NINE

“Irinja is avoiding me,” Attrebus told Sul as he tested his weight on the frozen stream. It was solid as stone. Fruth—one of the hunters assigned to help him with his “research”—gave him a funny look. For a moment he thought the fellow had overheard him, even though he was sure all of Sathil’s people were out of earshot. But then he realized the Nord just thought he was an idiot for being so tentative about the stream in such bitter cold.

“Well?” Sul asked.

“I don’t know if that’s a good sign or a bad sign.”

“She’s betrayed you,” Sul said.

“Maybe not. Maybe she’s still thinking.”

“Maybe,” Sul said. “If that’s the case, we might come back from this expedition.”

“Why would they take us out into the mountains to kill us?” Attrebus wondered. “I should think it would be easier in the castle—say, while we’re asleep.”

“No blood to clean up,” Sul said.

“Well, there is that,” Attrebus said. “But even if murder isn’t in their plans, I’m not very happy about this trip.”

“You shouldn’t have told them you were a naturalist, then,” Sul whispered. “They’re just doing what you asked them to.”

“True enough. But every second we waste here seems like an eternity.”

“I have some ideas,” Sul said.

“If they involve torturing Irinja, forget it.”

“If she knows where the sword is, probably most of them do. But leave that. I tried some minor cantations last night. The sword is in the castle, or very near it.”

“Do you know what part?”

“No. But I can try something a little riskier. There are daedra who sense enchantments much as we smell things. I can summon one of them and let it find the sword.”

“Why didn’t you do that last night?”

“Because if Sathil or anyone else in the castle has any proficiency in the arts, they’ll know a conjuring has taken place. Or someone might simply see the daedra. I was hoping we would find it some other way, but as you say, we don’t have much time to lose.”

“Tonight, then, if Irinja doesn’t tell me anything.”

“That was my plan.”

Attrebus nodded. Up ahead, Fruth beckoned them toward a ridge.

Beyond the rise, a valley spread, and beyond them mountains whose peaks vanished into the oppressively low clouds.

“Ensleth Valley,” the guide said, lifting the point of his red beard. “Good hunting here. Elk, deer, muskrey.”

“Very good,” Attrebus said, scribbling that in his book. “And those mountains?”

“Moesring Mountains,” Fruth said. “We don’t go there much.”

“What makes this valley so good for game?” Attrebus asked. “It looks just like the last one.”

“Salt,” Fruth replied. “Big salt lick along where the stream comes out. Only one on this side of the mountains. You’ll want to see that.”

“Sure,” Attrebus said. “I suppose so.”

As they were about halfway down the slope, Fruth’s head jerked up sharply toward the mountains. Attrebus followed his gaze and saw what appeared to be a white cloud rolling down it toward them at impossible speed.

Fruth’s gaze darted around, but then he gestured back upslope.

“Hurry!” he shouted.

But they had only gone a few steps before it hit them.

Attrebus had heard of avalanches, huge slides of snow coming down mountains, destroying everything in their paths. He assumed that’s what this was, and braced for it, yet what hit him wasn’t a wall of snow, but an unbelievably cold mist. Snow came with it, but whirling in the air, biting at his face. He couldn’t see anything. He stumbled, then struck his foot against something and went tumbling down the slope, flailing wildly, thankful at least for the layers of fur and leather the servants of Sathil House had given him to wear. Even so, he felt the temperature dropping impossibly fast.

Someone caught hold of him and drew him along with terrific strength, and after what seemed a long time, pulled him down into what felt like a stony grotto.

“Keep close,” a voice said—he recognized it as Fruth’s by the accent. A moment later something warm and faintly luminous appeared between them. It looked something like flame caught in a ball of glass, and after a few moments it seemed to push the worst of the cold away.

“What was that?” he asked.

“It comes down like that sometimes,” Fruth said. “Never seen it come so fast, though. Unnatural, probably Frost Giant.”

“Frost Giant?”

“Yah. Unpredictable, this new one, and very strong.”

“What about Ozul?” he asked, using Sul’s false name. “And the others?”

“We’ll find out when this is over,” Fruth said. “We go out now, we freeze. Freeze anyway, if this stays too long.”

Sul managed to scramble far enough up the hill that the wave of freezing air went below him, but it enveloped Attrebus and Fruth, blotting them from view. He started down but was arrested by an eldritch tingle that told him—as his common sense should have—that the event wasn’t natural. He spun, fingers clenching on the hilt of his sword, an invocation already begun in the back of his throat.

He faced six well-armed and armored footmen, all of Nordic cast, all wearing the Sathil draugr on their surcoats. A seventh man sat a thick, shaggy horse. He was wrapped in a dark green cloak and cowled in black, but even shadowed it was easy to make out the crimson eyes of one of his countrymen.

“Lord Sathil,” he guessed.

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

“My companion—”

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

“Frost Giant,” Sul replied dubiously.

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

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

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

Sul got the emphasis and relented.

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

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

“I do not,” he replied.

“Did they perish when Morrowind was destroyed?”

“I never had any children,” Sul said.

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

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

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

“No one sent me,” Sul replied.

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

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

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

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

“He had better,” Sul answered.

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

“I will defend myself,” Sul warned.

“Stand still,” Sathil hissed.

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

Then it was over.

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

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

“Lord Sathil, if you have some problem—”

Sathil stopped his horse and looked over his shoulder.

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

“Who?”

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

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

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

“Frost Giant,” Attrebus muttered.

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

“Drink this. You’ll feel better.”

“Some sort of remedy?”

“Whiskey,” he said.

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

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

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

“Others? Come for the sword?”

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

“That would be a big coincidence.”

“Yes.”

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

“Correct.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Right. So what now?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He answered it and found an anxious-looking Irinja.

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

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

“No,” she said. “I wouldn’t do that.”

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

“Come in,” he finally said.

“Your highness isn’t dressed for company.”

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

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

But he needed to know where Umbra was.

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

“Highness?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As predictably, she took the drink.

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

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

“Rather than a maid,” she said bluntly.

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

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

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

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

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

“I guess.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What about him?”

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

“What then? What happened?”

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

She wrung her hands. “Elhul was so sweet,” she said. “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.