by Greg Keyes
He coughed out a little laugh. “I don’t understand. Murder seems to be the most common pastime in Umbriel.”
“Not up here,” she said. “Not in the trees. I know below is horrible. I’ve heard about it. But bad things don’t really happen up here.”
“Maybe it’s the trees themselves,” Glim mused. “Their influence. Anyway—I’m sorry to be your first.”
“Well, if someone had to be—” she began playfully.
“I can’t stay long,” he interrupted.
“Right,” She agreed. “You need to hurry back down there and get something else stuck in you. I understand.”
“They’ll look up here for me,” he said. “I don’t want to get you in trouble.”
“They looked up here for you yesterday,” she said. “I hid you. They passed by.”
“Yesterday? How long have I been up here?”
“Three days, reckoned by this sun,” she replied. “I gave you something to help you sleep.”
“I—Three days?”
“It’s what the trees prescribed,” she said.
“The trees?”
“Yes. Our usual medicines didn’t help you very much, so I asked the trees what to do and they told me.”
“Okay,” Glim said, trying to sit up. “Three days? From now on, when the trees tell you to do something, you ask me first.”
She frowned. “There wasn’t much ‘asking you,’ ” she said. “You weren’t really in much of a state to answer. Nor would you be now, if I hadn’t done what I did, for that matter.”
She turned away from him.
“Look, Fhena—”
“And now you’re just going to go right back down there. Stupid!”
“They’ll search here again,” he said. “Besides, the skraws are counting on me. Who knows what’s been going on?”
He saw her head sink a little.
“Wait,” he said. “You know. You’ve heard something.”
“Glim, please—”
“What is it, Fhena?”
“They think you’re dead,” she said. “They’ve gone crazy, started breaking things all over the place, and the lords have been trying to pacify them.”
“Well, then—”
“I’m not listening,” Fhena said, covering her ears.
He sat up and scooted next to her, gently taking her hands and pulling them down.
“You have to understand,” he said. “I’m responsible for this and I have to deal with it.”
She looked at his hands, holding hers.
“Well—how about this?” she asked. “Send them a message. Tell them you’re okay and they need to stop. You need a little more time. Please.”
Glim blinked, realizing that actually made a lot of sense. “Okay,” he said. “We’ll see if that works, and if it does, I’ll stay up here until things calm down a little. But eventually I have to go back.”
She smiled, and then a little tear appeared in the corner of her eye.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing. It’s just that you listened to me. You really listened to me.”
“I did,” he replied. “But understand—I can’t stay up here forever.”
“I understand,” she replied, standing up. “But you will for now.”
“Yes.”
“Okay. I’ve got to go—more work for us with the sump in such a mess. But I’ll find time to send word down.”
After she was gone, he managed to struggle to his feet and look around. The wooden cave curved a bit, and he saw the hole above where the light was coming through, and a sort of slope going up. He climbed slowly but already felt fatigue when he found the opening. It was covered with a filmlike substance, possibly a large leaf of some kind. Deciding to leave well enough alone, he went back down to his pallet, curled up, and in no time was asleep again.
He woke with something warm nestled next to him. The light was gone, but he recognized Fhena by her smell and realized that she was spooned against his uninjured side, with her head up in the pit of his arm. She snuffled when he moved.
“What?” she murmured.
“It’s just me,” Glim said.
“Oh.” She lifted her head.
He hesitated a moment, then positioned his arm under her, so her cheek rested on his chest. A few moments later her breath evened out again, and he lay there awake. Once again he let his mind simplify, listening to the trees, but after a bit he understood there was something else, something like music, color, and tactile sensation braiding and unbraiding, sometimes together, sometimes breathtakingly separate, but always as recognizable as a scent.
It was Fhena, dreaming next to him, connected to him by the root.
“Longer,” she begged him two days later. “Stay longer. Things are better down there. They’ve calmed down.”
“Because they’re waiting on me to tell them what to do,” he said. “If I stay gone too long, they’ll start to wonder if I’m really alive.”
“The lords will kill you,” she said. “They’ll be waiting for you.”
“They didn’t catch me before,” he replied. “They won’t catch me this time either.”
“You weren’t this weak before.”
“Nonsense,” he replied. “I feel fine—you’ve done a good job healing me.”
“Don’t go,” she said. “I know you want to stay with me.”
Glim closed his eyes, wondering what Annaïg was doing, knowing he had to find out, because he had to talk to her. He had never been this confused in his life about anything. Because Fhena was right—he did want to stay with her. He didn’t feel any sexual attraction toward her—they were too different for that. What he did feel was much more compelling and thoroughgoing than lust, and it was weaving knots in his brain.
“I’ll come back tonight,” he promised. “I’ll be back.”
“You’d better,” she said.
He made his way back down the tree, to his more usual path, and in a few moments was back in the sump. It felt good to have water around him again, and for a while he let himself enjoy the feel of it, marshaling his thoughts. Wert was supposed to meet him near the bottom of the Drop, in a stand of slackweed. But what was he going to tell him? Push forward or give up? If he agreed to give himself up, could he win some concessions for the skraws?
He had even less idea what to tell Annaïg, when and if he managed to see her again.
His toes and fingers were tingling oddly; it had started almost below perception, but now it was beginning to bother him. He touched them and realized that the ends were completely numb; the pain was at the first joint. A moment later it was at the second, and progressing up his limbs at a terrifying pace. He turned and began swimming as fast as he could, back the way he had come, but before he went a hundred yards, he couldn’t move his arms or legs anymore, and all he could do was scream as the agony crept into his torso, surrounding his heart. He drifted down, toward the light in the deepest part of the water, toward the ingenium.
He felt his heart stop and icicles grow in his brain. For an instant he felt the trees again, and through them a little echo of Fhena, like a butterfly.
And that was all.
NINE
“Irinja is avoiding me,” Attrebus told Sul as he tested his weight on the frozen stream. It was solid as stone. Fruth—one of the hunters assigned to help him with his “research”—gave him a funny look. For a moment he thought the fellow had overheard him, even though he was sure all of Sathil’s people were out of earshot. But then he realized the Nord just thought he was an idiot for being so tentative about the stream in such bitter cold.
“Well?” Sul asked.
“I don’t know if that’s a good sign or a bad sign.”
“She’s betrayed you,” Sul said.
“Maybe not. Maybe she’s still thinking.”
“Maybe,” Sul said. “If that’s the case, we might come back from this expedition.”
“Why would they take us out into the mounta
ins to kill us?” Attrebus wondered. “I should think it would be easier in the castle—say, while we’re asleep.”
“No blood to clean up,” Sul said.
“Well, there is that,” Attrebus said. “But even if murder isn’t in their plans, I’m not very happy about this trip.”
“You shouldn’t have told them you were a naturalist, then,” Sul whispered. “They’re just doing what you asked them to.”
“True enough. But every second we waste here seems like an eternity.”
“I have some ideas,” Sul said.
“If they involve torturing Irinja, forget it.”
“If she knows where the sword is, probably most of them do. But leave that. I tried some minor cantations last night. The sword is in the castle, or very near it.”
“Do you know what part?”
“No. But I can try something a little riskier. There are daedra who sense enchantments much as we smell things. I can summon one of them and let it find the sword.”
“Why didn’t you do that last night?”
“Because if Sathil or anyone else in the castle has any proficiency in the arts, they’ll know a conjuring has taken place. Or someone might simply see the daedra. I was hoping we would find it some other way, but as you say, we don’t have much time to lose.”
“Tonight, then, if Irinja doesn’t tell me anything.”
“That was my plan.”
Attrebus nodded. Up ahead, Fruth beckoned them toward a ridge.
Beyond the rise, a valley spread, and beyond them mountains whose peaks vanished into the oppressively low clouds.
“Ensleth Valley,” the guide said, lifting the point of his red beard. “Good hunting here. Elk, deer, muskrey.”
“Very good,” Attrebus said, scribbling that in his book. “And those mountains?”
“Moesring Mountains,” Fruth said. “We don’t go there much.”
“What makes this valley so good for game?” Attrebus asked. “It looks just like the last one.”
“Salt,” Fruth replied. “Big salt lick along where the stream comes out. Only one on this side of the mountains. You’ll want to see that.”
“Sure,” Attrebus said. “I suppose so.”
As they were about halfway down the slope, Fruth’s head jerked up sharply toward the mountains. Attrebus followed his gaze and saw what appeared to be a white cloud rolling down it toward them at impossible speed.
Fruth’s gaze darted around, but then he gestured back upslope.
“Hurry!” he shouted.
But they had only gone a few steps before it hit them.
Attrebus had heard of avalanches, huge slides of snow coming down mountains, destroying everything in their paths. He assumed that’s what this was, and braced for it, yet what hit him wasn’t a wall of snow, but an unbelievably cold mist. Snow came with it, but whirling in the air, biting at his face. He couldn’t see anything. He stumbled, then struck his foot against something and went tumbling down the slope, flailing wildly, thankful at least for the layers of fur and leather the servants of Sathil House had given him to wear. Even so, he felt the temperature dropping impossibly fast.
Someone caught hold of him and drew him along with terrific strength, and after what seemed a long time, pulled him down into what felt like a stony grotto.
“Keep close,” a voice said—he recognized it as Fruth’s by the accent. A moment later something warm and faintly luminous appeared between them. It looked something like flame caught in a ball of glass, and after a few moments it seemed to push the worst of the cold away.
“What was that?” he asked.
“It comes down like that sometimes,” Fruth said. “Never seen it come so fast, though. Unnatural, probably Frost Giant.”
“Frost Giant?”
“Yah. Unpredictable, this new one, and very strong.”
“What about Ozul?” he asked, using Sul’s false name. “And the others?”
“We’ll find out when this is over,” Fruth said. “We go out now, we freeze. Freeze anyway, if this stays too long.”
Sul managed to scramble far enough up the hill that the wave of freezing air went below him, but it enveloped Attrebus and Fruth, blotting them from view. He started down but was arrested by an eldritch tingle that told him—as his common sense should have—that the event wasn’t natural. He spun, fingers clenching on the hilt of his sword, an invocation already begun in the back of his throat.
He faced six well-armed and armored footmen, all of Nordic cast, all wearing the Sathil draugr on their surcoats. A seventh man sat a thick, shaggy horse. He was wrapped in a dark green cloak and cowled in black, but even shadowed it was easy to make out the crimson eyes of one of his countrymen.
“Lord Sathil,” he guessed.
“Yes, that’s right,” the man said. His voice was soft, almost apologetic in tone.
“My companion—”
“Yes, I’m sorry we didn’t arrive in time,” Sathil said absently. “The new Frost Giant is somewhat feckless. He usually doesn’t haunt this side of the Moesrings until midwinter.”
“Frost Giant,” Sul replied dubiously.
Sathil didn’t seem to notice his tone. “You’re friend is with Fruth. He should be fine—and if he isn’t, there isn’t much you can do at the moment.”
“I’ll take my chances,” Sul said, “and do for him what I can.”
“Talk to me,” Sathil replied. “We’ll wait here for the cloud to settle.”
Sul got the emphasis and relented.
“What shall we talk about, Lord Sathil?” he asked.
“Oh, so many things,” Sathil replied. “Do you have sons, Ozul? Daughters?”
“I do not,” he replied.
“Did they perish when Morrowind was destroyed?”
“I never had any children,” Sul said.
“I don’t know whether to pity you or envy you,” Sathil answered.
Sul didn’t think that needed any sort of reply. Sathil might have disagreed, for he paused for a long time. Finally he rode his horse nearer.
“Who sent you?” he whispered. “Was it him?”
“No one sent me,” Sul replied.
“Ah, if only that made sense,” Sathil said. “But many have come here, to this place where no one should come, to where I try to keep my peace. All sent, in the end, by him. They all admitted it, before it was over.”
He leaned forward. “Shall I tell you the story? Do you already know it?”
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” Sul said. “Who is the person you keep referring to?”
“Person?” Sathil’s teeth showed in either a grimace or a grin. “Person.” He jerked his head toward the valley. “Do you think your friend will live?”
“He had better,” Sul answered.
Sathil’s eyes narrowed and he mumbled something. The air took on a sharp, chlorine smell, and every nerve in Sul’s body seemed to hum.
“I will defend myself,” Sul warned.
“Stand still,” Sathil hissed.
The air snapped like tiny twigs burning in a fire, and Sul felt his lips tighten. He thought to call something, but its name stayed just beyond him.
Then it was over.
Sathil sat back in his saddle. “You are strong,” he said. “Stronger than I thought. But you don’t have his stench on you. Another prince, I sense, but not the one—not the one. I can’t be fooled out here, in the clean air, beneath the righteous sky. You are none of his.”
He twitched his reins and the horse began to turn. “Stay as long as you like,” he said. “I will not likely see you again. I do not often leave my rooms.”
“Lord Sathil, if you have some problem—”
Sathil stopped his horse and looked over his shoulder.
“There was a time I sought help,” he said. “I offered rewards. But that time is long past. Things now are as they are, and I live only to curse him.”
“Who?”
But Sathil turned again, and
without another word he and his entourage rode back toward the castle.
Even in the near-boiling water, Attrebus still somehow felt cold. Sul and the Sathil’s leech had both assured him he would keep his fingers and toes, but by the gods it didn’t feel like it.
The tub was portable, made of some sort of thick, oily hide on a wooden frame, and had been brought into his room. He hadn’t seen who poured the water, but a kettle depended from a wooden arm steamed away near the fireplace. Sul sat on the corner of his bed.
“Frost Giant,” Attrebus muttered.
“No,” Sul said. “Sathil did it himself, I’m sure of it. He wanted to separate us.” He handed Attrebus a bottle.
“Drink this. You’ll feel better.”
“Some sort of remedy?”
“Whiskey,” he said.
Attrebus took a swallow. It hurt going down, but left a pleasant glow behind.
“So he wanted us apart. Then why didn’t he slough you down into the freezing cold?”
“He wanted to talk to me,” Sul replied. “He thought we were working for someone. A daedra prince, from what I could gather. Others have been here before us, it seems.”
“Others? Come for the sword?”
“He didn’t say anything about the sword. It might be something else entirely.”
“That would be a big coincidence.”
“Yes.”
Attrebus started to say something, but then lowered his voice. “Could they hear us? If Sathil is a wizard—”
“Our privacy is secure, unless Sathil is himself a daedra prince or something equally powerful.”
“Okay. I was going to say, if these others he mentioned came for the sword—and if they were sent by a prince of Oblivion—wouldn’t Clavicus Vile be the obvious one behind it?”
“Yes.”
“Daedra have no true forms, right? They can appear as almost anything.”
“Correct.”
“What if that wasn’t Malacath we met? What if it was Vile?”
“Could have been,” Sul said. “Although Sathil seemed convinced we hadn’t had any dealings with Vile. It doesn’t matter either way. Whether Malacath or Clavicus Vile sent us here, we have to get the sword—and not for either of them. We have to keep it.”
