Somewhere behind them they heard explosions, and then ahead they saw another helicopter wheeling through the mist over the visitor center, and a moment later the building burst in a bright orange fireball, and Lex began to cry, and Ellie put her arm around her and tried to get her not to look. Grant was staring down at the ground, and he had a last glimpse of the hypsilophodonts, leaping gracefully as gazelles, moments before another explosion flared bright beneath them. Their helicopter gained altitude, and then moved east, out over the ocean. Grant sat back in his seat. He thought of the dinosaurs standing on the beach, and he wondered where they would migrate if they could, and he realized he would never know, and he felt sad and relieved in the same moment. The officer came forward again, bending close to his face. “Are you in charge?” “No,” Grant said. “Please, señor, who is in charge?” “Nobody,” Grant said. The helicopter gained speed as it headed toward the mainland. It was cold now, and the soldiers muscled the door closed. As they did, Grant looked back just once, and saw the island against a deep purple sky and sea, cloaked in a deep mist that blurred the white-hot explosions that burst rapidly, one after another, until it seemed the entire island was glowing, a diminishing bright spot in the darkening night.


Jurassic Park _ A Novel -- Crichton, Michael -- Jurassic Park 1, 2012 -- Random House Publishing Group -- 9780307763051 -- 3de76fc510cf7aa828af34881aaf1176 -- Anna’s Archive.1

Jurassic Park “A TAUT THRILLER …FASCINATING … Crichton is a master at blending edge-of-the-chair adventure and a scientific seminar, educating his readers as he entertains them.” —St. Louis Post-Dispatch “Crichton combines his knowledge of science with a great talent for creating suspense.… Fast-moving.” —San Francisco Chronicle “Crichton is remarkably realistic with his depictions of what it could be like if genetic engineering created a theme park full of carefully modified dinosaurs—and the terrible lizards got out of control.” —USA Today “Crichton’s notion is wonderful precisely because nothing about it is entirely outside the realm of possibility.… He presents an astonishingly plausible case that a lot of money and a little bit of luck are all one would need to make this book’s unlikely scenario become real.” —The Cleveland Plain Dealer “Intellectually provocative, high-octane entertainment.” —New York Newsday


Jurassic Park “AN EXCITING, FAST-PACEDTALE THAT’S HARD TOPUT DOWN.” —Milwaukee Journal “Riveting … A winning blend of action, suspense, and information.” —Detroit Free Press “Exciting … Frightening.” —The New York Times “Ingenious … JURASSIC PARK is hard to beat for sheer intellectual entertainment.” —Entertainment Weekly “A winner … Highly entertaining … Michael Crichton has written a thriller combining sophisticated biotechnology with prehistoric legend. And what a thriller it is.” —St. Petersburg Times


Jurassic Park “[A] DEFT SCIENTIFICTHRILLER … A SNAPPYNIGHTMARE OF SCIENCERUN AMOK.” —The Wall Street Journal “Crichton’s dinosaurs are genuinely frightening.” —Chicago Sun-Times “Crichton’s sci-fi is convincingly detailed.” —Time Magazine “Vastly entertaining … [A] tornado-paced tale … Easily the most exciting dinosaur novel ever written. A sure-fire bestseller.” —Kirkus Reviews “A scary, creepy, mesmerizing techno-thriller with teeth.” —Publishers Weekly “By far the best science fiction I have read since Jules Verne in my youth.” —John Barkham Review


Jurassic Park A Ballantine Book Published by The Random House Publishing Group Copyright © 1990 by Michael Crichton All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. Ballantine and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc. www.ballantinebooks.com Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 90-52960 eISBN: 978-0-307-76305-1 The edition published by arrangement with Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. v3.1_r1


Jurassic Park EPILOGUE: SAN JOSÉ Days went by. The government was polite, and put them up in a nice hotel in San José. They were free to come and go, and to call whomever they wished. But they were not permitted to leave the country. Each day a young man from the American Embassy came to visit them, to ask if they needed anything, and to explain that Washington was doing everything it could to hasten their departure. But the plain fact was that many people had died in a territorial possession of Costa Rica. The plain fact was that an ecological disaster had been narrowly averted. The government of Costa Rica felt it had been misled and deceived by John Hammond and his plans for the island. Under the circumstances, the government was not disposed to release survivors in a hurry. They did not even permit the burial of Hammond or Ian Malcolm. They simply waited. Each day it seemed to Grant he was taken to another government office, where he was questioned by another courteous, intelligent government officer. They made him go over his story, again and again. How Grant had met John Hammond. What Grant knew of the project. How Grant had received the fax from New York. Why Grant had gone to the island. What had happened at the island. The same details, again and again, day after day. The same story. For a long time, Grant thought they must believe he was lying to them, and that there was something they wanted him to tell, although he could not imagine what it was. Yet, in some odd way, they seemed to be waiting. Finally, he was sitting around the swimming pool of the hotel one afternoon, watching Tim and Lex splash, when an American in khakis walked up. “We’ve never met,” the American said. “My name is Marty Guitierrez. I’m a researcher here, at the Carara station.” Grant said, “You were the one who found the original specimen of the Procompsognathus.” “That’s right, yes.” Guitierrez sat next to him. “You must be eager to go home.” “Yes,” Grant said. “I have only a few days left to dig before the winter sets in. In Montana, you know, the first snow usually comes in August.” Guitierrez said, “Is that why the Hammond Foundation supported northern digs? Because intact genetic material from dinosaurs was more likely to be recovered from cold climates?” “That’s what I presume, yes.” Guitierrez nodded. “He was a clever man, Mr. Hammond.” Grant said nothing. Guitierrez sat back in the pool chair. “The authorities won’t tell you,” Guitierrez said finally. “Because they are afraid, and perhaps also resentful of you, for what you have done. But something very peculiar is happening in the rural regions.” “Biting the babies?” “No, thankfully, that has stopped. But something else. This spring, in the Ismaloya section, which is to the north, some unknown animals ate the crops in a very peculiar manner.


Jurassic Park _ A Novel -- Crichton, Michael -- Jurassic Park 1, 2012 -- Random House Publishing Group -- 9780307763051 -- 3de76fc510cf7aa828af34881aaf1176 -- Anna’s Archive.2

They moved each day, in a straight line—almost as straight as an arrow—from the coast, into the mountains, into the jungle.” Grant sat upright. “Like a migration,” Guitierrez said. “Wouldn’t you say?” “What crops?” Grant said. “Well, it was odd. They would only eat agama beans and soy, and sometimes chickens.” Grant said, “Foods rich in lysine. What happened to these animals?” “Presumably,” Guitierrez said, “they entered the jungles. In any case, they have not been found. Of course, it would be difficult to search for them in the jungle. A search party could spend years in the Ismaloya mountains, with nothing to show for it.” “And we are being kept here because …” Guitierrez shrugged. “The government is worried. Perhaps there are more animals. More trouble. They are feeling cautious.” “Do you think there are more animals?” Grant said. “I can’t say. Can you?” “No,” Grant said. “I can’t say.” “But you suspect?” Grant nodded. “Possibly there are. Yes.” “I agree.” Guitierrez pushed up from his chair. He waved to Tim and Lex, playing in the pool. “Probably they will send the children home,” he said. “There is no reason not to do that.” He put on his sunglasses. “Enjoy your stay with us, Dr. Grant. It is a lovely country here.” Grant said, “You’re telling me we’re not going anywhere?” “None of us is going anywhere, Dr. Grant,” Guitierrez said, smiling. And then he turned, and walked back toward the entrance of the hotel.


Jurassic Park “Reptiles are abhorrent because of their cold body, pale color, cartilaginous skeleton, filthy skin, fierce aspect, calculating eye, offensive smell, harsh voice, squalid habitation, and terrible venom; wherefore their Creator has not exerted his powers to make many of them.” LINNAEUS, 1797 “You cannot recall a new form of life.” ERWIN CHARGAFF, 1972


Jurassic Park INTRODUCTION “The InGen Incident” The late twentieth century has witnessed a scientific gold rush of astonishing proportions: the headlong and furious haste to commercialize genetic engineering. This enterprise has proceeded so rapidly—with so little outside commentary—that its dimensions and implications are hardly understood at all. Biotechnology promises the greatest revolution in human history. By the end of this decade, it will have outdistanced atomic power and computers in its effect on our everyday lives. In the words of one observer, “Biotechnology is going to transform every aspect of human life: our medical care, our food, our health, our entertainment, our very bodies. Nothing will ever be the same again. It’s literally going to change the face of the planet.” But the biotechnology revolution differs in three important respects from past scientific transformations. First, it is broad-based. America entered the atomic age through the work of a single research institution, at Los Alamos. It entered the computer age through the efforts of about a dozen companies. But biotechnology research is now carried out in more than two thousand laboratories in America alone. Five hundred corporations spend five billion dollars a year on this technology. Second, much of the research is thoughtless or frivolous. Efforts to engineer paler trout for better visibility in the stream, square trees for easier lumbering, and injectable scent cells so you’ll always smell of your favorite perfume may seem like a joke, but they are not. Indeed, the fact that biotechnology can be applied to the industries traditionally subject to the vagaries of fashion, such as cosmetics and leisure activities, heightens concern about the whimsical use of this powerful new technology. Third, the work is uncontrolled. No one supervises it. No federal laws regulate it. There is no coherent government policy, in America or anywhere else in the world. And because the products of biotechnology range from drugs to farm crops to artificial snow, an intelligent policy is difficult. But most disturbing is the fact that no watchdogs are found among scientists themselves. It is remarkable that nearly every scientist in genetics research is also engaged in the commerce of biotechnology. There are no detached observers. Everybody has a stake. The commercialization of molecular biology is the most stunning ethical event in the history of science, and it has happened with astonishing speed. For four hundred years since Galileo, science has always proceeded as a free and open inquiry into the workings of nature. Scientists have always ignored national boundaries, holding themselves above the transitory concerns of politics and even wars. Scientists have always rebelled against secrecy in research, and have even frowned on the idea of patenting their discoveries, seeing themselves as working to the benefit of all mankind. And for many generations, the discoveries of scientists did indeed have a peculiarly selfless quality.


When, in 1953, two young researchers in England, James Watson and Francis Crick, deciphered the structure of DNA, their work was hailed as a triumph of the human spirit, of the centuries-old quest to understand the universe in a scientific way. It was confidently expected that their discovery would be selflessly extended to the greater benefit of mankind. Yet that did not happen. Thirty years later, nearly all of Watson and Crick’s scientific colleagues were engaged in another sort of enterprise entirely. Research in molecular genetics had become a vast, multibillion-dollar commercial undertaking, and its origins can be traced not to 1953 but to April 1976. That was the date of a now famous meeting, in which Robert Swanson, a venture capitalist, approached Herbert Boyer, a biochemist at the University of California. The two men agreed to found a commercial company to exploit Boyer’s gene-splicing techniques. Their new company, Genentech, quickly became the largest and most successful of the genetic engineering start-ups. Suddenly it seemed as if everyone wanted to become rich. New companies were announced almost weekly, and scientists flocked to exploit genetic research. By 1986, at least 362 scientists, including 64 in the National Academy, sat on the advisory boards of biotech firms. The number of those who held equity positions or consultancies was several times greater. It is necessary to emphasize how significant this shift in attitude actually was. In the past, pure scientists took a snobbish view of business. They saw the pursuit of money as intellectually uninteresting, suited only to shopkeepers. And to do research for industry, even at the prestigious Bell or IBM labs, was only for those who couldn’t get a university appointment. Thus the attitude of pure scientists was fundamentally critical toward the work of applied scientists, and to industry in general. Their long-standing antagonism kept university scientists free of contaminating industry ties, and whenever debate arose about technological matters, disinterested scientists were available to discuss the issues at the highest levels. But that is no longer true. There are very few molecular biologists and very few research institutions without commercial affiliations. The old days are gone. Genetic research continues, at a more furious pace than ever. But it is done in secret, and in haste, and for profit. In this commercial climate, it is probably inevitable that a company as ambitious as International Genetic Technologies, Inc., of Palo Alto, would arise. It is equally unsurprising that the genetic crisis it created should go unreported. After all, InGen’s research was conducted in secret; the actual incident occurred in the most remote region of Central America; and fewer than twenty people were there to witness it. Of those, only a handful survived. Even at the end, when International Genetic Technologies filed for Chapter 11 protection in United States Bankruptcy Court in San Francisco on October 5, 1989, the proceedings drew little press attention.


Jurassic Park _ A Novel -- Crichton, Michael -- Jurassic Park 1, 2012 -- Random House Publishing Group -- 9780307763051 -- 3de76fc510cf7aa828af34881aaf1176 -- Anna’s Archive.3

It appeared so ordinary: InGen was the third small American bioengineering company to fail that year, and the seventh since 1986. Few court documents were made public, since the creditors were Japanese investment consortia, such as Hamaguri and Densaka, companies which traditionally shun publicity. To avoid unnecessary disclosure, Daniel Ross, of Cowan, Swain and Ross, counsel for InGen, also represented the Japanese investors. And the rather unusual petition of the vice consul of Costa Rica was heard behind closed doors. Thus it is not surprising that, within a month, the problems of InGen were quietly and amicably settled. Parties to that settlement, including the distinguished scientific board of advisers, signed a nondisclosure agreement, and none will speak about what happened; but many of the principal figures in the “InGen incident” are not signatories, and were willing to discuss the remarkable events leading up to those final two days in August 1989 on a remote island off the west coast of Costa Rica.


Jurassic Park PROLOGUE: THE BITE OF THERAPTOR The tropical rain fell in drenching sheets, hammering the corrugated roof of the clinic building, roaring down the metal gutters, splashing on the ground in a torrent. Roberta Carter sighed, and stared out the window. From the clinic, she could hardly see the beach or the ocean beyond, cloaked in low fog. This wasn’t what she had expected when she had come to the fishing village of Bahía Anasco, on the west coast of Costa Rica, to spend two months as a visiting physician. Bobbie Carter had expected sun and relaxation, after two grueling years of residency in emergency medicine at Michael Reese in Chicago. She had been in Bahía Anasco now for three weeks. And it had rained every day. Everything else was fine. She liked the isolation of Bahía Anasco, and the friendliness of its people. Costa Rica had one of the twenty best medical systems in the world, and even in this remote coastal village, the clinic was well maintained, amply supplied. Her paramedic, Manuel Aragón, was intelligent and well trained. Bobbie was able to practice a level of medicine equal to what she had practiced in Chicago. But the rain! The constant, unending rain! Across the examining room, Manuel cocked his head. “Listen,” he said. “Believe me, I hear it,” Bobbie said. “No. Listen.” And then she caught it, another sound blended with the rain, a deeper rumble that built and emerged until it was clear: the rhythmic thumping of a helicopter. She thought, They can’t be flying in weather like this. But the sound built steadily, and then the helicopter burst low through the ocean fog and roared overhead, circled, and came back. She saw the helicopter swing back over the water, near the fishing boats, then ease sideways to the rickety wooden dock, and back toward the beach. It was looking for a place to land. It was a big-bellied Sikorsky with a blue stripe on the side, with the words “InGen Construction.” That was the name of the construction company building a new resort on one of the offshore islands. The resort was said to be spectacular, and very complicated; many of the local people were employed in the construction, which had been going on for more than two years. Bobbie could imagine it—one of those huge American resorts with swimming pools and tennis courts, where guests could play and drink their daiquiris, without having any contact with the real life of the country. Bobbie wondered what was so urgent on that island that the helicopter would fly in this weather. Through the windshield she saw the pilot exhale in relief as the helicopter settled onto the wet sand of the beach. Uniformed men jumped out, and flung open the big side door. She heard frantic shouts in Spanish, and Manuel nudged her. They were calling for a doctor. Two black crewmen carried a limp body toward her, while a white man barked orders.


The white man had a yellow slicker. Red hair appeared around the edges of his Mets baseball cap. “Is there a doctor here?” he called to her, as she ran up. “I’m Dr. Carter,” she said. The rain fell in heavy drops, pounding her head and shoulders. The red-haired man frowned at her. She was wearing cut-off jeans and a tank top. She had a stethoscope over her shoulder, the bell already rusted from the salt air. “Ed Regis. We’ve got a very sick man here, doctor.” “Then you better take him to San José,” she said. San José was the capital, just twenty minutes away by air. “We would, but we can’t get over the mountains in this weather. You have to treat him here.” Bobbie trotted alongside the injured man as they carried him to the clinic. He was a kid, no older than eighteen. Lifting away the blood-soaked shirt, she saw a big slashing rip along his shoulder, and another on the leg. “What happened to him?” “Construction accident,” Ed shouted. “He fell. One of the backhoes ran over him.” The kid was pale, shivering, unconscious. Manuel stood by the bright green door of the clinic, waving his arm. The men brought the body through and set it on the table in the center of the room. Manuel started an intravenous line, and Bobbie swung the light over the kid and bent to examine the wounds. Immediately she could see that it did not look good. The kid would almost certainly die. A big tearing laceration ran from his shoulder down his torso. At the edge of the wound, the flesh was shredded. At the center, the shoulder was dislocated, pale bones exposed. A second slash cut through the heavy muscles of the thigh, deep enough to reveal the pulse of the femoral artery below. Her first impression was that his leg had been ripped open. “Tell me again about this injury,” she said. “I didn’t see it,” Ed said. “They say the backhoe dragged him.” “Because it almost looks as if he was mauled,” Bobbie Carter said, probing the wound. Like most emergency room physicians, she could remember in detail patients she had seen even years before. She had seen two maulings. One was a two-year-old child who had been attacked by a rottweiler dog. The other was a drunken circus attendant who had had an encounter with a Bengal tiger. Both injuries were similar. There was a characteristic look to an animal attack. “Mauled?” Ed said. “No, no. It was a backhoe, believe me.” Ed licked his lips as he spoke. He was edgy, acting as if he had done something wrong. Bobbie wondered why. If they were using inexperienced local workmen on the resort construction, they must have accidents all the time. Manuel said, “Do you want lavage?” “Yes,” she said. “After you block him.” She bent lower, probed the wound with her fingertips.


If an earth mover had rolled over him, dirt would be forced deep into the wound. But there wasn’t any dirt, just a slippery, slimy foam. And the wound had a strange odor, a kind of rotten stench, a smell of death and decay. She had never smelled anything like it before. “How long ago did this happen?” “An hour.” Again she noticed how tense Ed Regis was. He was one of those eager, nervous types. And he didn’t look like a construction foreman. More like an executive. He was obviously out of his depth. Bobbie Carter turned back to the injuries. Somehow she didn’t think she was seeing mechanical trauma. It just didn’t look right. No soil contamination of the wound site, and no crush-injury component. Mechanical trauma of any sort—an auto injury, a factory accident—almost always had some component of crushing. But here there was none. Instead, the man’s skin was shredded—ripped—across his shoulder, and again across his thigh. It really did look like a maul. On the other hand, most of the body was unmarked, which was unusual for an animal attack. She looked again at the head, the arms, the hands— The hands. She felt a chill when she looked at the kid’s hands. There were short slashing cuts on both palms, and bruises on the wrists and forearms. She had worked in Chicago long enough to know what that meant. “All right,” she said. “Wait outside.” “Why?” Ed said, alarmed. He didn’t like that. “Do you want me to help him, or not?” she said, and pushed him out the door and closed it on his face. She didn’t know what was going on, but she didn’t like it. Manuel hesitated. “I continue to wash?” “Yes,” she said. She reached for her little Olympus point-and-shoot. She took several snapshots of the injury, shifting her light for a better view. It really did look like bites, she thought. Then the kid groaned, and she put her camera aside and bent toward him. His lips moved, his tongue thick. “Raptor,” he said. “Lo sa raptor…” At those words, Manuel froze, stepped back in horror. “What does it mean?” Bobbie said. Manuel shook his head. “I do not know, doctor. ‘Lo sa raptor’—no es español.” “No?” It sounded to her like Spanish. “Then please continue to wash him.” “No, doctor.” He wrinkled his nose. “Bad smell.” And he crossed himself. Bobbie looked again at the slippery foam streaked across the wound. She touched it, rubbing it between her fingers. It seemed almost like saliva.… The injured boy’s lips moved. “Raptor,” he whispered. In a tone of horror, Manuel said, “It bit him.” “What bit him?” “Raptor.” “What’s a raptor?” “It means hupia.” Bobbie frowned. The Costa Ricans were not especially superstitious, but she had heard the hupia mentioned in the village before. They were said to be night ghosts, faceless vampires who kidnapped small children.


Jurassic Park _ A Novel -- Crichton, Michael -- Jurassic Park 1, 2012 -- Random House Publishing Group -- 9780307763051 -- 3de76fc510cf7aa828af34881aaf1176 -- Anna’s Archive.4

According to the belief, the hupia had once lived in the mountains of Costa Rica, but now inhabited the islands offshore. Manuel was backing away, murmuring and crossing himself. “It is not normal, this smell,” he said. “It is the hupia.” Bobbie was about to order him back to work when the injured youth opened his eyes and sat straight up on the table. Manuel shrieked in terror. The injured boy moaned and twisted his head, looking left and right with wide staring eyes, and then he explosively vomited blood. He went immediately into convulsions, his body vibrating, and Bobbie grabbed for him but he shuddered off the table onto the concrete floor. He vomited again. There was blood everywhere. Ed opened the door, saying, “What the hell’s happening?” and when he saw the blood he turned away, his hand to his mouth. Bobbie was grabbing for a stick to put in the boy’s clenched jaws, but even as she did it she knew it was hopeless, and with a final spastic jerk he relaxed and lay still. She bent to perform mouth-to-mouth, but Manuel grabbed her shoulder fiercely, pulling her back. “No,” he said. “The hupia will cross over.” “Manuel, for God’s sake—” “No.” He stared at her fiercely. “No. You do not understand these things.” Bobbie looked at the body on the ground and realized that it didn’t matter; there was no possibility of resuscitating him. Manuel called for the men, who came back into the room and took the body away. Ed appeared, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, muttering, “I’m sure you did all you could,” and then she watched as the men took the body away, back to the helicopter, and it lifted thunderously up into the sky. “It is better,” Manuel said. Bobbie was thinking about the boy’s hands. They had been covered with cuts and bruises, in the characteristic pattern of defense wounds. She was quite sure he had not died in a construction accident; he had been attacked, and he had held up his hands against his attacker. “Where is this island they’ve come from?” she asked. “In the ocean. Perhaps a hundred, hundred and twenty miles offshore.” “Pretty far for a resort,” she said. Manuel watched the helicopter. “I hope they never come back.” Well, she thought, at least she had pictures. But when she turned back to the table, she saw that her camera was gone. The rain finally stopped later that night. Alone in the bedroom behind the clinic, Bobbie thumbed through her tattered paperback Spanish dictionary. The boy had said “raptor,” and, despite Manuel’s protests, she suspected it was a Spanish word. Sure enough, she found it in her dictionary. It meant “ravisher” or “abductor.” That gave her pause. The sense of the word was suspiciously close to the meaning of hupia. Of course she did not believe in the superstition. And no ghost had cut those hands.


Jurassic Park _ A Novel -- Crichton, Michael -- Jurassic Park 1, 2012 -- Random House Publishing Group -- 9780307763051 -- 3de76fc510cf7aa828af34881aaf1176 -- Anna’s Archive.5

What had the boy been trying to tell her? From the next room, she heard groans. One of the village women was in the first stage of labor, and Elena Morales, the local midwife, was attending her. Bobbie went into the clinic room and gestured to Elena to step outside for a moment. “Elena …” “Sí, doctor?” “Do you know what is a raptor?” Elena was gray-haired and sixty, a strong woman with a practical, no-nonsense air. In the night, beneath the stars, she frowned and said, “Raptor?” “Yes. You know this word?” “Sí.” Elena nodded. “It means … a person who comes in the night and takes away a child.” “A kidnapper?” “Yes.” “A hupia?” Her whole manner changed. “Do not say this word, doctor.” “Why not?” “Do not speak of hupia now,” Elena said firmly, nodding her head toward the groans of the laboring woman. “It is not wise to say this word now.” “But does a raptor bite and cut his victims?” “Bite and cut?” Elena said, puzzled. “No, doctor. Nothing like this. A raptor is a man who takes a new baby.” She seemed irritated by the conversation, impatient to end it. Elena started back toward the clinic. “I will call to you when she is ready, doctor. I think one hour more, perhaps two.” Bobbie looked at the stars, and listened to the peaceful lapping of the surf at the shore. In the darkness she saw the shadows of the fishing boats anchored offshore. The whole scene was quiet, so normal, she felt foolish to be talking of vampires and kidnapped babies. Bobbie went back to her room, remembering again that Manuel had insisted it was not a Spanish word. Out of curiosity, she looked in the little English dictionary, and to her surprise she found the word there, too: raptor\n [deriv. of L. raptor plunderer, fr. raptus]: bird of prey.


Jurassic Park Contents Cover Title Page Copyright Epigraph Introduction Prologue: The Bite of the Raptor First Iteration Almost Paradise Puntarenas The Beach New York The Shape of the Data Second Iteration The Shore of the Inland Sea Skeleton Cowan, Swain and Ross Plans Hammond Choteau Target of Opportunity Airport Malcolm Isla Nublar Welcome Third Iteration Jurassic Park When Dinosaurs Ruled the Earth The Tour Control Version 4.4 Control The Tour Control Big Rex Control Stegosaur Control Breeding Sites Fourth Iteration The Main Road Return Nedry Bungalow Tim Lex Control The Road Control In the Park Control The Park Dawn The Park Fifth Iteration Search Aviary Tyrannosaur Control Sixth Iteration Return The Grid Lodge Control Seventh Iteration Destroying the World Under Control Almost Paradigm Descent Hammond The Beach Approaching Dark Epilogue: San José Dedication Acknowledgments Books by Michael Crichton About the Author


Lord of souls _ an Elder scrolls novel -- Keyes, Greg -- Elder Scrolls, Book 2, 2011 -- Del Rey_Ballantine Books -- 9780345508027 -- 2999018512a7b9b6f4491b212cb1a696 -- Anna’s Archive.1

Lord of Souls: An Elder Scrolls Novel ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Thanks to Tricia Pasternak, my editor, and Mike Braff, her assitant. Thanks also to Peter Weissman for copyediting and Nancy Delia for production editing, Joe Scalora for marketing, David Moench for publicity, and Scott Shannon for publishing. Thanks to Paul Youll for the cover art and Dreu Pennington-McNeil for the cover design. Once again, thanks to Pete Hines, Kurt Kuhlmann, Bruce Nesmith, and Todd Howard for their input, advice, and a great playground to run around in.


Lord of Souls: An Elder Scrolls Novel ALSO BY GREG KEYES The Infernal City: An Elder Scrolls Novel THE KINGDOMS OF THORN AND BONE The Born QueenThe Blood KnightThe Charnel PrinceThe Briar King STAR WARS: THE NEW JEDI ORDER Star Wars: The New Jedi Order:Edge of Victory I: ConquestStar Wars: The New Jedi Order:Edge of Victory II: RebirthStar Wars: The New Jedi Order:Edge of Victory III: The Final Prophecy


Lord of Souls: An Elder Scrolls Novel ABOUT THE AUTHOR Born in Meridian, Mississippi, in 1963, GREG KEYES spent his early years roaming the forests of his native state and the red rock cliffs of the Navajo Indian reservation in Arizona. He earned his B.A. in anthropology from Mississippi State University and a master’s degree from the University of Georgia, where he did course work for a Ph.D. He lives in Savannah, Georgia, where, in addition to full-time writing, he practices ethnic cooking—particularly Central American, Szechuan, Malaysian, and Turkish cuisines—and Kapucha Toli, a Choctaw game involving heavy sticks and no rules. While researching the Age of Unreason series, he took up fencing, and now competes nationally. Greg is the author of The Waterborn, The Blackgod, the Babylon 5 Psi Corps trilogy, the Age of Unreason tetrology (for which he won the prestigious Le Grand Prix de l’Imaginaire award), and three New York Times best-selling Star Wars novels in the New Jedi Order series.


Lord of Souls: An Elder Scrolls Novel ONE Wind opened Colin’s eyes, but it was the unfastened window that sped his heart, and the utter lack of sound that sent his fingers to the knife under his mattress. A hand met his there and gripped his wrist, hard. He swung over to kick at the vague shadow, but he was grasped at the ankles as well, and a bag was forced over his head, followed by a return to sleep that would have been gentle if part of him wasn’t screaming to the rest that he wouldn’t ever wake up. He did wake again, however. The bag and the cloying scent of somniculous remained, but the drug itself was obviously dissipated. He was lying on a hard but inconstant surface, and he soon recognized by the motion that he was in a boat, on water. His hands and feet were efficiently bound. His captors did not speak, but he could hear their breathing and exertions at the oars. He couldn’t make out anything through the sack except light, but he felt the sun on his skin and guessed it was approaching midday. Not much later, there was a bit of jostling and then the shock of the boat coming on shore. He smelled pine. They cut the bindings on his feet and made him walk. He kept thinking he ought to say something, but his kidnappers behaved so professionally he knew there wasn’t much point. There was no talking them out of whatever they were doing with him. All he could do was wait, and wonder. Would he feel it? Would he know anything had happened? Colin killed a man once. He died confused, begging, unwilling to admit even as the knife cut into him what was happening. He wished he could have seen his mother again, and—realizing he was weeping—felt ashamed. He’d wanted to be braver. The hand on his arm came away. He tried not to shake. Then one of the men made a peculiar sound, a sigh like a very tired man finally lying down. “What?” the other asked, before sucking a sharp breath. Colin heard two distinct thumps—then for a moment, nothing. He wondered if he should run. “Who do you work for?” a feminine voice asked. He recognized it, and a deep chill wracked through him. The last time he’d heard that voice had been in a house in the Market District, just before its owner slaughtered at least eight men. “Come,” she said. “Tell me.” “I’m not at liberty to say,” he replied. “Keep still,” she said. A moment later the sack came off his head. And there she was, regarding him, Letine Arese. Her small frame, turned-up nose, and short blond hair made her seem almost like a little girl, but he knew her to be thirty-one years of age, and her blue eyes held a cold intensity that was quite un-childlike. Those eyes narrowed now. “You look familiar,” 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.2

“I’ve seen you. I suppose that makes sense.” He glanced behind her, at the two bodies on the ground. Both were male; one was an Argonian, the other a Bosmer. They both seemed quite dead, although he could not see the cause. “They brought you out here to kill you,” she said. “I gathered that,” he replied. “I’m grateful you stopped them.” “Are you? We’ll get back to that in a moment.” She folded her hands behind her back. She was dressed in Bosmer woodsman style, with high boots and soft leather vest and breeches. It was an odd look for her, in his experience—he’d only ever seen her in relatively fashionable city attire. “What would you say if I told you they worked for me?” she asked. “I would be confused,” Colin said carefully. “Yes, I should hope so,” she told him. “They noticed you spying on me and brought it to my attention. So of course, I did a little checking of my own. Colin Vineben, from Anvil. Your father is dead, and your mother does laundry. You were recommended for and received training for the Penitus Oculatus, and recently were named an inspector in that organization. It was you who discovered the massacre of Prince Attrebus’s personal guard and the apparent murder of the prince, and you who suggested to the Emperor that the prince wasn’t actually dead. Which, as it turns out, you were right about. And now you’re spying on me, but without, it seems, any official authority to do so. So I wonder if you’re employed by someone else.” “Why did you kill them?” he asked. “Because otherwise, I would have had to kill you,” she snapped. “Now I have to account for them, pretend I sent them on a mission to someplace fatal. Otherwise, the two of them would have wondered why you were still walking, and after a while that wonder would have spread its way up to the minister himself.” “I don’t understand,” Colin said. “I’m risking my neck for you, you idiot,” Arese snapped suddenly. “Can’t you see that?” “I can see it,” he replied. “I just don’t get why.” She pulled a knife from her belt and stalked toward him. His chest tightened, but she merely cut the ropes that held his hands behind his back. Then she stepped back a bit and untied her pants, loosening the laces and pulling one side down, exposing her hip. “You know what that is?” she asked, indicating a small black tattoo of a wolf’s head. He did, of course. It was the Emperor’s personal brand, worn only by his innermost circle. He didn’t say anything, but she saw he recognized it, and pulled the breeches back up, tying them again. “He put me in the minister’s office ten years ago,” she said. “No one knows but him and me.


Lord of souls _ an Elder scrolls novel -- Keyes, Greg -- Elder Scrolls, Book 2, 2011 -- Del Rey_Ballantine Books -- 9780345508027 -- 2999018512a7b9b6f4491b212cb1a696 -- Anna’s Archive.3

And now you.” “Why are you telling me this?” “Because I need help, and I think we may have a common purpose.” “What’s that?” “To discover why Minister Hierem wants Prince Attrebus dead.” “Does he?” “I should know,” she said. “I made the arrangements for the ambush on his orders.” “Why?” Colin exploded. “If you’re loyal to the Emperor—” She barked a laugh. “You knew,” she said. “You were there, weren’t you? When I took care of Calvur and his thugs. I knew someone was there!” She closed her eyes for a moment, looking very tired. “I didn’t mean for the prince to come to harm,” she said. “If I could have gotten word to the Emperor, I would have. It was impossible at the time, at least without revealing myself to Hierem. In the end, a decision had to be made.” “And you decided you were more important than the prince?” “Yes. If you knew anything about him, you would probably agree.” “And yet Hierem wants him dead.” “Apparently.” “Then why hasn’t the Emperor had the minister arrested?” “When the Emperor first placed me in the ministry, he didn’t have any particular worries about Hierem, only the sort of general paranoia a successful monarch must have. For most of the past ten years, the minister has been above suspicion, but a year or so ago he began testing me, first subtly, then overtly. It became clear he wanted his own private intelligence and eliminations organization, one not connected to the Penitus Oculatus or known to the Emperor. The attack on Attrebus was—surprising. I didn’t see that coming. It’s only because some of the assassins got greedy that the prince survived. The Emperor isn’t ready to move against Hierem yet because he doesn’t believe we know everything, and because the minister is politically important—very important. The Emperor has survived because he waits until he knows where all the forces are and their strengths before he strikes. Right now, Hierem thinks his actions are invisible. We want to keep it that way a bit longer. That’s where you come in, if you’re up to it.” “Up to what?” “Hierem trusts me now, completely I believe. But that limits me. And I can’t trust anyone else in the ministry. I can open certain doors, but I need someone who can walk through them. Can you be that man?” Colin considered for a moment. Arese might be telling the truth and she might be lying; in a way, it didn’t matter. If he agreed to help her, it gave him a chance to find the answers he sought, even if she was steering him away from them. If he told her no, it was pretty certain he was staying on this island for eternity. “I can be that man,” he told her.


Lord of Souls: An Elder Scrolls Novel TWO When he smelled blood, Mere-Glim turned in the deep waters of the Marrow Sump, trying to find the source. Blood wasn’t an unusual smell in these waters; bodies were dumped here every day, many still feebly struggling against death. But this blood was not only fresh, it had a certain rotten scent he’d come to know all too well. He closed his eyes and flared his reptilian nostrils, and when he identified the current that carried the smell, he struck out along it, his webbed hands and feet propelling him swiftly through the clear waters. It took him only a few moments before he could see the erratically twitching figure trying to reach the surface. By the time he reached her, the life was dimming from her eyes. He wasn’t sure if she ever actually saw him. Blood still roiled in clouds from her nostrils and gaping mouth. He reached around her from behind and kicked purposefully toward the surface, but by the time he reached it, she had gone limp. He took her into the skraw caves along the shoreline anyway, and laid her out on the little bier his coworkers had made from woven cane and grass for the dead to rest on. In the sunlight she’d looked old, worn, with black bags beneath her eyes and hair like lank kelp, but here in the phosphorescence from the cave walls she appeared younger, more like the ten or fifteen years she probably actually was. On Umbriel, people were born as adults, and those born to be skraws, to tend and harvest the sump, had nothing that resembled a childhood. He heard others approaching and looked over his shoulder to see his friend Wert and a young skraw named Oluth. “Joacin,” Wert sighed. “I knew she couldn’t last much longer.” “I’m sorry,” Glim told him. “I couldn’t reach her in time.” “It wouldn’t have mattered,” Wert said. “If you had, she might have lived another day.” “A day is a day,” Glim said. Wert knelt and studied the woman’s face for a long moment, his own visage more long and doleful than usual. “When do we move forward?” he asked without looking up. “Isn’t it time to take the next step?” “We’re done with the maps,” Oluth blurted. He was young, probably no more than three years old; his skin had only the barest hint of the jaundice that plagued the older skraws. “Good,” Glim replied. “So—like Wert said—what’s next?” the hatchling went on eagerly. “I’m still planning that,” Glim told him. “You excited everyone, Glim,” Wert said. “You gave us all hope. But now—some say that you’re stalling.” “We have to be prepared,” Glim said. “We have to be careful. Once we start, there’s no turning back. Does everyone understand that?” “They do,” Wert said. “They’re ready to do what you say, Glim. But you have to say something.” Glim felt his heart sink. “Soon,” he said.


“How soon?” “I’ll let you know.” Wert frowned, but nodded. Then he turned to Oluth. “Go with Glim. He’ll show you about the lower sump. You’ll be working down there with him.” “It’ll be an honor,” Oluth said. Glim waited for Oluth to go take the vapors and felt guilty. The caustic fumes allowed the skraws to breathe underwater, but they also killed them young, as they had just killed Joacin. Of all the skraws, he was the only one who hadn’t been born on Umbriel, the only Argonian—the only one who didn’t need the vapors to breathe beneath the surface. When the youngster joined him in the shallows, Glim took him down below the midway of the cone-shaped body of water and showed him the cocooned figures fastened to the wall. Inside each was something that had started as a worm smaller than his least claw, but were now in various stages of becoming inhabitants of Umbriel. He brushed against one near term, a lanky female who—in appearance—would be human. Next to her grew a brick-red creature with horns, and farther along a man with the dusky skin of a Dunmer. All began as worms, however, and beneath appearances they were all Umbrielians. He tried not to be annoyed by Oluth’s eagerness as he explained the procedures for tending the unborn and moving them to the birthing pools when their time came, and how to know that time. He could tell the boy was only half paying attention. He kept glancing around, especially down, to the bottom of the sump, where the actinic glare of the connexion with the ingenium lay. “You’re curious about that?” Glim asked. “That’s the ingenium,” Oluth said. “That’s the heart and soul of Umbriel. If we controlled that …” “Even if we could do it,” Glim said, “that would be too much.” “But if we’re to really revolt, carry the fight to the lords—” “SSht, husst, slow down,” Glim said. “Who ever said anything about taking the fight to anyone? Or fighting at all?” “Well, I guess we thought it would come to that,” Oluth said. “Who is ‘we’?” Glim asked. “Oh.” He looked embarrassed. “I wasn’t supposed to tell you.” “Tell me what?” “The younger skraws. We call ourselves the Glimmers. We’ve pledged to follow you and help you.” Glim absorbed that, feeling claustrophobic. “Listen to me,” he said. “Our goals are simple: We want a substitute for the vapors, so you don’t have to tear your lungs up and die early just to do your job. We’re looking for ways to inconvenience the lords, to make them aware of your needs. We don’t want it to come to a fight.” “Right,” Oluth said. “Inconvenience them. Like how?” “Well, what do we skraws do? We keep the sump working. That means food, water, nutrients for everyone on Umbriel and the fringe gyre—and of course, we bring the newborns into the world.


We just need to emphasize our worth by showing what happens if things don’t get done down here—or if things break, clog up, and so forth. Do you understand?” Oluth nodded vigorously. “I do!” he said. Then his gaze darted past Glim. “What’s that?” Glim followed his regard to a small embryo sac, nearly transparent, and the thing curled in it. It was still small, but it wasn’t like a baby—more like an unfinished and undersized adult. It had scales and was a pale pink color with huge eyes and tiny little claws. “It’s an Argonian,” he said. “It looks a little like you.” “Soon enough it will look a lot like me,” Mere-Glim said. “I’m an Argonian.” He’d known it was going to happen, but now that it had, he felt a sort of sick spot in his gut. He needed to see Annaïg. “I really am sorry I tried to kill you,” Slyr told Annaïg. Annaïg blinked and glanced up at the gray-skinned woman fidgeting across the table from her. “Have you tried again, or is this still about last week?” she asked. Slyr’s red eyes widened. “I haven’t tried again, I swear.” “Right. So you’ve apologized already,” Annaïg said. “This means you’re now wasting my time.” Slyr didn’t reply, but she didn’t leave either, just stood there, shuffling her feet a bit. Trying not to let her irritation show, Annaïg bent back to her task of emulsifying horse brains and clove oil, whisking the gray matter vigorously and adding the oil a few drops at a time. When it reached the consistency of mayonnaise, she set it aside. Slyr was still standing there. “What?” Annaïg exploded. “I—you haven’t assigned anything for me to do.” “Fine. I assign you to go sit in our quarters.” “I have to work,” Slyr said. “Toel thinks little enough of me as it is. If he finds me idle—I worry, Annaïg.” Annaïg closed her eyes and counted to four. When she opened them, she half expected to see Slyr lunging at her with a knife, but Slyr was still just standing there looking pitiful. “Go husk the durian,” she said. “But—” “What now?” “Durian is so smelly.” She waved the back of her hand at Annaïg’s preparations. “What are you doing there?” She’s just spying, Annaïg thought. Trying to steal my ideas. It didn’t matter, though, did it? “I’m extracting terror,” she said. “Come again?” She lifted the emulsion. “Terror, fear, happiness—any strong emotion leaves something of itself in the brain.” “But if the soul has fled, hasn’t all of that gone with it?” Annaïg smiled, despite the company, and scraped some of the emulsion into a glass cylinder, divided three-quarters of the way down by a thin membrane. “What’s that?” Slyr asked, indicating the divider. “It’s the humorous membrane from a chimera-eel,” she replied. “It’s what allows them to change color to suit their emotions.


Lord of souls _ an Elder scrolls novel -- Keyes, Greg -- Elder Scrolls, Book 2, 2011 -- Del Rey_Ballantine Books -- 9780345508027 -- 2999018512a7b9b6f4491b212cb1a696 -- Anna’s Archive.4

I’ve altered this one to let only terror through.” “You’re filtering horse-terror through eel-skin?” “Very specially prepared eel-skin,” she replied. She placed the tube in a small centrifuge and cranked the handle, spinning the vial. After a few moments she detached it and held it up, showing a pale yellow ichor in the bottom. “That’s terror?” Slyr said. She sounded skeptical. “Do you want to understand this or not?” Annaïg asked. “I do. Please. I’m sorry.” “Sit down, then—you’re making me nervous, hovering there.” Slyr scootched onto a stool and folded her hands in her lap. “You were right, in a way—terror—or any emotion—isn’t merely chemical. But the substance acts as a vessel, a shaper of soul stuff, just as—at a higher level—does the brain and body.” She opened a small valve on the bottom of the tube and let the liquid empty into a small glass cone. She then sealed a second, identical cone base-to-base with the first to form a spiculum. She shook the container so that the liquid coated the interior surface evenly, then slid the whole thing into a coil of translucent fibers that in turn was connected to a pulsing cable of the same material that came up through the floor and workbench. “Now we pass soul energy through it,” Annaïg said. “The chemical terror will attract what it needs to become the real thing.” For a moment nothing happened; then the spiculum took on a faint lavender glow, and quite abruptly became opaque. Annaïg waited another moment then removed the spiculum and shook it again. The coating inside the crystal sloughed free and settled into one end, a viscous powder. She unsealed the hlzu gum that held the spiculum together with spirits of coatin. Then she emptied a bit of the newly formed substance into a horn spoon and carefully handed it to Slyr. “And there you have it,” she said. Slyr blinked at the lavender stuff. “Am I to taste this?” “You may if you wish.” “Perhaps not,” Slyr said, dipping her finger into it experimentally. A bit clung there, and she rubbed it back and forth. “It feels—” But then her face transformed; her eyes became huge, and the veins on her neck stood out as she suddenly began shrieking. She fell from her stool and twisted into a fetal position, fighting for the air she needed to keep screaming. “Or you can just touch it,” Annaïg said. “It’s absorbed just as readily through the skin.” Slyr’s only response was to quiver uncontrollably—she was past screaming now. For Annaïg, the next few seconds stretched thin and brittle; part of her wanted to continue watching the other woman suffer. Anger was beautiful, because its core was the absence of all doubt.


Lord of souls _ an Elder scrolls novel -- Keyes, Greg -- Elder Scrolls, Book 2, 2011 -- Del Rey_Ballantine Books -- 9780345508027 -- 2999018512a7b9b6f4491b212cb1a696 -- Anna’s Archive.5

When anger wrapped you up in yourself and you knew that you were right and righteous—that the very universe was in agreement with you—at that moment you were a god, and anyone who crossed or disagreed with you was worse than wrong, they were heretics, apostates, twisted in the very womb. Slyr deserved this. And much, much more. Then why, beneath the wonderful, purifying rage, did she feel sick? Why did she suspect that she was the one in the wrong? Because she wasn’t really angry at Slyr. She was angry because all her hopes of escaping Umbriel were destroyed. She was angry at the stupidity of a little girl who thought she could save the world like a hero from the songs, and now was going to spend what little of her life remained in a disgusting place among disgusting people. And one of those people was Slyr. But somehow she couldn’t watch her lose her mind. So, with a sigh, she unstoppered the bottle she’d fixed for herself, in case she had an accident during the experiment, and waved it under Slyr’s nose. The other woman inhaled, gasped, gave one great shake, then sagged. She was still breathing hard but her eyes were clear. “S-Summpslurry,” Slyr managed, her breath still ragged. She traveled her gaze over her body, as if fearing she was missing limbs. “You stopped it, didn’t you? You could have let it go on and on.” “For a few hours, yes.” “It would have driven me mad.” Annaïg shrugged, still feeling angry and helpless, and now trying not to cry. What was wrong with her? “I’m not so convinced you’re sane as it is,” she said. Slyr chuckled harshly. “I soiled myself,” she said. “I didn’t need to know that,” Annaïg replied. “I guess not.” Her eyes dropped down. “Toel doesn’t care what happens to me. No one does. No one would have even reprimanded you—” “I’m not like you, Slyr,” Annaïg said. Slyr shakily came to her feet and gathered her clothing around her. “Maybe not,” she said. “But you’re closer than you were.” And then she left. Annaïg almost thought the woman had a faint look of triumph on her face. When Slyr was gone, Annaïg’s tears came. For a long time after being trapped on Umbriel, she hadn’t cried. She watched the city she grew up in destroyed, and although she hadn’t seen it, in her heart she knew her father was dead, and Hecua, and every other soul she had ever known before coming to this place, to Umbriel—which was responsible for all of that murder. She had kept it all in, bound up with hope and purpose, freighted by the need to survive to get from one day to the next—and yes, at times by wonder, by the sheer alien assault on the senses that was Umbriel.


Lord of souls _ an Elder scrolls novel -- Keyes, Greg -- Elder Scrolls, Book 2, 2011 -- Del Rey_Ballantine Books -- 9780345508027 -- 2999018512a7b9b6f4491b212cb1a696 -- Anna’s Archive.6

But after Slyr poisoned her, those bands began to fray, and when at last she was ready to escape, to leave Umbriel, they had broken, because she wouldn’t have to live each day in fear any longer, because she didn’t need such unnatural control. And then she and Mere-Glim had flown out across the night to where Prince Attrebus was waiting, with his strength, his courage to sustain her. But Umbriel hadn’t let them go, and now … “You cry far too much,” a soft voice said behind her. She closed her eyes, but he knew, so she didn’t bother to wipe them. It would only show further weakness. She turned with her cheeks still glistening and stood up from her stool. “Chef Toel,” she said. When she first met Toel, she’d thought him darkly, devilishly handsome, and his unbelievably blue eyes had absorbed her. Now he only seemed dangerous, like a viper. He looked meaningfully at the purplish substance in the crystal cone. “What have you there?” he asked “Terror, Chef.” “Well, give us a taste, then.” She hesitated. “It’s quite strong, Chef.” “I’ll take care, then.” She doled him out a bit and watched as he carried it to his lips and let it touch his tongue. His eyes widened dreamily and he hissed before taking several shuddering breaths. Little sparks danced on his skin, and she felt the tiny hairs on her face pull toward him. Then he looked down at her, his gaze still a little strange. “Exquisite,” he murmured. “You have so much talent, little one. Such beautiful ideas. If only you had—well, a little drive. A bit of ambition.” He smiled slightly. “I saw Slyr. She looked as if she’d seen the worst thing in the world.” “She tasted it, Chef.” “You let her?” “I did.” “Well, well. An improvement. But why is she still walking? She hasn’t a constitution for such things, as I do. I think it should have destroyed her mind.” “I gave her an antidote,” Annaïg admitted. He stared at her a moment, then made a slight tsking sound beneath his breath. His eyes—which had held her with a certain sparkle—dulled and shifted. “Very well, then,” he said. “Bring that around. I’ve a mind to use it in seasoning the suspiration of hare and sulfur I’m preparing for Lord Irrel’s thirty-third course. A little something different for him. And perhaps, if you could, also make me a bit of remorse?” “I’m not certain a horse can feel remorse, Chef.” “Very well,” he said. “Kohnu was badly burned this morning distilling phlogiston. I shall send his brain over.” “But if he’s still alive—” “Healing him would take time and resources, and he wouldn’t be able to work for weeks. He’ll serve me better this way.” She knew Kohnu. He was funny, always telling little self-effacing jokes and clowning about with the produce. “Chef—” she began. He rolled his eyes. “It’s not as if you have to kill him yourself,” he 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

Then he left. She sat back down, trembling. “What am I doing?” she whispered. She needed Glim. “What are you doing?” Mere-Glim asked the next night, at their weekly meeting. It took place in an old slurry filter, empty and forgotten a few yards below the pantry. From it Annaïg could hear what was going on in the kitchens—which at night was usually nothing—and Glim was only feet away from the tube that would take him back down into the sump, if anyone approached. “I’m trying to figure out why we can’t leave,” she told him. “It’s got something to do with the way Umbriel uses souls, I’m pretty sure. At least it’s a place to start. But I can’t just experiment without producing anything, or Toel would start thinking I’m no longer useful. And if that happens, well—it’s over. Just ask poor Kohnu.” “You’re doing what you have to do,” Glim said. “You can’t feel bad because of what Toel does.” “He might have let Kohnu live if it wasn’t for me.” “Might-have and mud are fine places to wallow,” Glim said. “That’s easy for you to say,” Annaïg replied. “You haven’t gotten anyone killed.” She clenched her fists. “I’ve gotten a lot of people killed, Glim, not just Kohnu. Everyone in Qijne’s kitchen. And probably Attrebus.” “Still no word from him?” “No,” she said miserably. “I talked to him just before we tried to escape. He was in our path, Glim. I fear the worst.” “You don’t know, though,” Glim said. “He might have lost Coo, or maybe he’s somewhere the enchantment doesn’t work.” “Maybe.” “But even if something happened to him, it’s not your fault.” “If I knew more, had more to tell him—” “You’ve done more than he could have ever expected,” Glim replied. “More than I’ve ever done.” “Nonsense. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t understand half what I do about this horrible place. You found me, Glim. I couldn’t have found you. And all of those maps—I still don’t know why the skraws helped you with that.” “Well,” Glim said, sighing, “I sort of promised them something.” “What do you mean?” He was silent for a moment. “Do you remember, back when we tried to escape, you said something about having invented a way of breathing underwater?” “Sure. Why do you ask?” He wiggled his hands in clear agitation. “What?” “The skraws,” he said at last. “Those who work in the sump, like me—none of them can naturally breathe underwater. They inhale vapors that allow them to, but the vapors are really bad for them. They live in agony and die young.” He looked up. “I was wondering if you could make them something else, something that won’t hurt them.” She thought about that, and then found herself answering carefully. “I could,” she said. “It’s easy for me to sneak the things I need to make an ounce or two of anything.


Lord of souls _ an Elder scrolls novel -- Keyes, Greg -- Elder Scrolls, Book 2, 2011 -- Del Rey_Ballantine Books -- 9780345508027 -- 2999018512a7b9b6f4491b212cb1a696 -- Anna’s Archive.8

But you would need more than that—a lot more than that—to make a difference. I would have to set up a generation vat. I don’t think I can do that without permission, but if I managed to, it would be noticed and I would be in big trouble.” “Maybe you can get permission,” he said. “If I bring up the skraws, Toel will wonder why I know anything about them and why I care. He considers caring a weakness, and he already thinks I’m about as weak as they come. And he might find out about you.” She paused, and then went on even more cautiously. “Anyway—our goal is to bring Umbriel down, remember? Before it destroys our world?” “The skraws don’t have anything to do with that,” he said. “They just work and die.” “Are you—” She laughed suddenly. “What?” “After all that making fun of me and my causes. You’ve got one, haven’t you?” “They—They sort of made me their leader.” “Why?” “I told them we might be able to make things better if we—umm—organized a little.” “Organized? You’re leading a revolt?” “I didn’t mean to,” he replied miserably. “I mean, they kind of got the idea from me when I stood up to an overseer, and then—well, I might have suggested that they make some maps for me.” “Maps?” “So I could find you. So we could escape.” “Oh. And now that we’re stuck here—” “They seem to expect me to follow through.” “Well, I guess they do,” she said. “Will you?” His pupils expanded and shrank, and then he nodded. “I think so,” he said. “It’s not right, how they live.” “You can think of it this way, too,” Annaïg told him. “The more of them you’ve got looking for ways to sabotage things, the more likely you’ll find some way to stop Umbriel altogether. That connection with the ingenium you told me about, for instance. We need to know more about that.” “Right,” he said, but he sounded a bit uneasy. “Glim,” she said, taking his chin between her fingers. “Yes?” “I’m glad you care about these people. I’m glad you found a cause. And if there is any way to save the skraws, I’m all for it. But if it comes down to them or our world—if all of these people and the two of us thrown into the bargain have to die to stop this thing—that’s what we have to do. You know that, don’t you?” He nodded, but there was an odd stiffness to it. “Look,” she said. “The kitchens are highly competitive, right? If the skraws raise enough ruckus, the lords may start looking for an alternative to the vapors. I’ve got one, ready to go. I just need Toel to ask me for it—understand?” “I understand,” Glim replied. “We’ll start there. But meanwhile you have to keep gathering information, okay?


Lord of souls _ an Elder scrolls novel -- Keyes, Greg -- Elder Scrolls, Book 2, 2011 -- Del Rey_Ballantine Books -- 9780345508027 -- 2999018512a7b9b6f4491b212cb1a696 -- Anna’s Archive.9

I mean, if I solve the problem of getting us off of this rock, maybe we can take your friends with us. The more information I have, the more alternatives that gives us.” “That makes sense,” Glim breathed. “I’ll see what I can do. But you—what about this woman who tried to kill you? What about Toel? If what you say is true, and if he thinks you’re weak—I don’t want to find you in the sump one day.” “You have your situation to manage,” she said softly. “I have mine.” She hugged him and watched him go, but she felt troubled afterward, wondering if she and Mere-Glim were really on the same side anymore.


Lord of Souls: An Elder Scrolls Novel THREE A soft cough drew Colin from the papers massed on his desk. Intendant Marall stood a few feet from his table, hands clasped behind his back. Colin pushed his chair back and came to his feet. “Intendant,” he acknowledged. “Inspector,” Marall nodded. Then he just stood there. “Can I help you, sir?” Colin asked after the moment drew uncomfortably long. “I’m just wondering if you have anything to report.” Colin blinked. If I had anything to report I would have—he began thinking, but quashed it, lest it show on his face. “Not much, really, sir,” Colin said. “Is there something wrong?” “You received the latest interceptions.” “I did, Intendant,” he replied. “I still can’t find any connection between the Thalmor and this—flying city.” “And yet they must be up to something.” “Oh, yes, sir, they’re up to plenty,” Colin said. “Thalmor agents continue to harass the refugee communities in Sentinel and Balfiera—there has been a series of murders in the latter we can pretty confidently assign to them. The pattern is typical—the victims were all of mixed blood or had associations considered by the Aldmeri Dominion to be unclean. It’s much worse in Valenwood—our supplies are no longer reliably getting to the rebels there. Sixty were caught and executed last week, along with four of our own men. There’s a leak we don’t know about, someplace. They know too much about our movements.” “But in all of that—” “Nothing. No Thalmor connections to the east at all.” Marall looked sour. He took the other chair in Colin’s nook, slid it toward Colin’s desk, and sat down. “Have you seen the reports concerning the flying city?” “I haven’t, sir. Since being taken off the Attrebus case—” “I’m sorry about that. The more so because you were right about everything. But you made Administrator Vel look foolish, and there you go. At least I managed to get you back on something—eh—important.” “I appreciate that, sir.” “I’m going to tell you a few things, Inspector, because I hope you may have some thoughts on them. But you understand you may not repeat them.” “Of course, sir.” “You’re aware, I imagine, of the stories in popular circulation concerning this—Umbriel.” “I am. They are based, as I understand, on letters written by Prince Attrebus and sent to his biographers—before he vanished again.” “Yes. They’ve rather captured the popular imagination. A flying city from Oblivion, populated by strange creatures, destroying all it passes over and creating an army of living dead from the corpses.” “I’ve heard all of that.” “Well, we’ve a good bit of information from our scouts now,” Marall said. “It’s all basically true. There are just a few new details. Umbriel—apparently the name of this thing—landed at Lilmoth and proceeded in a straight line toward, it appears, Vvardenfell. It is indeed accompanied by some sort of reanimated corpses, and those who die beneath it also rise again.


But here’s the thing—the cities of Gideon and Stormhold were both overrun. Do you see what that means?” “Neither lies between Lilmoth and Vvardenfell,” Colin answered after a moment’s thought. “Correct. Apparently this army of the walking dead needn’t remain near its creator.” “But do they continue to grow in numbers away from the island? Do they reproduce themselves?” “That is unclear,” Marall replied. “What we do know is that a large force of them has entered Cyrodiil and seems to be making its way toward the Imperial City.” “I see,” Colin said. “Are you certain you’ve seen no evidence that they might be colluding with the Thalmor? If they strike from the east, and the Dominion from the west, or up the Niben, we could find ourselves in a very precarious state.” “I’ve seen no evidence that the Thalmor are aware of these goings-on, much less that they are involved with them. Why—if I may ask, sir—why do you feel the Thalmor must be involved?” “Well, if not them, someone.” He tugged at the slight beard under his chin. “You were educated concerning the Oblivion crisis, of course.” “Yes, sir.” “The received wisdom in the highest circles is that Tamriel can never be invaded from Oblivion again.” “And yet we have been.” “Yes and no. Umbriel is apparently not entirely in our world.” “I don’t understand.” “It exists in a sort of pocket of Oblivion.” “And yet it can affect our world, obviously.” “Yes. But the consensus opinion of both the Synod and the College of Whispers—who never agree on anything—is that even given its strange nature, Umbriel could not have come into Tamriel even so much as it has without being asked.” “Asked?” “Summoned. Conjured. Facilitated. The sort of wizardry one naturally associates with the Thalmor.” Colin nodded. “More than ever, then,” he said, “I think we’re looking in the wrong place. Once it becomes clear we’re being attacked, I have no doubt that the Dominion will take some advantage of it, but in my opinion that would be to consolidate their hold on Valenwood while our attention is elsewhere. They have a plan, a plan laid out in decades—I don’t see them rushing into some strange alliance with an Oblivion prince or what-have-you.” “Who then?” “Why not the An-Xileel?” “The lizards?” Marall’s voice dripped with contempt. “They’re entirely parochial. Even if they could muster the sort of arcane knowledge this would require, why would they bother? They’re content in their swamps.” “They invaded Morrowind.” “For revenge. They stopped their advance decades ago, and haven’t showed the slightest interest in doing anything since then.” “Except keeping the Empire from reclaiming their territory,” Colin pointed out. “To my knowledge, we’ve never tried to invade Black Marsh. Who wants it?” “I just think they might bear looking at,” Colin said. “After all, that’s where Umbriel first showed up.” Marall looked unconvinced, but then he nodded. “Very well,” he said.


“I’ll make the appropriate reports available to you, and send any requests for whatever else you may need through my office. You were right about the Attrebus thing, after all. But—keep your head low, yes? I don’t need this getting back to Vel.” “Understood, sir.” He watched Marall go, and then returned his gaze to the papers, but he wasn’t really seeing them. The Intendant was probably right that the An-Xileel were not a threat. They were entirely nativistic in their views, interested only in purging the former colonial influences and returning Black Marsh to whatever state they imagined it had been in before it was ruled by foreign powers. And technically, of course, Umbriel had appeared somewhere out at sea, so one might just as well suspect the elusive Sload of having helped the flying city conjure its way into Tamriel. After all, they were supposed to be great sorcerers. He turned it around a few ways and didn’t get anything, so he directed his thoughts to his other “case.” There wasn’t much there either. Despite her dramatic recruitment of him, he hadn’t heard from Arese, and since he didn’t have anything to tell her, he didn’t see any point in risking contact with her. He got the intelligence from Black Marsh a few hours later. He started with the most recent stuff; both the College of Whispers and the Synod had collected intelligence remotely, but there were also a number of on-the-ground reports. A few had been relayed by riders, but most were also transmitted through sorcerous means. It was mostly information regarding the size and travel path of Umbriel, and the accounts of Stormhold and Gideon seemed somehow light. Feeling he was missing something, Colin turned to what little they had in the way of information regarding the An-Xileel. He found something very interesting indeed. It had rained, and Talos Plaza was awash in reflected torch and lamplight. The air still smelled clean as Colin stepped through the puddles. A troupe of Khajiit acrobats was performing nearby, gracefully tumbling, forming unlikely structures with their feline bodies, juggling sparkling torches. A crowd clapped and tossed coins at their feet. He passed through a group of kids enthusiastically swinging at one another with wooden swords, and felt stiffness in this throat. He’d been like them once. He remembered playing such games. But he couldn’t remember at all how it felt. A few steps to the right, and he stood in the near utter darkness of an alleyway. Here, a man could die—or kill—and those in the plaza with its light and merriment would never be the wiser. She noticed him too late. If he’d meant to end her, he could have, and she knew it. For the first time since he’d met her, Arese’s controlled expression cracked, and he saw something that looked very much like fear. He could almost hear her heart pounding. “Easy,” he said. “I needed to see you.


I was afraid to send any sort of message.” She took a step back, swallowed, and the mask went back on. “How did you know I would come this way?” she asked. “You usually do. You’re on your way to meet your sister at the pub, and you always cut through here.” He indicated the narrow lane with a slight twist of his head. “You’ve been spying on me?” “Not lately. Before. I wondered why you come through here rather than staying on the street.” She vented a self-deprecating chuckle. “So I can hear if anyone is following me,” she replied. “No one ever is, and so I’ve gotten careless. What do you need?” “I was looking at reports dealing with Black Marsh,” he told her. “They’ve been censored—by Minister Hierem’s office.” “That’s not terribly surprising,” she said. “How is that?” “Hierem made a secret trip to Black Marsh last year, ostensibly to negotiate with the An-Xileel leaders. He would have had anything suggesting his presence there removed.” “That explains the older reports,” Colin said. “But I’m talking about intelligence gathered recently, concerning the attacks from the flying city.” “That’s interesting,” Arese replied. “That’s really very interesting. You think there’s some connection between this and the attempt on Attrebus?” “I don’t think there’s any doubt about it,” Colin said. “Attrebus was on his way to attack Umbriel. We know that from several sources, including the broadsides posted on every street corner. Clearly Hierem wanted to prevent that, to delay any Imperial confrontation with this thing for as long as possible. Now we know a force from the city is already in eastern Cyrodiil.” “Umbriel has also turned,” Arese said. “It is now moving over the Valus Mountains toward the Imperial City.” “Well, then,” Colin said, “what we have to ask ourselves is why Hierem wants Umbriel to attack the Imperial City. What’s his relationship with it? Do you have any ideas?” “None. Do you?” “Well, I think Hierem summoned Umbriel,” he said. “Helped it come here, whatever. That suggests he has some sort of bargain with whoever is master of the flying city.” “It does, doesn’t it?” Arese said. She frowned. “It will be trouble to get the uncensored documents. He keeps things like that—if he keeps them at all—in his private rooms.” “Did anyone go with him to Black Marsh?” he asked. “Yes, let me think. He took—” Then her eyes widened. “Well, that’s no good,” she said. “What?” “He took Delia Huerc. But she’s dead.” “Dead? Murdered?” “An illness of some sort, according to the report, and there wasn’t any reason to doubt it. Now—well, what’s to be done about it?” “Anyone else?” “He hired a merchant ship and traveled in disguise. I’m sure the name of the ship has been removed from any records.” “He had to pay for it.” “He didn’t want the Emperor to know, so he probably paid out of pocket. He’s not without his own wealth.” She looked around.


“This is going on too long,” she said. “Is there anything else?” “Delia Huerc. Where did she live?” “I don’t know, but I can get that. Look for a message from me.” “Okay.” She started to go, but then turned. “Good work,” she said. “Thanks.” “Next time, come to my house. Do you know where it is?” “Yes.” “Of course you do. Come to the window above the alley and tap it four times. If I’m there, I’ll come. And watch your back. Things are getting very paranoid in the ministry. There are questions where there shouldn’t be.” “I’ll be careful,” he said. She nodded and started walking. “You be careful, too,” he said. She paused for an instant, but didn’t look back, and then continued on her way.


Lord of Souls: An Elder Scrolls Novel FOUR Annaïg stared out at the shimmering green sump and delicate, insectile buildings that climbed and depended from the stone walls of the conical valley at Umbriel’s heart. Above, shining through the glittering strands of what resembled a giant spiderweb or some vast sea invertebrate, shone the sun of Tamriel. The sun she had been born under. It made her feel tight, claustrophobic, to know the light of that sun could illume the flying city, touch her, warm her—but that she could not go up through that sky, be in the wider world that orb washed with its radiance. “You’ve not been here in a while,” Toel said. Annaïg forced herself to look at him. She had first seen Toel when he and his staff had slaughtered everyone in her former kitchen—everyone but Slyr and her. Even then, surrounded by brutally murdered corpses, he’d been calm, serene really. She had been terrified of him then, and was even more so now. She felt that at any moment he would stand, take her by the shoulders, and push her over the balcony to her death. Afterward, he would never think of her again. But showing her fear would only get her killed more quickly. Toel had no use for the weak. She had to present him with something else. “You’ve not invited me,” Annaïg replied. He shrugged and breathed in mist from the long, curved glass tube he held. “I’m aware of why you haven’t been here,” he said, frost forming on his nostrils. “Are you?” “You’re disappointed that I asked you to spare Slyr, after she poisoned me.” “It goes beyond that. I thought you were like me, driven to excel, to rise. But you hold yourself back, and there isn’t anything I can do about that.” “Then why am I here?” she asked. “Because still you intrigue me. You invent marvelous things. I hope to reach you, at last.” The hairs behind Annaïg’s ears pricked up at the ominous sound of that. “I do wish to please you, Chef,” she said. “Do you?” “Yes. But in my own way.” “By definition, you can only please me by catering to my desires.” Annaïg shook her head, tightening her belly to act bold. “That is only the beginning,” she said. “A child’s idea of pleasure.” “What is a child?” Toel asked. “It doesn’t matter,” she replied. “My point is that the best chef cooks what the patron never knew he wanted.” “And what is it that I don’t know I want?” “That is for me to show you,” Annaïg said, trying to sound playful. “And it cannot be rushed.” “And yet, I feel impatient,” Toel said, “and perhaps a bit condescended to.” She forced a smile. “But still I intrigue you.” “I cannot deny it,” he said, inhaling again. He looked off into the distance for a long moment, and then returned his attention to her.


“There will be a banquet,” he said, “some days hence. It will be for the court of Umbriel himself. Four kitchens have been invited to present a tasting for Lord Rhel, Umbriel’s steward—mine, and those of Phmer, Luuniel, and Ashdre. Whichever kitchen pleases the steward most will cook for Umbriel. I need not tell you that it must be my kitchen that wins.” “It goes without saying, Chef.” “Phmer is our chief competition, to my mind. She is known for her creativity. Before Phmer, there were only eight essential savors: salty, bitter, piquant, sweet, sour, ephemerate, quick, and dead. But Phmer found a ninth sensation of taste, which has no name, and all attempts to duplicate it or ascertain how it is created have failed. And so, Annaïg, although you may tantalize me with these desires you know I have which I myself do not, this is what I tell you now: You will find this ninth savor for me. If you do not, any other plans you have to gratify me are moot. Do you understand?” “I do, Chef,” Annaïg said. “I won’t fail.” “Indeed,” he replied. She couldn’t tell if it was an affirmation or a question. “Now you may go.” “A few questions, Chef,” she said. “What are they?” “Do you have a sample of this ninth taste, so that I might know what I’m trying to duplicate?” “I don’t have any, no.” “Have you ever tasted it yourself, Chef?” For a moment his face might have been cast in stone. “No,” he finally said. “Can you at least tell me if it is a spiritual or gross substance?” “We may assume spiritual, as only the highest lords have tasted it.” “Thank you, Chef.” Her knees were shaking when she left, and she felt profoundly unreal, as if she were watching this all happen to someone else. She returned to the kitchens, attempting to stay calm, to focus—trying to understand where she had to start. She was sure she could duplicate anything she could taste, but that wasn’t in the offering. That left her with what seemed an impossible task, but it was pointless to entertain that notion, wasn’t it? She had to assume that it was possible. Phmer had done it, after all. Had it been an accident, or a design? She went to her private bench, far from the hustle and bustle of the stations, and began idly thumbing through the various powders, liquids, distillations, and ferments in her cabinet. She fiddled with the flow of soul force through the refraxor, but after an hour of that pushed back and placed her face in her palms. Her brain didn’t seem to work at all. Sighing, she went back to her room, but her thoughts flowed no better there, so in the end she gave up and opened a bottle of wine. She was on her second glass when Slyr entered. “I’m sorry,” the other woman said. “You’re never here this early in the day.


I—” “No, join me,” Annaïg said. “I’m just thinking.” “Well, I’ve no wish to disturb you.” “Sometimes talking helps me think.” She pulled over a second cup and poured more wine. “Have a drink, talk.” Slyr looked uncertain but did as she was told. “What do you know of Phmer’s ninth savor?” Annaïg asked. “I’ve heard of it,” Slyr said cautiously. “Before I came to Umbriel, I knew of only four or five essential flavors. When I was taught to cook, I was told that the success of a good dish was in the inclusion and balancing of these sensations. When I came here, you, Slyr, taught me that there were three more, all of a spiritual nature.” “Quick, dead, and ephemerate,” Slyr supplied. “So I’m thinking,” Annaïg said. “I taste the five gross senses on different parts of my tongue, and I read long ago that the tongue is grown to interpret such flavors. But I cannot, like the lords, taste the difference between quick and dead. I might discern that a wiggling shrimp is alive and a still one dead, but the taste is the same, because my tongue isn’t designed for that distinction. And as for ephemerate, that’s another thing entirely, isn’t it? Those are the ‘flavors’ we make with souls. The tongue doesn’t taste them, although that’s generally how they are introduced, since they’re presented as food. But really, the skin or eyes can taste them equally as well—and ephemerate isn’t a single kind of flavor, but hundreds, thousands, of very different things made possible by the cuisine spirituelle. Like the terror you tasted the other day, or the joy I could create tomorrow. How does that compare with the electric vitality of raw, unrefined soul energy, or the needling pleasure of filple?” Slyr took a drink. “So you’re thinking that the ninth savor can’t be ephemerate, then? That it must be a new material flavor?” “Or something completely different, as different from the ephemerate as the ephemerate is from salty and piquant.” “How can such a thing be discovered, then? If one knew only piquant, sour, and sweet, how would you guess that salty existed and learn how to make it?” Something shaped itself in her mind then, a worm that might become an idea. “Especially if one had no tongue,” Annaïg pursued, her thoughts racing. “That is our dilemma.” “Our?” “You are still my assistant, Slyr.” “I know that,” she said. “I only thought—” “I’m giving you another chance,” Annaïg said. “One more, do you understand?” Slyr nodded vigorously, and then her eyes narrowed. “You’ve thought of something, haven’t you?” Annaïg smiled. “It’s not what you think.” “What, then?” “I think I might be able to hit twice with the same stone,” she said. “What do you mean?” “Toel believes that I am not ambitious enough, that I’m not willing to do what I have to do to survive and get ahead.” “Yes,” Slyr said.


“I’ve heard him say so.” “I’ll get the ninth savor,” Annaïg promised. “And I’ll show Toel just how far I’m willing to go.” “How?” “I’m going to steal it from Phmer.” Slyr’s eyes widened and her mouth parted. “That’s impossible,” she said. “Look,” Annaïg said, drinking a bit more wine. “We can work for two weeks to invent this thing—and probably fail—or we can go where we know it already exists, and spend that time learning how best to use it to please Umbriel.” She sat back. “I think it’s what Toel intends me to do. I think this is a test he has devised.” “That does sound like him,” Slyr admitted. “But to invade another kitchen, to pass all their safeguards and survive, much less escape being caught—I can’t imagine how it could be done.” “I can,” Annaïg told her. “I know how to learn secret ways, and I know recipes for concealment that—with a bit of work—ought to keep me undiscovered.” “I’m not sure you understand,” Slyr said. “Even if you escape—if Phmer finds any evidence that you stole from her, she can demand Toel give you to her, and he must do so. That is the law. Perhaps that is even what Toel has in mind for you.” “Then I had better not be caught,” Annaïg said. “Or leave trace of my visit.” Slyr’s face hardened into an expression of determination. “Tell me what I can do to help,” she said. “I will not fail you.” “You had better not,” Annaïg said. “This really is your last chance. You must understand that.” “I understand,” Slyr replied. “Good. I’ll let you know when I need something.” Glim unfolded the note from Annaïg the skraw Jernle had handed him. It was written in the jumble language of their childhood—which only the two of them understood—although Glim hadn’t seen any evidence that anyone on Umbriel could read in any language. Still—avoiding leeches was better than picking them off. What are you up to, Nn? he thought. For a moment he considered refusing the request until Annaïg agreed to make something to replace the vapors. He followed her logic, understood why she couldn’t do it, but still, something about her refusal bothered him. Maybe it was because she didn’t take him seriously, that she thought her cause was bigger than his. And it was, wasn’t it? How many of his people—his relatives—had died because of Umbriel? But the skraws weren’t to blame for that. They didn’t even know it had happened. But someone was responsible. He turned to Wert, who was watching him patiently. “I need detailed information concerning the kitchen of Phmer,” he said. “Bribe the pantry workers, if you must.” “More maps?” Wert inquired. “No. More than that.” He paused. “And let’s see what happens if some of the middens stop draining. That should get someone’s attention.” Wert’s face broke into a huge grin. “At last!” he said. “Which ones?” “You decide,” Glim said.


“I need to have a second look at something.” Everything led to the sump, which meant lots of things led away from it as well. Early on Glim had found his way to the trees of the Fringe Gyre. The flying island of Umbriel was a rough cone, with the apex pointed down. The sump was a basin in that cone, and most of the population of the city lived in warrens in the stone. The lords lived on the upper edge in their delicate habitations of metal and crystal. But another world sprouted from the verge of the rim, enormous trees whose roots sank deep into the rock where vesicles from the sump fed and watered them, and whose boughs and branches flowed far out from the island like a sort of lacy collar, bending in a rightwise whorl. It was a world of strange birds and weird gardens growing from intentionally rotted places in the wood, of fruits and nuts and warbling monkeylike things. Next to the sump, he liked this place most, and sometimes better. Part of it was the feeling of freedom the place afforded, but part of it was a familiarity that spoke to him almost below the level of consciousness, a sense of intrinsic belonging he’d lost months ago. The view, however, was disturbing. If he looked to the horizons, he saw plains and forest, softened and made beautiful by distance. If he looked down, however, that was another story. Any open ground revealed the thousands of corpses walking, animated by Umbriel’s larvae. The ground was very open now. Umbriel had changed direction, taking them east over vast mountains, and below them was heath and snow, and few trees to hide the undying. They seemed numberless, and—perhaps worst of all—organized, marching in a rough semblance of ranks. “I haven’t seen you lately,” a pleasant feminine voice quietly said. He glanced up but already knew who it was. “Hello, Fhena,” he said. With her charcoal complexion and red eyes, Fhena might have been a Dunmer woman of about twenty years. But she was no more Dunmer than Wert was human, and since Umbrielians were born adult, he’d reckoned from their earlier conversations she was probably no more than five or six years old. She wore her usual blouse and knee-shorts; today the former was green and the latter yellow. “Did you bring me more orchid shrimp?” she asked hopefully. “No,” he said, “but I thought you might like these.” He handed her a pouch, which she took with an expression of purest delight. But when she saw what was inside, her look wandered toward puzzlement. “Kraken barnacles,” he explained. She pulled one out of the bag. It was about the size and shape of a large shark tooth, smooth and dark green, with a wet, tube-like appendage sticking out of the wide end. She bit the tooth-shaped shell. “Hard,” she said. “Here,” he said.


“Let me show you.” He took the barnacle, gave it a squeeze so the shell cracked, then pulled out the soft mass inside by the projecting stalk. He handed it to Fhena, who bit into it, chewed a moment, and then laughed. “Good, yes?” Glim said. “Those are native to the seas around Lilmoth, where I grew up. The taskers must have collected some and brought them up, because they’ve suddenly started growing in the sump.” “Delicious,” she agreed. “You always find some way to surprise me.” “I’m glad to be of service,” Mere-Glim said. “But I’m not often able to repay the favor,” she replied. “You might today,” he said. “Tell me about the trees.” “The trees?” “Yes.” He tapped on the nearest branch. “I’m not sure what to say about them,” she replied. “Well,” he said, trying to think how to go about this, “I’ve noticed that they produce nuts and fruit and even grains, of a sort. But what else?” “What else?” She clapped her hands. “Salt and sugar, acid and wine, vinegar and sulfur, iron and glass. The trees have a talent for making things—they just have to be told how.” “Who tells them?” She looked thoughtful. “Well, I’m not sure,” she said. “They’ve been making most things for so long, I think they may have forgotten. Or at least they don’t talk about it. They just tell us when something needs doing, or collecting, or when something isn’t right and them in the kitchens must help.” “Wait a minute,” Glim said. “The trees talk to you?” “Of course. Can’t you hear them?” “Almost,” Glim said. “Almost. But what does it mean?” Her eyes had widened, and he realized his spines were puffed out and he was giving off his fighting odor. He tried to calm himself. “What’s this about, Glim?” she asked. “It’s about me,” he said. “It’s about my people, and why they died.” “I don’t understand,” she said. “But I can see how upset you are. Can you explain?” Glim thought about that for a long moment. Annaïg would tell him not to trust the girl; she didn’t trust anyone on Umbriel. But Fhena had only ever helped him. “I would like to explain,” he finally said. “Because it might mean something to you. It might make you think of something. So don’t be afraid to interrupt me.” “I won’t,” she replied. “I’ve told you before; I’m from a place named Black Marsh. My people call themselves the Saxhleel, and others call us Argonians.” “I remember. And you said all of your people are the same.” “The same? Yes, compared to your people. We all have scales, and breathe beneath the water, that sort of thing. Umbriel chooses your form when you are born. Mine is chosen by—ah—heritage.” “What do you mean?” “It’s not important right now. We can talk about that later. What’s important is this; there is another race in Black Marsh—the Hist.


They are sentient trees, and we are—connected to them. They are many and they are one, all attached at the root, and we, too, are joined to that root. Some say we were created by the Hist, to see for them the world where they cannot walk. They can call us or send us away. When we are named, we take of the sap of the Hist, and we are changed—sometimes a little, sometimes very much.” “What do you mean, ‘changed’?” “A few twelves of years ago, our country was invaded from Oblivion. The Hist knew it was going to happen, and called our people back to Black Marsh. Many of us were altered, made ready for the war that we had to fight. Made stronger, faster—able to endure terrible things.” “I’m starting to understand,” Fhena said. “You’re saying the Hist are much like the trees of our gyre.” “Yes. But not the same. They don’t speak to me as the Hist did. But you say they speak to you.” “Not in words,” she replied. “They dream, they experience, they communicate needs. I can’t imagine them making a plan, as you describe.” “But their sap can alter things, like that of the Hist.” “Oh, yes. But as I said, usually they have to be told.” She put her hand on his shoulder. “I still don’t understand why this is so upsetting to you.” “The Hist are supposed to be unified,” Glim said, “but at times certain trees have gone rogue, broken away from the others. It happened long, long ago in my city, and I think it happened again, not long before your world entered mine. A rogue tree helped Umbriel somehow, do you understand? It helped kill many, many of my people so they could serve Umbriel as dead things. And now I think it may have helped summon Umbriel here in the first place. Can you remember—” But Fhena’s eyes had become unfocused with memory. He stopped and waited. “We were in the void,” she said. “Nothing around. And then the trees began to sing a strange song, one I had never heard before. They sang and sang. It was beautiful. No one could remember such a thing happening before. And then we were here. They still sing it, but quietly now. Listen.” She took his hand and pressed it to the bark. It was strange, the roughness of the tree and the supple warmth of her hand, and for a moment that was all he experienced. But then she began to hum, and something seemed to turn in his head, and the soft burring that was all he had ever heard from the Fringe Gyre before suddenly sharpened and he heard it in tune with Fhena’s humming, a faint, rising and falling tone, along with a thousand harmonics, as if each seed and leaf had its own note to add. And he knew that melody, had known it since before his birth. The Hist sang it.


But the Fringe version was a little different—simpler. Still, it drew him, pulling him out of language and thought, and for a long, long time he knelt there with Fhena’s hand on his, feeling newborn, empty, at one.


Lord of Souls: An Elder Scrolls Novel FIVE Most traps are simple, Colin thought. It’s why they work. Delia Huerc’s apartment had seemed simple. It had been reoccupied since her death, so he’d had to wait until the current owner—a Khajiit rug-seller named Lwef-Dim—was gone. It was an old place, full of shadows, once-weres, and might-have-beens, and so opening his spectral eyes was easy enough. And there she was, a slip of a ghost, still waiting. Ghosts usually moved on, except in locations with the power to hold them and feed them, but this place had given him hope—and it hadn’t disappointed. But then he saw that it wasn’t Delia. It wasn’t even a ghost. It was something left to deal with the likes of him. It contorted in his overvision, a chimera that refused to settle on a shape, then bloomed fully into Mundus, the world, and brought harm to him. He failed to dodge its blow, but whatever hit him still wasn’t actually matter; it was worse, traveling though his arm, through every layer of muscle, every vessel of blood, the bone and spongy marrow, leaving detailed and unbelievable agony behind. At first he thought the arm was actually off, but then he saw it was still there, a mass of spasming muscle. He tumbled away without thinking and drew the blade from his belt as reflexively, his training working well below the level of thought. The thing came for him and he cut at it with the translucent weapon. The apparition shivered and made a sound he hardly heard, so high-pitched was it, but the windows of the apartment shattered. So it didn’t like the blade, which was good. He’d brought it in case he had to fend off a ghost, and luckily whatever this was, it was at least offended by the consecrations bound into its crystalline metal. But he wasn’t sure if he’d actually hurt it, so he backed away, trying to focus on it, to forget the feeling of death eating at his arm and understand what he was facing. It came again, and this time he noticed a sort of center and stabbed at that. He felt resistance, and it made the sound again, but this time shudders of pain that weren’t his own racked through him, so he thrust again, and then again. A yellowish mist whipped at his head, he felt something like a razor pass through his brain, and colors exploded, seemed to spill out of him. He couldn’t feel his limbs, and realized he was in a jumble on the floor. The presence loomed over him. Feeling oddly detached, Colin closed his eyes against the thing and reached into the middle of himself, where his little star was, the tiny piece of him that had come from beyond the world and even Oblivion, from Aetherius, the realm of pure light and magic. As pain and then cold gripped him, he made the star a sun.