Lord of Souls: An Elder Scrolls Novel (24 page)

“Lord Sathil,” he guessed.

“Yes, that’s right,” the man said. His voice was soft, almost apologetic in tone.

“My companion—”

“Yes, I’m sorry we didn’t arrive in time,” Sathil said absently. “The new Frost Giant is somewhat feckless. He usually doesn’t haunt this side of the Moesrings until midwinter.”

“Frost Giant,” Sul replied dubiously.

Sathil didn’t seem to notice his tone. “You’re friend is with Fruth. He should be fine—and if he isn’t, there isn’t much you can do at the moment.”

“I’ll take my chances,” Sul said, “and do for him what I can.”

“Talk to me,” Sathil replied. “We’ll wait here for the cloud to settle.”

Sul got the emphasis and relented.

“What shall we talk about, Lord Sathil?” he asked.

“Oh, so many things,” Sathil replied. “Do you have sons, Ozul? Daughters?”

“I do not,” he replied.

“Did they perish when Morrowind was destroyed?”

“I never had any children,” Sul said.

“I don’t know whether to pity you or envy you,” Sathil answered.

Sul didn’t think that needed any sort of reply. Sathil might have disagreed, for he paused for a long time. Finally he rode his horse nearer.

“Who sent you?” he whispered. “Was it
him
?”

“No one sent me,” Sul replied.

“Ah, if only that made sense,” Sathil said. “But many have come here, to this place where no one should come, to where I try to keep my peace. All sent, in the end, by
him
. They all admitted it, before it was over.”

He leaned forward. “Shall I tell you the story? Do you already know it?”

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” Sul said. “Who is the person you keep referring to?”

“Person?” Sathil’s teeth showed in either a grimace or a grin. “Person.” He jerked his head toward the valley. “Do you think your friend will live?”

“He had better,” Sul answered.

Sathil’s eyes narrowed and he mumbled something. The air took on a sharp, chlorine smell, and every nerve in Sul’s body seemed to hum.

“I will defend myself,” Sul warned.

“Stand still,” Sathil hissed.

The air snapped like tiny twigs burning in a fire, and Sul felt
his lips tighten. He thought to call something, but its name stayed just beyond him.

Then it was over.

Sathil sat back in his saddle. “You are strong,” he said. “Stronger than I thought. But you don’t have his stench on you. Another prince, I sense, but not the one—not the one. I can’t be fooled out here, in the clean air, beneath the righteous sky. You are none of his.”

He twitched his reins and the horse began to turn. “Stay as long as you like,” he said. “I will not likely see you again. I do not often leave my rooms.”

“Lord Sathil, if you have some problem—”

Sathil stopped his horse and looked over his shoulder.

“There was a time I sought help,” he said. “I offered rewards. But that time is long past. Things now are as they are, and I live only to curse him.”

“Who?”

But Sathil turned again, and without another word he and his entourage rode back toward the castle.

Even in the near-boiling water, Attrebus still somehow felt cold. Sul and the Sathil’s leech had both assured him he would keep his fingers and toes, but by the gods it didn’t feel like it.

The tub was portable, made of some sort of thick, oily hide on a wooden frame, and had been brought into his room. He hadn’t seen who poured the water, but a kettle depended from a wooden arm steamed away near the fireplace. Sul sat on the corner of his bed.

“Frost Giant,” Attrebus muttered.

“No,” Sul said. “Sathil did it himself, I’m sure of it. He wanted to separate us.” He handed Attrebus a bottle.

“Drink this. You’ll feel better.”

“Some sort of remedy?”

“Whiskey,” he said.

Attrebus took a swallow. It hurt going down, but left a pleasant glow behind.

“So he wanted us apart. Then why didn’t he slough you down into the freezing cold?”

“He wanted to talk to me,” Sul replied. “He thought we were working for someone. A daedra prince, from what I could gather. Others have been here before us, it seems.”

“Others? Come for the sword?”

“He didn’t say anything about the sword. It might be something else entirely.”

“That would be a big coincidence.”

“Yes.”

Attrebus started to say something, but then lowered his voice. “Could they hear us? If Sathil is a wizard—”

“Our privacy is secure, unless Sathil is himself a daedra prince or something equally powerful.”

“Okay. I was going to say, if these others he mentioned came for the sword—and if they were sent by a prince of Oblivion—wouldn’t Clavicus Vile be the obvious one behind it?”

“Yes.”

“Daedra have no true forms, right? They can appear as almost anything.”

“Correct.”

“What if that wasn’t Malacath we met? What if it was Vile?”

“Could have been,” Sul said. “Although Sathil seemed convinced we hadn’t had any dealings with Vile. It doesn’t matter either way. Whether Malacath or Clavicus Vile sent us here, we have to get the sword—and not for either of them. We have to keep it.”

“Right,” Attrebus said. “But if we’re caught up in some plot of Clavicus Vile’s—”

“Then we have to keep our brains in our heads,” Sul finished. “Same as if he’s got nothing to do with us.”

“Okay. But if Sathil has the sword, and Vile knows where it is—I mean, how strong could Sathil be?”

“From everything we’ve heard, Vile is weak. And all daedra are vulnerable here, in Tamriel. They can’t come here unless summoned, and even then their power is curtailed. He could send his followers, but they would be mortal, like us.”

“Right. So what now?”

“I’m going to my room to think. I’ve changed my mind about summoning daedra to explore the castle. From what I saw of Sathil, he would notice that, and I’m pretty sure we won’t survive his suspicion a second time.”

“Okay. I’m staying in the bath for a while.”

“Easy on the whiskey. We may have to fight at any time.”

“Sure,” Attrebus said, taking a final swallow of the stuff.

Sul left. Between the bath and the whiskey, Attrebus felt pretty human, and after a while the water actually seemed too hot, so he got out and wrapped himself in the heavy robe he’d been provided. He pulled out Coo and opened the little door, but Annaïg wasn’t there, so he set the mechanical bird on a table next to the bed.

He was tired, but not sleepy, and sat on the mattress turning the day’s events about—and wondering what Sul would do—when he heard a light knock at his door.

He answered it and found an anxious-looking Irinja.

“I heard what happened,” she said. “I hope you weren’t hurt.”

“I’m fine,” Attrebus assured her. “But I need to know—did you tell anyone about our conversation? Did you tell anyone that we were looking for the sword?”

“No,” she said. “I wouldn’t do that.”

He studied her face for a moment, searching for signs of disingenuity, remembering the conversation with Sul about his weakness for women.

“Come in,” he finally said.

“Your highness isn’t dressed for company.”

“I’m covered and comfortable,” he replied. “Come in.”

She did, and he saw the expression on her face, the same as he’d seen on many young women. Not long ago he would have taken advantage of that look in an instant, without thinking. Now he found himself uninterested.

But he needed to know where Umbra was.

“I was having a bit of whiskey,” he told her. “Would you care to join me?”

“Highness?”

“None of that, remember? Do you want the Frost Giant to come after me again?”

“Oh, no,” she replied. “Yes—a dram of whiskey would be nice.”

He gave her the dram and then some. She drank it nervously.

“I want to help you,” she said finally, but he could hear what was coming next, and put his hand on hers.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I’ve put you in a bad position, I can see that. Just keep me company.”

He filled his glass. “I’m going to have a bit more. Join me?”

“I shouldn’t,” she said, so predictably that he could have mouthed the words along with her.

As predictably, she took the drink.

“I must seem very stupid to you,” she said.

“That’s not true,” he said. “You speak intelligently, you’re thoughtful, you don’t make important decisions without thinking them through. If I had met you at a ball in the Imperial City, I would have imagined you the educated daughter of Skyrim nobility.”

“Rather than a maid,” she said bluntly.

“Listen—my father was once just a soldier with ambition. Now he’s Emperor. He fought for everything he ever got, and I was born with it. Who should be admired the most?”

Unbelievably, as he said this, something seemed to shift in his chest, and his face became warm.

“What’s wrong?” Irinja asked. “Are you—are you crying?”

Attrebus realized a few tears were indeed trickling down his cheek.

He laughed. “Have you ever said something because it seemed like the right thing to say and then realized it was true?”

“I guess.”

“When I saw my father last, I said terrible things to him. What I’ve never told him is what I just told you.”

“And now you’re afraid you’ll never see him again, never get to tell him.”

Attrebus paused for a moment. The epiphany was that some part of him had always known he was less than his father but refused to admit it. That’s why he’d been so easily convinced of his own greatness, why he had been so blind to all the signs of deception that he should have noticed.

But where her mind had gone was more useful, wasn’t it?

“That’s right,” he said. “He won’t flee when Umbriel arrives. He’ll stand, and he’ll fight, and he’ll die. And he will never know how I really feel.”

“That’s awful,” she said, pouring herself another drink and gulping it down. He took another, too.

She wiped his cheeks, and he took her hand, looked into her eyes, let her know that he was going to kiss her, and then did it. She tilted her head back, eyes closed.

“I want to help you,” she said when their lips parted.

“I’m not asking you to,” he said, and kissed her again.

This time she kissed back, hard, with lots of enthusiasm and not much technique.

And he felt guilty, which was absurd. He kept seeing the little image of Annaïg’s face.

But that was all he had seen, wasn’t it? Below the neck, she might be hideous.

And now he felt even guiltier, for such a horrible thought.

He pushed Irinja back, gently. “I can’t,” he said, and sighed.

“I’m not asking you for anything,” Irinja said. “I’m not wanting you to marry me or take me away from here or—I just want to be part of your adventure. A part of something important.”

He noticed she was shuddering. “May I have another drink, please?”

He gave it to her, and poured himself a large one.

“It’s his son,” she said softly. “Lord Sathil’s son, Elhul.”

“What about him?”

“Lord Sathil sent him down to Morrowind, to the ruins of Vivec City. Sent him after that sword, Umbra. But when Elhul picked it up, he went mad and started killing his guards. They had to bind him in chains. They took the sword away from him, and he seemed to get better, but then he found it. He killed his mother, Lady Sathil. He killed his two brothers and half of the guards before they dragged him down again. And then they couldn’t make him let go of it.”

“What then? What happened?”

“Lord Sathil prepared him chambers, deep in the stone. That’s where he is now, with the sword he can’t let go of. He’s been there for eight years.”

She wrung her hands. “Elhul was so sweet,” she said. “He used to play with me, pretend to be my knight, my defender. But when he had the sword, he almost killed me. His eyes—he wasn’t there. Nothing was there.”

“And you know where this place is? How to get there?”

She nodded, then threw her arms around his neck and began kissing him again. His head was starting to swirl, and he realized that he’d really had too much to drink, but he didn’t care about that. The kisses felt good, and why shouldn’t they? He had promised Annaïg a lot, but nothing to do with this …

Then the world spun, and he was on his back on clean bedding, and flesh was meeting flesh, and for the first time in a long while he gave up worrying, thinking, analyzing, and just
was
.