.” “It will,” Annaïg agreed. “May I be alone with him for a moment?” “Why?” “To tell him goodbye.” “He’s already dead. He can’t hear you.” “Umbriel would understand,” she said. “Very well,” Rhel yielded. “But only a moment.” She waited until she could no longer hear his footsteps before she bent down and hugged Glim’s still body. Hoping against hope that no one was watching, she pried open his mouth and took the crystal growing at the base of his tongue. Closing his mouth, she kissed him on the snout. She put the crystal in her pocket, straightened, and wiped her eyes. Then she left to prepare Rhel’s evening meal. Annaïg had endured long nights before, but she had never felt as lost as she did after the work in the kitchen was done that evening. She drank nearly a bottle of wine, remembering drinking with Glim on her father’s balcony as the rains came in Lilmoth. Eventually she opened her locket. At first she didn’t know what she was seeing, but then the tangle of limbs and blankets sorted itself out. Attrebus was in profile, asleep. The woman—whoever she was—was facing Coo. She snapped the locket shut and sat there a moment as the feeling of betrayal settled over her. On the surface of her mind, she knew she shouldn’t feel this way, that Attrebus had never implied that he had romantic feelings for her. And yet, something about the way he spoke to her, as if they had always been friends, as if when this was all over … But no, of course not. He needed her, that was all. To do this thing, destroy this city. He had to keep her on his good side, motivated, willing to do whatever was required, even murder Glim, for the gods’ sake.


This probably wasn’t even the first time, just the first time he’d slipped up and left Coo open. And who was she anyway? Nobody. A silly girl, worshipping a prince. Probably sillier than the one who lay with him now. What must he actually think of her? She was really stupid about people, wasn’t she? She’d thought that Slyr was her friend. She’d thought that Attrebus might— Before she could finish the thought, she hurled the locket at the wall, then finished her wine.


Lord of Souls: An Elder Scrolls Novel ELEVEN Colin reached into his pocket, but motion brought the thing’s attention to him, and it came at him, just as the last one had. He withdrew a small metal box—only an inch on each side—flipped open the lid, and held it out. For an awful moment he didn’t think it would work, that Aronil was either wrong about what he faced or that the Ayleid soul-maze was old beyond functioning, but then the daedra suddenly dwindled, formed a stream that flew into the box, and was gone. Colin closed the soul-maze and put it back in his pocket, silently thanking Aronil for showing him the book. Then he looked around to see what other wards were waiting to kill him. What remained was more of the usual sort, and he was able to neutralize them without destroying them. It might take Hierem a while to discover the missing guardian, but if all of his protections were stripped away, the minister would know for certain that someone had been in his rooms. He knew he should have a few hours—the minister was at court—but it was hard to resist the urge to hurry. Hierem’s private suite had a bedroom with a dining area, a bath, and a conventional library; Colin noted them and passed on. He also discovered a room that had been converted into a small dungeon with four cells, all currently empty and clean. More interesting was a spacious room with various workbenches and a large sigil painted on the floor. Avoiding the latter, he looked over the benches, where he found a number of strange objects. Some—like his soul-maze—looked to be of the ancient race of mer known as Ayleids; others appeared more recent and probably of Nibenese origin. He didn’t know what any of them were so he didn’t touch them. There were shelves of powders, liquids, salts, and such, along with a scattering of alchemical equipment. What most interested him was a large desk, built with several deep drawers. A few papers lay on it, covered with scrawled notes and a few puzzling drawings, but the language wasn’t one he knew. The drawers were locked in both mundane and magical fashion, and it took him a laborious ten minutes or so to deal with that and begin going through them, looking for something—anything—to connect Hierem to the Black Marsh trip or Umbriel. But after a frustrating half hour, he didn’t find anything. He was feeling for hidden panels when he noticed a long tube propped against the side of the desk. One end was open and a large sheet of paper was rolled inside. He spread it on the desk and regarded it. It seemed to be plans for a device of some sort, but the conventions of the drawing and an unreadable notation left him with no understanding of what it was.


He did recognize bits of it from the notes and sketches on the table, however, which suggested that it was something of present concern to Hierem. So he studied it more carefully, and this time saw one word in the notations he understood. Umbriel. It could be anything. For all he knew it was a weapon designed to destroy the city, something the Synod had come up with. But he had the feeling that this was somehow key. If he actually took it, however, Hierem would instantly know something was wrong. He toyed with the idea of waiting, of murdering Hierem as Letine had suggested. Instead, he stole some paper from deep in one of the drawers and began copying, as best he could, the things that seemed most important. Letine traced her fingers over the lines of Colin’s drawings as he stroked his down her bare spine. “I’ve no sense of scale,” she said. “It could be the size of a thumb or a siege engine.” “And it might not be anything at all,” he said, and sighed. “It certainly isn’t the proof the Emperor asked for, at least not in this form. If only I could understand the language.” “Well, it’s not a language,” she said. “Or not exactly. It looks like Synod encryptions, the sort they use for secret communications. I’ve intercepted a few of them.” “Can you read it?” “No, but I recognize some of the symbols,” she said. “Obviously, you can see they use the same letters Tamrielic does, but the words are nonsense. Some of the symbols—these small ones after the passages, that look like funny letters themselves—these contain the key to reading the previous passage. I’m told once you have them memorized properly, it’s almost as effortless as reading. These others, these large ones—they represent whole ideas—usually spells, artifacts, certain sorts of energies—” She broke off. “How faithfully did you copy this?” she asked. “As well as I could,” he replied, “without understanding what I was reproducing. The drawing was most difficult—I can’t tell even what the parts are, what holds it together. I mean, this seems to be the bottom,” he added, pointing, “but that doesn’t make sense. It looks like it would just fall over.” “It’s not a drawing,” Letine said. “Or at least not a blueprint for a device. It’s more like a map.” He could hear the excitement creeping into her voice. “This, for instance—I’ve seen this before where it represented a soul gem—or at least the idea of something that can trap a soul. And here, this represents something that flows in only one direction, like a river.” “Then it is a plan, of sorts?” he asked. “Right. It could be a device, or a spell, or a series of spells involving—well, at least two arcane objects, this one and that one.” Colin drew himself closer. “If that’s the case,” he said, “this one might represent Umbriel.” He leafed through his copies of smaller sketches and notations.